Turning Angel

by Greg Iles

  Today I operate the elevator myself as I ride up to the seventh floor. When the door opens, I see two young white men carrying computer equipment between rooms. They have the harried look of young lawyers. I nod at them and make my way up the hall to Quentin’s suite. The door is propped open with a heavy law book. I knock and walk inside.

  The suite is huge: three separate rooms and two baths, all decorated with obsessive attention to detail. Quentin is standing on the long balcony, which gives a panoramic view of Natchez, the Mississippi River, and the Louisiana delta stretching away for miles to the west. He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt. From the rear, his grayish-white Afro gives him the look of a much younger man.

  “Quentin?” I call. “It’s Penn Cage.”

  Avery turns and smiles, and though I see every one of his seventy-plus years in his face, the light in his eyes tells me he’s excited to be back in the game again.

  “What do you know?” he asks. “Anything new?”

  “I talked to Chief Logan this morning. Marko Bakic has vanished. Ditto Cyrus White.”

  Quentin’s smile broadens. “Good, good. That’s just how we like it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You need to ask me that? Come out here into the sun. Maybe it’ll prod your brain.”

  I walk out onto the balcony. There’s a cool breeze blowing off the rust-colored river, which is high for this early in the spring. “Tell me.”

  “This is a murder case, Penn. Our goal is acquittal. To get that, we need one thing: reasonable doubt.”

  “And?”

  “Cyrus White is our reasonable doubt. Just as he is. If I could stop time right now and go to trial, I would. Because no sane jury can convict Drew Elliott of murder with unidentified sperm in that dead girl and Cyrus White on the loose. Not with proof that Kate and Cyrus knew each other.”

  “I’m not sure we can prove that.”

  Quentin’s smile vanishes. “You told me the police had video of the dead girl going into Cyrus’s apartment.”

  “Sonny Cross told me that. He’s dead now. And, well…he worked for the sheriff’s department.”

  “So the sheriff’s department will have the video. We’ll get that during discovery.”

  “I hope so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I talked to Sonny, I got the feeling he kept a lot from the sheriff. I don’t think they got along too well.”

  Quentin’s face hardens. “I need that video, Penn. You’ve got to get it for me.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Is there any other proof that Kate Townsend and Cyrus knew each other?”

  An image of Kate’s secret journal fills my mind, but I’m not ready to tell Quentin about that yet. There’s no way we could use that diary in the trial without causing Drew further damage. Besides, Jenny Townsend gave me Kate’s private things specifically so that they wouldn’t be seen by prying eyes. Even if I wanted to make the diary public, I’m not sure I could bring myself to violate Jenny’s trust. If it meant saving Drew’s life, I would, of course. But right now, that journal is as likely to hurt him as help him. There might be digital proof somewhere that Cyrus was tracking Kate’s cell phone, but I’ll find that out on my own.

  “I don’t know,” I murmur. “I’ll try to find out.”

  “You’ll have to talk to Cyrus’s crew,” Quentin says, “see if they remember her coming around.”

  “You think they’ll talk to me?”

  Quentin shrugs. “You’re my investigator. We’ll subpoena them if we have to, but that’s never the best way to get information.”

  It’s time for me to come clean with Quentin about Kate’s relationship with Cyrus. As succinctly as possible I explain Ellen Elliot’s Lorcet addiction, and Kate’s reason for visiting Cyrus once a month. He listens like a man who has heard it all in his time. He can’t be shocked, only disappointed.

  “This ain’t good,” Quentin says when I finish. “I can make the jury feel sorry for a good doctor who happened to fall in love with a beautiful young girl. Even an underage girl. But I can’t make them feel sorry for a manipulator who used a high school girl in a sleazy scheme to get drugs.”

  “I’ll be very surprised if Shad makes that connection.”

  Quentin raises one eyebrow. “I’ve learned something in my long years of practicing law, Penn. What holds true of adultery holds true for most other sins. Sooner or later, people find out. For us the important question is, how long does this particular sin stay secret?”

