The Great Divide (52 page)

“Factory 101, China.” The chairman wore a checked cashmere jacket, a hundred-dollar hair styling, and a St. Moritz tan. “As I have already explained, the distribution-center chief made a perfectly natural mistake when he did not realize where the goods originated. It is not our intention to—”

The judge broke in with, “Just answer the question, Mr. Southerland.”

“Factory 101,” Marcus repeated. He hefted the sweatshirt. The light caught the silver threads in the rainbow slash. “This sweatshirt came from there as well, did it not?”

“I just said that.”

“Yes, of course you did. And your product lines are all divided by factory, is that not correct?”

The eyes squinted, searching for the purpose behind the question. “I don’t follow you.”

“There is no overlap at all between factories, is there? What is produced by one factory is produced by no other.”

“That is standard company policy. Almost all textile companies—”

“Yes or no, Mr. Southerland.”

“Yes.”

Marcus gave Kirsten a quick nod. She was instantly on her feet and unwrapping the first group of posters. Along the railing she propped up a series of New Horizons Teen Gear advertisements.

Marcus picked up one of the shoes and approached the witness
stand. “These shoes come from your joint venture with Factory 101, do they not?”

“I am not in the habit of being forced to repeat myself!”

Marcus remained unruffled. “Please answer the question, Mr. Southerland.”

“I just said so!”

“That is an affirmative answer?”

His face grew red with the effort of restraint. “All right. Yes!”

“Everything about them, right down to the design on the soles of the shoes, is copyrighted by your company, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“As a matter of fact, each component of your Teen Gear line is specially designed so that it is exclusive to your company, is that not right?”

“Yes.”

“So, for example, you have these distinctive star-and-rainbow designs stitched into the side of the shoe, branded into the rubber stripe around the base, etched into the sole, even woven in special silver thread into the laces. Is that not all correct?”

“You can see it for yourself.”

“Answer the question, Mr. Southerland.”

He turned his exasperation on the judge. “Your Honor, this is a complete and utter waste of my time.”

“If so, Mr. Glenwood is about to pay with his freedom and his career,” she responded dryly. “In the meantime, you are hereby ordered to answer counsel’s question.”

Southerland crossed his arms, clenched his jaw, said, “Yes.”

“And all of these components are produced at the Chinese factory and nowhere else?”

Logan jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, please. This has already been stipulated. The lawyer is badgering the witness.”

Marcus turned and stared at the judge. Just looked at her. It was enough. Judge Nicols responded, “The information is so stipulated and recorded, Mr. Glenwood. The items originate solely from Factory 101.”

“Thank you for the clarification, Your Honor. I now wish to show a brief segment of the digitized video, and present as evidence a still photograph taken from this twenty-second portion of the tape.”

“Once again I must protest, Your Honor,” Logan continued. “This is being done purely for its inflammatory nature.”

“Then Mr. Glenwood will shortly be halted in his tracks.” Judge Nicols nodded. “Proceed.”

Austin Hall and Charlie Hayes rose at his signal, and left the room. Together with the bailiff they wrestled the television stand back into the courtroom and slid the digitized tape into the VCR. Gloria Hall’s image sprang into cruel focus on all four screens. Austin remained crouched over the machine, seemingly untouched by the voice and the image. Only Charlie turned and looked at the New Horizons CEO. And gave him a death’s-head grin.

“Send money,” Gloria dully intoned, and at Marcus’ signal Austin hit the switch, freezing the image.

Marcus accepted the final poster from Kirsten’s hands, keeping it turned so that the picture remained facedown as Alma unfolded the easel.

Then one of the jurors cried aloud. She rose in her seat, pointed at the television screen, and shouted, “Look! It’s right there! It’s been there all along!”

The CEO squinted and leaned forward, searching for what he could not see.

Marcus turned the poster-sized photograph around, revealing a blown-up image of Gloria Hall. Kirsten passed copies to the judge and the defense. This time the entire jury box erupted. Followed by the entire courtroom.

