Winner Take All (8 page)

“No further questions.”

“You may step down, Mr. Warner.”

“Your honor, I call Russell Dermont to the stand.”

Dermont was an oddly assembled man. He matched Marcus’ six-four frame, but draped it with an additional hundred and fifty pounds of pure lard. His chin was lost in the pouch that obliterated the knot of his tie. His silver hair formed a waxed wave over a very large dome. His palm-sized ears were so flat they looked webbed to his skull. Delicate lips appeared stolen from a smaller woman.

“You are chairman of Dermont Industries, is that not correct?”

“Yes.”

“You also served three terms as president of the Wilmington Chamber of Commerce.”

“That’s right.”

“We are indeed most grateful that you would take the time to join us today, sir.” Hamper rose and began pacing. Each foot was lifted with exaggerated care, his knobby knees bunching beneath the shimmering suit. “How long have you known Dale Steadman?”

“Ever since he was the star fullback at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington. Met him a few times, usually when he was invited to some city function or another. He’s come and gone several times over the years. The first I knew about him showing up in town again was when he bought that island off Towles Road. Paid a ton of money from what I heard.”

Even the witness paused in anticipation of Marcus’ objection to the evident hearsay. But the impetus was not there.

“You say he paid over the odds,” Hamper Caisse prodded.

“That boy just spent and spent and spent. Place has got a six-car garage, boathouse, poolhouse, and his very own old-timey plank bridge. Word is, the bridge alone cost him half a million dollars. Spent almost four million more on the house. Had two architects and three contractors working on it at one point or another. I know on account of how one was my cousin. Had to have the best of everything. Got this one room just for a piano. Thing cost four hundred thousand dollars, I know that’s a fact on account of how it was in the papers. Boy was plain crazy. Spent his money like a drug king.”

This time, even Judge Sears turned and waited for Marcus to speak up. When he remained silent, Hamper drew his little two-step closer to the witness stand. “What does the local business community think of Dale Steadman?”

“They don’t think any more of him than they have to.”

“Now that is a strange thing to my ears. I mean, here you’ve got Wilmington’s only former pro football player. A homegrown hero like that, I’d expect you to say he’s been ushered into the top echelon.”

Dermont had the restless quality of a man dealing with a deep-seated irritant, one he could not entirely suppress. He kneaded the chair arms, shifted his weight to emphasize the end of each sentence, crossed and uncrossed his legs, straightened his tie, pulled at the skin that ticked by his right eye. “When he came back to town, there were folks who invited him and his new wife just about everywhere. He was offered a chance to join the alumni committee, the local clubs, you
name it. He turned them all down flat. Those of us who remember the first time he came back, we just held our peace.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Dale Steadman is a shyster and a flimflam artist. You can’t believe a word the man says.”

This time Marcus felt forced to say, “Objection.”

“Withdrawn.” Hamper Caisse did not bother hiding his satisfaction. “What can you say about his home life?”

“Lady found out he was a crook and a cheat. She left him. Word is, he beat her something awful.”

“Objection.”

Hamper did not wait for the judge to sustain. “There has also been mention made of his drinking.”

“All the time.”

“Were there drugs?”

“Lot of it going around.” Dermont used both hands to adjust his belt, girding himself for the main assault. “Not long after he started his little textile company, Steadman got himself into a serious financial tangle. He’d maxed out at the bank. Went hat in hand around the local community, begging for a handout. Nobody wanted to help him, of course. Why get involved in a company that’s going under? Just be throwing good money after bad. So we were all watching and waiting for the ax to fall, when suddenly the guy is flush again. There was some rumor of an old buddy from England bailing him out, but Dale never bothered to explain it to a soul. Which makes you wonder if it wasn’t another source, if you see what I mean. Man had to have gotten his money from someplace.”

Hamper’s return to his table was a triumphal march. “Your witness.”

