Mississippi Blood

by Greg Iles

  This time the spectators make no sound at all. In fact, they are so silent that I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. My father has just admitted malpractice on the stand. And I am certain he is about to make it worse.

  “No?” Quentin asks, as though shocked. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. Her answer had stunned me, but I was also enraged by what I’d heard about the gang rape. I couldn’t bring myself to try to save the man who had done that. I heard a siren. An ambulance my staff had called arrived outside. After a moment’s hesitation, I picked up the syringe Viola had used and hid it in a drawer.”

  Dad falls silent, as though replaying the incident in his mind is all that he can handle.

  “And then . . . ?” Quentin prompts him.

  “Then I watched Frank Knox die.”

  “Dear God,” someone whispers behind me.

  “Stop the trial,” I whisper. “You can’t let this go on.” But of course Quentin’s too far away to hear me.

  “It didn’t take very long,” Dad says. “Maybe fifteen seconds.”

  “Why did you do that, Dr. Cage?”

  “Because I didn’t think he deserved to live.”

  I glance to my right. Shad Johnson’s mouth is hanging almost slack with awe.

  “What about your Hippocratic oath?” Quentin asks.

  “I broke it,” Dad says flatly.

  “Do you regret that?”

  “I can’t say that I do. If I could live that situation over again, I’d probably do the same thing.”

  Quentin draws in a deep breath, then expels it in a long sigh. “So,” he says in a conclusive tone, “Viola Turner murdered Frank Knox in your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Out of a desire for revenge?”

  “I suppose so. I tend to think of it as a sort of delayed self-defense. Also an effort to prevent what had happened to her from happening to others.”

  “That sounds like a rationalization, Dr. Cage.”

  “It may be.”

  “Frank Knox was defenseless when Viola killed him, was he not?”

  “As defenseless as she was when five men raped her.”

  “Just answer the questions, Doctor,” Quentin says irritably. “And you stood by while he died. And then helped to conceal her crime?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh, Jesus, I think, my heart threatening to go to full-blown tachycardia.

  Quentin lets the awestruck silence stretch for a long time. The only sound I hear is Shad’s pen scratching away on a legal pad.

  “Was Frank Knox’s death ever recognized as a murder?” Quentin asks.

  “Not by the medical examiner. Some of Mr. Knox’s confederates had suspicions, but nothing ever came of them.”

  “Why do you think they suspected that?”

  “Because they kidnapped Viola the next day.”

  And with that Dad has the crowd again. The spectators behind me wouldn’t give up their seats now if BATF agents came in yelling about another bomb threat.

  “How did you learn that?” Quentin asks.

  “Viola didn’t show up for work. And she never missed work.”

  “Did you report your suspicion that she had been kidnapped to the police?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was the police physician. I knew that several local police officers were members of the Ku Klux Klan.”

  “I see. What did you do?

  “I hired a patient of mine, a former policeman named Ray Presley, to find Viola.”

  An excited murmur runs through the crowd. The name Ray Presley is well known to many in the room.

  “And did he? Find her, I mean?”

  “Yes. Ray found Viola in a machine shop. She was being held prisoner by members of the Double Eagle group. Her brother and Luther Davis were also being held there.”

  “Did Presley ever tell you which Double Eagles were there?”

  “No. But Viola named them on the videotape that I erased.”

  “Did she also describe the murder of Frank Knox on that tape?”

  “She did. That’s one of the reasons I erased it.”

  Several spectators croon with satisfaction as the pieces of the puzzle begin falling into place.

  “Who did she name on the tape?” Quentin asks.

  “The same men who had raped her before, plus some others. But dozens of men witnessed or took part in that crime. It was a nightmare. Frank Knox, Forrest Knox, Sonny Thornfield, and Morehouse are dead, but Snake Knox was attending these proceedings when Will Devine was murdered in this witness box.”

  “Objection,” Shad snaps. “Assuming facts not in evidence.”

  “Sustained.”

