Then one of the jurors cried aloud. She rose in her seat, pointed at the television screen, and shouted, “Look! It’s right there! It’s been there all along!”
The CEO squinted and leaned forward, searching for what he could not see.
Marcus turned the poster-sized photograph around, revealing a blown-up image of Gloria Hall. Kirsten passed copies to the judge and the defense. This time the entire jury box erupted. Followed by the entire courtroom.
Gloria Hall was bound to her chair so tightly the flesh of her arms and neck ballooned out around the bonds. She was fettered about her chest and neck and arms and hands with long cords. The cords were all made from uncut shoelaces bearing the New Horizons logo.
Marcus caught the movement just in time. He rushed over and steadied Austin with a hand on the man’s shoulder and a quiet, “Go sit down.”
Austin quivered taut and raging beneath Marcus’ hand. He showed the New Horizons chairman a feral snarl. James Southerland cowered in the witness box, recoiling as much from the photograph and the video image as from the man himself.
“Turn that off!” Logan Kendall’s cry was almost shrill. “Turn that thing off!”
“You just shut up and sit down!” Judge Nicols pounded for order, and turned her growl on Marcus. “Proceed, counselor.”
“So, Mr. Southerland,” Marcus said, guiding Austin back to the table and into his chair, patting his shoulder one final time. “It appears that we do in fact have a perfect connection between your factory, the video, and the missing young woman. Wouldn’t you say that was the case?”
The man looked as haggard as one who had just shaken hands with death itself. “I–I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“By your own admission, the laces that are keeping Gloria Hall captive are made by Factory 101 and nowhere else.” Marcus watched as Alma turned slowly, almost creeping about, then pegged the Chinese general where he sat. Marcus waited until he was sure it was a look and nothing more before continuing, “I could have the records read back to you if you wish.”
“It was … I don’t have any understanding … I wasn’t there … I haven’t been there in years.”
“But this is your joint venture, it is your product, it is your factory, is it not, Mr. Southerland?”
He pointed a finger at General Zhao. “That’s the man you have to ask. Not me! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“But I suggest that you did know, Mr. Southerland.”
“No! I didn’t-you want to blame somebody, go after Randall Walker! It was his plan!”
Marcus moved forward and stood so that Southerland had to turn toward the jury, or turn away. “I submit that you knew all along. You knew, so you had your people attack me at your Rocky Mount plant.”
Logan shouted so hard his voice cracked. “Objection!”
“Sustained.”
“You had Randall Walker scare off the first attorney the Halls hired by granting him a partnership. Is that not so?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.”
“You had your people trap me here in the courthouse and beat me and break my arm. You tried to burn down my home.”
“Objection!”
“You ordered the murder of Ashley Granger, did you not.” He leaned up closer still, hissing, “Just like you ordered the murder of Gloria Hall.”
“Your Honor! I object to these unfounded accusations and incendiary theatrics!”
Marcus rapped his knuckles lightly on the witness stand, but even that sound was enough to cause James Southerland to flinch and draw away. “No further questions.”
“Mr. Southerland!” Logan bounded forward, seeking to redress the damage by volume alone. “Is it not true that there is a great deal of trademark pirating in China?”
The man slumped toward Logan as he would toward a lifeline. “Yes. Yes. Of course there is.”
“Logos and designs are stolen and made by pirate factories all the time.” Logan plucked the photograph from the stand and tossed it into the corner. Marcus noticed that several of the jurors and the judge herself flinched at the action. “Is that not true?”
“Absolutely.” James Southerland smoothed back his hair, saw the state of his trembling hands, hid them in his lap. “All the time.”
“Pirating is a terrible problem in the textile industry.” Logan flicked off the televisions, snapped to the bailiff, “Get this out of here.” Then turned back to Southerland. “Pirating. A terrible problem in your industry.”
“Terrible.” The CEO tried but could not keep his eyes from tracking the televisions’ progress out of the room.
“Of course it is. It is a well-known and highly documented fact.” Logan moved up close enough to block the CEO’s view of anything but him. Shot him a warning gaze. “So it is entirely possible, even likely, that one of your illegal competitors stole that design and has been producing these products without your authorization.”
“Yes. Of course.” Southerland drew himself erect by will alone. “We have strong evidence that this very thing has happened with our shoes.”
“And if it happened with your shoes, it would be the laces as well?”
“Of course it would.”
“So in truth there is no substantiated evidence whatsoever to suggest that this video was shot in your factory?”
“No. None.”
“It could have been any number of places. Done by pirates with morals so low they would be capable of such actions.”
“Yes. But not us.”
“No further questions.”
Judge Nicols watched as James Southerland rose and padded back to the safety of the defense table, a man transformed. She then looked back to Marcus and said quietly, “I believe you have a half hour of closing left.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Would you care to leave that for tomorrow?”
“I am ready now.”
She glanced at the clock. It read only a quarter to ten. Marcus shared her amazement. He felt as if he had been standing in that courtroom through several eons. Judge Nicols banged her gavel. “The court is now recessed for thirty minutes. Counsel is hereby informed that I intend to wrap this up and instruct the jury this very afternoon.”
FORTY-SEVEN
They waited until all had departed before braving the courtroom doors. Darren was there in the foyer, ready to offer whatever support they needed. Marcus led them toward the elevators, and was midway down the hall when he caught the first wind of tumult rising in the stairwell and out beyond the windows. A tide of sound pressed in from all directions, enough to raise a look of alarm even from the stoic Austin.
Kirsten turned to him helplessly. “I can’t. Not today. Please.”
Charlie understood instantly and said, “I’ll go down and feed the man-eaters.”
Alma and Austin held each other with the numb blindness of emotional exhaustion. Marcus stopped the others with one upraised hand. “Wait here.”
He walked to the end of the hall and for the first time passed the point where he had been attacked without cringing. When Jim Bell opened the door to the judge’s chambers, Marcus said, “I can’t take them out there. We need a place to sit this out.”
“Come with me.” Bell walked up to the little group, so weary and drained they could only stand around Darren like a woeful flock seeking shelter beneath a storm-tossed tree. The former patrolman approached and said, “How you folks doing? Looks like winter’s coming right round the bend, yes sir. Early this year.” He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and jangled them as he walked. “Why don’t you join me right on down the hall here. We got us an empty office and a conference room next door.”
He opened the door, waved them inside, his voice calming even their internal storms. “That’s better now. Darren, why don’t you come with me. We’ll rustle up some donuts and fresh coffee for these folks.”
Marcus offered his hand. “You are a friend.”
“That’s exactly what I aim to be,” the receptionist said, and walked away.