Marcus lingered over the cage he was drawing upon his legal pad. To not respond was to declare himself uninvolved. Which was tempting. But that would leave Dale Steadman unsupported and defenseless. Which was something Marcus would not do to a panhandler. Much less a father, no matter how poor a father he might be.

Judge Sears broke into his reverie with the warning “Mr. Glenwood, I see no reason at this point not to proceed with a custody ruling.”

Marcus rose to his feet, certain now he was hooked, hauled in, gutted,
and descaled. “Your honor, as I stated in the beginning, I merely intended to apply for an
ex partae
order.”

“Do you have any questions for this witness?”

“How am I supposed to, your honor, when this character assassination has hit me utterly out of the blue?”

She turned to the witness. “You may step down, sir.”

Hamper waited until the Wilmington official had stepped through the barrier and seated himself in the front row to declare, “Your honor, Marcus Glenwood is not the star of this show, much as he would like us all to believe otherwise. This is about protecting a child.”

“The child your client abducted,” Marcus pointed out.

“She had no choice,” Hamper shot back. “None.”

“The same child,” Marcus continued, “Ms. Brandt previously abandoned.”

“She did not abandon the child, your honor. That is a misconception fostered by her ex-husband. The custody agreement proves this. The person who deviated from the plan was the husband.”

“My client denies this, your honor.”

“Let me get this straight. This is the same client who denies ever abusing her?”

“Absolutely.”

“Or the baby?”

“Your honor, I object to these baseless accusations.”

“Oh. Wait now.” Hamper paused long enough to cast Marcus a malicious glint. “This objection is being made by a man who couldn’t even protect his own children in their hour of direst need?”

The judge revealed a serrated edge to her Southern cadence. “You will apologize to counsel, or you will be censured by this court.”

“Of course I apologize, your honor.”

“Not to me.”

“Marcus, excuse me. I simply got carried away by the concerns of this moment.”

“Mr. Glenwood, do you have a motion that you wish to place before this court?”

Marcus recognized the offer of an out. “Only that this matter be carried forward until next week so that I might have time to prepare.”

“So ruled. I am away Monday. I expect you both to be here first thing Tuesday with answers to questions I haven’t dreamed up yet.” Judge Sears applied her gavel. “Next case.”

Marcus’ intention to waylay Hamper Caisse outside the courtroom was stymied twice over. The attorney was instantly snagged by a frantic client. Then Marcus found himself confronting a very excited Omar Dell. Which was not altogether a bad thing, he decided. There were certain risks to assaulting another member of the bar in the district courthouse lobby.

The court reporter said, “That man just tried a smash and grab.”

“I still can’t see why you’re so interested in a custody dispute.”

“I told you before, Mr. Glenwood. You’re nothing but fireworks and fame in the making.” The man’s eyes held a joy too fresh for this courtroom. “Give me something. There’s bound to be some lead you can pass on that won’t breach your client’s confidentiality.”

Marcus nodded a grim commitment to the case. “In time.”

I
N
A
THENS
,
THE YOUNG WOMAN
starts to make a formal complaint to the police. But she walks away when the looks they give her and the questions they keep repeating filter through the lingering fog of drug and pain. She leaves Athens the day her passport and traveler’s checks are replaced, both of which the Dutch backpackers have stolen
.

She spends almost two months running from herself. Then she wakes up in a Barcelona hotel with a vicious sangria hangover, and she can’t even say what country she is in, or how long she has been there, or why she continues to leak tears even in her sleep
.

When she arrives in Switzerland, late September rains have transformed the highland roads into rivulets of fading autumn colors. She finds a waitressing job in Zermatt’s top hotel. That lasts until the maître d’ makes it plain there is only one way she will be allowed to stay
.