  Joe Elder can sustain all he wants, but the jury’s memory of Will Devine six feet from where Dad is sitting must make the malevolence of Snake Knox almost tangible in this room.

  “What did Ray Presley do when he found Viola?” Quentin asks.

  “He broke into the machine shop and freed her at gunpoint. She was being sexually abused at the time, by that much larger group of men.”

  Hisses of revulsion fill the courtroom, and I see Judge Elder’s arm moving toward his gavel.

  “What about Jimmy Revels and Luther Davis?”

  “Ray left them behind.”

  The spectators can hardly contain themselves now. Dad’s testimony about such events in their hometown beats any movie they will ever see.

  “He abandoned those boys to the mercy of known killers?” Quentin asks. “Why?”

  “Ray didn’t believe he would get out alive if he tried to take them, too. Or if he did, he wouldn’t escape retribution later. Presley worked on both sides of the law, and he had complex loyalties.”

  “But he was loyal enough to you to rescue Viola from the Double Eagles?”

  “He owed me a favor. More than one, actually.”

  “How did Viola react to the fact that her brother had been left behind?”

  “It was too much for her. She snapped. Her brother and Davis had been tortured in front of her, and she was certain they would be murdered by the Double Eagles. As we know now, they were.”

  “Why didn’t you contact the FBI at that point?”

  “Because I was afraid that what had happened to Frank Knox in my office would be uncovered.”

  “Did Viola share your concern about being charged with murder?”

  Dad reflects on this. “Not at that time. She was hysterical. She would have sacrificed her life to free her brother.”

  “But you wouldn’t?”

  “I couldn’t take that risk. I had young children. Viola didn’t. Her husband had been killed in Vietnam. She was pretty much alone. I see now that her urge to protect her brother was as strong as my urge to protect my children. But . . .”

  “Go on, Doctor.”

  “I was fairly certain that her brother and Mr. Davis were already dead by the time I got the story out of her and Ray.”

  “And were they?”

  “I don’t think anybody knows for sure.”

  “What happened after Viola was rescued, Doctor?”

  “I hid her for several days. The Double Eagles were scouring the county for her.”

  “Where did you hide her?”

  “I enlisted the help of Nellie Jackson, a black madam who was a patient of mine. Nellie first hid Viola at her place of business, then at a rental house she owned.”

  The very mention of Nellie Jackson is titillating to the Natchezians in the crowd. A soft buzz of conversation rises, then dies under Judge Elder’s glare.

  “What was your intention at this time?”

  “Just to keep Viola alive. I had to sedate her several times. She was going out of her mind. She said many times that she wished I’d left her to die with her brother.”

  Quentin shakes his head as though he can hardly believe this tragic tale. “How was this situation finally resolved, Doctor?”

  “I had about decided to take Viola
to the FBI when she disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? What did you think had happened to her? Did you think the Klan had found her?”

  “For a couple of hours I did. But then I found out she’d given Nellie a note for me. Viola wrote that she was certain her brother was dead, and she couldn’t bear to stay in Natchez anymore. She said she loved me, but that there was no future for us and never had been. She told me not to look for her. That was all. Nellie told me one of her men had driven Viola up to the train station in Memphis, but beyond that, she wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “And the next you heard of Viola was the letter that came to your office, from a P.O. box in Chicago?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “When was the next personal contact between you and Viola Turner?”

  “Ten weeks before she died, when she called my office and told me that she was dying, and that she intended to come home to do it.”

  Quentin gives the jury time to digest this. “You’re saying that thirty-seven years passed without any direct contact between the two of you?”

  “That’s right. Just the checks. A couple of times I put a note in with my check, asking if she was well, that kind of thing. But Viola never responded.”

  “I see.” Quentin rotates his wheelchair to face the jury. “So in the eyes of Snake Knox, Viola had not only returned to Natchez—an act for which the Double Eagles had vowed to kill her—but was also talking to Henry Sexton, a reporter actively investigating unsolved murders committed by the Double Eagle group.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And you believe Snake Knox had some suspicion that Mrs. Turner had killed his brother Frank back in 1968?”

