by Greg Iles
“Are you guys in D.C.?”
“No, Jefferson County. Your father has actually been treating Quentin, despite his heart attack.”
Yet another fact Dad has kept from me, and possibly from my mother as well.
“Tom has been a godsend,” Doris continues. “But I have to tell you this: Quentin can’t handle a murder trial. Not a case he’d be as personally invested in as this one. If they lost, and your father went to jail, it would kill Quentin. He can certainly give you advice, but please don’t ask him to handle the trial.”
“I hope there won’t be a trial, Doris. But Dad’s already been indicted. It happened only a couple of hours after his initial appearance, and I think Shad’s going to try to have his bail revoked.”
“Hmm. That sounds fishy.”
“It is. Joe Elder is the judge, at least for now. And unless I’m mistaken, Joe clerked for Quentin back in the day. I’m hoping Quentin can help me get the charges reduced, if not dismissed altogether.”
“I hope that’s possible. You’re right about Joe Elder working for Quentin. I’ve met him several times socially. He’s a fair man. I have your phone numbers, Penn. We’ll get back to you after Quentin’s awake and up to speed.”
“Thank you, Doris. I mean it.”
“I know.”
And then she’s gone.
A cold emptiness settles in my chest as Doris’s voice echoes in my mind: Quentin can’t handle a murder trial.
I run through a mental short list of the most gifted defense attorneys I faced during my courtroom career, and even jot down a couple of names. But in the last analysis, not one measures up to Quentin Avery. And yet … all that talent and experience is contained in a body that is falling apart. The parallels with my father are downright eerie.
“It’s after five,” Rose says over the intercom. “Do you need me for anything else?”
“Go home, Rose. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Should I lock the door?”
“No, I’ll be right behind you, and I’ve got files to carry. Tomorrow is my meeting with the selectmen about the Forks of the Road proposal, right?”
“I’m afraid so.”
The political controversy that surrounds this racially charged project would be enough to sink me under normal circumstances, but right now it seems only a peripheral annoyance. That said, I’ll have to spend at least an hour tonight prepping for tomorrow’s meeting. I’m gathering up the relevant files when the door to my office opens. I jerk my head up, half expecting to see the angry face of Lincoln Turner, but instead I find the kind eyes of Jewel Washington watching me.
“Jewel! What are you doing here?”
“Sorry to sneak up on you. I was waiting for Rose to leave.”
“What’s going on?”
She crosses to my desk and hands me a manila envelope. “I’m going to be asking the supervisors for a budget increase for my department at the next meeting. I need an assistant. I wanted you to be aware in case there’s anything you can do to help me.”
“Well … I’d like to help, but you know I have no vote on that board.”
“I know that.” Jewel looks over her shoulder as though someone might walk in at any moment. “But your opinion carries a lot of weight.”
“I’ll do what I can.” I shake the envelope. “Is this the budget?”
She smiles. “The budget’s in there. And if anyone asks later, that’s all you found. But you study the last few pages real close, all right? In fact, I think you ought to look at them now.”
Jewel is my favorite city employee, but right now I’m not sure I can focus on any routine matters. “Jewel—”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Read it, baby.”
Setting down my files, I open the folder and flip through what looks like the usual appeal for assistance from a bureaucratic department. As I reach the end, though, the typeface changes, becoming much smaller, and I see handwritten notes and diagrams—some of the human body. Flipping back one page, I read a boldface title: PRELIMINARY POSTMORTEM RESULTS: VIOLA REVELS TURNER. Michael Winters, M.D., F.C.A.P. I nearly swallow my Adam’s apple.
“More interesting than you thought?” Jewel asks with a sly look.
“I’ll definitely give your request my fullest attention.”
She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I’ll give you the short version now. Miss Viola died from an overdose of adrenaline.”
“Was it an amount that might be reasonably given in a code-blue situation?”