She moves to a bar at the base of the Valais glacier, the local hangout for ski instructors and Matterhorn guides. She meets the Swiss version of a cowboy, a rancher from the Ticino province, with smooth Italian ways and eyes like electric night. She lets him get her drunk and do whatever he wants. But he does it only once, and he leaves immediately after. There are a couple of others who try, and she no longer sees any reason to put up a fuss. But something they find in her leaves them unable to stay the night, or return, or even speak to her the same way afterward. What it is exactly, she can’t say. From her side, the moment they begin their moves, the Dutch backpackers’ drug seeps out of some secret recess deep at the center of her being, and turns her utterly
numb. The only sensation she can recall afterward is watching the smoke rise and stain the eternal night
.

By the start of the high season, she has been adopted as an unofficial mascot by the local ski troop. They all compete to teach her, all save the ones who have been with her for a night or an hour. They name her
Schwisterli,
little sister in Swiss German, and they find her absolutely fearless. They take her down the most difficult black slopes long before she is ready. She learns by falling and rising and falling again. They share with her the thrills of following the international slalom circuit, of racing supercharged bikes on snowbound Alpine roads, and of drinking thimblefuls of espresso spiked with
Pomme,
the fiery Valais apple brandy. And they protect her from any outsider who might otherwise try their wiles on the lovely white-blond apparition with no past and few words and a gaze like shattered sapphires
.

Toward the end of the season she sends a letter off to Georgetown University, requesting that they postpone her place and scholarship for a further year. She makes a halfhearted attempt to describe her European experiences in a positive light, then halts when the effort to look back makes her sick to her stomach. Georgetown responds so swiftly it almost seems as though they have been expecting her letter, saying the place is still hers, but not the money
.

The next step is the easiest of all
.

When the month of spring mud announces the end of the winter season, she packs her bags and accepts a ride to London. Some of the instructors are headed for the international nightclubbing circuit. Once the high snows melt and the skies clear, they will return as mountaineering guides. Until then, they are tall, muscled, young, and rippling with good Swiss cheer
.

Their first night in a new club off Piccadilly, they introduce her to the international elite. The talk follows a tragically familiar path along beaches with clubs—Majorca, Sardinia, Rhodes, Lanzarote. This time, she enters the scene with eyes wide open
.

The next night she returns on her own. And the night after. She accepts an ecstasy tab from someone, then follows him up to the dance floor. A while later he realizes she is neither dancing with him nor hearing his shouted comments. She does not even notice his departure. In fact, she is not dancing to the music at all. She is too busy writhing to the thoughts that glide about her brain like eager snakes
.

Maybe she is inherently bad. This fact would certainly make sense
of what otherwise is just a set of random events that direct her life. Maybe there is a dark and tainted portion of herself that rules supreme. All she can say for certain is, looking inside means confronting a colossal bleakness. Depression and a vague self-fury hover just beyond her vision, always eager to clutch and smother. She opens her eyes, surveys the flashing lights and the thunderous din, and reflects that maybe this is where she has always belonged
.

By the time she returns to the group, she has decided it is time to stop fighting the inevitable, and give herself over to the game
.

She spends four months doing whatever comes her way. Her looks and availability draw the attention of the flash crowd. The fact that nothing seems to impress her only makes them want to shower her with more. An older man gives her champagne and coke and diamonds and a ride to Capri in his private jet. He lasts eleven days. The diamonds are sold and the funds placed in her account. Why she saves the money at all, she has no idea. Georgetown becomes just another myth somewhere beyond the game
.

Another player draws her into a modeling agency. Her blond beauty and utterly detached air perfectly suit the current mode. She spends the next three months allowing herself to be flown and painted and dressed and positioned and photographed. The girls and boys in this arm of the game are the same, only more elegantly so. They speak the empty chatter. They make swift little liaisons they pretend are important, at least for the moment. She becomes part of a crowd that hails one another in airports and clubs and studios with excited greetings and a desperate need to find the familiar wherever they go
.

In early December she returns to Zermatt. Things are the same, yet different. Calls from modeling agencies keep coming in, taken at the café because she does not bother to connect her apartment’s phone. The Alpine guides pretend that she is still one of them, yet they are all preparing for a departure she refuses to accept
.