“Do you have any idea how many other cases have resulted in such an avalanche of appeals?”
“I have been in direct contact with nine other lawyers, all of whom won in lower courts. None has received a single penny in compensation. Four have-”
“Objection!”
“I withdraw the question.” Marcus returned to his table, embittered by the exchange. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
“The witness is excused. Court is adjourned until nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” Judge Nicols paused for a moment before rising, long enough to issue Marcus a stern but silent warning. He gave her nothing but grimness in return. Charlie had requested fireworks. Fireworks there would be.
The sky was dark by the time Darren drove into the Halls’ development. The houses were so new they shone in the streetlights. Most, however, were adorned with whimsical Victorian flairs. Corner windows bowed around cupolas with high-paneled roofs. Porches were graced with intricate latticework. Light streamed out from almost every window he saw, gold and welcoming. Marcus found his tired mind wishing the unseen dwellers well, hoping they would never know the vagaries of unforeseen tragedy, yet suspecting even this fine scene withheld secrets of fear and need and woe.
As they pulled into the driveway, Alma Hall was already shutting the front door and buttoning her sweater. Marcus took this as a bad sign, and wished he had more energy to deal with the coming onslaught.
But the woman offered her own tired smile in greeting. “Austin’s fallen asleep on the living-room sofa. It’s the first real rest he’s had in weeks. Do you mind if we talk out here?”
“Not at all.”
“The poor man is wound up so tight I’m afraid he’s going to snap.” She leaned down and said through the open car window, “Hello, Darren.”
“M-Mrs. Hall.”
Marcus asked, “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m about the same as Austin, only I hide it better.” Another attempted smile flickered beneath the streetlight. “It was good to see you perform up there today. But that poor Mr. Taub.”
“Is that what you wanted to see me about?”
“No. Will you take a turn with me?” Alma waited until they had left the driveway and entered the sea of night to reveal her nerves. “I want to know when you’re going to show that videotape of them hurting my little girl.”
“Probably never, Alma. I can’t.” Most cases held some evidence or angle of attack that the client felt was crucial but that, from a legal perspective, was a ticking bomb. The difficulty was in making the logic of court procedure shine clearly through his client’s emotional storm. Marcus held to a gentle tone as he explained, “The issue is what the court calls establishing a chain of possession.”
“I don’t care about that!”
“You should, Alma. This is vital. We have to authenticate the evidence by showing exactly where the tape was made and how it came to be in our hands. The defense knows about the tape, it’s listed as evidence and they have a copy. They can very easily exclude it because there is no way to tie it to the Chinese factory.”
They entered the next island of streetlight. Alma clutched the front of her sweater with both hands, bunching it tightly across her middle. The yellow light turned her features waxy and translucent. Her eyes were dark and wide as nightmare pits.
When she said nothing, Marcus continued, “We are treading a very thin line here. Remember, our focus is on gaining publicity and finding out what happened to Gloria.”
The cry seemed wrenched from the very night. “Then show them that tape! Let the world see what those fiends have done to my child!”
Marcus halted between the lights, where the dark offered this proud woman a private space. “We can’t do that, Alma. All it shows is a badly beaten young woman in a concrete cell. There is nothing to tie it anywhere, not even to China. The defense wants us to show the tape. Why? Because they can then say we have based our entire case on something that is patently flimsy. Unless we have something to demonstrate there is a direct causal link between New Horizons and the making of that tape, we cannot show it. We cannot.”
When Alma remained silent, Marcus draped his good arm over her shoulders. Her entire body trembled from the impact of sobs she did not wish to release. They stood at the border of the nearest streetlight, while overhead leaves of a neighboring oak rustled like yellow parchment. When she finally took a deep breath and regained her composure, Marcus steered her around and started back up the street.
Her words were as quiet as the night. “All last night I was remembering times from Gloria’s growing-up years. Austin and I have been involved in civil rights since before we were married. Austin marched three times with Reverend King. I was heavily involved in local politics and education. Austin used to call us foot soldiers in the battle for civil rights. I helped manage the campaign of the first black man elected to the United States Congress from this state. Gloria was eleven at the time. She loved it from the start, worked day in and day out, stuffing envelopes or passing out leaflets or putting up posters. She was a born activist.”
“She sounds like a very fine woman,” Marcus said, liking Alma immensely, imagining what it must have been like to grow up in such a household with these two people as beacons. And challenges.
The woman’s tone deepened with worry. “I lay there all last night, remembering these things and praying the good Lord would give me a sign. Something to show my baby was all right. That she wasn’t …”
Marcus could do nothing but hold her shoulders tightly and slow to match her broken pace. “You might both want to come to court tomorrow. Hopefully we’re going to spring a little surprise.”
Planning for the next day gave Alma a reason to recover. “Austin and I are taking time off work. Neither of us is doing anything save worry. The schools understand. We’re on sabbatical until after the trial.”
He could think of a dozen reasons why this was not a good idea. But it was their decision, and nothing would be gained by arguing. As they turned down the driveway he looked at the house and searched the windows. “Is Kirsten around?”
Sad humor tinged her words. “The lady took off the instant she heard you were stopping by.”
“Any idea why she hates me so?”
The chuckle became clearer in her voice. “Kirsten doesn’t dislike you, honey. She’s torn, is all.”
“By what?”
“Now, that I can’t say. I’ve known her for years, ever since she and Gloria started living together at Georgetown. I thought I knew her as well as I do anyone, but I’ve found myself learning something new these past few days. This girl is mighty comfortable with her mysteries.”
His mind flitted like a moth about a flame. “Strange how they lived together all that time and Kirsten never met Gloria’s boyfriend.”
“I don’t know where you got that idea.” Alma slid from his arm and started wearily up her front steps. “She introduced them.”
The news planted Marcus firmly. “What?”
“Gary Loh did volunteer work at the foundation where Kirsten works.” Alma seemed to labor at opening the door, she was that tired.
“Which foundation was that?”
“The Far East Mission Board.” She stepped inside. “I’ll tell Kirsten you asked about her. Good night, Marcus.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
When they arrived back home, Marcus was still worrying over possible reasons why Kirsten would have lied to him about knowing Gloria’s boyfriend. Which was why it took him a moment to realize there was a strange little camper parked alongside his garage. The camper was one of the humped sort made back in the fifties, a little metal mole pulled by what appeared to be a vintage Chevrolet painted with rust and years of grime. He and Darren exchanged a questioning look, then climbed from the Jeep.