Mississippi Blood

by Greg Iles

“You’re a liar,” Lincoln asserts.

  Joe Elder gives Lincoln a burning glare. “One more word, Mr. Turner, and you’re going to jail. Mr. Johnson, do you have any further questions?”

  “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  Judge Elder nods at Mr. Patel. “You may step down, sir.”

  “Shad did all right,” Rusty murmurs.

  “Call your next witness, Mr. Avery.”

  Before Quentin speaks, I scoot up to the table and speak in his ear once more. “Okay, now you’ve destroyed Lincoln. Don’t call any other witnesses. It’s time to rest your case.”

  “Your Honor,” Quentin says testily, “may I have a moment to confer with my co-counsel?”

  “A brief moment.”

  Quentin turns to me with his last reserve of patience. “Go ahead, if you must.”

  “The jury believed that guy. If not all of them, then three-quarters, surely enough to get an acquittal.”

  Quentin lays his wrinkled brown hand on my forearm and fixes me with eyes that look ancient. “One more witness. That’s all.”

  “You’re both wrong,” says my father, leaning over from his chair beside Quentin. “I’m still going up there.”

  “To take the stand?” I ask in disbelief. “That would be insane at this point. We’re way past reasonable doubt. Quentin just planted the possibility that Lincoln himself killed Viola. For God’s sake, it’s time to declare victory and go home.”

  Dad shakes his head slowly, and white hair falls over his wrinkled forehead. “Snake Knox is still out there, son. Have you forgotten that?”

  “Snake’s another problem for another day!”

  “No. He’s always been at the heart of this case. Penn, you’ve got to trust that we know what we’re doing.”

  I look back at Quentin. “Are you really going to put him on the stand?”

  “Let’s see how the next witness does.”

  For the first time in the trial my father’s face darkens in anger. “We talked about this. We have an agreement.”

  Quentin cuts his eyes at Dad. “I know.”

  “You promised the jury I would testify.”

  “Mr. Avery,” prompts Judge Elder, “we’re not getting any younger.”

  “You’ve got a lot more cushion than I do, Joe,” Quentin says under his breath.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was just clearing my throat,” Quentin says. “The defense calls Will Devine.”

  Chapter 56

  This time when the back door opens, the courtroom doesn’t fill with federal marshals but with FBI agents. I can tell from their suits. Kaiser gets up from a seat about halfway back in the gallery and confers with the lead agent, then four men surround and escort Will Devine into the courtroom. Contrary to how he’s looked when I’ve seen him—brandishing a shotgun in my face—Devine now appears as a mild, balding man with an oxygen mask on his face. One of the FBI agents rolls a trolley behind him with a green metal tank on it. But what draws the eyes of everyone in the courtroom is the bulletproof vest Devine is wearing.

  “Quentin?” I murmur, turning and searching the court for Devine’s family. I see no sign of Deke, Nita, or Will Junior.

  “He’s having some health issues,” Quentin says. “But he’s here.”

  “Where’s his family?”

  “Already in protective custody. Now sit down and pray that we’re lucky.”

  A Double Eagle is about to testify in court. I guess fifty thousand dollars buys more than I thought it did. “Lucky how?”

  “That he’ll testify against Snake Knox. Thinking about it is one thing. Doing it is another. Now, go sit down.”

  As I crab-walk back to my seat, an FBI agent commandeers a seat next to an older man who looks like he might be one of the more obscure Double Eagles. The young man being displaced argues in a muted voice, but the agent makes it clear that the guy is leaving his chair, one way or another. The old man beside the agent watches this like an airline passenger watching a stranger being thrown off a plane.

  “Who the hell is the guy with the oxygen mask?” Rusty whispers. “Jesse James’s long-lost grandson?”

  “Close. He’s a Double Eagle. One of the first bunch.”

  Rusty suddenly realizes that I must have had something to do with this. “Jesus, Penn. Quentin’s about to make history.”

  “Let’s just hope he gets Dad off. I’ll settle for that.”

  “Look at this shit, buddy.”