Jewel shakes her head. “Massive overdose. If it was administered by a health-care professional, it almost had to be intentional, unless they picked up the wrong-dilution syringe by mistake. If it was a layman … who knows? I can imagine a lot of different scenarios, but none of them look particularly good for Dr. Cage.”
“Does Shad have a copy of this yet?”
“As of about ten minutes ago.”
So you were Shad’s appointment. I sag onto my desk. Despite the help that so many people seem prepared to offer, and their faith in my father’s good character, I have a sense that, like the Titanic, we’re on a stately but unalterable course toward disaster. Somewhere in the darkness ahead lies a submerged berg that will tear a hole beneath the waterline of all our hopes.
“Hey,” Jewel says gently, coming forward. “You don’t look good.”
“It’s been a truly crappy day.”
She gives me hard-earned smile of empathy. “I’ve seen a few myself.”
“Any advice for getting through them?”
The coroner snorts with something like contempt. “You wantin’ some of that magic Negro advice? The mystical secret for getting through times of trial and tribulation?”
“I’ll take anything you’ve got.”
“The best advice I ever heard came from a white man. A fat Englishman with his back against the wall and the wolf at his door.”
I raise my eyebrows, too tired to ask.
“Never, never quit.” Jewel smiles. “Winston Churchill smoked a cigar, just like your daddy.”
“You really believe in Dad, don’t you?”
Her pupils seem to dilate in their dark irises. “I know men, baby. I’ve seen enough bad ones to recognize the good. And your daddy’s in a class by himself. If you have any questions about the autopsy, call my son’s cell, not mine.”
I hand her my cell phone and ask her to enter the number for me. As she does, I say, “I’ve always felt like you do about Dad. But the way he’s acting about Viola has shaken my faith. I hate telling you that, but it’s true.”
Jewel hands the phone back to me, and then her eyes seem to go out of focus. She’s looking inward. “I don’t know what happened to Miss Viola that night. All that autopsy can tell you is what happened inside her body. But Tom Cage wouldn’t hurt a soul unless it was to relieve pain. And sometimes … Lord, that’s all you can do. Every nurse knows that.” She takes me by the hand, her grasp warm and maternal. “Whatever decision your daddy made that night, I’ll stake my job it was the right one.”
This heartfelt vow pierces me to the quick. Caitlin’s easy reassurance barely scratched the surface of my anxiety, but Jewel’s faith has sunk into me like a harpoon. “That means a lot, coming from you.”
The coroner’s eyes harden. “My faith doesn’t buy you anything, Penn. You’ve got to steel yourself for what’s coming. You’re too much like your father. That’s your weakness. You always look for the good in folks. But in Billy Byrd and old Shadrach, you’d be lookin’ in vain.”
Her warning tone sobers me. “Jewel … let me show you something. Come around to my side of the desk.”
As she does, I hit a button on my keyboard, banishing the screen saver and summoning the obscene photograph of Shad Johnson and the bloody pit bull back to the screen. Jewel’s hand flies to her chest when she realizes who and what she’s seeing. Then she shakes her head like a devout Christian being forced to look at the devil’s work.
“What a
re you going to do with this picture?”
“I’m about to show it to Brother Shad.”
She shakes her head again, then looks up at me with new eyes. “I was wrong, wasn’t I? You’re not quite as naïve as your daddy, after all.”
“I hope not.”
“Lord, I’d give a month’s salary to see Shadrach’s face when you show him this.”
“A lot of people would. Jewel, do you know anything about Lincoln Turner?”
She cuts her eyes at me. “Not yet. But I’ve been asking around, quiet like. I’ve already seen him twice today, hangin’ round the courthouse like the ghost at the feast. Don’t worry, I’ll get to the bottom of him.”
“Thanks. What about Judge Joe Elder? He’s not another Arthel Minor, is he?” Minor is a recently retired hack who in the past colluded with Shad to go after one of my father’s partners.
