Turning Angel

by Greg Iles

  “How’s Drew holding up?” Dad asks from behind his desk. My father is six feet tall with white hair, a silver beard, and piercing eyes that have witnessed most of the ways the human body and soul can fail.

  “It’s hard to tell.”

  “Did that drug dealer named in the paper kill Kate Townsend?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “You don’t look very confident. What’s your worst fear, Penn?”

  I haven’t really thought about it that way. “To anyone but you, I’d have answered it’s that Drew will be wrongfully convicted of murder.”

  “But to me?”

  I close my eyes, and when I speak, the truth emerges as though by its own decision. “It’s that Drew might have killed Kate without meaning to. The girl was highly sexual, despite her youth, and she liked to be choked during sex. She died of strangulation. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see the possible link.”

  “But Drew denies anything like that?”

  “Yes.”

  A buzz sounds from Dad’s phone, and Esther tells him she’s on her way back with Quentin Avery.

  “Where’s Annie right now?” Dad asks.

  “I had Mia meet me outside and take her home. I didn’t know how long we’d be.”

  He looks past me and rises from behind his desk, his eyes twinkling. “There’s Quentin! Come in here, man.”

  I turn and face the door. Often, when I meet someone I’ve seen only in pictures or on film, I find the actual human being to be much smaller in reality. That’s not the case with Quentin Avery. The famed lawyer may be over seventy, but he still carries the charismatic aura of a man who once strode boldly across the national stage. Despite the loss of his foot, he still stands six-feet-four, and he wears his white hair in a tight Afro hairstyle. His eyes have a greenish tint, and his skin is lighter than that of most Natchez blacks, but it’s darker than Shad Johnson’s, which is so light that some people have called him “more white than black.” But Avery’s appearance means nothing in the end. This man standing in my father’s office has argued multiple cases before the United States Supreme Court—argued and won. He has counseled presidents on civil rights issues, most notably JFK and Lyndon Johnson. He has struck fear into the hearts of white supremacists and corporations across the country. He has taught death penalty law at the Yale Law School. He has profoundly changed legal precedent, and by so doing, has done what few of us ever will: he has changed the world.

  “My friend’s gonna be a little late,” Quentin Avery says by way of greeting. “My apologies, gentlemen.”

  I imagined that he would speak precisely, the way so many black leaders of his generation strived to do. But Quentin Avery seems to have retained his Southern accent. His rich baritone rumbling in the lazy drawl of a manservant has probably caused many an opposing lawyer—not to mention judges—to underestimate him over the years. I offer him my hand.

  “Penn Cage, Professor.”

  Avery smiles an easy smile, then takes my hand in a grip of steel. “Just plain Quentin works for me. Mind if I sit down? My foot may be gone, but it still throbs something terrible on occasion.”

  “Take the couch, Quentin,” says my father, coming around his desk. “Penn, you sit back here. I’d love to hear this, but I’ve got patients to see. I’ll kick you out if I need to.”

  “Thank you, Tom,” Avery says, settling into the leather sofa opposite Dad’s desk.

  I sit behind the desk and wait for the legend to speak.

  “Your father told me a little about your problem,” he says. “And based on what he said, I have a good lawyer in mind. Local, too, though not female. Black lady lawyers are still in short supply in Mississippi. But my protégé is tied up downtown. Why don’t you tell me a little more about your case? I ought to be able to tell you whether he can help you or not.”

  As I summarize the events of the past few days, Quentin Avery watches me with eyes that miss nothing. I tell him about Drew finding Kate’s body, the anal sex angle, the blackmailer, Cyrus White, even the nude photos in the cell phone. Now and then Avery’s eyes narrow or his lower lip pushes out, but he doesn’t break my flow with a single question. I suspect he’s learning as much about the situation by the way I describe it as he is from the facts. I conclude my briefing by telling about the witness coming forward and placing Drew’s car in the vacant lot near the creek. The only detail I omit is Jenny Townsend leaving Kate’s private effects with me. Until I know that Quentin Avery’s “protégé” intends to handle Drew’s defense, I can’t afford for anyone to know that shoe box exists.

