through the files last night. Whatever else she might be, Gloria Hall is a fine researcher. She followed the Richmond case from the outset. Had all the relevant data,including a confidential report from the state EPA advisory panel, something the defense managed to keep out of court. New Horizons was dumping a ton of poisons into that river.”
The old man’s response exhibited all the mental acuity that had made Judge Charlie Hayes a force in the legal establishment for more than forty years. “Long way to travel, from polluting the James River to kidnapping a student in China.”
“I realize that.”
“Do you have any concrete tie-ins?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you accepting the case?”
Marcus spotted Deacon Wilbur’s paint-spattered pickup and pulled to the side of the road. “I haven’t decided.”
Charlie squinted through the sun-dappled windshield, and said idly, “Sometimes you don’t have to win a case to succeed.”
Marcus turned to his oldest friend in the legal profession. Charlie Hayes looked every one of his seventy-eight years. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just think on it a spell.” Charlie leaned over and called through Marcus’ window, “Deacon Wilbur. If I’d known you were going to be our guide today, I’d have been out here at midnight.”
The pastor smiled for the first time Marcus had ever seen outside of church. “Why, glory in the morning. If it ain’t Judge Hayes.”
“Get out of my way, son. I want to stand up and shake Deacon’s hand.” Impatiently Charlie allowed Marcus and the pastor to ease him from the truck. “How are you, sir?”
“Can’t complain, Judge. Can’t complain.” Deacon Wilbur clasped Charlie’s hand with both his own. “Marcus told me he was bringing somebody, but I didn’t have no idea it was you. My, but it’s good to see you again.”
“I hooked up with Marcus when he was still a shavetail recruit. Boy came down from some highfalutin college up north. Didn’t help him none. He looked ready to drown his first time in a Carolina courtroom.” To Marcus, “Deacon and I go way back.”
“That’s right, we surely do. My daddy fished with your daddy for more years than I know how to count.”
“Deacon’s daddy was the finest bass guide I ever hope to meet. How long has he been gone now?”
“Oh, he’s been laid to rest a whole passel of years. Resting easy, now that Marcus here saw to our cemetery.” Deacon then spotted the taped window on the Blazer’s other side. “What on earth’s happened here?”
Marcus replied, “A long story.”
Charlie demanded, “What’s this about a cemetery?”
“Another long story.”
“Come on, let’s get out on the river.” Deacon reached for a pole and a tackle box. “Ain’t no law says we can’t fish and talk. You all right with a little trail walking, Judge?”
“Fine. Grab my cane there, Marcus.”
“Ain’t far. Just round that bend up ahead.”
Within a hundred paces the swamp cypress and medieval oaks had closed in. The air became dank and rich with forest odors, and the morning light no longer accompanied them. The only signs remaining of the previous year’s floods were scattered debris and watermarks high up tree trunks. Ahead, the river moved dark and steady and timeless. Marcus helped Charlie down a slippery embankment, taking them farther into the timeless gloom, down to where a young black man held two aluminum skiffs.
“This here’s my youngest brother’s boy, Oathell. Mister Charlie, why don’t you join me right over here. Easy now, hold her steady, son.” The pastor slipped into the flat-bottomed boat and reached back, saying, “Hand me the judge’s pole, Marcus. Now Judge, you know I ain’t gonna let you work, so you can set that paddle right back down. You two climb in that other skiff and follow us on up the river.”
The skiffs were both powered by electric trolling motors, silent save for a high-pitched whine. They pushed easily
The old man’s response exhibited all the mental acuity that had made Judge Charlie Hayes a force in the legal establishment for more than forty years. “Long way to travel, from polluting the James River to kidnapping a student in China.”
“I realize that.”
“Do you have any concrete tie-ins?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you accepting the case?”
Marcus spotted Deacon Wilbur’s paint-spattered pickup and pulled to the side of the road. “I haven’t decided.”
Charlie squinted through the sun-dappled windshield, and said idly, “Sometimes you don’t have to win a case to succeed.”
Marcus turned to his oldest friend in the legal profession. Charlie Hayes looked every one of his seventy-eight years. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just think on it a spell.” Charlie leaned over and called through Marcus’ window, “Deacon Wilbur. If I’d known you were going to be our guide today, I’d have been out here at midnight.”
The pastor smiled for the first time Marcus had ever seen outside of church. “Why, glory in the morning. If it ain’t Judge Hayes.”
“Get out of my way, son. I want to stand up and shake Deacon’s hand.” Impatiently Charlie allowed Marcus and the pastor to ease him from the truck. “How are you, sir?”
“Can’t complain, Judge. Can’t complain.” Deacon Wilbur clasped Charlie’s hand with both his own. “Marcus told me he was bringing somebody, but I didn’t have no idea it was you. My, but it’s good to see you again.”
“I hooked up with Marcus when he was still a shavetail recruit. Boy came down from some highfalutin college up north. Didn’t help him none. He looked ready to drown his first time in a Carolina courtroom.” To Marcus, “Deacon and I go way back.”
“That’s right, we surely do. My daddy fished with your daddy for more years than I know how to count.”
“Deacon’s daddy was the finest bass guide I ever hope to meet. How long has he been gone now?”
“Oh, he’s been laid to rest a whole passel of years. Resting easy, now that Marcus here saw to our cemetery.” Deacon then spotted the taped window on the Blazer’s other side. “What on earth’s happened here?”
Marcus replied, “A long story.”
Charlie demanded, “What’s this about a cemetery?”
“Another long story.”
“Come on, let’s get out on the river.” Deacon reached for a pole and a tackle box. “Ain’t no law says we can’t fish and talk. You all right with a little trail walking, Judge?”
“Fine. Grab my cane there, Marcus.”
“Ain’t far. Just round that bend up ahead.”
Within a hundred paces the swamp cypress and medieval oaks had closed in. The air became dank and rich with forest odors, and the morning light no longer accompanied them. The only signs remaining of the previous year’s floods were scattered debris and watermarks high up tree trunks. Ahead, the river moved dark and steady and timeless. Marcus helped Charlie down a slippery embankment, taking them farther into the timeless gloom, down to where a young black man held two aluminum skiffs.
“This here’s my youngest brother’s boy, Oathell. Mister Charlie, why don’t you join me right over here. Easy now, hold her steady, son.” The pastor slipped into the flat-bottomed boat and reached back, saying, “Hand me the judge’s pole, Marcus. Now Judge, you know I ain’t gonna let you work, so you can set that paddle right back down. You two climb in that other skiff and follow us on up the river.”
The skiffs were both powered by electric trolling motors, silent save for a high-pitched whine. They pushed easily
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