Gloria Hall was bound to her chair so tightly the flesh of her arms and neck ballooned out around the bonds. She was fettered about her chest and neck and arms and hands with long cords. The cords were all made from uncut shoelaces bearing the New Horizons logo.

Marcus caught the movement just in time. He rushed over and steadied Austin with a hand on the man’s shoulder and a quiet, “Go sit down.”

Austin quivered taut and raging beneath Marcus’ hand. He showed the New Horizons chairman a feral snarl. James Southerland cowered in the witness box, recoiling as much from the photograph and the video image as from the man himself.

“Turn that off!” Logan Kendall’s cry was almost shrill. “Turn that thing off!”

“You just shut up and
sit down!”
Judge Nicols pounded for order, and turned her growl on Marcus. “Proceed, counselor.”

“So, Mr. Southerland,” Marcus said, guiding Austin back to the table and into his chair, patting his shoulder one final time. “It appears that we do in fact have a perfect connection between your factory, the video, and the missing young woman. Wouldn’t you say that was the case?”

The man looked as haggard as one who had just shaken hands with death itself. “I-I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“By your own admission, the laces that are keeping Gloria Hall captive are made by Factory 101 and nowhere else.” Marcus watched as Alma turned slowly, almost creeping about, then pegged the Chinese general where he sat. Marcus waited until he was sure it was a look and nothing more before continuing, “I could have the records read back to you if you wish.”

“It was … I don’t have any understanding … I wasn’t there … I haven’t been there in years.”

“But this
is
your joint venture, it
is
your product, it
is
your factory, is it not, Mr. Southerland?”

He pointed a finger at General Zhao. “That’s the man you have to ask. Not me! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“But I suggest that you did know, Mr. Southerland.”

“No! I didn’t—you want to blame somebody, go after Randall Walker! It was his plan!”

Marcus moved forward and stood so that Southerland had to turn toward the jury, or turn away. “I submit that you knew all along. You knew, so you had your people attack me at your Rocky Mount plant.”

Logan shouted so hard his voice cracked. “Objection!”

“Sustained.”

“You had Randall Walker scare off the first attorney the Halls hired by granting him a partnership. Is that not so?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

“You had your people trap me here in the courthouse and beat me and break my arm. You tried to burn down my home.”

“Objection!”

“You ordered the murder of Ashley Granger, did you not.” He leaned up closer still, hissing, “Just like you ordered the murder of Gloria Hall.”

“Your Honor! I object to these unfounded accusations and incendiary theatrics!”

Marcus rapped his knuckles lightly on the witness stand, but even that sound was enough to cause James Southerland to flinch and draw away. “No further questions.”

“Mr. Southerland!” Logan bounded forward, seeking to redress the damage by volume alone. “Is it not true that there is a great deal of trademark pirating in China?”

The man slumped toward Logan as he would toward a lifeline. “Yes. Yes. Of course there is.”

“Logos and designs are stolen and made by pirate factories all the time.” Logan plucked the photograph from the stand and tossed it into the corner. Marcus noticed that several of the jurors and the judge herself flinched at the action. “Is that not true?”

“Absolutely.” James Southerland smoothed back his hair, saw the state of his trembling hands, hid them in his lap. “All the time.”

“Pirating is a terrible problem in the textile industry.” Logan flicked off the televisions, snapped to the bailiff, “Get this out of here.” Then turned back to Southerland. “Pirating. A terrible problem in your industry.”

“Terrible.” The CEO tried but could not keep his eyes from tracking the televisions’ progress out of the room.

“Of course it is. It is a well-known and highly documented fact.” Logan moved up close enough to block the CEO’s view of anything but him. Shot him a warning gaze. “So it is entirely possible, even likely, that one of your illegal competitors stole that design and has been producing these products without your authorization.”

“Yes. Of course.” Southerland drew himself erect by will alone. “We have strong evidence that this very thing has happened with our shoes.”

“And if it happened with your shoes, it would be the laces as well?”

“Of course it would.”

