When the trial resumed at 1:35 p.m.—after exhaustive searches of the judge’s home and the courthouse—I couldn’t keep my mind on the testimony of Virginia Sexton. For one thing, I was stunned to find that my mother had finally agreed to let Annie attend the court proceedings. This morning’s recitation of Dad’s war heroism must have tipped the balance. Annie sits at Mom’s right shoulder, Mia beside her, then Jenny. Annie looks fascinated by the whole spectacle, while Mia takes in everything with her usual cool thoroughness.
I can’t stop silently replaying the tape recording I heard in Lincoln’s car. That recording alone would inject reasonable doubt into the collective mind of this jury. And Lincoln was right in his assessment of my character: if someone had told me on day one of this trial that one million dollars would buy my father an acquittal, I would have found a way to pay the money.
Now it’s no longer an option.
Despite his bravado back at Edelweiss, Quentin is still painstakingly following the thread of Viola’s supposed alternate will, which, despite the remainder of Henry’s mother’s testimony, remains theoretical. Shad releases the tearful Mrs. Sexton after getting her to admit that she never saw any will even purportedly written by Viola Turner.
Next, Quentin calls to the stand a history professor from Syracuse University, a pale, soft-spoken man whose voice carries great conviction. The professor has brought with him an e-mail written by Henry Sexton ten days before his death. In this e-mail, which the professor reads aloud, Henry informs him that Viola told Henry she had changed her will, and in the new will stipulated that Henry would receive fifty thousand dollars to be used to finance the continued investigation of Viola’s brother’s death, and also to complete his documentary film about that investigation, among others. The problem, despite the professor’s passionate sincerity, is that no one will come forward and swear they ever saw such a will, much less produce it for the court.
When I glance at Rusty on my left, he looks half-asleep, but when he sees me looking at him, he covertly makes a masturbatory gesture with his right hand. Clearly, his reassessment of Quentin as a genius has taken a beating in the past hour. After Shad gets the professor to admit that he never saw a copy of the supposed new will, the district attorney faces the jury and turns up his hands, as though to say, Why are we wasting our time with this nonsense?
I am inclined to agree with him until Quentin, in a revitalized voice, says, “Your Honor, the defense calls Mr. Junius Jelks to the stand.”
Shad whips his head toward the back door so fast that he might require a visit to a chiropractor, and only with obvious difficulty does he squelch the compulsion to bark “Objection!” But he has no grounds for objection. Shad is merely stunned that Viola Turner’s husband—a man who until ten seconds ago Shad believed was safely behind bars in Joliet, Illinois—is about to take the stand and say God knows what. Trying a case without the benefit of discovery is proving to be a devilish ordeal for the district attorney. I can only thank my stars that this was never an option for defense attorneys in Texas.
When the big back doors open, I don’t see the witness, but two federal marshals. One holds open the door while the second stands a few feet inside it, awaiting their charge. With a jangling clink of metal on metal, a black man of medium height enters the courtroom with a graceful walk and a twinkle in his eye. Junius Jelks’s hair is gray, but he still looks virile, and he seems to draw keen pleasure from the hundreds of eyes now riveted upon him. As he walks down the aisle, an audible hiss rises from the gallery. The sibilant rush is soft, snakelike, but when it continues without break I realize it must be coming from many mouths at once. This crowd clearly remembers Lincoln’s testimony about how cruel this man was when he acted as Lincoln’s pretend-father. And if the crowd remembers that description, the jury does, too.
When Jelks passes me, I note the handcuffs on his wrists; they look odd on a man wearing what looks like a funeral suit. In my mind’s eye, I see the old con man selling “preordered” Bibles to recently bereaved widows, à la Ryan O’Neal in Paper Moon. He probably dragged Lincoln to every door with him, like the little girl in the movie.
While the clerk swears Jelks in, Rusty leans to my ear and says, “Vondie Curtis-Hall.”
“What?”
“That’s who Jelks looks like, Vondie Curtis-Hall, but old.”
“Rusty, I don’t know these actors.”
“Shit, Vondie’s been in everything from Crooklyn to the Sopranos, but you probably remember him in the movie they made of that James Lee Burke novel. The one with Alec Baldwin as Dave Robicheaux, not Tommy Lee Jones. He played Minos Dautrieve.”
“I guess I need to get out more.”
“He looks just like Cora Revels made him sound. A born con man.”
“What the hell’s he doing here? That’s my question.”
Rusty chuckles and whispers, “Quentin wouldn’t have brought him down from Joliet if he wasn’t going to set off some fireworks.”
“Fireworks are dangerous, Rusty, especially in court.”
Quentin rolls up to his spot beside the lectern and regards his witness sternly. “Mr. Jelks, I see you’ve brought a few people with you today. What is the reason for that?”
Jelks gives a rueful smile. “They’re federal marshals. Apparently they consider me a flight risk.”
“Where did you travel from to be with us today?”
“The Illinois State Prison.”
“What are you presently serving time for?”
“Uhh, they said I tried to bribe a judge, but that’s an oversimplification. A man of your legal experience would see it in a minute. They—”
“I’m going to lead this discussion, Mr. Jelks, if you don’t mind. What was your relation to the victim, Viola Turner?”
“I’m her husband. I was, anyway.”
“How long were you married?”
“Oh . . . ’bout thirtysomething years. Thirty-five or -six.”
“And how did you meet your wife?”
Jelks chuckles softly. “I was preaching a sermon in the Abundant Life Church in Chicago, and she happened to be there.”
“Are you an ordained minister?”
“Not exactly. I’m more of a lay preacher.”
“I see. And Viola had a son at the time you married her?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you the father of that child?”
“No.”
“Did you know who was?”
Jelks takes his time with this. “Well . . . I knew what she told me. But that wasn’t the truth. Took me a long time to find that out. I doubt Viola told ten lies in all her life, but every one she told was about that child.”
“Who did she tell you the father was?”
“Her first husband, James Turner. The war hero.”
“And when did you learn different?”
“Thirty-two years later.”
“How did that come about?”