“I don’t care, Mister Johnson. But I sure thank you and all these good people for getting me a day outside that stink-hole of a prison. I almost feel alive again.”
Judge Elder looks as though he’s endured all he intends to from Junius Jelks, but what can he do? The man’s headed back to prison anyway, and it’s better for Mississippi taxpayers if his room and board are paid by the State of Illinois. “Any further questions, Mr. Johnson?” Elder asks.
“No, Your Honor.”
“No redirect, Mr. Avery?”
“None.”
“The witness is released. Will a marshal please get this man out of my courtroom?”
As two marshals walk to the witness box to escort Junius Jelks from the court, I hear a commotion behind me, and I turn. Behind the prosecution table, Lincoln Turner has risen from his seat and is staring at the man he once believed was his father. He looks as though he might bull-rush Jelks at any moment.
I’m about to suggest that a bailiff get between the two when Lincoln says in a clear voice: “Judge, I want to speak.”
Even the marshals escorting Jelks pause as Judge Elder looks down at Lincoln.
“You had your time on the stand, Mr. Turner. Though I suspect you may find yourself back in court before too long. Please sit down.”
But Lincoln doesn’t sit down. In fact, it looks like it might take a squad of cops to make him sit. I have seen that look on faces in court before—more than once on the faces of men who opened fire on defendants.
“Judge?” I say, coming to my feet, but Elder has finally picked up on the escalation. He motions for me to sit even as he speaks to the bailiff.
“Bailiff, if that man does not sit down, you will remove him from the court. And if he attempts to follow the witness out of this room, stop him.”
The armed bailiff seems flummoxed by the turn this trial has taken, but he steps away from the wall with his right hand on the butt of the pistol at his belt.
As I take my seat, I realize that Quentin is staring at Lincoln with an uncertain look on his face. With an electric shock I realize what he’s thinking. As calmly as I can, I move out of my chair and lean over the rail toward Quentin.
“Rest your case, Q. It’s over. You just destroyed the State’s witnesses.”
“No, I didn’t,” he says, still looking at Lincoln. “I only wounded them.”
“Quentin—”
“If I rest now, Shad can call Lincoln up on rebuttal and let him say whatever he wants.”
“I doubt he’ll risk that.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Quentin is right: Shad has the technical right to recall Lincoln to the stand. It would be unusual in a Mississippi trial, but if Shad thinks Lincoln can rehabilitate himself to any degree, he might give it a shot. And knowing Quentin’s penchant for control, he will not cede to his enemy the power to choreograph Lincoln Turner’s final appearance before the jury.
“Your Honor,” Quentin says after only a few seconds’ reflection, “the defense recalls Lincoln Turner.”
Judge Elder’s long face whips around to Quentin as though the old lawyer had suddenly started barking like a dog. I can almost hear him asking, Are you sure? But of course he doesn’t.
“Please take the stand, Mr. Turner,” Judge Elder commands.
Rusty grabs my left forearm and squeezes tight. “What the fuck is Quentin doing?”
“Playing chess. Very risky chess.”
“Chess, my ass. Trial lawyers are like painters. Every one of ’em needs a guy with a hammer standing behind him to hit him on the head when the painting’s finished.”
“I agree, buddy. Be my guest.”
But Rusty, despite his passion, knows there’s nothing we can do to save Quentin from himself—or my father from Quentin—if indeed they need saving.
As Lincoln Turner walks to the witness stand, the bright-eyed man who during lunch tried to sell me a tape that could free my father looks as remote as the convict the marshals are escorting through the back door. His eyes now see nothing immediately before him; they’re focused on the vanished past and a provisional future.
They’re the eyes of a man with nothing left to lose.
Chapter 55
“Mr. Turner,” Quentin says from his place by the defense table, “I can see—indeed we all can see—that you are very anxious to speak. I can understand that, after the testimony of your . . . your former stepfather. I have recalled you because I don’t want to silence anyone who can contribute to our understanding of the full truth in this case. I only ask one thing from you, and I ask it with the gravest possible concern. Please . . . remember that you are still under oath.”
“I know that,” Lincoln says with unalloyed bitterness.
“I don’t say that to insult you, but to remind you that in passion men often say things they later wish to take back.”
As if Lincoln has not already said a dozen such things . . .
“I know what I want to say, old man.”
“Mr. Turner!” Judge Elder says sharply. “Watch your tone, or you’ll pay a price.”
Quentin looks at Lincoln a few more seconds, then nods once and rolls his chair toward the witness box.
“Mr. Turner, did you destroy that second will?”
“I did.”
The collective gasp at this frank admission is like a wind at my back. I’m stunned enough, because I’m pretty sure that act could buy Lincoln two years in the county jail, and maybe longer, since his mother would have been considered elderly and vulnerable at the time.
“I’ll tell you about that in a minute,” Lincoln says. “But first I want to tell you about Junius Jelks.”
Shad looks like he might have a heart attack any second, but he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop this—only delay it.
“Mr. Turner,” Quentin says for form’s sake, “would you describe your familial relationship with Junius Jelks?”
“That man,” Lincoln says, shaking his head, “for most of my life, I thought he was my father. But he wasn’t. He pretended to be, when it suited him. And he taught me a lot, the way a father’s supposed to teach his son. He taught me that a lie was better than the truth, that stealing was better than working, that winning meant nothing if you hadn’t cheated to do it. Winning without cheating was just luck, he said, and any dumb sucker can get lucky.
“That term, ‘con man,’ it doesn’t sound bad, does it? Makes you think of some slick Hollywood actor. But that’s the biggest lie of all. Like Mama’s letter said, Junius Jelks preyed on the weak his whole life, like a jackal in the desert. He cheated old people and the sick. He steered runaway kids to pimps for a cut of the take. He used me to help him do that, even before I knew what I was doing. He fleeced every immigrant and minority class there is—used their ignorance like a gun against them. I’ve seen him talk thirteen-year-old girls right out of their clothes. He can fake his way through five languages and doesn’t know a one of them. ‘Caveat emptor!’ he used to yell after he’d taken somebody. ‘Let the buyer beware!’”
“Mr. Turner,” Quentin says gently. “I think we get the point. Your stepfather was no saint, as he said himself.”