“No, no. Judge Joe’s a good man, and smart as a whip. But he did grow up over in Ferriday. I’m sure he took his share of abuse from the rednecks over there. He’s no reverse racist or anything, but—” Jewel appears to be blushing. “Joe probably wouldn’t find it hard to believe that your father took advantage of Viola back in the old days. Even though I do. I can see why Shad would want Joe over Judge Franklin.”
“Thank you, Jewel.”
She turns back to my monitor and clucks her tongue three times. “My grandbaby fair worships that Darius Jones. But Lord, Shadrach Johnson … pride surely goeth before destruction.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
She looks up, her eyes showing confusion. Then she shakes her head and says, “My daddy told me politics was dirty business. I guess he was more right than I knew. I’d tell you good luck, but I don’t want any part of this.”
“Thank you, Jewel.” I hold up the autopsy report. “For this.”
She nods once, then hurries through my door, pulling her coat around her like a woman going out to face a storm.
Reaching down to my mouse, I move the cursor to the File menu, and press PRINT.
CHAPTER 39
“THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY is expecting you, Mr. Mayor,” Shad Johnson’s male assistant says. “Go in.”
When I open the door, I freeze. As expected, Shad is waiting behind his enormous desk, but I didn’t expect to find Sheriff Billy Byrd’s bulk wedged into a chair to Shad’s left, watching me with a smirk.
“Come in, Mr. Mayor,” Shad says with apparent deference. “Close the door.”
Shad motions me to the chair before his desk, but I don’t sit. Instead I walk forward and grip the chair back, bracing myself for whatever these two have cooked up. They’re the unlikeliest allies I’ve ever seen—a Harvard-educated, liberal black lawyer and a redneck sheriff who barely escaped high school with a diploma—yet they have colluded before, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
“What’s the deal, guys?”
“No deal,” says Shad. “Congratulations on your father getting bail. He obviously has a lot of support in the community.”
Sheriff Byrd gives a porcine snort, his eyes barely visible beneath the brim of his Stetson.
“After the initial appearance,” I say, ignoring Byrd, “you told me there were some things I didn’t know. You said you thought we ought to clear the air. Then you ran straight to the grand jury for an indictment. Have you cut some kind of deal with Joe Elder to revoke Dad’s bail?”
Shad and Billy share a fast look. “Judge Elder will not only be handling the case for now. I can also tell you in confidence that he’s considering staying on the bench through its conclusion.”
A wave of nausea loosens my bowels. Shad wouldn’t have asked Elder to stay through this trial unless he were confident of some kind of bias.
“Don’t look so frightened, Penn. Joe Elder’s the most impartial judge to sit in this county for decades. He’s firm but fair. Your father won’t get a free pass, of course, but then he shouldn’t. Nobody should.”
“Is Elder going to revoke Dad’s bail?” I ask in a barely controlled voice.
Shad sniffs and looks over at a window. “That’s unlikely without an arraignment. But I’d expect that Monday, when the judge comes back to work. Now, let’s move on to more pressing matters—”
“What did you say to the grand jury?” I demand. “Did you repeat Lincoln Turner’s allegations about his paternity? Because if you did, and it gets out, you’re going to find yourself—”
“Whoa, there, Mayor.” Shad glances at Byrd again. “What did I tell you? He can’t speak three sentences without threatening me.”
“You can’t say you haven’t asked for it.”
The DA shakes his head with what looks like forbearance. “I told you, you’ve got the wrong idea about me. But I’ll let the sheriff explain.”
Sheriff Byrd has a set of keys in his hand, and he works each key through his fingers as he speaks. “Couple months back,” he says, “when all that shit broke loose about the casino boat? With the dogfighting and such?”
I give him a faint nod, hyperconscious of the photograph in the inside pocket of my sport coat.
“Back when your girlfriend was putting your picture in the paper every day, saying what a big hero you were?”
“The police chief was in there quite a bit, too,” I remind him. The jurisdictional disputes between the Adams County Sheriff’s Office and the Natchez Police Department are legendary.
“My point,” Sheriff Byrd says, “is that you and Chief Logan seemed happy to take all the credit for the dogfighting and prostitution busts. And I let you. But—I only done that so’s I could protect my sources.”
