“Sephus! You leave that woman alone!”
Kirsten scampered for the front steps and Netty’s comforting fury. Her entire frame was trembling so hard her footsteps were as unsteady as an infant’s. She could still feel his hand in her pocket.
“I’m calling the police, you don’t get offa my lawn!”
The man cast Kirsten another tight spark from those half-seen eyes, and said, “You have yourself a nice old day, now, you hear? Oh, and tell Marcus for me I’m glad to hear he’s decided to dance another tune with us. Real glad.”
The two women watched him saunter to his idling truck and drive off with a tattooed wave. When Kirsten’s breathing stopped shuddering, she said, “He said New Horizons sent him.”
Netty squinted into the sun-drenched distance. “I’m not the least surprised.”
“You know him?”
“Know of him. Sephus Jones.”
“He threatened me.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Netty’s face bore the pinched quality of someone looking for a place to spit. “Folks around here refer to him as Skunk. Whenever he’s disappeared off for a spell, there’s no question but Sephus has been sent up. Again.” She pointed to where the envelope’s corner poked from her shorts. “What’s that he planted in your pocket?”
“A check.” She used two fingers to pull the envelope free. “My guess is it’s a retainer from New Horizons for Dale Steadman’s legal fees.”
“You want me to burn it?”
Kirsten entered the front hall and set the envelope upon the side table. She then headed upstairs for the guestroom shower. Sephus Jones’ imprint was on her skin like a rising bruise. “I think Marcus should see it.”
“Why spoil the man’s Friday? I could dig a hole and bury it out there by your plants, he knows where it is if he’s interested.”
CHAPTER 5
The Wake County courthouse was just another Raleigh downtown high-rise, banded across its center by three stories of windowless concrete. These middle floors housed prisoners awaiting trial and those sentenced to anything less than ninety days. A second jail had recently been erected across the street and was connected by a fourth-floor walkover. The courthouse foyer was a tidal wash of everything wrong with the legal system. The currents moved in predictable fashion, rushing in at half-past eight, out at noon, in at two, out at five. When Marcus arrived, the lines at the metal detectors were ninety strong. Marcus waited while a rat-haired mother with a squalling baby explained to a bored deputy why her common-law man really didn’t mean to kick the kid. Staffing the courthouse information desk was one of the most hated duties a deputy could pull. The accused and their families loved to use the deputies as a captive audience, practicing their spiel before moving upstairs to the judges’ chambers. The deputy waited for the mother to draw breath, then directed her to the crèche, as no children were permitted in family court unless called there by the judge.
Marcus asked, “Any idea where I could find Anita Harshaw today?”
The deputy gave him a Teflon scan, swiftly classing Marcus as one of the legal opposition. “She usually hangs out on the third floor.”
“Thanks.” He slid around the crush waiting for the elevators and took the stairs. On the third floor he entered a linoleum and fluorescent realm. Two windowless lobbies were filled with grim tension and confusion. Lawyers stood in clusters, smirking effigies in slick suits, telling jokes and shaping last-minute deals.
Anita Harshaw was an alpaca-draped blonde who lived and breathed divorce work. She outweighed Marcus by a hundred pounds and accented her size with bulky knits. The attorney spotted his approach and greeted him with “If it isn’t the roller-coaster kid. What is it today, Marcus, you on the rise or the fall?”
“I want to talk with you about a case you handled.”
“Is it privileged?”
“Probably not.”
“Then I’m happy to dish out the dirt.” She stepped out of earshot from the other lawyers. “Who’s the target?”
“The former Erin Steadman.”
“Couldn’t possibly be privileged. Seeing as how I never even met the lady.”
“And now she’s taken other counsel.”
“For what?”
“Custody dispute.”
Up close the woman had a rich floral scent, an unexpected hint of femininity. “You’re kidding me.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“That’ll take about five seconds. The lady calls from somewhere foreign. Germany, wasn’t it?”
“Düsseldorf.”
“See, you know more than I do. She gave me three sentences. Handle the case. No visitation rights, no argument, no alimony, no publicity. Fast and quiet.”
“She didn’t show up for the hearing?”
“I just said I’ve never met the woman. So who’s handling her now?”
“Hamper Caisse.”
She caught her smile before it was fully formed. “Heard about your set-to the other day. Did they really give that old pastor a cheer?”
“Standing ovation.”
“Sorry I missed that one.”
“Any idea why she’d make a case out of custody now?”
“Not a clue. The lady wanted this thing to die a quiet death and disappear.”
“Publicity,” Marcus repeated from his talk with Dale.
“I told her that was the last thing on anybody’s agenda, and I could still represent her interests and seek partial custody.”
“She said no?”
“Wouldn’t even let me finish the sentence.”
Marcus hefted his briefcase a trifle. “The file makes no mention of who was counsel for Dale.”
“On account of how Steadman represented himself. Man showed up looking like the sacrificial lamb. One thing I do remember. When the judge granted him custody, Steadman broke down right there in chambers. Only reason I didn’t feel worse about not going for his jugular.”
“Thanks, Anita.” Marcus started to turn away, then asked, “Any idea why the divorce hearing was set in Raleigh?”
“Same thing all over again. Too much risk of publicity down Wilmington way.”
“Can you give me your impression of Dale Steadman?”
“Other than clearly loving that child, I didn’t have one. We were in and out of Judge Sears’ chambers in less than five minutes.” The dark eyes glinted with experienced humor. “You looking to build a case or find a way out?”
“As soon as I discover the answer to that one,” Marcus replied, “I’ll let you know.”
The courthouse’s rear doors opened onto the Fayetteville Street Mall, a pebble-dash haven for lawyers and bureaucrats and bums. The previous day’s rain bubbled off the surface, turning the air into a sauna laden with molten asphalt and car exhaust. Marcus selected an empty bench beneath a shade elm and pretended to watch the slow-motion theater. If only he knew what to do.
A voice behind him said, “I guess I got it wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Steadman case. You’re not handling it after all.” The young man had a complexion of cinnamon-laced latté. He wore a summer assortment of high fashion-sharply creased gabardine trousers, striped shirt of Egyptian cotton, flash tie. He approached, but did not offer his hand. “Omar Dell, court reporter for the News and Observer.”
“You are definitely jumping the gun here.”
“I called your office. The lady I spoke with did not deny that you were working for New Horizons.”
“Who was that?”
“I did not get her name.”
“You call that a confirmation?”
“Oh, I already had the confirmation.” Pianists’ hands held a gold pen and leather-bound pad. “I was just looking for comment.”
“Sir, you are encroaching on my territory.” Despite all logical reasons to the contrary, Marcus found himself drawn to the man. “You look more like a hotshot trial attorney than a reporter.”
“I’ve been working this beat for almost three years, looking for my ticket to glory.” Dell’s even features showed a dead-set determination. “Last time you created a publicity hurricane, I got shoved aside. This time I’m not so junior.”