Even Judge Elder looks shocked by this statement, but if Quentin intends to prove that my father has been framed, he has the right to say these things.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he intones, “this may not be a capital trial, but make no mistake: a man’s life is at stake here. Tom Cage is seventy-three years old. His health status is grave. If he’s sentenced to spend even a year in jail, he’s unlikely to survive. So I humbly ask you to bear with me as I present my case. Your time is precious, and public service a dying virtue. But with the stakes so high, I implore you to persevere until the truth lies naked before us all. For only then can we say that we have done our duty, and that justice has been served.”
After a full visual survey of the jury, Quentin rolls back toward his table. But before he reaches it, he stops and looks over his shoulder as though troubled by some thorny moral dilemma.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I can’t leave it at that. I have a confession to make. During the 1960s I was known as a crusader for justice, a defender of human rights. But I tell you now, I have represented guilty men. Every defense lawyer has. A client never tells you he’s guilty, and you don’t ask. But deep in your soul—in your inmost heart—you know. Nevertheless, you hold your nose and remind yourself that you’re serving the Constitution, which was written by men a lot wiser than yourself. Men who believed it was better that ten guilty men go free than one innocent man rot in prison.”
Quentin rolls himself slowly back toward the jury. “Why am I telling you this? Because I want you to know that today I came into court with a clear conscience. Today I am not holding my nose, or willfully blinding myself to some dark truth. Because on this day, in this trial, my client has more integrity in his little finger than I have in what’s left of my whole body.”
Now I’m the one left breathless by Quentin’s audacity. With an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, I watch him point at my father in exactly the same way that I, as a prosecutor, often pointed at murderers. With almost religious conviction Quentin says, “That man—Dr. Thomas Jefferson Cage—is innocent.”
Shad leaps to his feet, yelling something I can’t make out over the roar of the crowd, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no rule that prohibits a lawyer from saying that his client is innocent, but few take that risk. Quentin has just done so with devastating effect. Shad might be able to call into question the way Quentin prefaced his statement, but right now that doesn’t matter. Both the jury and the spectators have been knocked out of their socks. It’s as though a football team trailing in the Super Bowl suddenly followed a ninety-seven-yard touchdown run with a successful onside kick, and the momentum shift was enough to give the spectators whiplash.
Judge Elder bangs his gavel, calling for order, and the crowd settles back into a resentful but expectant silence.
“Overruled,” Judge Elder rules with obvious reluctance. (I never even heard what Shad’s objection was.) The judge would clearly like to make Quentin pay a price for his boldness, but he can do little other than give the old lawyer a reproving glare. “Please conclude your remarks, Mr. Avery.”
Quentin looks pointedly at his watch, as if to say, I’ll take my full allotted time and no less, thank you.
“I’ll tell you something else,” Quentin says defiantly. “My client is not required to defend himself against these malicious charges. He’s not required to take the witness stand and testify to his innocence. He is presumed innocent. The burden of proof lies with the State of Mississippi. Dr. Cage is protected by the full power of the Constitution of the United States. Nevertheless, Mr. Johnson over there is salivating in the hope that an old country doctor just might be proud enough, or foolish enough, to give a Harvard-trained prosecutor a chance to go after him with his sharpest legal scalpels. Well”—Quentin turns up both palms and gives Shad a beatific smile—“I have good news for Mr. Johnson. He is going to get his chance.”
An electric buzz ripples through the courtroom, and my heart starts to pound.
“At the conclusion of this case, Dr. Tom Cage will walk into that witness box and tell you all what happened on the night Viola Turner died. And I will make you all a promise.” Quentin glances at Shad, then turns slowly to the audience, which includes not only Sheriff Byrd, but probably also some corrupt law enforcement officers and even survivors of the Double Eagle group. “When Dr. Cage finally speaks, men sitting in this room now will tremble.”
The silence that follows this prophecy is like the vacuum of deep space. There’s only the soft whirring of Quentin’s wheelchair as he rolls back behind the defense table and lays a comforting hand on my father’s arm.
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
As the silence grows, Doris Avery scuttles forward and whispers in her husband’s ear.
“Your Honor,” Quentin says in a surprised voice, “I’ve been informed that my first witness has arrived outside the courthouse. I’m ready to proceed with my case.”
Judge Elder looks at his watch.
Shad Johnson stares at Quentin like an animal trying to determine whether another is predator or prey. The DA is desperate to know whom Quentin, after two days of sitting mute during devastating testimony, intends to call as his first witness.
“Call your witness,” Judge Elder orders.
“The defense calls Colonel Karl V. Eklund, U.S. Army, Retired.”
“Objection!” Shad cries.
“On what grounds?” Judge Elder asks.
“We’ve had no notice of this witness.”
Judge Elder looks conflicted about his ruling. At length, he says, “You’ve had no notice of any witnesses, Mr. Johnson. Nor will you get any.”
While Shad tries to appear unfazed, Judge Elder takes it upon himself to explain to the jury the concept of discovery and the rules pertaining to it in Mississippi. When he concludes, Colonel Eklund still has not appeared.
“Mr. Avery,” says the judge, “is your witness ready to be called?”
“I believe so, Your Honor. But the colonel is over seventy, and he’s from out of state. I’d better send somebody to find him.”
“Before you do that, tell me, will you be examining this witness at length?”
Quentin smiles affably. “I will, Your Honor. Since the district attorney saw fit to end his case with Korea, I thought I’d start mine there. So we could be here for some while.”
Shad sits blinking like a blindsided driver after a minor collision. “Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant. The State has no record of a Karl Eklund being present in or around the ambulance where the events Major Powers testified about occurred.”
“That’s because Colonel Eklund was not present in the ambulance,” Quentin says, “or anywhere near it.”
“Then how is his testimony relevant?” Shad asks in a challenging tone.