It takes restraint not to laugh at this. “Sources? What the hell are you talking about?”
The sheriff raises his hat brim a few millimeters, letting light into his puffy little eyes. “I’m talking about the dogfighting and whoring that was going on, on both sides of the river. I’d been investigating that for quite some time when all hell broke loose in October.”
An incredulous laugh escapes my lips. “This is a joke, right?”
“Hell, no, it ain’t. You wouldn’t know nothing about my operations, of course, living up in your ivory tower.”
“I don’t recall you making any arrests, Billy.”
“That’s ’cause you and your army buddy busted right up into the middle of my investigation. Committed a few crimes of your own in the process, too. That’s why your buddy left here in such an awful damned hurry, ain’t it? Had the feds all over his ass.”
Righteous anger floods through me when I think of Daniel Kelly and the service he did this town. “You’re full of shit, Billy. What’s that got to do with the price of oil?”
Byrd shifts on his seat, but every inch of his blubber exudes confidence. “Anyhow, it’s come to my attention that you’ve been threatening the district attorney with some sort of blackmail. Something about a compromising photograph?”
“Is that what Shad told you?”
“Don’t matter who told me what, Mayor. But I sure hope that’s not the case. Because the fact is, District Attorney Johnson here was one of my main confidential informants throughout my dogfighting investigation.”
As their scam comes clear, my blood pressure plummets, and I waver on my feet. “Do you seriously expect anyone to believe that?”
Byrd’s lips widen into something like a leer. “I surely do. That was a pretty high-toned bunch running that dogfighting ring, and I needed somebody who could mingle with the upper crust. Plus, them Irishmen was bringing in pro athletes and rappers and such, most of ’em black. When I told the DA my problem, he offered to make out like he was into that kind of thing, and get me some inside information.”
“And that’s how there came to be a photo of our district attorney and a star athlete torturing a pit bull?”
“That’s exactly right.” Sheriff Byrd’s dull eyes twinkle. “You know the lengths CIs have to go to, to get credibility with their targets.”
Both men are watching me car
efully, awaiting my response.
“Gentlemen—and I’m using that term facetiously—I’ve heard some bullshit in my day. But I have never heard such unadulterated crap as that.”
Sheriff Byrd’s face darkens. “That’s the way it is, bud.”
Ignoring Billy, I walk up to Shad’s desk, take the photo out of my coat pocket, unfold it, and lay it on the polished wood.
“Imagine that under a thirty-point headline, Shad. And I’m not talking about the Concordia Beacon or the Natchez Examiner. I’m talking about USA Today. The New York Times. The Trib, back in your old stomping ground.”
Shad’s throat clicks as he swallows.
“Look at your face, Shad. It would take one hell of a lawyer to sell that look as duty.”
His eyes remain on the picture for several seconds. Then he slowly composes himself and looks up at me. “You heard the sheriff.”
“Does revenge on me really mean that much to you? You’ll risk everything for it?”
Without lowering his eyes, he turns the photo facedown on the desk.
“Billy,” I say softly, “will you swear to your story in court?”
“You’re damn right I will.”
At last I look at him. “Perjury. Is that a new low for you? Or just an old habit?”
Byrd comes halfway out of his chair, then slowly settles back into it. He’s not used to being talked to like that. Not twice in one day, anyway, I think, recalling Jack Kilgard’s tirade on my parents’ sidewalk.
“Your day’s comin’, son,” he growls. “I’ve got all the records I need to prove what I told you.”
“I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet you worked on them all last night, over a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. You and Shad both. Only he drank pinot noir, right?”
The sheriff stands and steps toward me, but Shad stops him with an upraised hand. Some power dynamic exists between these two men that I don’t fully understand.
“The upshot of all this is simple,” Shad tells me. “The photograph you brought with you is merely a record of activities I undertook as an undercover officer for Sheriff Byrd—and for myself, obviously, as the senior law enforcement officer in the county.”