“So in truth there is no substantiated evidence whatsoever to suggest that this video was shot in your factory?”

“No. None.”

“It could have been any number of places. Done by pirates with morals so low they would be capable of such actions.”

“Yes. But not us.”

“No further questions.”

Judge Nicols watched as James Southerland rose and padded back to the safety of the defense table, a man transformed. She then looked back to Marcus and said quietly, “I believe you have a half hour of closing left.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Would you care to leave that for tomorrow?”

“I am ready now.”

She glanced at the clock. It read only a quarter to ten. Marcus shared her amazement. He felt as if he had been standing in that courtroom through several eons. Judge Nicols banged her gavel. “The court is now recessed for thirty minutes. Counsel is hereby informed that I intend to wrap this up and instruct the jury this very afternoon.”

T
HEY WAITED until all had departed before braving the courtroom doors. Darren was there in the foyer, ready to offer whatever support they needed. Marcus led them toward the elevators, and was midway down the hall when he caught the first wind of tumult rising in the stairwell and out beyond the windows. A tide of sound pressed in from all directions, enough to raise a look of alarm even from the stoic Austin.

Kirsten turned to him helplessly. “I can’t. Not today. Please.”

Charlie understood instantly and said, “I’ll go down and feed the man-eaters.”

Alma and Austin held each other with the numb blindness of emotional exhaustion. Marcus stopped the others with one upraised hand. “Wait here.”

He walked to the end of the hall and for the first time passed the point where he had been attacked without cringing. When Jim Bell opened the door to the judge’s chambers, Marcus said, “I can’t take them out there. We need a place to sit this out.”

“Come with me.” Bell walked up to the little group, so weary and drained they could only stand around Darren like a woeful flock seeking shelter beneath a storm-tossed tree. The former patrolman approached and said, “How you folks doing? Looks like winter’s coming right round the bend, yes sir. Early this year.” He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and jangled them as he walked. “Why don’t you join me right on down the hall here. We got us an empty office and a conference room next door.”

He opened the door, waved them inside, his voice calming even their internal storms. “That’s better now. Darren, why don’t you
come with me. We’ll rustle up some donuts and fresh coffee for these folks.”

Marcus offered his hand. “You are a friend.”

“That’s exactly what I aim to be,” the receptionist said, and walked away.

Austin and Alma moved off together into the conference room. Kirsten stood in the doorway, knowing she should not follow, yet uncertain what she should do. Marcus watched the Halls huddle in the far corner for strength, and understood. The morning had stripped away their last vestige of hope. There was no winning here. No triumph, no miracle of reprieve. At this moment the court’s verdict mattered as little as snow falling upon an overwarm earth, a blanketing solution lost before it ever formed. Beyond the windows rose the pandemonium of conquest, a noise that mocked the tragedy within these bare walls.

A deep voice said through the open doorway, “Can I help with anything?”

“Deacon,” Marcus cried, feeling that he could finally release his own burden of fatigue. Let it show in his voice and his shoulders. “How long have you been here?”

“Off and on for most of last week and the one before.” He offered Marcus no smile, no false words of hope. “You did good in there, brother.”

Marcus pointed to the conference room. “They need you.”

“Thought they might.” He nodded to Kirsten, patted her arm, entered the conference room, and shut the door behind him.

The room was so still that Marcus could sense what he did not hear, which was the burden Kirsten now carried. It was the most natural thing in the world to reach for her shoulder and say, “I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

She turned to him with a look utterly devoid of either hope or a sense of tomorrow.

He studied the violet eyes. “I am certain,” he said softly, “that you did exactly the right thing. Every single step of the way.”

She balled her fists and held them out to him, clenched around the agony his words had released. He reached up and took hold of those two hands, and said, “Gloria would be so proud of you.”

He pulled her toward him and held her as tightly as his weary
arms could manage. She clutched him with hands that could not draw him as near as she liked. Her blond head raked back and forth across his chest, the sobs and the words muffled and torn. All Marcus caught for certain was one word: Gary. It was enough.