Alma Hall answered the door, tight-lipped and grim. “Thank the heavens above.”
“You haven’t said anything?”
“Not a word. But if you’d taken much longer, blood would’ve flowed.”
“Don’t let them goad you, Alma.”
“I’m trying.” She led him inside. “Goodness knows, I’m trying just as hard as I know how.”
Marcus entered the living room and walked straight over to Austin. He said simply, “Hold on.”
Austin rose with the others. His expression was as tight as his houndstooth necktie. “That man there says they’re going to arrest me.”
“Wonderful.” Marcus rounded on a roomful of cold gazes. “What a lovely picture that would make for the six o’clock news. Respected members of the black community are jailed for sending money to their missing daughter.”
The man closest to him had features sharp as his voice. “This is a private meeting.”
Alma Hall said, “This man is Marcus Glenwood. He is our attorney. And he is a lot more welcome in this house than you are.”
“I’d like to see some identification, please.” Marcus pulled a pad and pen from his jacket. “From everyone.”
There were two FBI agents from the Raleigh office, a State Bureau man, a sheriff’s deputy in plainclothes, and an assistant prosecutor from the district attorney’s office. Marcus took his time over the IDs, giving everyone a breather, gently asserting control. “All right. What’s this about pressing charges?”
“We were informed that a ransom had been paid.” The prosecutor, Wayde Barrett, possessed the aggressive attitude of someone who bullied for pleasure. “That is a felony.”
“It’s strictly a nuisance charge.” Marcus addressed the FBI agents. “I can’t believe you would be a party to this sham.”
“Aw, these fellows got roped in the same as me.” The deputy sheriff had the long flat drawl of the Carolina coastal plains. He dangled a white Stetson from the fingers of one hand. “Somebody called the office, said they were making a major arrest, and we needed to be part of the action.” He turned to the silent gray-suited men. “Ain’t that right.”
This only increased the prosecutor’s ire. “Funding a felonious crime is a serious offense!”
“This is absolute rubbish,” Marcus told the room.
“Why don’t we all take a load off,” the deputy suggested.
All did, save the prosecutor, which left him looking like a soapbox orator. “You could lose your license to practice law for this!”
The deputy had a long neck with skin so loose it hung like a chicken’s craw over his collar. But his eyes were sharp as ice-blue blades, and there was not an ounce of fat on his six-foot frame. He spoke to Marcus as though they were the only people in the room. “You’re that feller who moved back over to his granddaddy’s place in Rocky Mount.”
“That’s right.”
He hitched up one trouser leg, revealing a lizard skin boot. “You as big a troublemaker as they been saying?”
“Absolutely,” Marcus replied. “Who is they?”
“Aw, you know how talk goes ’round in these parts.” The deputy leaned forward, offered a hard-callused hand. “Amos Culpepper.”
“Nice to meet you.” The man’s grip was like iron. “Is that why they sent you, to warn me?”
“I’m not in the warning business, Mr. Glenwood. One thing I’m not looking forward to when the sheriff retires next spring and I take over is dealing with folks who’d like to tell me my business.”
“I had a local businessman bring a man by my house the other night. A man who rammed my car when I visited New Horizons. The pair threatened me.” Marcus’ voice grated in his own ears. “I didn’t like it either.”
Exasperated at being ignored, the prosecutor snapped, “How about we talk about something that matters!”
The deputy disregarded him entirely. He asked Marcus, “You file a complaint?”
“There was nothing substantive said or done. But the threat was there.”
“You got names?”
“The spokesman was Hank Atterly. He called the muscle Lonnie.”
The prosecutor flopped down on the sofa opposite Marcus and fumed, “This is absurd.”
“Know Hank well. The other name doesn’t ring a bell.” The deputy swished his tongue about like someone searching for a chaw that wasn’t there. “You get a good look at that other fellow?”
“Lean, reddish gray crew cut, big nasty pickup, redneck accent.” Marcus heard the wreck and the threat anew. “There was a second man at the New Horizons attack. He was heavyset and balding. I only saw him for an instant in my rearview mirror before he broke the back windshield with a baseball bat.”
The prosecutor demanded, “Can we get back to the business at hand?”
The deputy showed him a cold eye. “I don’t know what your business is, bub. Mine is fighting crime.” Back to Marcus. “Lots of local families eat food bought with New Horizons paychecks. Looks to me like you’d stay healthy longer if you didn’t blow smoke straight in their faces.”
“I plan to steer clear of them, don’t worry.” Marcus turned to the prosecutor. “My guess is you’re out here without your superior’s authorization. This is a harassment charge that could clearly backfire on you.”
The prosecutor sneered. “Word is, you’ve got no cause to be telling anybody the finer points of law, Glenwood.”
Marcus let that one pass, something that came much easier these days. “All we want is to bring the Halls’ daughter home. You should be helping us, not making threats.”
“Don’t try and tell me my job!” The prosecutor had one of those faces that reddened easily. “There’s nothing to keep me from charging you as well!”
“On what grounds?”
The prosecutor searched his associates’ faces, found no support. He huffed to his feet, snapped, “You’ll be hearing from my office, Glenwood.” When the front door slammed, everyone in the room breathed easier.
The two fibbies rose, and the elder said, “We should have a report from the embassy in Beijing sometime next week.”
Alma’s ire had drained away, leaving her voice flat and tired. “You think it will do any good?”
The agents exchanged glances. “In all honesty, I don’t hold out much hope.” When they arrived at the front door, the agent went on, “We’ve ordered a full-time watch on the account that received your payment. If the Hong Kong authorities do their job, we should be able to track who withdraws the funds.”
Amos Culpepper waited until the agents had departed before saying to Alma and Austin, “I’ve heard talk of this prosecutor fellow. None of it good. I’m sorry you folks had to go through this.” To Marcus, “He’s ambitious and he’s dumb. Makes him open to the wrong kind of offer. You need anything, you let me know.”
In the void left by Culpepper’s departure, Marcus offered the only hope he could. “We have the final hearing in the judge’s chambers tomorrow. There shouldn’t be any surprises, but I’ll call when I get back and let you know.”
Randall Walker was well aware that the greatest power was often the most secretive. Which was one reason he had eventually left the bench. Randall’s finest thrill in earlier days had come from looking down on the defendant and declaring sentence. But that power had been limited by law and the public spotlight, and in time it had grown stale.
He had studied Machiavelli for years, knew his writings well enough to quote entire passages as though they were his own original thoughts. There was a man who understood where real power resided. Let others lay claim to the throne or boardroom or television lights. Sooner or later they would find their roles threatened, and the public eye too constrictive. They would then turn to him. And each time it happened, his reach grew wider. Once this New Horizons case was over, Randall’s power would span continents and national boundaries, reach across the great divide of history and national interests. All Randall had to do was win. And win big.