by Greg Iles
Just as Cora reaches her chair, Quentin says, “The defense recalls Lincoln Turner to the stand.”
Lincoln rises slowly, then walks up to the witness box with the same relaxed stride he did yesterday. But this self-possession must be a pose. Quentin would not be walking him down this road unless there was trouble at the end of it.
Easing out of my chair, I lean up toward Quentin’s table and whisper, “What’s all this stuff about the will?”
Quentin stuns me by actually leaning back and answering me. “Viola wrote a new will only a few days before she died.”
“Do you have a copy of it?”
“No.”
“Then what good can this do you?”
“Maybe none. But you can’t be choosy about what vine you grab when you’re sliding down a cliff. Get back in your seat.”
Quentin rolls forward to his place beside the podium. “Mr. Turner, did you write the will that was probated after your mother died?”
“I did not. An attorney may not draw up a will from which he benefits. I may not have gone to Harvard, but I know that much.”
“You and I share that distinction, Mr. Turner. Only Lawyer Johnson there graduated from Harvard Law School.”
Shad makes a sour face.
“But back to the will,” Quentin continues. “Were the bequests specified as your aunt named them?”
“No. Mama didn’t know how much money she would have when she died, so she used percentages to divide whatever she might have left.”
“I see. Were you surprised that she had that much money left when she died?”
Lincoln shrugs.
“The witness will give a verbal response,” Judge Elder says.
“Not really.”
Quentin nods, but he looks troubled. “According to the testimony of both you and your aunt, money was pretty scarce in your household. I’m trying to understand how your mother could have saved seventy-two thousand dollars when her husband was spending everything she made, and she was putting you through college and law school.”
“Once Daddy went to prison, and I was out of school, her bills weren’t so bad. And Mama was always resourceful.”
“I see. So you assume the money came from her salary as a nurse?”
“Where else?”
“Exactly. But let’s leave that for now. Mr. Turner, what did you think of the challenge of your mother’s will by Mr. Sexton’s mother?”
“I thought it was bullshit.”
“Mr. Turner,” the judge snaps. “You know better than that.”
“I’m sorry, Judge. But Judge Carroll in Chicago didn’t think any more of that claim than what I just said.”
“Just watch your language.”
“So the challenge was denied,” Quentin says, “and the original will was affirmed. Tell me, do you know what Mr. Sexton’s movie-in-progress was about?”
“It was a documentary, I think. About the civil rights movement.”
“Don’t you think that’s a cause your mother might have sympathized with?”
“The cause, yes. A homemade film by some white reporter from Ferriday, no.”
“I see. Did your mother ever speak to you about changing her will before she died?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Shad says with obvious irritation. “If the defense has a copy of some other will, they should produce it. If they have a reputable attorney who can testify that he drew up such a will, they should call him as a witness. Otherwise, this is all just a waste of the court’s time.”
“We talked about this subject during the sidebar, Mr. Johnson. I will decide what is worthy of the court’s time. Your objections are overruled. Mr. Avery, continue.”
Quentin looks back at Lincoln. “Did your mother ever ask you about how a person might make a holographic will?”
“No. Never.”
“Can you explain to the jury what a holographic will is?”
“I can.”
“Will you, please?”
Lincoln looks at Judge Elder, who nods.
“A holographic will is a handwritten will,” Lincoln says testily. “Handwritten, dated, and signed. All you need to make one is a pen and a piece of paper.”
“Just so,” says Quentin. “Did you ever see any such will written by your mother? Either before or after she died?”
I’m looking for fear in Lincoln’s eyes, but all I see is sullen anger. Yet this time there’s a second of awkward hesitation before his answer.
“No,” he says. “Absolutely not.”
Quentin seems pleased by this answer. “Were you surprised that your mother would leave money to her husband, a man who treated her rather poorly?”
“It was her money. He was her husband. That makes it her business.”
“I see. And were you happy with your share of the seventy-two thousand dollars?”
“I’ve got no complaints.”
“No. Clearly not. Thank you, Mr. Turner. I tender the witness.”
This time, as Quentin rolls back to the defense table, Shad gazes at Lincoln on the stand. The district attorney looks like a man in a poker game with people he thought he knew, but who have turned out to be imposters.
“Mr. Johnson?” prompts the judge.
“No questions, Your Honor.”
“The witness may step down.”
As Lincoln returns to his seat, he glances at Quentin only a moment, but held in that moment is rage sufficient to drive a knife into Quentin’s chest. Quentin responds with a knowing smile.
“Call your next witness, Mr. Avery.”
“The defense calls Mrs. Virginia Sexton.”
A few moments later, a deputy escorts Henry Sexton’s mother through the back doors. She looks like my maternal grandmother once did: an elderly country wife dressed for church, in a white blouse and a skirt that falls well below her knees. After she seats herself and is sworn in—in a shaky voice, I notice—Quentin rolls up to the witness box and smiles.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Sexton.”
The old woman nods once, her expression grave.
“Were you related to Henry Sexton, the newspaper reporter?”
“He was my son.”
“Did your son ever talk to you about interviewing Viola Turner?”
