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.”
“You see television cameras hanging around here?”
“They’ll come. My aunt goes to Deacon’s church. I’ve been hearing the stories about you for two years. Putting you and New Horizons back together is like sticking the detonator into a hydrogen bomb and turning the key.”
“But like you said,” Marcus pointed out, “I’m not certain there’s a case. For me, at least. And if there is, I won’t be working for New Horizons.”
Dark eyes did a partial melt, his disappointment was that keen.
“Couldn’t help but hope, even when I saw you sitting out here.”
“Where else should I be?”
“You mean to tell me the man’s doing an end run around Marcus Glenwood?” Omar Dell gripped Marcus’ arm and dragged him from his bench, out into the
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.”
“You see television cameras hanging around here?”
“They’ll come. My aunt goes to Deacon’s church. I’ve been hearing the stories about you for two years. Putting you and New Horizons back together is like sticking the detonator into a hydrogen bomb and turning the key.”
“But like you said,” Marcus pointed out, “I’m not certain there’s a case. For me, at least. And if there is, I won’t be working for New Horizons.”
Dark eyes did a partial melt, his disappointment was that keen.
“Couldn’t help but hope, even when I saw you sitting out here.”
“Where else should I be?”
“You mean to tell me the man’s doing an end run around Marcus Glenwood?” Omar Dell gripped Marcus’ arm and dragged him from his bench, out into the
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