by Greg Iles
“Don’t you know who Kaiser’s wife is?” Caitlin asks.
“No.”
“Jordan Glass!”
I shake my head, perplexed. Then it hits me. “The war photographer? From Oxford, Mississippi?”
“Yes. Holy shit.”
Annie is bemused by Caitlin’s schoolgirl excitement.
“Jordan Glass has won two Pulitzers,” Caitlin informs us. “Maybe three. Not to mention the goddamn Robert Capa Gold Medal. Not that it matters. She’s past all that. Glass is like Nachtwey, or even Dickey Chappelle, for God’s sake! She’s on that level.”
“You have a Pulitzer,” I remind her.
Caitlin dismisses this with a flick of her hand. “I was lucky. Jordan Glass is the shit. She’s a freaking legend.”
Annie is shaking her head in amazement.
“Are you sure she’s married to this John Kaiser?” I ask, motioning for Annie to leave the room.
“I’ll stop cursing,” Caitlin promises, signaling Annie to stay. “I read all of Henry’s stories last night, remember? He mentioned Kaiser several times, so I checked him out. He’s married to her, all right. They met while working a big murder case in New Orleans.” Caitlin shrugs. “You know me.”
That I do. No stone left unturned, no matter how far off the main path it may be. “Well, the assault on Henry really upset Kaiser. I think we’re finally going to see some federal action on the Double Eagle group.”
“Based on the bones Kirk Boisseau found?”
“That’ll be the legal justification.”
“Can I print anything about the bones yet?”
“Not until you clear it with Henry.”
A shadow flits across her features. I hope it’s guilt for being so ready to exploit the misfortune of a colleague. When a story gets hot, Caitlin instantly reverts from publisher to reporter, and in that mode she operates with the ruthless dispassion of a surgeon.
“You said ‘I figured as much’ to Kaiser,” she observes. “What did he tell you?”
Christ. “I can’t tell you. He made that very clear.”
She makes very little effort to conceal her frustration. “Something about Glenn Morehouse, right? They’ve had his body since this morning.”
She’s like a hunting dog that never gets distracted from the scent. “Next time I talk to Kaiser, I’ll ask if I can pass it to you, off the record.”
Caitlin grimaces but doesn’t argue. “Do you think it would be all right for me to visit Henry at the hospital?”
“Not tonight. You’d just be in the way.”
“But he may have already decided to work for me! He may be my employee now.”
“He hasn’t signed anything. You can call Sheriff Dennis for any details you need, or Mrs. Whittington, the secretary who chased away the assailants.”
“Did I hear you say someone stole Henry’s files?”
“Sheriff Dennis said the assailants took some files from his vehicle during the attack. He was apparently moving them to his girlfriend’s house.”
Caitlin gives me a triumphant look that says, Come on. “Why would Henry be doing that unless he’d decided to change his work circumstances?”
Thankfully, the house phone rings again before I can answer.
“This is crazy,” Annie says, looking much happier to be watching this circus than researching Benjamin Franklin. “This is like during Katrina.”
“Penn Cage,” I answer.
“Hizzoner the Mayor,” says a warm baritone filled with the character imparted by fifty years of whiskey and tobacco. “This is Quentin. How they hangin’ today, Counselor?”
The shocks are coming almost too fast to process. “Just a minute, Quentin.” I cover the mouthpiece, but Caitlin’s already nodding that she understands.
“I’m heading back to the office,” she says. “Call me as soon as Drew calls you.”
“Do not go over to that hospital,” I tell her. “Security’s a major issue now. Stay at your office, and call me when you’re ready to come home. I’ll drive over and follow you back.”
It takes a few seconds, but she finally nods.
“Wait—could you take Annie in the kitchen for a couple of minutes before you go?”
She hesitates, then pulls Annie up from the sofa. “Come on, squirt. Your dad needs to take this call alone.”
As Annie disappears into the kitchen, Caitlin nods at the autopsy report on the back of the sofa, then raises her eyebrows—an obvious request for permission. Though I know I’ll pay for it later, I shake my head. She glares at me for two ominous seconds, then turns and follows Annie into the kitchen.
