The Great Divide (7 page)

Randall smiled delightedly, as though Suzie was bestowing the wisdom of the ages. “Did you ever work with him on a trial?”

“Once. He went down in flames.”

Logan listened to Suzie twist the truth as if she were arguing a desperate case, and wondered how much Randall already knew. For example, did he know that Suzie’s account was a pack of self-serving lies, that Marcus had taken over the case from a partner dying of cancer? Logan had been present when Marcus, during his first meeting with the client, had declared that taking the case to trial would do little more than prepare an extremely expensive funeral. The client had subsequently thrown a ton of money at the firm and begged them to save his worthless hide. Marcus had, in fact, drawn from the jury an astonishingly lenient sentence. Logan watched Randall Walker sitting and feasting upon Suzie Rikkers’ monologue and decided the aging attorney knew a lot more than he was letting on.

Randall Walker was not an attractive man by any stretch of the imagination. Age had pulled the folds of his face down like melted tallow, until his chin appeared to be held in place by his starched collar and his tiepin. Even his freckles had stretched into age blotches. But
his blue eyes twinkled and his smile charmed juries and ladies alike. Randall Walker’s reputation did not end in the courtroom.

He even seemed to be working his magic on Suzie. “I can’t tell you, Ms. Rikkers, what a fine assessment like yours means to an outsider like myself.”

Logan decided it was time to get some answers of his own. “Why are you interested in Marcus?”

“His name has come up in several recent discussions.”

He felt a bitter surge. It would be just like his old nemesis to land on his feet and be offered a job with Kedrick and Walker. “Within your firm?”

“No, with a client.”

“Marcus is trying to steal one of your firm’s clients?”

“Actually, sir, Marcus might be calling a client of mine as a defendant.”

Suzie burst in. “Then your client doesn’t have a thing to worry about.”

The benign smile resurfaced. “And why is that, Ms. Rikkers?”

“Marcus had a total breakdown eighteen months ago.” She did not even try to mask her pleasure. “After the accident.”

“The accident, yes, how tragic. To have lost both his children like that. It must have been a terrible blow.”

“Marcus went to pieces. I watched it happen.” She actually smiled. “The firm was going to let him go.”

Logan started to correct her, decided there was no point.

Randall said, “He resigned of his own volition, I believe.”

“Only after the firm carried him for almost a year. Marcus was dead weight.”

“And you say he still has not recovered?”

“You didn’t see him at the divorce hearings. He was pathetic.” Suzie was cheered by the recollection. “If Judge Nicols hadn’t stepped in I would have eviscerated the man.”

“Most interesting.” Randall Walker rose from his seat, walked around the table, and took Suzie’s hand in both of his. “Ms. Rikkers, I must thank you for a most enlightening little chat.”

“My pleasure.”

“Logan, perhaps you’d do me the kindness of walking me out.”

Randall left the room, still very much in charge. Once the two
men were alone, he went on, “I can well imagine you must share a taste of your colleague’s venom for Mr. Glenwood.”

“Marcus and I weren’t friends.”

“Indeed not. I understand he was your principal adversary almost every step up the firm’s ladder.” A piercing blue glance shot his way. “And won more times than he lost, did he not?”

Logan halted midway down the empty corridor. “Who’s your client in this case Glenwood is taking up?”

“There is no case at this time, but I take your point. Some matters are not to be bandied about lightly.”

Logan remained silent, immobile.

“No, indeed not.” If anything, Randall appeared pleased by Logan’s reticence. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to answer one question: How would you like to act on my client’s behalf if this unfortunate matter does proceed?”

Logan could not help showing his surprise. “You want me to represent your client at trial?”

“If need be, sir. Only if need be.”

“State or federal court?”

“That has yet to be determined. But my guess would be federal.”

“And the plaintiff’s attorney is Marcus Glenwood?”

“So it would appear.”

“Does he have a case?”

“Weak at best.”

“To have the chance to shame Marcus Glenwood in federal court,” Logan did not need to think that one out. “I’d waive my fee.”

This time the smile was grand enough to show pearly capped teeth. “While the sentiment is most appreciated, the act will not be necessary. Of that I can assure you.”

