“Henry was making a documentary. A joint venture with an award-winning filmmaker from Syracuse University. That’s up in New York. They were more than half finished, but they were having trouble getting funding to complete the project. The man from Syracuse had talked to Morgan Freeman’s people about narrating the film, and he wanted to do it. But Morgan couldn’t take it on for several months yet. A couple of backers pulled their support after they heard that. When Viola found out about this, that was when she offered her support to Henry. It moved him so much. Henry cried when he told me about their conversation. And he hardly ever did that.”
As Quentin prepares to ask his next question, Judge Elder’s secretary comes out of his chambers, climbs to the bench, and hands him a note. This kind of thing happens all the time in court, but as soon as Elder looks at the sheet of paper, I know this is different.
“Court is recessed for one hour,” he says sharply. “The witness is released. The jury will retire to the jury room, and the defendant will be returned to custody. I need to see counsel in chambers immediately.”
While the audience breaks into a hum of surprised speculation, the judge gets up and heads straight for the private door to his chambers. Shad and Quentin share a glance; then Shad follows the judge. As Quentin goes after him, I leave my seat and follow.
As we bunch around the judge’s door, Quentin looks over his shoulder at me. “What are you doing?”
“I’m listed as part of the defense team, and I’m coming with you. Don’t even try to stop me. Elder looks scared.”
“Christ. All right.”
By the time we reach the judge’s inner sanctum, Joe Elder has already pulled off his robe and is holding a cell phone to his ear. He covers the mobile’s microphone with his finger and looks over at us.
“There’s been a bomb threat at my home. One of my children was there with the housekeeper. They’ve evacuated the house, the bomb squad is on its way. Both the ATF and FBI have been called. I suspect this is a hoax meant to disrupt the trial, but until I know that for sure, we’re in recess.”
While Shad gapes at the judge, Elder says, “I’m on my way” into the phone, then grabs his keys off the desk and heads for his receptionist’s office.
“Are you sure it was for your house?” Quentin asks, “and not the court?”
“The caller gave my address, but the ATF will search and scan the courtroom as well.”
“Did the caller say anything else?” Shad asks.
Joe Elder pauses in the doorway and looks back at us. “He said he wasn’t going to let a nigger judge jail a white man for killing a nigger without paying a price.”
“Shouldn’t we just adjourn for the day?” Shad asks.
Joe Elder cuts his eyes at Shad, not quite believing that the DA is trying to run tactics on him even now. “No, Mr. Johnson. I’m not letting anybody intimidate me into derailing this trial, no matter which side he’s on. Whatever it is you want to do, you’ve got one hour to do it.”
Then the door closes behind the judge.
Shad, Quentin, and I regard each other in silence. This turn of events has left our heads spinning, but all good trial lawyers know how to recover quickly from the unexpected, and even turn it to their advantage, as Shad just tried to do.
“What’s all this crap about another will?” he asks.
“Why don’t you ask your witnesses?” Quentin suggests.
“You obviously don’t have a copy of it. If you did, you’d already have entered it into evidence.”
“Like that adrenaline ampoule nobody could find?”
I’m glad to hear this retort, because until I did, I didn’t know Quentin had paid any attention to the forensic case.
Shad dismisses his comment with a wave of his hand. “I’ll bet we’re done for the day.”
“You hope we are.” Quentin gives him a strange smile. “You didn’t have somebody call in that bomb threat, did you? I think you feel the ground shifting, Shadrach.”
Shad jabs his middle finger at Quentin, then turns and marches out of the room without a word.
“What do you make of this?” I ask.
Quentin shrugs. “I’m past being surprised by anything. I don’t see that it affects our case at all.”
“Our case?”
The old lawyer makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “Come on, Penn. Aren’t you starting to see a little method in my madness?”
“Too little, too late. That’s what I see. You haven’t even dented Shad’s forensic case.”
“Everything in time.”
“Do you think there could really be a bomb?”
“I’ll know when they tell me.”
“The Double Eagles were big fans of plastic explosive. And they used a bomb as a diversion at the Concordia Courthouse when—”
“When they killed Sonny Thornfield in the jail,” Quentin finishes. “Shit.”
His preternatural calm has finally evaporated, and my pulse is pounding in my neck.
“Dad could be back in his cell by now.”
Quentin digs out his phone, but I figure I can be across the street and inside the sheriff’s office by the time Quentin gets the dispatcher to do anything.
He hasn’t even gotten an answer by the time I hit the door.
Chapter 52
Dad was alive when I reached the visiting room, and a call from Quentin to Judge Elder had ensured a double guard on him—men who understood that they were there to protect their charge, not merely to keep him from escaping. The deputies would not let me stay with him, though. The bomb threat had put everyone on edge.
As I left the sheriff’s department, I looked up and saw the trial spectators exiting the courthouse doors across the street. On both sides of the broad marble steps, two men wearing business suits photographed everyone who passed down to the sidewalk beneath the spreading oaks. FBI agents, I surmised. Kaiser’s men. As soon as Kaiser got word of the bomb threat, he must have figured the caller might have someone inside the courtroom giving him progress reports. Since nobody is required to sign his or her name as they enter the courtroom, the photographs will ensure that the Bureau can eventually trace everyone who was there this morning.
I’m still watching the mass exodus when a familiar white pickup truck stops on the street in front of me, and the passenger window drops into the door, revealing Lincoln Turner behind the wheel. My half brother’s big face and shoulders lean into the open space, his eyes bright with a strange energy.
“You look like a man who needs a ride, Mayor. Where’s your wingman?”
I left the courthouse so fast—and by such an unexpected route—that I lost my protection on the way. “I’m good,” I say, a little nervously.
“No,” says Lincoln, “you only think you are. I want to make you a proposition, brah. It won’t take more than five minutes.”
“I’m listening.”
Lincoln tilts back his head, indicating two cars that have stopped behind him. “Get in the truck. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Just pull to the curb.”
The second car behind his truck gives a long blast on its horn. Fifty people from the crowd look our way.
“You want to keep Big Daddy out of Parchman or not?”
“You’re the one who made this whole trial happen.”
A taunting smile touches his wide lips. “Yeah. But a trial is a fluid thing, like a war. The tides change fast. Every lawyer knows that. You want to hear what I’ve got to say.”