  “I can’t be sure of that. I believe he did.”

  Quentin nods slowly. “Dr. Cage, after you left Cora Revels’s house, did you see or hear anything that led you to believe that the Double Eagles might have been involved in Viola’s death?”

  “Yes. As I drove away that night, down Pine Ridge Road, I saw a pickup truck parked on the shoulder near the turn to Cora’s house. In the trees, the way you see trucks parked when people are hunting deer. But I didn’t see any people inside it.”

  “Was there anything remarkable about this truck?”

  “There was a sticker on the back windshield. A big yellow ‘D.’”

  “And what does that sticker stand for?”

  Almost everyone in this room knows that sticker is the emblem of Darlington Academy, a predominantly white school founded the year that the federal courts began enforcing desegregation in our area.

  “Darlington Academy,” Dad says. “Later on, after I’d been charged with Viola’s murder, Walt Garrity and I tracked down that truck. I hoped the owner would turn out to be Snake Knox, but it belonged to Will Devine.”

  “The Double Eagle murdered in this court yesterday.”

  “Yes. Devine lived less than a mile away from Knox, and I believe Knox took his truck that night to threaten or kill Viola.”

  Shad doesn’t bother to object. Dad has already convicted himself of murder—or accessory after the fact, in any case. Which makes me wonder what in God’s name Quentin thinks he’s doing. I half expected Dad to destroy himself on the stand, but not this. Quentin is helping him do it.

  Quentin rolls closer to the witness box. “You’ve given us a lot to process, Doctor. But let’s return to the rather astonishing statement you made a few minutes ago. That Viola Turner wanted Knox and Thornfield to murder her.”

  “All right.”

  “Did you mean that literally?”

  Dad bites his lip and stares at the floor for several seconds. “Yes and no,” he says finally. “Nobody wants to be murdered. But Viola had flagrantly defied a credible death threat in order to come home and die under my care. Once here, the threat against her was renewed, and by the very men who had raped her and murdered her brother. They had escaped punishment for four decades. Viola knew she was going to die in any case. If, by her death, she could ensure that those men would meet justice . . . I think she would have made that bargain.”

  “But how could that have been arranged?”

  “I don’t know exactly. But maybe that had something to do with Henry’s camera setup and the tapes he left there. Maybe Viola hoped to catch them in the act. Record her own murder. I think the only two people who could have answered that question are dead.”

  Quentin appears to be analyzing this theory. As he does, the genius of it hits me with bracing force. Dad has just justified the existence of another videotape in a way that doesn’t implicate him. So long as the Dumpster tape cannot be restored, he’s dodged the only damage it can do in its erased state. The sheer audacity of this move is stunning. He’s bet everything on black—a fifty-fifty shot that the Bureau won’t be able to restore that tape. But why? We already know that they’ve managed to restore Henry’s tape. Why should Dad be more confident about the Dumpster tape? Is it possible that he’s telling the truth about his theory of Viola planning to provoke Snake to kill her?

  “Mr. Avery?” Judge Elder prompts. “Have you completed your examination?”

  “Ah . . . I beg your pardon, Judge. I was having a senior moment.” Quentin turns back to Dad. “So, Doctor, when you left the Revels house, you believed that Viola was mildly sedated and would wake up no worse off than she had been before the morphine injection?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Thank you.” Quentin rolls back to his table as though finished, but then, as though just remembering something, he says, “Dr. Cage, did you honor the promise that Viola Turner asked you to make?”

  “Which promise?”

  “The promise to take care of her son in the future?”

  “Yes. I set up a trust that will begin releasing funds to him when he’s fifty years old.”

  “Objection!” Shad cries with surprising force. “Whatever scheme Dr. Cage may have set up, he obviously did it to try to mend fences with the man who was pushing the murder charges against him.”

