The Great Divide (5 page)

“I see.” Marcus did not turn back to the wife. Not yet. It would be too easy to dismiss Austin Hall’s attitude as that of a severely impatient man. One tired of going through the motions, angry at the disturbances to his tightly controlled world. “Have you contacted an attorney prior to this?”

“Two of them.” Austin Hall glanced at his wife, but not for confirmation. Rather to tell Marcus, look over there, that’s who you ought to be asking these questions. “One local fellow, he said it wasn’t his field of expertise.”

But Marcus remained focused upon Austin Hall. “And the other?”

“The man looked into it.” He tried for defiant, and failed. “He said our claim was so flimsy we’d risk being countersued by the company for filing a frivolous case. Told us he’d be censured by the court. Wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole.” When his wife shifted impatiently, he added, “Those were his exact words, Alma. You heard them the same as me.”

Marcus remained held not by the man’s words, but rather by his eyes. There was a hollow point at the center of his dark gaze, a shadow so deep it bore a hole straight through the man’s center. “Do you recall the attorney’s name?”

“Larry Grimes with Morgan and Jones.”

“They’re a good firm. One of the largest in the state.” Marcus finally turned from the man and his tightly vacant gaze. He said to Alma Hall, “You believe New Horizons is connected to this matter?”

“I’m not believing anything. They are.”

“I see.”

Alma Hall had a smattering of freckles across her high and slanted cheekbones. It was the only trace of softness to her face and tone and gaze.

“You’re suggesting that one of the largest companies in eastern North Carolina has kidnapped your daughter?”

“That is exactly right.”

“Did this take place here in Rocky Mount?”

“No. In China.”

When Marcus leaned back, the sofa accepted him like he would never be allowed to get up and leave this behind. “China.”

“That’s right. Between Hong Kong and a city called Guangzhou.” Alma Hall had clearly gained a lot of practice saying that name. “About thirty-five miles over what used to be the Chinese border.”

“Mrs. Hall—”

“Gloria has been investigating New Horizons’ labor violations for almost two years.” Alma Hall had no intention of letting go. “They’ve been involved in dirty practices since the beginning. Gloria collected all kinds of evidence. She’s shown me a whole box of press clippings from just one factory up in Richmond.”

Marcus suppressed his list of objections. Sometimes a necessary part of lawyering was waiting and listening until a client ran out of steam.

“New Horizons shows this fancy face to the outside world. Signing on the top stars in every sport you can imagine—tennis, basketball, golf, football, skiing, everything. They spend a ton of money on their advertisements. Slick music, wild lights, everything you can imagine.”

“I’ve seen the ads.”

“Of course you have. So has the rest of the world. They pay the stars millions, but they treat their employees like dirt.” She was steam-rolling now. “Gloria was working to show how they locate their factories in the poorest areas, here and abroad. Places like Rocky Mount, where the authorities will be on their side no matter what mess they get into. And there are a lot of messes.”

Marcus asked quietly, “What do you do, Mrs. Hall?”

“I’m dean of admissions over at Shaw University.” Shaw was one
of the largest black colleges in the state. Alma Hall dug into her jacket pocket, then spent a moment carefully unfolding a sheet of paper and rubbing out the creases. “Gloria is our only child. She left here with a full scholarship to Georgetown University. She took two undergraduate degrees, in sociology and economics. She’s doing her master’s now in labor relations. The topic of her thesis is New Horizons.”

Alma Hall handed over the page. “Six weeks ago, we received this letter.”

Marcus accepted the typewritten page, and read it carefully. Then he read it again. And a third time.

He then turned and looked out the plate-glass window. Sunlight streamed through the pines to splash the glass with brilliant light. A gentle wind waved the trees’ shadows, weaving black script upon the gold. Gloria’s letter was as lucid and determined as her mother. Gloria wrote that she had asked someone named Kirsten to mail this a week after her departure. It was the best way, Gloria wrote, to ensure that her parents did not try to stop her. She was going over to chase down rumors about the New Horizons facility in China. Factory 101, it was called, and what she had gathered so far made the place sound like a glimpse into hell itself. She hurt for those people, Gloria said. She wanted to interview workers from the compound in which Factory 101 was situated. There was a special reason for the timing of this journey. Something that made her mission particularly vital. If they received this letter but had not heard from her personally, they were to contact the United States embassy in Beijing, the consulate in Hong Kong, and the FBI. They should get hold of the best lawyer they could find, and push. Push hard. Her life might depend on this.