  “So, what do you think?” I ask.

  Avery sighs thoughtfully. “I can tell you’re worried for your friend.”

  I nod assent.

  “You’re right to look for another lawyer for him. You have no business handling this case.”

  He seems to be waiting to see if this offends me. It doesn’t.

  “You’re way too close to your client. The man saved your life. You played on the same athletic teams for years. From what you’ve told me about him, Dr. Elliott is a larger-than-life kind of man. A hero, in some ways. That’s why it’s so hard for you to accept that he killed her.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but Avery holds up a hand that could easily palm a basketball. “I’m not saying he did it, Penn. But somewhere down deep in your soul, you’re afraid that he did.”

  I remain silent, but my opinion of Quentin Avery’s instincts just went up.

  “I don’t care whether he killed that poor child or not,” Avery goes on. “And it’s critical that his lawyer be just as detached. That’s the only way he can defend Elliott to the best of his ability. You know that, of course. It’s just tough to remember when you’re that close to a defendant.”

  “You’re right. What do you think about the facts?”

  “Facts?” Avery snorts. “What facts? The police haven’t even found the crime scene yet. Everything the D.A. has is circumstantial, and most of that doesn’t point to murder. Now, I’m not saying that the evidence he does have wouldn’t predispose a jury against Dr. Elliott. A Mississippi jury hears everything you’ve told me? They’re surely going to believe he could have done it. And if they find out Dr. Elliott was down in that creek with his hands on her dead body, they’re gonna vote guilty. Unless you can prove that big, bad Cyrus White raped and killed her.”

  “That’s a pretty tall order, it seems to me.”

  Quentin nods. “Even if that other semen sample matches Cyrus’s DNA, all you’ve done is prove that Cyrus had sex with her.” He sniffs and gives me a little smile. “Of course, the jury’s gonna make all the difference in this trial. White folks are gonna come on preconditioned to believe that a depraved nigger dope dealer wouldn’t hesitate to rape and kill a tasty young thing like Kate Townsend. Black jurors will feel exactly the opposite. Odds are, you’ll get a racially mixed jury. That’s good for Dr. Elliott, because this is capital murder. All it takes to acquit is one juror with reasonable doubt.” Avery grins, his teeth astonishingly white. “It’d be a mighty poor lawyer who didn’t think he could persuade one juror that a fine, upstanding healer like Dr. Elliott just might not have done it.”

  For the first time in days, I feel a surge of real hope. “I feel stupid for sounding so pessimistic. I think it’s because I know that the D.A., the sheriff, and the judge are so dead set on convicting Drew.”

  Avery nods sagely. “Cause for concern. And to tell you the truth, that’s why I was willing to get involved in this case.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Shad Johnson,” he says with obvious distaste.

  “Do you know him?”

  “We’ve met a few times. I know his people.”

  His people. This means family, stretching back for an unknown number of generations. “How do you feel about him?”

  “I think he’s dangerous. Not only to Dr. Elliott, but to every black man, woman, and child in this town.”

 
I’m dumbstruck. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a crisis in black leadership in this country, Penn. The leaders of my era are relics of another age. A lost age, I’m sorry to say. Martin, Malcolm X…Fannie Lou Hamer, Medgar…they’re dead as the dinosaurs. You’ve basically got three types of black leaders today. There’s the managerial type, who pretends race isn’t even an issue. He wants a large white constituency, but he also wants to keep the loyal blacks behind him. He’s pragmatic—and not a bad leader—but he tends to suppress the best type by claiming that going mainstream is the only solution for blacks. Then you have your black protest leader. He’s black, loud, and proud. He casts himself in the image of Malcolm and Martin, but deep down he’s nothing like them. He uses the ideals of those great leaders only to get what he really wants: personal status and power. Marion Barry, Al Sharpton, Louis Farrakhan—the list is endless. They’re flashy, flowery, and dangerous. They deceive the mass of black Americans by tapping into their emotions, but they use that support only in service of egotistical ends. You won’t see these men wearing the simple black suits and plain white shirts that Martin and Malcolm wore. They want to be players, and they love dressing the part. True protest leaders are humble men, Penn. They value wisdom, not media consultants.”