“Sorry, Quentin,” I say, trying to gather my thoughts. “Thanks for getting back to me.” At last, I add silently.
“I’ve been sleeping a lot lately. Apparently, I missed some of today’s action.”
“I wouldn’t bother you if we didn’t have a desperate situation here.”
“Let me stop you right there,” he says, and I brace myself for protests that his declining health prevents him from being able to help me. “I’ve already talked to your father.”
“What? When was this?”
“That’s neither here nor there, Brother Penn. Like everything else relating to this matter, that falls under the attorney-client privilege. But I know most of the details of the case, and there’s no need for you and your mama to get worried. Not yet, anyway.”
After I get my wind back, I ask, “Are you telling me you’ve agreed to represent Dad in the murder of Viola Turner?”
“Obviously.”
“But Doris said—”
“My wife don’t run my practice, boy! Your father needs a lawyer. I’m it.”
“But … he told me not to call you, not to bother you. Had he already called you by then?”
“That’s a family matter, son, not a legal one. But I wouldn’t press him too hard right now. What matters at this point—and what I got directly from Tom—is that he wants me handling this case. Alone.”
“Alone” in this case means only one thing: without me. “Why, Quentin?”
“You’ll have to ask your daddy that. But again, I wouldn’t yet. He’s carrying a heavy load just now.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s not my place to tell you.”
“Jesus, man. Did he confess or something?”
An incredulous laugh makes me pull back from the receiver. “Boy, you know I’d never ask a client that. Not even Tom Cage.”
“I know. I just … I don’t know. It’s like Dad has become someone else overnight.”
“Well,” Quentin says in a sage voice, “that happens to everybody sooner or later. Every son eventually learns his daddy has feet of clay. You just happen to have a father of singular rectitude, so it took until you were forty-five. That doesn’t make it any less painful.”
Echoes of Pithy Nolan. “I need to tell you something, Quentin.”
“I’ll just sip this glass of whiskey while you do.”
“Doris must have gone out to the store.”
He laughs softly. “Speak on, brother.”
I tell him what happened to Henry Sexton, then give him a quick summary of Shad Johnson’s moves, news of the FBI’s pending involvement, and the findings in the preliminary autopsy report. As I conclude, I get up and take that report from the sofa back, then sit back down.
“Good work getting hold of that report,” Quentin says. “You haven’t lost your touch, I see. And we could have got a lot worse judges than Joe Elder. The Sexton thing is disturbing, though. Makes me think the Double Eagles are night-riding again.”
“Are you familiar with that group?”
Quentin’s chuckle is a low rasp. “I knew some of those crackers all too well, my boy. This is like Old Home Week for me. You just keep me apprised of any developments in that line. If I’m unavailable, you can tell Doris anything you would me. Almost anything, anyway. I’ll trust your judgment on that.”
Quent
in is a lot like the traditional FBI; he prefers a one-way flow of information, with him on the receiving end. Feeling like I’ve surrendered to fate, I start to hang up, but concern for my father overrides my decorum. “Quentin, I have to ask you a hard question.”
“They’re the only ones worth asking, most times.”
“I know you haven’t been doing well. Can you handle a major murder trial, if it comes to that?”
There’s a long pause, during which I hear the high wheeze of an old man breathing. “I won’t lie to you,” he says finally. “The Lord has taken a lot from me since my prime. I’ve had some low days. I can’t walk, can’t eat anything worth eating, and I can’t give my woman what she needs. And no matter what a woman tells you to comfort you, that eats you up inside. It’s enough to make a man lie down and never get up again.”
I hear the sound of careful sipping, then the pained groan of an old man shifting position. “But they’ll have to lay me out dead on the courtroom floor before I let anybody put Tom Cage behind bars.”
For the first time since yesterday morning, I feel the burden of defending my father partly lifted from my shoulders. The relief of having a lawyer with Quentin Avery’s gifts in Dad’s corner—even if his powers aren’t what they once were—is enough to bring tears to my eyes. I want to say, “I never doubted you,” but Quentin knows better. “Thank you” is all I can manage.