  “In other words, how soon will Drew be indicted and go to trial?”

  Quentin nods. “I look for sooner rather than later. As soon as Shad gets a DNA match on the semen taken from the girl’s rectum, he’s likely to ask for an indictment.”

  “That’s usually three weeks, minimum, although Shad hinted to me that it might not take that long. If he really wants Drew bad—and we know he does—he could use a private lab to do the analysis. That could knock ten days off the wait, maybe more. The irony is that Shad will be helping us if he rushes to trial.”

  “Only as it relates to that single issue,” Quentin points out. “Connecting the Lorcet to Ellen Elliott. Maybe you shouldn’t talk to Cyrus’s crew after all. We don’t want to jog anybody’s memory too hard.”

  “We’re at the beginning of a court term now,” I think aloud. “Even if Shad gets an indictment, the trial will be scheduled for the next term, which gives us two months to prepare.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Quentin says.

  “Why not?”

  “Shad’s thinking about the special mayoral election, not the trial. That’s the whole point of the trial. If he gets the indictment, he’ll try to have the trial scheduled for the current term.”

  “Judge Minor and Shad are thick as thieves. All Shad will have to do is steer the case to Minor’s court, and Minor will schedule the trial for this term.”

  “We’re likely to be trying the case in less than a month,” Quentin says.

  “That’s unethical!”

  Quentin laughs heartily. “Try convincing the Supreme Court of that. The founding fathers specifically guaranteed the right of the accused to a speedy trial. If we protest against Shad rushing this trial, he can argue that he’s only trying to provide what the Constitution demands, the right of an innocent man to prove his innocence as soon as possible. Hell, that was the way it worked all the time in the old days. In some rural counties, they still indict the accused and try him within a week. The system has gotten so ass backwards over the past three decades that we routinely expect capital cases to take years. But that’s not how it’s supposed to be. If Judge Minor is on Shad’s side, there’s no way we’ll slow this trial down.”

  “Great.”

  Quentin nods thoughtfully. “It is great. Because we want the trial over before anyone can figure out just what a sleazy character our defendant really is. And we want Cyrus White to stay lost.”

  Quentin’s description of Drew offends me, but I hold my tongue.

  “Out with it,” says the lawyer. “Am I pissing you off?”

  “A little bit.”

  A tight smile. “I understand human frailty, Penn, believe me. I’m only talking the way the jury will behind closed doors. I don’t care if your buddy was Albert Schweitzer right up until he met Kate Townsend. His behavior since then is going to make him scum in the eyes of most potential jury members. Now, a lot of jurors will understand the psychological dynamics of extramarital affairs. And some of them will even forgive that. But this drug angle…they’ll fry his ass for that.”

  “The sheriff’s men will be questioning Cyrus’s crew about Kate’s visits to Cyrus. I hope to hell Kate never said anything about Ellen to Cyrus or his men.”

  “Yeah, it would be a lot better if you hadn’t told Byrd about that video.”

  “I didn’t tell him there was video.”

  “You told him there was documented evidence. That’s vi
deo or still photos.”

  I squeeze my hands into fists, wishing I could change the past.

  “Stop beating yourself up,” says Quentin. “Cyrus’s homeys won’t say shit to those cracker cops. The cops may find out Kate was going there to buy drugs, but they’ll assume she was getting them for herself. At first, anyway.”

  “But the toxicology on her body will be clean.”

  “Are you sure? Have you seen the report yourself?”

  “No. But Sonny Cross said it was clean.”

  Quentin chides me with a smile. “We’ll request that in discovery. If we’re lucky, our prom queen popped a few Lorcet herself to ease the pain of waiting for her lover to get divorced.”

  “I’m glad I never came up against you in court, Quentin. You’re a pragmatic son of a bitch.”

  His eyes twinkle. “That I am, my boy. You are, too. You just have this romantic haze over your eyes. You want the world to be better than it is. But I know your record. You’re as hard as I am when it comes down to it. You just get there by a different route.”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  Quentin snorts. “As many people as you got executed, I hope you’re sure.”