  “That sounds a bit like Shad Johnson, but not completely.”

  “Shad is schizophrenic,” says Quentin Avery. “He began as the first type, but failure has pushed him into becoming the second.”

  I’m about to ask what the third type of black leader is when Quentin says, “Shad actually despises his own people. Did you know that? Not all of them, but the ones who most need help. He blames them for their own misfortunes, just like white racists do.”

  I nod. “I’ve heard Shad speak disparagingly of local blacks. He actually used the term ‘bone-dumb bluegums’ in front of me once.”

  Quentin bends over to rub his phantom foot. “That doesn’t surprise me at all. There’s a lot of self-hatred at the root of that language. He’s anti-Semitic, too. He maintains close ties with Louis Farrakhan. It’s sad to see in a man of Shad’s intellectual gifts.”

  “Are you all right?” I ask, as Avery seems to be in some distress.

  “I’m fine. Damn diabetes.” He straightens up. “The thing is, Penn, to be a genuine black leader, you’ve got to love that lazy, weak-minded brother fishing on the highway bridge with a cane pole in the middle of the workday. If you don’t, you ain’t gonna help nobody.”

  I remain silent, trying to decide if I agree with him.

  “It’s like Jesus,” Avery muses. “Jesus loved the harlot and the sinner. You want to save a whole people, you got to start at the bottom, not in the king’s antechamber. Or in the mayor’s office, as it were.”

  Does Avery know that Shad has his eye on the mayor’s office again? “What’s the third type of black leader?”

  A look of regret settles into the lawyer’s face. “The prophetic leader. That’s Martin, Malcolm…Ella Baker. Or James Baldwin, in the intellectual sphere. Jesse Jackson’s the only recent political leader who had an opportunity to fill that role, but he faltered after 1988. The current generation has produced no leaders of this type, much less of that caliber. I’m watching Barak Obama, but I’m not sure yet. The reasons have more to do with the pervasiveness of mass market culture and the failure of the black middle class than with any personal failure.” Avery waves his hand. “But that’s not why we’re here. I only mention this because it underpins my feelings toward the district attorney.”

  He reaches into his shirt pocket and removes an expensive-looking cigar, which he puts between his teeth but does not light. “The minute I heard Mayor Jones was terminally ill, I knew Shad would declare for mayor again. Five years ago, he left Goldstein, Henry, in Chicago—that’s a top firm, with many influential black lawyers—and he left there bragging how he was gonna come down South and win the mayor’s office, then use that as a stepping-stone to the governor’s office in Jackson. From the governor’s office, Shad figured, he could reach the Senate. After that, who knows? But he failed his very first test. Wiley Warren beat him, even with all the black celebrities Shad flew down here. Well, young Shadrach wasn’t about to go back to Chicago with his tail between his legs. So he ran for D.A. and won. But that’s not what he wants. No, sir. He wants what he told his partners he was coming down here to get. Now, this town desperately needs a good mayor. But Shadrach Johnson isn’t it. Last time out, he promised a color-blind meritocracy and a rejuvenated city. That didn’t get him the mayor’s chair, so this time he’s putting out the word that he’s stepping to an all-black band. Every city position will be filled by a black candidate, qualified or not. Friends are good, family’s better. He’s gonna give whitey a taste of what it’s like to be on the bottom. A lot of local blacks will vote for Shad just because of skin color, but that would be a mistake.”

  “I understand your feelings about Shad, Quentin. But I don’t think a courtroom defeat in this case will be enough to keep him out of the mayor’s office.”

  “You’re right about that. No, I’m relying on Shad to do the critical damage himself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Avery gives me a rogue’s smile. “Let’s say, God forbid, that Dr. Elliott did kill that poor girl. And let’s assume that a mountain of evidence piles up that seems to prove that he did. Penn, I believe that even in that circumstance, Shad won’t be able to let well enough alone. He won’t trust in the evidence. He’ll do something unethical—maybe even illegal—to stack things in his favor. To make the verdict a lock. And you’ll be right there to expose him. Then my personal end will have been accomplished.”

