“Is that a trick question?”
When I don’t reply, Lincoln sighs and looks into his lap. “That tape doesn’t prove he’s innocent. Not by a long shot. Not to me, and probably not to a lot of jurors. But does it sound like reasonable doubt? I’d say so. You need to decide what that’s worth, and you don’t have much time.”
Staring through the windshield, I can no longer discern the tape on the water rolling southward. Without further discussion, Lincoln cranks the truck, backs carefully up the boat ramp, then executes a three-point turn and drives over the levee. Soon we’re on the westbound bridge, and as we follow its arc over the river, I finally ask the question he wants to hear.
“What’s the magic number?”
He lets the truck roll all the way down to the Mississippi shore before answering. The tires thunk onto asphalt with good dirt under it, and Lincoln switches the heater on full blast, fogging the lower half of the windshield. While I watch in confusion, he reaches out and writes some numbers in the moisture on the glass. Leaning sideways to change the angle of the light, I see a one followed by six zeros.
A million dollars? For that tape?
The empty feeling in the pit of my belly tells me how serious he is. I already put fifty thousand dollars into the grubby little hands of Nita Devine this morning—or the hands of her sister—through my friend Kirk Boisseau. Lincoln’s request proves just how bush league the Devines are when it comes to larceny.
“One hour,” Lincoln says, driving past the Natchez Welcome Center and pulling into the turn lane for Canal Street.
“That’s impossible,” I tell him, switching off the heater. “Even if the answer was yes.”
“Don’t insult me. I know you’ve got the money.”
He turns left, heading back into the heart of downtown.
“Did you have someone call in that bomb threat so you could make this offer?”
He chuckles softly. “Don’t get paranoid, man.”
“You’re the one who’s scared. Quentin Avery is about to crawl right up your ass, isn’t he? You can feel him warming up the proctoscope, and you don’t like it. That’s why you’re going to plan B. You want to split town with a sackful of money. What’s he got on you? Did you really destroy a second will?”
“That’s got nothing to do with the price of freedom in Mississippi, brother.” Lincoln rolls right past the turn for the jail and the courthouse, but he speaks before I can question his driving. “Look at it this way, Mayor. If Daddy was lying in an intensive care unit, about to die—”
“Last October, he was.”
“Okay, so think about that. If he was lying in the ICU, and a doctor told you he could save his life for one million dollars, would you pay it?” Lincoln turns to me with his eyebrows raised.
I don’t answer.
“’Course you would. Even if he only had another few months to live, you’d pay it. What’s six months with your father worth? His last six months on earth? But that’s not even the bottom question. The bottom question is, what would those months be like with him behind bars? And how many months would he lose by being there? I watched Junius Jelks get old in jail, and it happens fast. He was in and out several times, but he aged three years for every year he spent inside.”
“I know what prison does to people. I’ve put enough people there.”
“I guess you have, at that.”
“Do you have any other tapes?”
“I told you that was a copy.”
“No, I’m talking about videotapes.”
Lincoln looks puzzled. “Ain’t no other tapes, man. Big Daddy had the one Mama made Sexton in that Texas Ranger’s van. He erased it. And he fried the other one in that MRI machine. The one they found in the Dumpster.” Lincoln laughs softly. “I never said he was stupid.”
The truck suddenly veers right and stops beside the curb on Main Street.
“Why are you dropping me here? I need to get back to City Hall.”
Lincoln smiles. “This is your bank, isn’t it?”
“Jesus. I need to talk to Quentin first. And to Dad.”
“You don’t have time for that. This is one of those decisions you make yourself. Don’t call my cell, because I won’t answer. Don’t try to discuss this in person or via any type of media. There won’t be any sting operation. This conversation never happened, and we’re never discussing it again. Either the money is there in an hour, or it’s not. After that, I destroy the original and we all take our chances with the jury.”
I look at my watch. “A million dollars in an hour? That’s impossible.”
“For you, maybe. Not for you and your mama. Tell her to crack open that retirement account.”
You son of a bitch, I curse silently.
I open the door and slide one foot down to the concrete. “If you get your money, how soon will that audiotape be miraculously discovered?”
“Immediately. I’ll take it to Shad myself and tell him I just found it hidden in Mama’s house.” Lincoln’s eyes glint with a con man’s infectious excitement. “Reasonable doubt on a silver platter, my brother.”
“Shad won’t thank you for it.”
Lincoln’s expression goes sour. “Fuck that negro. Now get out of my truck.”
As soon as I close the door, he leans over and raps on the window. Then he lowers it and says, “If court resumes before the money’s been transferred, old Quentin better steer well clear of the track he’s been on.”
This is his confession: Quentin has him by the balls, and he senses a knife is being sharpened.
“You know, I’ve actually felt sorry for you during this whole process. But I see now that you’ve got no honor at all.”
“You don’t see shit,” Lincoln grumbles. “And you don’t know shit. Especially about me. And you never will.”
“I know you’d tell any lie in the world to get money and revenge. I don’t care what the DNA test said . . . you’re not my father’s son.”
His white teeth slowly disappear, and his eyes take on a lethal cast. “That’s where you’re dead wrong. I’m his true son—not you. You’re what he wishes he could have been. That’s one thing you’ll learn for sure before I leave this town.” Lincoln laughs with harsh pleasure, then yanks the gearshift. “Nice doing business with you, Mayor.”
As his truck rumbles away, I enter the bank, count to ten, then exit onto Commerce Street and sprint toward City Hall.
Chapter 53
By the time I reach City Hall, I’ve learned from Doris Avery that she and Quentin are back down at Edelweiss. With the traffic around the courthouse still snarled from TV trucks, I decide to run the five blocks to the river. I draw a lot of looks from people on the street; they’re not used to seeing their mayor pound the pavement in a sport coat and tie. But then most of them remember that my father is on trial for murder and figure it must make sense at some level.