O
N THURSDAY Marcus waited until Netty had left for lunch, then placed the call to Washington. When the tensely cultured voice came on the line, he said, “Ms. Stanstead, this is Marcus Glenwood. We spoke on Monday, I’m an attorney in—”

“How did you get this number?”

“Alma Hall gave it to me.”

“You spoke with Alma?” The tension amped higher. “Are you taking the case?”

“That’s why I’m calling, Ms. Stanstead. I’m trying to determine whether there is actually a case here at all.” He waited, and when another explosion did not erupt, Marcus continued. “You said you’d be willing to help me work through this.”

“Yes. All right.” A breath pushed so hard Marcus could feel the unease in his own chest. “Tell me what you want.”

“I have undertaken a preliminary search for court records nationwide.” Marcus drew the two sheaves of paper to his desk’s center. “New Horizons has facilities in sixteen states. If my information is correct, there are cases either pending or on appeal that name New Horizons as defendant at fourteen of these sites.”

“I know that.”

“You …” Marcus stared at the wall. Netty had asked Deacon Wilbur to paint her entire office a buttery cream. The color seemed to swim. “May I ask how?”

“I told you.” Snappish. Wary. Coldly hostile. “New Horizons was the subject of Gloria’s thesis. I was helping her.”

Marcus flicked the summary sheets to the page marked with a paper
clip. “Apparently the closest case to us here was at their former facility—”

“In Richmond. I know.”

Marcus let the pages fall. “You know.”

“They were sued five years ago for polluting the James River. The plaintiffs were a couple of local eco groups and the state water board. When New Horizons lost the case they launched an appeal and simultaneously shut the facility.” The words came faster now. Impatient. “It’s a standard New Horizons revenge tactic, whenever the local government comes out against them, no matter what the reason. You must know that.”

“No.” He turned to where the wall was dappled with afternoon light. “No, I was not aware of anything of the sort.”

“Their headquarters were moved to North Carolina after a similar incident up in Delaware. The suit was brought by the state’s employment board and a couple of unions. They were hit with about a dozen labor violations.” When the news was met by silence, she pushed on. “Gloria lived for her work, Mr. Glenwood. We were friends. I helped her where I could.”

“How long did you live with Gloria?”

“Almost four years.”

“My information is derived from an Internet search engine and is sketchy at best.” Nervously Marcus ruffled through the printouts. “The appeals against the Richmond ruling were apparently lodged with the appellate court there in Washington. I was wondering if you would search out the relevant documents.”

Kirsten Stanstead’s voice turned wary. “Are you accepting this case?”

A long breath, then, “If there is a case at all, yes. But I need a lot more information than I have right now to make that decision.”

“Then the answer is, I don’t need to do any searching. Gloria kept her case documentation very up-to-date.” The lofty impatience broke through once more. “I’ve been through all this with Mr. Grimes. Didn’t you discuss this with him?”

Marcus grabbed the folder that had arrived with the morning’s mail. “You spoke with Larry Grimes?”

“I told you I had the last time we talked, Mr. Glenwood. I do not like to repeat myself.”

“No. Of course not.” The folder from Grimes contained nothing
but the initial agreement with Gloria’s parents, a page of patchy notes, and the letter informing the Halls that there was no case to be brought. “How much in the way of data did Gloria compile against New Horizons?”

“I don’t know.” Her wary hostility etched the air. “The attic is full of boxes. Gloria was a lot of things, but neat was not one of them.”

Marcus sifted through the three spare pages another time, shook the folder, discovered nothing more. “In the letter Gloria wrote her family, she mentioned something about how the timing of her trip to China had become critical. Did she say anything about this to you?”

“No. And I have to go, Mr. Glenwood. I’m already late for a meeting.”

Marcus shut the folder, spread his hand out flat over the slick surface. “Would you mind if I came to Washington and had a look at Gloria’s work?”

“I suppose not. When would you come?”

“Tomorrow midafternoon, say around four.” Closing his hand into a fist. “I’ll leave here at dawn.”