  Images of desperate men fill my mind, some of them glaring at me from death row cages, others staring through bulletproof glass as a technician injects paralyzing drugs into their veins. In some of those eyes I see a plea for forgiveness, in others unalloyed hatred. But one thing is common to them all: the animal fear of death.

  “Stop it,” Quentin says. “Let the dead bury the dead.”

  “Sometimes I can’t stop it.”

  The old lawyer looks out over the rooftops toward the river and speaks in a low voice. “Fifteen years ago, I was asked to review the case of a young man sitting on death row in Huntsville, Texas. He was black, and his family told me he’d been railroaded by the state. The facts sounded promising as presented, so I flew down to Texas and reviewed the file.” Quentin glances at me. “You were the lawyer who convicted him.”

  A chill goes through me. “What was his name?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Quentin looks back at the river. “The point is, I spent three days and nights going over that case. I had two associates helping me. And we couldn’t find one chink in the wall of evidence that had convicted that boy. There wasn’t a glimmer of hope. I gave the family back their files and flew home.” He spits over the brick wall of the balcony, then turns to me. “I don’t believe in the death penalty, Penn, not in this mortal world. It’s applied unfairly, and innocent men are executed. But I will say this: according to the law of the land, that boy in Huntsville got exactly what he deserved. And you have nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve reviewed a lot of death penalty cases, and that was the best work I’ve ever seen.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because that’s the reason the two of us are standing here now, working together. We’re about to go through some shit, you and I. And I want you to know I know you’ve got what it takes to do it. Now, if you want to do your friend any good, you’re going to have to start looking at the facts as coldly as you would if you were dealing with some dead-eyed killer in Texas.”

  “It’s hard for me to look at Drew like that.”

  “That’s because he’s white.”

  I feel my back stiffen. “That’s not true. I sent five white men to death row. I killed a white supremacist myself.”

  Quentin shakes his head like a patient tutor. “I said he’s white, not white trash. When you look at Drew Elliott, you see yourself. When you look at Kate Townsend, you see your sister, or your daughter, or your mother. How do you think I got so many black men off of death row? When I looked at them, I saw myself. Or what could have been me, with just a tiny push at the wrong time.”

  “I see what you mean. So, you’re telling me not to try to find Cyrus?”

  “Damned straight. As long as Cyrus White stays a mystery, he’s our acquittal on the hoof. The last thing we want is that depraved hoodlum on the witness stand telling a jury how Kate was scoring dope for Drew’s wife. You get me?”

  “Yes. Only…”

  “What?”

  “I tried a lot of murder cases, Quentin. If you don’t really know what happened at a crime scene, you can get your ass handed to you in court.”

  “Stop thinking like a prosecutor. We’re the defense, boy! We don’t care what really happened at the crime scene. We don’t even want to know. All we care about is reasonable doubt. That’s your mantra from now on. I want you saying it in your sleep: reasonable doubt. Say it, man! It’s like, ‘Show me the money!’ ” Quentin grins. “Come on…reasonable doubt.”

  I’d like to humor him, but at bottom I just don’t believe in his strategy.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “It’s human nature to want to know the truth, Penn. But what if the truth is that your best friend flew into a jealous rage, raped that girl in the ass, and strangled her to death?”

  Quentin’s frank tone tells me that he fully believes in this possibility. I know what he’s trying to do, but I simply can’t abandon my faith in my friend. If I do that, I abandon my faith in myself. “I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  “But you don’t know. And at least until this trial is over, that’s the way I want it. Because if you find out that is what happened, you won’t be any earthly good to me or Drew Elliott. And I need your help. Just remember, you’re the foot soldier here, not the general.”

  “I got it.”

  “Make sure you do.”

  Chapter

  27

  Cemetery Road runs through the old black section of town, past the Little Theater and up along the two-hundred-foot bluff that stretches along the Mississippi River north of town. The road is narrow, bordered on the right by a low stone wall and on the left by a tangle of kudzu that festoons the bluff from top to bottom. As I pass the second wrought-iron gate in the cemetery wall, I realize that my plan to photograph the mourners at Kate’s interment is impractical. The turnout for burials is usually much smaller than that for funeral services, but the faded green tent over Kate’s open grave is surrounded by more than a hundred people.