  “Not true, Your Honor,” Quentin says, lifting an inch-thick sheaf of legal-size paper off his table. “Nine days after Viola Turner’s death, Dr. Cage established an irrevocable trust for Lincoln Turner. My wife, a licensed attorney, is the trustee. That trust contains three hundred thousand dollars, and even if Dr. Cage is found guilty, it cannot be revoked. I can also assure you that Mr. Turner knew nothing about it until this moment. I ask that this trust be entered into evidence as Defense Exhibit Six.”

  Glancing back at Lincoln, I see that he’s more surprised than anyone by this revelation.

  Judge Elder looks put out by the radical turn this trial has taken. “Do you have any further questions, Mr. Avery?”

  “Not at this time, Your Honor.”

  Judge Elder regards Quentin in stern silence, his eyes filled with reproof. Then he turns to the prosecution table. “Your witness, Mr. Johnson.”

  For the first time since this trial began, Shadrach Johnson appears to be at a loss for words.

  Chapter 64

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a witness get on the stand and confess to murder without being forced or tricked into it,” Shad Johnson begins.

  My father regards Shad without much interest. “Is that a question?”

  “The question, Dr. Cage, is why? Why did you confess to that crime? Why, after thirty-eight years of silence, did you admit to being an accessory to murder in court, and open yourself to further charges by the State?”

  Dad takes a long breath. “I want people to understand the depth of hatred that existed between the Double Eagle group and Viola Turner. And more than that, I want them to know the truth.”

  Hallelujah, says a voice in my head. And the truth shall set you in Parchman Farm.

  “I don’t think that’s the reason,” Shad says, half turning toward the jury. “I’ve been sitting there asking myself why you did that. It took me a minute, but now I know. You’re being very subtle, you and your attorney. You’r
e doing something that Lincoln Turner described yesterday in his moment of greatest anger, only he didn’t know then how prescient his assessment would prove to be.”

  Shad faces the jury. “Lincoln warned us that Dr. Cage and his lawyer were doing exactly what his stepfather had trained him to do—what all con men and magicians do. They get us to focus on one hand while the other dips into our pockets and does the real business. Well, ladies and gentlemen, that’s what is happening before our eyes.”

  Every eye in the jury box is on Shad, waiting for him to tell them how they’re being tricked. Shad looks back at Dad.

  “You admitted to helping Viola kill Frank Knox because in hindsight that killing looks justified—even heroic. Remember the so-called DA’s test that Mr. Avery told us about in his opening statement? His famous two questions? One: Did the victim need killing? And two: Did the right person do the killing? Well, in Frank Knox’s case, the answer to both questions would be a resounding yes, at least in our hearts. Admitting to helping kill a gang rapist and murderer might technically carry a penalty, but it buys you an enormous amount of sympathy from the jury. By forthrightly confessing to one killing, you hope to buy our faith that you’re telling the truth when you deny a different one. You draw our attention to Frank Knox with one hand, while the other injects Viola Turner with deadly adrenaline. But we will not be taken in. Killing Viola Turner was a vile, shameful act—”

  “Your Honor,” Quentin says in a weary voice, “did I fall asleep and wake up for the district attorney’s closing argument? I thought this was supposed be a cross-examination.”

  Several lawyers titter in the rows behind me, but Joe Elder silences them with his dark eyes.

  Shad turns back to my father. “There’s another reason you spoke so openly about that murder. It’s because you’re afraid that very soon we will be viewing the tape that Viola Turner made for Henry Sexton. And when that happens, we will find out about that crime in any case.”

  Dad says nothing to this, and his face betrays no more.

  “Isn’t that why you confessed to helping to commit and conceal that crime, Dr. Cage?”

  “I’m not that devious, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Doctor. You were devious enough to carry on a secret affair with your employee while you were married. Devious enough to send her money for thirty-seven years without your family’s knowledge. Devious enough to conceal your part in a murder for the same amount of time. You’ve admitted all this under oath.”