  Four very tense FBI agents have taken up stations along the walls of the courtroom, one at the back door, and another beside the witness stand. Their weapons aren’t showing, but no one has any doubt that they’re armed.

  Glancing up and behind me to the balcony, I see Serenity leaning forward, against the rail. When she sees me looking up at her, she makes a fist and gives it a subtle pump of triumph.

  As I turn back toward the bar, Quentin rolls up to the lectern and says, “Mr. Devine, are you able to remove your mask for a few minutes?”

  Devine looks reluctant, but after taking two deep breaths, he slides the clear mask to one side.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll try to be brief.”

  Devine blinks his watery blue eyes but says nothing.

  “Where do you live, Mr. Devine?”

  “Concordia Parish. Across the river. All my life.”

  “Did you know a man named Frank Knox?”

  “Yessir. Grew up with him.”

  “How old are you, Mr. Devine?”

  “Seventy-nine years old. One year younger than Frank would be if he was alive today. I was just behind him in grade school, when we wasn’t in the cotton fields.”

  “Are you aware that Frank Knox was once a member of the Ku Klux Klan?”

  “He was for a little while. I was in there with him. The White Knights, not the UKA. That’s United Klans of America.”

  “Did Frank Knox leave the Klan?

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Just a second.” Devine slides the mask back over his face and takes a couple of greedy breaths.

  Lord, is he milking this act . . .

  “Frank thought the Klan was too soft,” he continues. “Both the White Knights and the UKA was et’ up with federal informants, and they was shying away from using violence. Frank believed in direct action.”

  “What did he do about that?”

  “He formed his own group.”

  “Did that group have a name?”

  “Yes, sir. The Double Eagle group, he called it.”

  “And were you a member of that group, Mr. Devine?”

  “Yessir, I was.”

  The silence in the courtroom is absolute. Most natives of the surrounding counties know that a confession like this can still bring swift death to the man who makes it.

  “For how long?”

  “Well, technically, I’m still a member. It’s a ‘once in, never out’ kind of deal.”

  “I see. And why have you come here today?”

  “Because of Dr. Cage. I know he’s being tried for murder, and I couldn’t sit by and watch him go to jail without telling some things I know. I don’t want to betray my brothers, ’specially the ones I fought with during the war. But I’ve lived long enough to see that we were wrong about some things. I don’t have much time left till I stand before the Lord, so I want to do right by a man that I know did good while he could, even if it costs me dear.”

  “What might it cost you, Mr. Devine?”

  The old man swallows hard, then speaks softly. “Well . . . according to the bylaws, by revealing anything about what we done back then, I forfeit my life. My family’s, too. That’s why we’re going into the witness protection program, at least until certain folks who are still active aren’t a threat no more.”

  This time the hum of voices rises until Judge Elder warns the crowd.

  “Still active,” Quentin echoes, glancing at the jury box. “I see. Are any of those folks in this room with us?”
<
br />   “Could be,” Devine says cryptically.

  “But you won’t say?”

  “Not just yet, if you don’t mind. I’m not right in my heart about that yet.”

  Quentin looks out over the audience, and like him I see people sitting next to elderly men wondering if they might be shoulder to shoulder with members of the Double Eagle group.

  “Mr. Devine,” Quentin says, turning back to his witness, “before we get into the specifics of what you came to say, do you have any proof that you actually belonged to this notorious group, the Double Eagles?”

  The watery eyes blink several times. “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Got my gold piece.”

  “Will you explain what you mean by that?”

  Once again Devine goes through the breathing ritual with the mask. His breaths seem to be getting shallower.

  At length, he says, “Frank wanted us all to carry some sign of membership. For us original guys it was a twenty-dollar gold piece, minted in the year of our birth. For the younger men, it was the 1964 JFK half-dollar, which the government minted after Kennedy was assassinated. They’d stopped making the gold pieces in the 1930s, but that’s where Frank took the name, the Double Eagles. I didn’t know why he wanted us to carry them, since we all knew each other, and since it might put us at risk from the FBI. But after a while, I understood. If you showed that coin around to a white man—even a cop—he’d do damned near anything you told him to. And if you showed it to a black man, he’d wet his pants or run for the woods. As for the FBI, I think Frank halfway wanted them to know who we were. In his mind, we was at war with the Bureau.”