  I drive past the third gate in the wall, pass a row of shacks on my left, then turn right into the fourth gate, which lets me drive up the back side of Jewish Hill, the highest point in the cemetery. Jewish Hill holds the remains of Natchez’s second-generation Jewish settlers, and it has the best view of the Mississippi River anywhere in the nation. I take my camera and walk past the stones of the Rothstein and Schwarz families, then stop behind a wall in the Cohen plot. From here I can see the whole sweep of the ninety-acre cemetery.

  This ground was consecrated in 1822, but some of the coffins were moved here from an even older graveyard, where Natchez settlers were buried in the early 1700s. Kate Townsend’s grave has been dug in an area near the bluff called the Zurhellen Addition. It lies between the steep rise of Jewish Hill and the long row of majestic oak trees that borders the next section of graves to the south. About forty yards in front of Kate’s grave, near the stone wall at the edge of the cemetery, stands the most famous monument in this city of the dead: the Turning Angel. Erected in 1932 to commemorate five girls who died in a fire, this marble statue has become an object of both legend and ritual in Natchez. The life-size angel stands on its pedestal in an attitude of purposeful repose, writing names into the Book of Life. The angel possesses a face of Madonna-like serenity, but its musculature and powerful wings make it appear almost masculine. When you drive down Cemetery Road, the angel appears to be looking directly at you. Yet once you pass the monument and look back over your shoulder, the angel is still looking at you. Thus the appellation: the Turning Angel. For me, the effect is much more dramatic at night, and it’s probably caused by a trick of light as the beams of headlights create ever-changing shadows on the monument. In daylight—from up close—you can clearly see the angel standing with its back to the bluff and
the river. Yet so famous is this legend that every Natchez teenager at some point in his life drives or is driven down the dark stretch of road to watch the angel turn. Thus has legend spawned a rite of passage for all the children in the town.

  The faded green tent at the center of the funeral crowd reads, “McDonough’s Funeral Home,” and it’s been the centerpiece of almost every white funeral in town for as long as I can remember. The crowd is pressing so close to the tent that I have no hope of photographing anyone. My only hope is to walk down and join the throng.

  A concrete staircase leads down Jewish Hill to the flat rectangle of the Zurhellen Addition. As I walk down it, I hear the chime of an acoustic guitar. Then a young male voice floats over the tops of the mourners’ heads, cracking with grief but also communicating defiance. It’s singing about unpredictability and fate and the brevity of youth.

  I guess Kate Townsend was a Green Day fan.

  Very slowly, I weave my way through the crowd, nodding to those mourners who meet my eye. I know most of the people here, but some I don’t. As I near the tent, the crowd becomes too thick for me to negotiate further. Thanks to my height, though, I can survey the gathering from here.

  Jenny Townsend is sitting beneath the burial tent with her ex-husband, the Englishman. Reverend Herrick is performing the graveside service, a much more traditional one than he gave in the school gymnasium. There are other people beneath the tent, but they don’t interest me. The people gathered around the tent do. I see most of the St. Stephen’s school board, with Holden Smith at their head. Jan Chancellor is wearing a silk pants suit. Steve Sayers stands in the front row to my right, one eye swollen and purple. Not far down the line from him stands Mia Burke with her mother, a paralegal for the city’s largest law firm. To my surprise, Mia is wearing a black dress and makeup; with her dark hair pulled up in a bun, she looks twenty-five. She catches my eye and vouchsafes a demure smile. Coach Wade Anders is standing with his back to me, but I recognize his head and shoulders, even in a suit. I have to do a double-take to confirm that one of the women on the far side of the tent is Ellen Elliot, but I’m right. I guess Ellen felt she needed to show the town that she mourns Kate as much as anyone, despite whatever her soon-to-be-ex-husband might have done to her.