“Yes, he did. He talked to me about most of his cases.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He believed Viola Turner was the source he had been looking for since he’d begun his work. Henry called her his ‘dream’ source.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“Objection,” says Shad. “Opinion rule. Irrelevant.”
“Overruled on both counts,” says Judge Elder.
“Henry worked on a lot of cases from the civil rights period, but the three major ones were the murder of Albert Norris, the kidnap-murder of Joe Louis Lewis, and the kidnap-murders of Jimmy Revels and Luther Davis. He told me that—”
“Objection,” Shad says irritably. “Hearsay. Irrelevant.”
“Overruled.”
“Exception.”
“Noted.”
Quentin says, “Did he talk to you about these cases on the day Viola died, Mrs. Sexton?”
“Yes. Henry believed the Double Eagle group was responsible for all those crimes, and he said that Viola was one of the rarest things around here.”
“What was that?”
“A Double Eagle victim who had survived. He believed she knew a lot about the group, but that fear had kept her quiet for decades. He thought Viola was getting close to telling him what she knew. That’s why he left that video camera at her house. He left an audio recorder, too, early on, but that’s never been found.”
Mrs. Sexton’s last sentence sends a strong echo back to my internal radar. This is the first I’ve heard of any audio recorder left with Viola. Henry never mentioned it to me.
“Tell us why you contested Viola Turner’s will,” Quentin says.
Mrs. Sexton’s face goes red and splotchy before she speaks. “Henry told me that Viola Turner was very interested in his work. So far as she knew, Henry was the only person who had been working almost continuously on her brother’s case. She’d tried to contact the FBI several times, but they would never tell her anything. Viola was amazed at the things Henry had uncovered, and she wanted to help him any way she could. After her second long interview with Henry, she told him she was going to leave him a bequest in her will to help fund his work, for the film he was working on.”
“Tell us more about that.”
“Henry was making a documentary. A joint venture with an award-winning filmmaker from Syracuse University. That’s up in New York. They were more than half finished, but they were having trouble getting funding to complete the project. The man from Syracuse had talked to Morgan Freeman’s people about narrating the film, and he wanted to do it. But Morgan couldn’t take it on for several months yet. A couple of backers pulled their support after they heard that. When Viola found out about this, that was when she offered her support to Henry. It moved him so much. Henry cried when he told me about their conversation. And he hardly ever did that.”
As Quentin prepares to ask his next question, Judge Elder’s secretary comes out of his chambers, climbs to the bench, and hands him a note. This kind of thing happens all the time in court, but as soon as Elder looks at the sheet of paper, I know this is different.
“Court is recessed for one hour,” he says sharply. “The witness is released. The jury will retire to the jury room, and the defendant will be returned to custody. I need to see counsel in chambers immediately.”
While the audience breaks into a hum of surprised speculation, the judge gets up and heads straight for the private door to his chambers. Shad and Quentin share a glance; then Shad follows the judge. As Quentin goes after him, I leave my seat and follow.
As we bunch around the judge’s door, Quentin looks over his shoulder at me. “What are you doing?”
“I’m listed as part of the defense team, and I’m coming with you. Don’t even try to stop me. Elder looks scared.”
“Christ. All right.”
By the time we reach the judge’s inner sanctum, Joe Elder has already pulled off his robe and is holding a cell phone to his ear. He covers the mobile’s microphone with his finger and looks over at us.
“There’s been a bomb threat at my home. One of my children was there with the housekeeper. They’ve evacuated the house, the bomb squad is on its way. Both the ATF and FBI have been called. I suspect this is a hoax meant to disrupt the trial, but until I know that for sure, we’re in recess.”
While Shad gapes at the judge, Elder says, “I’m on my way” into the phone, then grabs his keys off the desk and heads for his receptionist’s office.
“Are you sure it was for your house?” Quentin asks, “and not the court?”
“The caller gave my address, but the ATF will search and scan the courtroom as well.”
“Did the caller say anything else?” Shad asks.
Joe Elder pauses in the doorway and looks back at us. “He said he wasn’t going to let a nigger judge jail a white man for killing a nigger without paying a price.”
“Shouldn’t we just adjourn for the day?” Shad asks.
Joe Elder cuts his eyes at Shad, not quite believing that the DA is trying to run tactics on him even now. “No, Mr. Johnson. I’m not letting anybody intimidate me into derailing this trial, no matter which side he’s on. Whatever it is you want to do, you’ve got one hour to do it.”
Then the door closes behind the judge.
Shad, Quentin, and I regard each other in silence. This turn of events has left our heads spinning, but all good trial lawyers know how to recover quickly from the unexpected, and even turn it to their advantage, as Shad just tried to do.
“What’s all this crap about another will?” he asks.
“Why don’t you ask your witnesses?” Quentin suggests.
“You obviously don’t have a copy of it. If you did, you’d already have entered it into evidence.”
“Like that adrenaline ampoule nobody could find?”
I’m glad to hear this retort, because until I did, I didn’t know Quentin had paid any attention to the forensic case.
Shad dismisses his comment with a wave of his hand. “I’ll bet we’re done for the day.”