Marcus continued to stare out the back window as the pines etched more shadow-script within the sunlight. Marcus spent a long moment searching for a message before deciding the afternoon wrote its mysteries in an unreadable tongue. The air was so still he heard a clock in another room softly chime the half hour. Gloria’s repeated use of one word rang with the clock in the sun-splashed air.
Mission
.

Marcus turned back because he had to. Alma Hall read the furtive search for a way out in his features. She cut him off before he could speak by leaning forward and letting desperation clench her throat and rake every word raw. “Mr. Glenwood, my baby is
hurting
. She needs help. I can’t explain to you how I know this, but every breath
I take, I hear that child crying out from the wilderness.” On any other face the gaze would have appeared drawn from the borderlands of madness. “Maybe you were brought to us for a purpose, did you ever think that? You were drawn here because you’re the man to bring my Gloria home.”

M
ONDAY MORNING Marcus traveled to and around Raleigh in less than fifty minutes. Where the Rocky Mount highway merged with the Raleigh Beltline, the traffic congealed, but only momentarily. Nine o’clock was a fairly safe time to be headed toward the Research Triangle Park. Techie rush hour began at six and ended at seven-thirty, both morning and evening. This portion of the Tar Heel State prided itself on running to a Silicon Valley time clock.

The Morgan and Jones law firm occupied one of the ultramodern buildings ringing the Park. The exterior was brick, slate, and mirrored glass; the interior was plush and impersonal. After an appropriate wait for someone without a fixed appointment, Marcus was led into one of the windowless interior offices assigned to associates. “Mr. Glenwood?”

“That’s right.”

“Larry Grimes. Come on in. Sorry about the mess.” A black man in suspenders and a hundred-dollar power tie hefted a pile of folders from one chair. “You take coffee?”

“No thanks.”

“Right. Hope you don’t mind if I keep packing while we talk. They only gave me until the day after tomorrow to be up and running in Charlotte.” Grimes deposited the files into a box, pulled a pen from his pocket, and scribbled on the top. “Your fax said you wanted to discuss one of my clients who’s approached you seeking representation?”

“That’s right.” The office was littered with half-filled boxes and piles of unsorted papers. Nails protruded from an empty power wall,
below which rested a box crammed with plaques and photos and diplomas. “Alma and Austin Hall.”

An instant’s hesitation, then Grimes barked a single laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You remember the case, then.”

“Sure I remember them. But there’s no case. The matter is a total waste of time.”

“Alma Hall doesn’t think so.”

“Alma Hall is an emotionally distraught mother who would do anything to get her daughter back. You met the father?”

“Yes.” Marcus watched the younger attorney smooth his tie. Again. Stroking the silk with absent nervous gestures. “I couldn’t figure out his reaction.”

“What’s to figure. The man knows how to think logically.”

“I’m not sure that’s the whole picture.” Paying almost no mind to his own words. Concentrating on the attorney and his pinstriped shirt with the white collar, his alligator belt, the eyes that danced about the room. “Mr. Hall said you had refused to take their case.”

“Like I said, what case? The Hall girl was of legal age, she was known as a troublemaker, she went to China, she decided to stay for a while.”

“Troublemaker in what way?”

The attorney’s voice tightened. “Look, the claim is groundless. That’s all you need to know. The only tie-in between the girl and New Horizons is some hyped-up letter.”

Marcus nodded slowly. The man was young, polished, smooth, and under pressure. What Marcus could not figure out was where the pressure came from. “Do you handle many federal cases?”

“Some. Look, I’d love to chat, but right now I’m up to my eyeballs.”

“Could I have a copy of any relevant information you turned up?”

When the man looked ready to refuse him, Marcus rose to his feet and added, “I’m sure the Halls would deliver a formal request if I asked.”