“Don’t feel bad for asking what you did. There’s no room for sentiment when family’s on the line.”
“I appreciate it, Quentin.”
“Get a good night’s sleep, brother. Do whatever you need to about the Double Eagles, but leave Shad Johnson and Joe Elder to me. Those boys don’t want no part of my bad side. Now, Doris just opened the front door, and she’ll beat me like an egg-suckin’ dog if she catches me with this bourbon. You’d hear me holler all the way to Natchez.”
I hear a click, and then a female voice says, “Hello, Penn.” Before I can respond, Doris Avery continues in a voice that holds many emotions: regret, fear, foreboding. “I pray to God we make it through this trial.”
“I do, too,” I tell her, meaning all of us, but most of all, Quentin and my father.
After she hangs up, I get less than twenty seconds of silence to reflect on the conversation. Then Caitlin is standing in front of me with her eyebrows arched and her hands on her hips.
“Today we talked about our old deal,” she reminds me. “I thought we’d decided to throw it out the window in this case. How can I help Tom if I don’t know everything that’s going on?”
She’s talking about my father’s needs, but her eyes tell me that her hunger for a major story is already overriding all other considerations. My recognition of that hunger unsettles me. I’m about to reply when her gaze lights on the sofa back where Jewel’s file lay a minute ago.
“You moved that autopsy report so I wouldn’t pick it up?” she asks with disbelief.
I feel like I’m talking to an addict who’s rationalizing her need for vodka or pills. “I’m not even supposed to have that report. Jewel Washington put her career on the line to pass me that.”
Caitlin’s incredulity changes into anger. “You think I’d do something that could hurt Jewel?”
“No. But you might well find yourself on the witness stand before this is over. I don’t want you committing perjury to protect me or anybody else, even if you’re willing to do it.”
The familiar pink moons have appeared on her cheeks. Before she can attack, I add, “We’re in unmapped territory, Caitlin. I tried to use the picture on Shad today, but he and Billy Byrd had already figured a way to defuse that particular bomb.”
This gets her attention. “How?”
“Billy will swear Shad was working undercover for him when that photo was taken. I could still release the photo, but it won’t stop the case against Dad.”
“I still think Shad would be run out of office.”
“Maybe. But I’m not sure I want that.”
She’s grinding her teeth now, which isn’t good, but it’s better than yelling. God only knows what she told Annie to keep her in the kitchen. “You don’t trust me,” she says flatly.
“That’s not it. You know it’s not.”
“Henry was going to come to work for me. You keeping this stuff from me is just—insulting.”
I toss the autopsy report onto the sofa. “The preliminary report pegs Viola’s cause of death as adrenaline overdose, but all that really does is muddy the water. And you obviously can’t report it.”
She stares at me for several awkward seconds. Then she nods once. “Thank you.”
“Why do you think Henry was going to say yes to working for you?”
“I just know it. You’ll see.” She shakes her head again, as though words have failed her. “I’m going back to work.”
“Can’t you stay and eat some ice cream with us?”
I only asked this out of courtesy. There’s no way Caitlin will sit in this room after what just transpired—not until she’s had time to vent her frustration.
“Too much to do,” she says. “I’ll text you later.”
I’d normally give her a hug, but tonight she would be stiff to my touch. Thankfully, Annie sails in with a bowl of Blue Bell vanilla in each hand. Before she can speak, Caitlin kisses the top of her head, then heads for the front door.
“Bye!” Annie shouts, looking perplexed.
“Bye,” comes Caitlin’s halfhearted echo.
“What happened?” Annie asks me, staring worriedly after her future stepmother.
“The attack on Mr. Henry has upset everybody.”
My daughter shakes her head slowly, then turns anxious eyes on me. “Don’t you and Caitlin want the same thing? Aren’t you on the same side?”
I reach out and squeeze her forearm. “Yes. Sometimes it gets complicated, Boo, that’s all. But down deep, we are.”