  A surge of optimism courses through me, but just as quickly it dissipates. “Quentin, I’m very encouraged by this meeting. But I’m also worried. You understand the overall situation much better than I do, but the guy you brought me here to meet knows nothing yet. And time is a factor in this case. Shad’s in a big hurry.”

  “The guy I brought you to meet knows more than you think.”

  “How’s that?”

  Avery takes the cigar out of his mouth and smiles. “He’s sitting right in front of you.”

  It takes me several moments to absorb the full implications of this. “Are you telling me you plan to defend Drew at trial? Personally?”

  “I do.”

  “Because of Shad Johnson.”

  “That’s right. But my motive shouldn’t bother Dr. Elliott too much. He’s gonna get a better defense than he ever dreamed.”

  I sit silently, trying to take this in. “I know you’re right about that. But…”

  “What?”

  “Drew doesn’t seem to grasp the jeopardy he’s in. Or doesn’t care much, if he does. I think Kate’s death put him into some kind of shock, and he hasn’t come out of it yet.”

  Avery chuckles softly. “Don’t worry. When he sees those twelve supposed peers sitting in the jury box staring at him like he’s Charles Manson, it’ll sink in. In a big damned hurry, too.”

  The realization that a legend like Quentin Avery has taken up the cross I thought I was going to have to bear alone brings relief unlike any I’ve experienced in years. “I tell you, Quentin, I feel like a new man.”

  “Don’t celebrate yet. I’ve got a feeling we got more bad news coming.”

  “What kind?”

  “Evidence. Evidence that won’t help the doctor any.”

  I nod slowly. “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Sometimes I am. But it happens less and less, the older I get.”

  From anyone else’s lips this would sound arrogant, but from Quentin Avery it doesn’t.

  “It’s one of the paradoxes of old age,” he adds. “Your prick gets weaker but your reasoning gets stronger.” He laughs richly. “The two must be related. Maybe intelligence is more a matter of focus than anything else.”

  “You could be right.”

  I drop my palms flat on the desk with a slap. “W
hat do you want me to do?”

  He ticks off a list on his long fingers. “Reserve some rooms at the Eola Hotel. A suite for me, plus four or five regular rooms for offices and overflow. I’ll need a retainer of sixty thousand dollars, and another fifty thousand deposited in an account for expenses. That’s just to start.”

  “Consider it done,” I say, praying that Ellen Elliott doesn’t have control of Drew’s liquid assets.

  “That’s what I like,” Quentin says, “a man who knows what talent is worth.”

  “It’s easy when it’s somebody else’s money.”

  “You’ve got a point there.”

  “What about me personally? How do you see my role?”

  The old lawyer purses his lips like a man trying to figure out the function of an unfamiliar machine. “Let’s call you my chief investigator. You’ve shown a flair for it, which is only what I’d expect from a former prosecutor. Come to think of it, you’re the enemy by constitution. But I’d rather have you inside the tent pissing out.”

  Without preamble, Quentin Avery lifts his cane and struggles to his feet—or to his foot, I guess.

  “Let me walk you to your car,” I offer.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got somebody to do that.”

  Nevertheless, I accompany him to the waiting room. Avery walks with great purpose despite his limp. When we open the door, a beautiful black woman of about forty stands and starts forward.

  “Is this your daughter?” I ask, as she holds the front door open for us.

  They both laugh.

  “Doris is my wife,” says Quentin, limping outside. “Penn Cage, Doris Avery.” He winks at me. “Now you see why I spend so much time at home.”

  “Yes, I do,” I say awkwardly, wondering if Quentin has more sympathy for Drew than I thought. At probably thirty-five years older than his wife, he must view a separation of twenty-three years as relatively minor.

  As though reading my mind, Quentin says, “Kate Townsend was seventeen; we can’t let ourselves forget that.”