“I don’t understand,” Alma said, more concerned over Marcus’ tone than over his words. “We’ve won, haven’t we? You beat them.”
Marcus replied softly, “Alma, their defense is very strong.” Punctuating each word with a slight pause.
She turned her plea toward Charlie. “It can’t be over. We’ve got to do more. There must be something-”
“Alma.” The one word was enough to turn them all around. Austin Hall sat on the edge of his seat, a hard tight knob of a man. “That’s enough.”
“But he just said-”
“I heard the man same as you. I’ve been sitting and listening and thinking for days. If you try you’ll hear the only answer that matters, same as me.”
The chamber was silent save for the dull sigh of the courtroom’s ventilation system. Then, rising in the distance, they heard the faintest clamor. A tide of voices and shouts and loudspeakers and sirens. The courtroom had no windows. Which meant the noise was strong enough to penetrate solid concrete walls.
“Marcus has done all he said he’d do.” Austin set up each word as he would the precise formula of a proven theorem. “He gave us more publicity than we ever imagined. The whole world knows our daughter’s name. All because of this man.”
Austin leaned in close, his voice gentle, but the words rocking his wife nonetheless. “He has done more than we could ask of our closest kin. He’s been beaten, burned, battered. He’s sat up there and let himself be flayed alive. All for us. And now he’s trying to tell us to look and see what we’ve known all along.”
Alma’s head began slowly tracking back and forth. Austin took a deep breath, willed himself to hold to his flat, precise control. “Alma, our Gloria is dead.”
She gasped in the way of one whose final breath has been torn from her body. Marcus rested a hand on her shoulder, but had no strength for anything else. Nor any comfort to add. Not even for himself.
“If they had her, she’d be free.” Austin turned toward Marcus, revealing the struggle to hold himself together. “You do the best you can, Marcus.”
“I will.”
A single sob escaped from Alma’s throat, one wrenching sound cut off as sharp as a broken crystal heart. Austin continued, “You do the best you can. Not for me. Not for Alma. We can’t ask a thing more of you. Do it for my Gloria.”
He searched about him, as though wanting to be certain his legs were still there and ready to carry him. “Come, Alma. We must go show the world our woes.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Hold my hand here. Be strong.” He lifted his wife with his will. “Gloria is watching.”
FORTY-THREE
Marcus watched the news as he breakfasted, taking vague consolation on that wet, gray day from how well Kirsten handled the press. She had been filmed on the courthouse steps the day before, with the modern faceless building and lowering clouds for a backdrop. Her hair blew like scattered winter wheat as she fielded question after question, only once losing her calm, when a reporter asked her if Marcus Glenwood was using her as a shield to hide his drinking problem. Her response was quiet, but only because emotion had choked her throat tight. “Marcus Glenwood is the finest man I have ever met,” she fired back. “A man who cares so deeply he will sacrifice all he has left to help the Hall family. I wonder who would say the same about you.” When the picture switched to the next story, Marcus turned the television off and stood staring out at the dripping rain, reflecting that such moments as this should be savored in silence.
The SBI car was there and ready when he and Darren emerged. Marcus waved, but any response was lost to the rain. The drive into town was as silent as ever, a time for watching the highway unfold, slick as a gray-black river. Marcus entered the courthouse at a run, keeping silent as dozens of questions were shouted from beneath a forest of umbrellas. He entered the foyer, brushed rain off his jacket, returned the guards’ greetings, then stepped into the elevator alone. Only when the doors closed did he gape like a landed fish, gasping hard and long, releasing his fear.
Within the windowless courtroom, wind and rain and normal light vanished, to be replaced by whatever the judge dictated. Even time was held within her sway.
As expected, after Judge Nicols had given her greeting to the jury, Logan Kendall rose and announced, “Your Honor, the defense rests.”
Marcus rose in tandem and said, “The plaintiff waives their right to rebuttal, Your Honor.”
Logan’s voice betrayed his triumph. “Then we declare our readiness to proceed immediately into closing arguments.”
Judge Nicols frowned, a swift notice of concern, there and gone as fast as scuttling clouds. “Counsel may approach the bench.”
When they had gathered there before her, she went on, “Does the plaintiff wish further time to prepare?”
“No thank you, Your Honor.”
“Very well. I am limiting each side to two hours of closing.”
Marcus wished there were some way to thank her for the anxious cast to those stern features. “We would like to take an initial thirty minutes, then hold the right to speak again after the defense.”
Logan countered, “Then we request an additional half hour to rebut the plaintiff. It is our right to go last, Your Honor.”
“All right. Mr. Glenwood, you may begin.”
Marcus rose and walked directly to the podium. He had given scores of closing arguments before all kinds of juries. The words came easily and well. As he spoke, a portion of his mind weighed the jury’s reaction. He walked them through the evidence, gave them a careful summary of the early witnesses whom they might otherwise have forgotten. And he studied them. On a majority of faces, he saw concern. This was bad. Even worse was how some now held expressions of pity. Pity was murderous. Charlie Hayes had once said the only time a jury showed pity for a lawyer was when they agreed with him in their guts but had decided to follow their minds. And their minds had chosen for the other side. Marcus had never known Charlie to be wrong on this count.
Marcus began his conclusion. “Through using a pea-in-the-shell game, the defendants have sought to hide their connection to this factory. But the evidence has clearly demonstrated that, in fact, the New Horizons company does not only purchase tens of millions of dollars worth of products from Factory 101, they actually own a significant interest in the factory. One they have sought to hide both from you the jury and from the federal authorities. And we have shown you why.
“Through documentary evidence and the testimony of witnesses, we have revealed that New Horizons Incorporated and Factory 101 were in a conspiracy to profit from the systematic abuse of prisoners of conscience.”
“Objection!” Logan bolted from his chair. “Your Honor, the Chinese prison system is not on trial here.”
“Overruled. Continue, Mr. Glenwood.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Marcus turned back to the jury and went on, “We have shown how our client was abused because she threatened this profit. She was treated in the same callous manner as their workers. This upstanding American student was made to disappear because she got in the way.”
Logan rose another time. “Your Honor, I must protest.”
“Overruled.”
Marcus fought back the desire to beg the jury to share with him the conviction that Gloria had been right all along. “Gloria Hall was kidnapped and abused by the defendants because she threatened a commercial relationship that was mired in pain and fear and blood. A relationship that cared for nothing save money and power. A relationship that existed purely to exploit those who had no voice to complain. She sought to bring light into the darkness that was endured by many, and for no other reason than because it benefited the company’s bottom line. These partners must be punished, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. They must be brought to justice.”