“You hope we are.” Quentin gives him a strange smile. “You didn’t have somebody call in that bomb threat, did you? I think you feel the ground shifting, Shadrach.”
Shad jabs his middle finger at Quentin, then turns and marches out of the room without a word.
“What do you make of this?” I ask.
Quentin shrugs. “I’m past being surprised by anything. I don’t see that it affects our case at all.”
“Our case?”
The old lawyer makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “Come on, Penn. Aren’t you starting to see a little method in my madness?”
“Too little, too late. That’s what I see. You haven’t even dented Shad’s forensic case.”
“Everything in time.”
“Do you think there could really be a bomb?”
“I’ll know when they tell me.”
“The Double Eagles were big fans of plastic explosive. And they used a bomb as a diversion at the Concordia Courthouse when—”
“When they killed Sonny Thornfield in the jail,” Quentin finishes. “Shit.”
His preternatural calm has finally evaporated, and my pulse is pounding in my neck.
“Dad could be back in his cell by now.”
Quentin digs out his phone, but I figure I can be across the street and inside the sheriff’s office by the time Quentin gets the dispatcher to do anything.
He hasn’t even gotten an answer by the time I hit the door.
Chapter 52
Dad was alive when I reached the visiting room, and a call from Quentin to Judge Elder had ensured a double guard on him—men who understood that they were there to protect their charge, not merely to keep him from escaping. The deputies would not let me stay with him, though. The bomb threat had put everyone on edge.
As I left the sheriff’s department, I looked up and saw the trial spectators exiting the courthouse doors across the street. On both sides of the broad marble steps, two men wearing business suits photographed everyone who passed down to the sidewalk beneath the spreading oaks. FBI agents, I surmised. Kaiser’s men. As soon as Kaiser got word of the bomb threat, he must have figured the caller might have someone inside the courtroom giving him progress reports. Since nobody is required to sign his or her name as they enter the courtroom, the photographs will ensure that the Bureau can eventually trace everyone who was there this morning.
I’m still watching the mass exodus when a familiar white pickup truck stops on the street in front of me, and the passenger window drops into the door, revealing Lincoln Turner behind the wheel. My half brother’s big face and shoulders lean into the open space, his eyes bright with a strange energy.
“You look like a man who needs a ride, Mayor. Where’s your wingman?”
I left the courthouse so fast—and by such an unexpected route—that I lost my protection on the way. “I’m good,” I say, a little nervously.
“No,” says Lincoln, “you only think you are. I want to make you a proposition, brah. It won’t take more than five minutes.”
“I’m listening.”
Lincoln tilts back his head, indicating two cars that have stopped behind him. “Get in the truck. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Just pull to the curb.”
The second car behind his truck gives a long blast on its horn. Fifty people from the crowd look our way.
“You want to keep Big Daddy out of Parchman or not?”
“You’re the one who made this whole trial happen.”
A taunting smile touches his wide lips. “Yeah. But a trial is a fluid thing, like a war. The tides change
fast. Every lawyer knows that. You want to hear what I’ve got to say.”
Translation: Quentin got onto something with that last line of questioning. Both drivers honk angrily now, drawing the attention of a deputy beyond the big glass door behind me, but I still don’t get into the truck. “You’re talking like this is a civil suit and you want to cut a deal.”
Lincoln shrugs. “There’s different kinds of settlements. I’m driving away in five seconds. The deal leaves with me.”
I hate to be manipulated, but before five seconds pass, I climb into the truck’s passenger seat, wishing I had my pistol. But I never take a gun into court.
Lincoln drives around the block, then heads down to Canal Street and turns toward the twin bridges over the Mississippi. He looks at me a couple of times as he drives, but he doesn’t say anything.
“What’s across the river?” I ask as the bluff drops away and a hundred feet of space yawns beneath us.
“Rednecks. All the way to New Mexico.”
“Lots of brothers, too.”
“Yeah. But outside the cities, they’re an endangered species.”
“This recess may not last long. Let’s hear your offer.”
Lincoln laughs heartily, turning south at the foot of the bridge. After passing between a few houses and a one-story school, he drives over the top of the levee to the Vidalia, Louisiana, riverfront. Compared to the Natchez shore, where growth has been stymied for years by a multimillionaire, the Vidalia shore has seen the construction of hotels, restaurants, an outpatient surgical center, and a public amphitheater. Lincoln drives slowly past the train of new buildings, then pulls onto a white shell road that leads to the steep boat ramp beneath the bridge. My stomach flips as we tilt nose-first toward the vast river. Stopping the truck within a few feet of the water, Lincoln switches off the motor but leaves on the battery.
“You planning to shoot me and drop me in the river?”
He grins gamely. “That is kind of a tradition on this side of the river, isn’t it? Only it’s my tribe that gets dumped.”
I roll down my window and listen to the deceptively faint trickle of water moving over and through the gray riprap rock placed here by the Corps of Engineers to retard erosion. Beneath that sound I hear the nearly subsonic drone of tugboat engines pushing a quarter-mile-long string of barges upriver. If this truck rolled five feet farther down the ramp, the river would snatch us and send us tumbling toward Baton Rouge like a child’s toy.