  Quentin nods slowly, giving the jury time to process the details. “I see. Well, Mr. Devine, would you show us your gold piece? I don’t doubt your word, but I think the jury might benefit by seeing something so historic firsthand.”

  Will Devine takes a couple more theatrically labored breaths, then fishes in his shirt pocket and tugs out a dark leather cord with a dull flash of gold at the end of it. He stretches the cord between his fingers and holds it out so that the heavy gold coin is suspended between them. The gold piece gleams under the courtroom lights, and to me it exudes a palpable malice, as though someone had taken an SS badge from his pocket and admitted to wearing it in action.

  As the old man’s hands start to shake, Quentin says, “You can put it away, Mr. Devine.”

  As Devine does this, Quentin says, “Let’s talk about Viola Turner. Did you know her before she left Natchez in 1968?”

  After closing his shirt, Devine reaches for his oxygen mask, then jerks sideways on his chair, as though a disc in his back suddenly caught painfully. After a moment, he leans to one side and slides his right hand beneath his buttocks. Then his left hand rips the oxygen mask from his face, and he heaves himself to his feet.

  For a couple of seconds I think he must have sat on a bee, or maybe a spider. But then he starts to jerk spasmodically, his movements clearly uncoordinated. Several people in the audience cry out, but I only stare at Devine the way you stare at an audience volunteer during a Las Vegas magic show, trying to ascertain the nature of the profound change in him.

  “Is he having a heart attack?” Rusty cries. “A seizure?”

  Devine’s eyes are wide open, and there’s only panic in them. As my father rises from his chair, Devine doubles over and falls to the floor with a heavy thud. Dad hurries toward him.

  “Everyone back in your seats!” Judge Elder commands, his voice booming through the courtroom like the voice of the law itself.

  The bailiff has drawn his gun and is scanning the crowd with fear in his eyes. A stunned FBI agent restrains my father, but Judge Elder orders the agent to stand aside. The agent hesitates until Kaiser appears and pushes him out of the way. Dad slowly gets to his knees beside the fallen Double Eagle, but I don’t know what he can do. From where I stand, Will Devine looks as dead as a veal calf after the bang stick has been put to its skull. As I stare at his motionless body, Tim and Joe and two more of our bodyguards sprint into the space between the audience and the bench to cover Annie, Mia, Mom, and Jenny.

  “Sit down!” Judge Elder shouts into his microphone. “The officers in the room will lead an orderly evacuation of the court.”

  For a second it strikes me as strange that Judge Elder is talking about evacuation. After all, if a witness has a heart attack in a crowded courtroom, the best course is to keep everyone in place so that paramedics can quickly evacuate the patient. But Joe Elder senses malevolence behind this act. I suppose the closest parallel would be a Mafia trial. When a star witness against a Mafia don drops dead in the witness box, you don’t assume natural causes.

  As Dad works over Devine, I notice Kaiser examining the chair in the witness box. Taking out a penknife, he carefully runs it over the blue upholstery, then stops about eight inches from the chair back.

  Looking left, I see that Devine, if he’s not dead, soon will be. Dad is leaning over his mouth, where a white foam now covers the old Double Eagle’s lips.

  “What was it, Dad?”

  “Cyanide, I think. Notice the cherry color of his lips?”

  Now I do . . .

  “There’s still a heartbeat, but it’s faint.”

  “Get me an evidence bag!” Kaiser cries above the general clamor.

  Turning again, I see that the FBI man has cut open the chair seat, exposing springs, and from within removed a small metal cube, which he places on the rail of the witness box.

  “What is that?” I ask, moving closer.

  “Careful, Penn,” he warns. “There’s a needle sticking out of it.”