A
FTER LUNCH
Marcus took a drive. His only vehicle these days was a six-year-old matte gray Blazer with a hundred thousand very hard miles—a far cry from his former Lexus. Marcus slowed as he passed the New Zion Church. The whitewashed building was rimmed on three sides by dogwoods and tulip poplars taller than the steeple. The air above the ancient structure still shimmered from remnants of the Sunday service. As he drove past the cemetery and entered the rise of woodlands, it seemed as though Marcus could still hear the call of voices and the constant clapping.

Early September had remained dry, hot, and cloudless. Sunlight bladed through the trees, then flattened across his windshield as he crested the hill. Marcus slowed and turned into the New Horizons drive, unable to read the brick entrance sign for the harsh afternoon light. He pulled to one side of the road and climbed from the car.

Against the backdrop of thundering machinery, Marcus inspected the New Horizons facility. Despite the raw scarring of recent construction, the site had the air of a high-tech campus. To the east stood the oldest buildings, now dwarfed by a behemoth clad in brick and smoked glass. A sign planted in the landscaped foreground declared it to be the new central distribution facility. The two walls he could
see were embossed with New Horizons emblems, bright gold stars streaming silver-clad rainbows. Beneath the logos, letters three stories high shouted the latest New Horizons slogan,
GET IN GEAR
.

Closest to the state road, an old wooden farmhouse and barn had been converted to corporate guest houses. The farm buildings were now connected by a pillared walkway and decorated with fruit trees and blooming trellises.

A half dozen brick factories and warehouses covered the area to his left, all surrounded by pristine gardens and adolescent trees. To his right rose the skeletal outlines of three mammoth buildings. Each was fronted by a sign sporting the world-famous logo, followed by completion dates. The dust and the noise were as constant as the light.

Marcus climbed back into his car and drove up the hill to the office complex. The older building was steel and marble and mirrored glass. The new structure rising to its right was twice its size. As he pulled the Blazer into a visitor’s space, he could see down through the tops of trees to where the clapboard church and ancient cemetery shone in the hot afternoon sun.

The first thing Marcus noted when he entered the marble-clad foyer was the battery of cameras. Four of them. Two mounted in the corners behind the receptionist’s desk, one over the electric doors leading back into the building, another rotating in the center of the high ceiling. The receptionist’s desk also merited a second look—chest high and tiled like the floor. The two men behind the marble counter wore dark blue jackets and cordless telephone headsets. One was white and bulky, the other black and even bigger. Behind them, a waterfall splashed down an aluminum slide. Both men watched Marcus’ approach with blank expressions.

The black man asked, “Can I help you?”

“I’d like to see someone from your legal department.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Then we can’t help you.”

Marcus chose his words carefully. “I’m here regarding a union matter.”

Their focus upon him tightened. “Which union are you with?”

“None. I’m an attorney.”

“Your name?”

“Marcus Glenwood.”

“Who are you representing?”

Clearly this was not the first time they had fielded such a request. Marcus sidestepped the question. “I’d rather discuss that with someone from your legal staff.”

The two men both possessed the thick-corded necks and sloped shoulders of serious bodybuilders. The black man pointed behind Marcus with his chin. “Wait over there.”

Marcus retreated obediently to a series of marble benches adorned with suede pads. The corporate logo was everywhere—the pads, the walls, carved into the aluminum waterfall, tiled in mosaic into the floor. The wall opposite the entrance sported a huge television screen that played a constant stream of corporate ads, all displaying the nation’s top athletes making their hottest moves. Between each ad, the shooting-star logo showered sparks that formed the words
GET IN GEAR
. Flanking the television were back-lit posters covering almost every conceivable sport. The top PGA golfer squinted down the fairway to where a Chicago Bulls former guard slam-dunked a basket. Beside him twirled the women’s Olympic gold-medal figure skater. Marcus walked from picture to picture, pretending to ignore the pair of receptionists. Their eyes never turned his way, but he sensed they were constantly watching him.

The back doors sighed open, and a bright young woman walked straight to where he stood. “Mr. Glenwood, did I get that right?”

“Yes.”