“It’s the same damn situation!”
“No, it’s not. Devereux is a lying bastard who defended mobsters and Klansmen, cheated his partners, dishonored his robe when he was a district judge, and probably paid for a murder by contract. He did have charisma, though, and I imagine that’s how he convinced your mama to go with him for a while. But that’s got nothing to do with Tom Cage. Dr. Cage is one of the finest men I’ve ever known, black or white. And that’s saying something.”
Elder snorted with contempt. “From the evidence I’ve seen, Tom Cage may have broken his medical oath, dishonored his profession, and committed murder himself.”
“You haven’t seen all the evidence. I haven’t even begun my case.”
“What case? Shad Johnson’s already got your client boxed for transport to Parchman, with a red bow wrapped around him.”
“Joe, you worked for me. Do you really believe that? This trial’s only half over. And that’s why I’m here tonight. I can’t fight Shad and you both.”
Elder shook the paper in his hand. “What’s going to happen to the original of this page, Quentin?”
“I’d like to say it could just disappear. But the journals of Albert Norris belong to history. Norris was murdered by the Double Eagle group, and his murder must be solved. His killers must be punished, and publicly.”
“You’re saying those journals will be evidence in a future murder case?”
“They’ll probably have to be, Joe. They’re filled with information about the Double Eagle group. Of course, I hope your part of the story never comes up.”
“Hope ain’t much to hang a hat on.”
Quentin let him think about that for a few seconds. Then he said, “I can give you a little more than that. As far as I can see, if there were a page or two missing from Norris’s journals, that wouldn’t change the outcome of a major case. What’s a couple of pieces of paper in the sands of time?”
The judge looked off toward the river, as though he couldn’t bear to look Quentin in the eye. “Would you do that for me?”
“It’s not completely up to me, but I’ll do all I can to ensure it.”
“Who has those damned journals, Quentin?”
“I can’t tell you that. But I will tell you, the page came to me through Penn Cage.”
“Shit! This is blackmail.”
“No! It’s not. The saint who kept the ledgers secret all these years gave them to Penn Cage because he trusts Penn to do the right thing. He did that because, after watching the trial, he thinks you’re not being fair. He thinks you’re trying to convict your own father by helping Shad Johnson convict Tom Cage.”
“Shad doesn’t need any help from me. Not on this case.”
“All I want from you is impartiality, Joe. Let the jury decide this case on their own.”
“I don’t trust Cage to keep quiet. Not if his father is convicted.”
“Have a little faith in your fellow man, Joe. It’s like trusting a jury.”
Elder was about to reply when a skinny black boy of about eighteen stepped out of the shadows and approached them along the fence. He wore unkempt clothes, and his pants were hanging off his behind in the current fashion.
“He’s not out here for exercise,” Quentin said softly.
“Have a little faith,” Judge Elder said in a mocking tone. “Isn’t that what you just told me?”
The stranger stopped about three feet from the judge. “Yo, brother,” he said. “You got a couple dollars for a man in trouble?”
“Not tonight,” Elder said. “We’re talking here, and we need some privacy.”
The stranger’s head ducked and weaved as he looked back toward the road. Then a glittering knife appeared in his hand.
“I’ll give you privacy, after you give me all yo’ shit. The crip, too.”
Judge Elder stared at the man in amazement. “Boy, do you have any idea who you’re pointing that knife at?”
“A richer man than me. That jacket you’re wearing would rent my crib for six months.”
Elder straightened up and shook out his arms like a center about to defend the lane against an All-American forward. “So, you’re gonna rob a man in a wheelchair?” He looked down at Quentin, who was watching the knife warily. “Jesus wept, Quentin.”
The mugger looked back at the road again. “Hey, homes, I gots to live, too.”
“Nigga, please,” Elder snapped. “You listen up. I’m Judge Joe Elder, and if you don’t get straight back to your crib and stop hassling people, I’ll put you under the fucking jail. You hear me?”
The mugger’s eyes widened, revealing bloodshot sclera in the dim light. “Man, you crazy? Don’t you see this knife?”
“Do you see this gun?”
Elder and the mugger whipped their heads toward Quentin, who had taken a small black automatic from beneath the blanket on his lap.
“You just do what the judge told you to do,” Quentin said. “And pray he doesn’t remember your face the next time you show up in court.”
The mugger didn’t look frightened. “You gonna shoot me, old man?”
“My little brother, I will shoot you in the balls, and after you go limping away, I’ll plug you in the ass. Now drop that knife!”
Two seconds later the knife hit the ground.
“Listen to me, boy,” Joe Elder said. “You need money? There’s a bunch of nice ladies who work hard to keep up an old cemetery on Watkins Street. One of your ancestors might be buried there. You show up there next Wednesday afternoon. I’ll pay you to cut grass and help those ladies.”
The boy stared at the judge like he was crazy.
“If you don’t show, and you ever come before me in court? Boy, you’ll need diapers the rest of your life ’cause your asshole won’t close back up after your time in jail. You feel me?”
The boy bolted into the dark.
Judge Elder leaned over, picked up the knife, then threw it off the bluff into the kudzu below. “Jesus, Quentin. What’s this world coming to, when you can’t walk through a small town without getting mugged?”
“That’s pretty rare here, actually.”
“Not in Ferriday.” He blew a long stream of air from his cheeks. “You don’t carry that piece into court, do you?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re full of shit about me showing bias in the courtroom.”
“We’ll see how it goes tomorrow.”
Elder leaned on the fence and looked out over the gleaming river. Then he bent and pulled a weed stalk from the ground and stuck it between his teeth like a farm boy.
“You know, when I was growing up in Ferriday, folks used to say ‘Thank God for Mississippi,’ just so we wouldn’t be last in everything. But I believe Concordia Parish in those days was worse than any county in Mississippi. Except maybe the Gulf Coast.”
“Carlos Marcello had his hand in both places. Between his outfit and the local rednecks, it was pretty bad, Joe.”
Elder pushed himself off the fence and squatted in front of Avery’s wheelchair. “Quentin, what kind of crazy-ass game are you playing in my courtroom?”
Quentin smiled at his old protégé. “A long one.”