  He’s right. I see a sliver-thin hypodermic protruding from the dull metal cube.

  “We do need to clear the courtroom,” Kaiser says, “but I don’t want anybody in here to get out and away without being questioned.”

  Before I can respond, someone yells, “They shot him! They used a silencer! They’re still shooting!”

  For one pregnant moment, everyone in the room goes still. In this surreal slice of time, a face seems to zoom out of the crowd toward me. I don’t know it well—as I do so many in this crowd—but something in its eyes triggers a primal reaction in my central nervous system.

  What do I see? Every other set of eyes within my field of vision radiates fear and confusion. These eyes radiate . . . triumph.

  “That’s Snake Knox,” I whisper.

  Then a woman shrieks and pandemonium erupts, starting a general stampede for the single accessible exit. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a hurricane. A few clever souls run for the door to the judge’s chambers, but the bailiff blocks it with his drawn pistol. At this point, Tim and his men have begun physically covering the Cage women and Mia with their bodies.

  “Goddamn it!” Kaiser curses, furiously scanning the mob. “Somebody triggered that device! Somebody in this room! It could be Knox himself.”

  “It was,” I confirm, catching Kaiser’s arm. “I just saw him. I saw Snake.”

  “What?”

  But already the man I believed to be Snake Knox has been swallowed by the panicked mob.

  “Dr. Cage!” Kaiser calls. “What’s Devine’s condition?”

  “Heart just stopped.”

  “Can you believe it?” says a resigned voice from below and behind me.

  Quentin has rolled his wheelchair up to me. He’s staring down at Will Devine’s body, and my father is looking back at him.

  “Believe what?” Kaiser asks, motioning for his agents to break through the crowd and come to him.

  Quentin slowly bobs his head at the corpse on the floor. “Snake Knox just silenced another Double Eagle. He cut it fine this time, but he pulled it off.”

  “John,” I say, reaching out for Kaiser’s arm again.

  “Are you okay, Penn?” he asks, looking at me strangely.

  “He’s here, John.”

  “What?”

  “Snake Knox was
here. Twenty feet away from us.”

  The FBI agent goes still. “Are you sure?”

  “Ninety percent. Nothing else about him looked like Snake. But the eyes were his.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “I don’t know.” I close my eyes, trying to let go of everything but that hypercharged moment of eye contact. “Dark suit, maybe. Expensive. And dyed-black hair. Really black. He looked like . . . like Ronald Reagan.”

  Chapter 57

  Twenty minutes after the death of Will Devine, our defense team gathered in my office at City Hall, which is adjacent to the courthouse. Quentin’s pleas to the judge have resulted in my father being allowed to remain with us until after the jail has been searched for any similar devices, and also for explosives. Two deputies stand guard outside my door, in my secretary’s office—probably trying to hear anything they can, at the order of Sheriff Billy Byrd—but the real security is provided by Tim Weathers and four of his associates. Annie and Mia are waiting down the hall in our lounge, where there’s a refrigerator, a microwave, and plenty of snacks—though I doubt either of them feels like eating. Walt Garrity brought my mother and sister up here before even we arrived, which for the first time puts all the principals of our side in one room.

  Mom and Jenny keep asking Dad whether he feels all right—translation, isn’t about to suffer a heart attack—after the shock of Will Devine’s murder. They seem to have forgotten that he survived suicidal Chinese charges at the Ch’ongch’on River. As Mom stands behind Dad’s chair, rubbing his shoulders, Jenny insists that surely the judge is bound to stop the trial now. Quentin and I don’t bother to argue; we’ve both tried cases in which witnesses were murdered—outside of court, it’s true—but that does little to alter this case. The death of Will Devine has not wiped away the murder charge against my father or nullified the criminal proceeding against him. Quentin could ask for a mistrial, of course, but he’s unlikely to get one from Joe Elder.

  To my surprise, even Jenny has worked out that the poisoned needle device concealed in the witness chair was probably planted before the trial ever began and was waiting for whatever witness looked to be the most damaging to the Double Eagles.