The man’s sudden stillness brought to mind a nervous quarry. “You can’t seriously be thinking of taking this case.”

“A girl is missing and nobody seems very eager to have her found. That makes me wonder.”

“You’re wasting your time.” The shrug held the stiffness of a puppet. “But, hey, if you’re that hungry, be my guest.”

“Thank you.” Marcus handed over his card, started for the door, then was struck by a sudden thought. He turned back and hazarded a guess. “By the way, congratulations.”

Grimes froze once more. “How did you hear?”

“Oh, you know how these things get around.”

Grimes bent back over the box. “Crazy. Kedrick and Walker said I had to keep my partnership secret until their next general meeting.”

Marcus tapped on the door frame, his thoughts racing. “I’ll expect that file by the end of the week.”

R
OCKY
M
OUNT
had a divided past and a contemporary chasm. The Tar River flowed dark and sullen through its middle, forming a divide that not even the legal joining of Nash and Edgecombe Counties could bridge. To the west lay Raleigh and wealth. All the town’s stores and most of the new investment—private and public both—also lay west of the Tar. To the east, in the area where Marcus’ grandparents had built their home some forty years earlier, sprawled a haphazard collection of enclaves. Most of them were black, poor, and bitter.

The eastern side of the Tar River was a time warp to a poorer, harsher era. While western Rocky Mount sported three new shopping centers, nine banks, and a score of new factories, the Edgecombe side remained a one-company town. New Horizons employed almost everyone who held a steady job, over four thousand people and still expanding. Soon after his arrival, Marcus had been told by a black neighbor that New Horizons and the white-run city council liked things just the way they were.

In eastern Rocky Mount, the store windows were boarded up, the roads potholed, the few shops almost empty. People shuffled down cracked sidewalks with tired resignation. This part of town bordered an Indian settlement, three communities established by former slaves, and North Carolina’s largest remaining poverty pocket. Marcus had known little of this when he returned after the accident, and he was still learning. At first the black teens who clustered on porches up and down his block had frightened him. Now they were just a part of the scene. The white citizens who continued to migrate farther and farther west referred to this end of town as Dredgecombe.

When his grandfather had built his wife’s dream house, the Edgecombe County side of Rocky Mount had been home to the sort of people never fully accepted by their more proper neighbors to the west—sawmill owners and warehouse operators and tanners and hog butchers and landowners whose wealth was built on sharecroppers’ sweat. Marcus’ grandfather had been a tobacco auctioneer until a stroke cut off his voice and mobility. Marcus had kept the place after they died, mostly because it was his last tenuous bond to a past that held little heritage and even less in the way of family ties.

He turned into his street, which softly hummed sad tales of former grandeur. Decrepit Victorian houses shyly watched his passage, sheltered behind tall oaks. He sometimes had difficulty seeing his place in its newly refurbished state. In a way, he missed how for most of the past eighteen months, returning home had meant confronting a lawn blanketed by sawdust and piles of lumber and sheets of roofing tile and construction tools. Now the roof no longer sagged, the windows did not gape, the huge sycamore no longer probed one dark limb through the third-story cupola, the stairs did not look drunk, and the veranda railing no longer missed the majority of its teeth. Marcus stopped in his drive and regretted the absence of the mind-cleansing labor that had kept him from needing to think of any future at all.

He was halfway up the front stairs when his secretary called through her open window, “You in for a call from Washington?”

“Yes.”

“Some lady, I didn’t catch her name.”

Marcus sidled around where Deacon Wilbur’s ladder was set in the middle of the front hall. He asked Netty, “Are the extra computer and fax lines hooked up yet?”

“Been done since last week. Which I told you. Twice.”

“All right. I want you to get on the Internet and contact one of the corporate search listings. Doesn’t matter which one. Ask for a complete record of everywhere New Horizons operates a facility.” He crossed to his makeshift desk in the back corner of Netty’s office. He picked up his phone, glanced back, and found Deacon Wilbur had climbed halfway down the ladder to look through the open door. “What is it?”

Deacon asked, “This mean you’re gonna help Austin and Alma bring their child home?”