Annie thinks about this for several seconds. I expect her to say, “I know ya’ll are,” or something like that. But when my daughter’s eyes find mine again, she says, “I hope so.”
TEN MINUTES AFTER WE finished our ice cream, I sent Annie to her room to work on her paper before bed. My conscious intention was to study Viola’s autopsy report, but not long after I picked up the photocopied pages, my mind was consumed by resentment that my father decided to confide his secrets—whatever they might be—to Quentin Avery. Why has Dad chosen to leave me in the dark? Is he that ashamed of having an affair with an employee? Is he afraid of something else? Or is he simply trying to protect our family? At this point, that’s about the only scenario I’d be willing to forgive. With Viola and Morehouse dead—and Henry Sexton close to death—there’s clearly information in play that people are willing to kill to suppress. The question is, does my father also possess it?
As I reflect on this possibility, the obvious implication of my earlier deduction hits me like a stitch in the side. If Dad is lying about his relationship with Viola … then everything Lincoln Turner contends could be true. And Shad Johnson could be prosecuting Dad in the legitimate belief that he killed Viola to silence her about Lincoln’s paternity.
Despite Quentin’s injunction against bothering Dad, I feel an almost irresistible compulsion to do just that. The old lawyer might be content to let matters proceed at a glacial pace, but I can’t do that while Henry’s life hangs in the balance. For while the attack on the reporter might have been triggered by his interviews with Viola and Morehouse, it might just as easily have been caused by his meeting with me, or the visit we made to Sheriff Dennis’s office. And none of those contacts would ever have occurred had my father come clean about Viola’s death from the beginning.
Holding my compulsion in check, I walk down to my basement office and take a manila folder from the bookshelf. It contains dozens of snapshots and mementoes I used to make a short video for Dad’s seventy-second birthday. Shuffling through the photos, I find the image I’m looking for: Christmas Eve at Dr. Wendell
Lucas’s office, December 1963. John F. Kennedy has been dead just about a month. Dad and Mom have just moved Jenny and me to Natchez, in the midst of a harrowing blizzard.
Why have I come for this photograph? What can it tell me?
Dr. Lucas’s waiting room has been decorated with red poinsettias, and four bottles of champagne stand open on a coffee table. The clerical staff are big-bosomed country girls with bouffant hairdos. Dr. Lucas and my father stand center stage, their white coats open to reveal the suits and ties they wore to work every day. To their right stand two elderly white nurses I remember vaguely, and beside them the dark-skinned Esther Ford, whose kind eyes remain indelibly alive in my memory. Behind these three women—taller, younger, and so strikingly beautiful that, once your eye falls upon her, she dominates the entire photograph—stands Viola Turner.
Most of the women are grinning and toasting the camera, and even Esther’s smile is wider than usual. Viola’s expression is more remote, her wide brown eyes alert as those of a doe in an open field, her perfect teeth not showing at all. Her beauty is simultaneously earthy and ethereal. It’s also a special pass, of sorts. Viola stands easily among these mostly white people, as Esther does, but she is not of them. She’s an interloper, a silent scout for an army that would soon be fighting a bloody war for equality. Less than a year after this picture was taken, the first skirmishes would break out on both sides of the river, and Albert Norris would die. Pooky Wilson, too.
As I try to decipher the reality behind Viola’s façade, a sudden association tugs deep in my brain. What is it? Maybe the longer I study her face, the more powerful my childhood memories become, like embers in a breeze being fanned into flame. Yet the harder I focus on her, the more whatever I’m trying to remember recedes. I shouldn’t be surprised. This photograph is only a frozen slice of the past: two-dimensional, opaque, easily deceptive. My visit with Pithy was more penetrating, like a medical history, facts enhanced by a temporal context and by Pithy’s insight—yet still insufficient. What I need now is the psychological equivalent of an MRI, a three-dimensional scan of the relationships between these characters I’m only just coming to know: Viola Turner, Brody Royal, the Knox family, even Lincoln Turner. For only with the deepest knowledge can one diagnose that most elusive of conditions: the truth.
