Elder turns to Lincoln. “You may step down.”
As Lincoln walks back to his seat, where his aunt Cora waits like a woman who has suffered a mild stroke, the silence in the room reminds me of some public venue where someone has done something shocking and no one is quite sure whether they did it because they’re uncouth or because they’re mentally ill. By any conventional assessment, Junius Jelks proved that two of the State’s main witnesses lied on the stand for the basest of reasons. That alone has introduced sufficient reasonable doubt into the case to trigger an acquittal. But somehow Lincoln’s impassioned plea to the jury—uttered so obviously against his own interest—has raised the specter that despite his and Cora’s venal lies, my father might still be guilty of murder.
“Tell him to rest his case,” Rusty says in my ear. “Hurry! Quentin looks like he’s going to call another witness!”
A horrifying prospect causes me to rise from my seat and risk Judge Elder’s wrath by moving through the rail to kneel beside Quentin’s wheelchair. “You’re not still thinking of calling Dad to the stand?”
“Calm down,” Quentin says irritably. “And get back to your seat. I have things well in hand.”
“So quit while you’re ahead!”
“Go back to your seat, Penn.”
“You’ve won, damn it.”
“If you think that, you’ve misjudged the issues in this trial.” Quentin glances toward the judge. “The defense calls Mr. Vivek Patel to the stand.”
“Who the hell is that?” I hiss.
“You’re about to find out.” With a shove off my shoulder, Quentin rolls away from me.
As I take my seat, a dark-skinned Indian man sits in the witness box and takes the oath, though as a Hindu he does not put his hand on the Bible, and he “affirms” rather than “swears” that he will tell the truth. He seems eerily calm compared to the jurors and spectators, who just witnessed Lincoln’s spectacular tirade. His dark eyes gleam with intelligence, and he waits for the first question like he has all day to spend in court.
“Mr. Patel, would you tell us your occupation?”
“Yes, sir. I own a motel in Jefferson County, on Highway 61. Between Fayette and Port Gibson.”
“How far away is that from Natchez?”
“Twenty-eight miles.”
“What’s the name of your motel?”
“The Belle Meade Inn.”
“Mr. Patel, have you been sitting in court during the past fifteen minutes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see the man testifying before I called you up here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you ever seen that man before today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“He was a guest at my motel.”
“When was this?”
Mr. Patel removes a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
“What is that you’re looking at, Mr. Patel?”
“It’s a photocopy of my guest register.”
“I see. Please go on.”
“Yes . . . the man who testified before me stayed at my motel just over three months ago. Last December.”
“Do you have the exact dates?”
“Yes.” The man checks the paper in his hand. “He checked in on December ninth, and he checked out on December thirteenth.”
Quentin pauses to let the jury grasp the significance of these dates. “Are you aware that this is a murder trial, Mr. Patel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you aware of the date on which the victim in this case was killed?”
“Yes, sir. December twelfth of last year.”
“Precisely. And at that time, the man you identified had been staying at your motel for four days?”
“Exactly so.”
Rusty’s hand closes on my arm again, this time with painful force. Like me, he has sensed that the ocean swell that began during Junius Jelks’s testimony is now about to smash into Lincoln Turner—and Shad Johnson’s case—with shattering force. “What name did he register under?”
Patel consults the register again. “Keith Mosley.”
“Keith Mosley? Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Holy fuck,” Rusty breathes. “Lincoln killed his mother.”
“Bullshit,” I say under my breath, but we both turn to look at Lincoln, who is sitting with the mute stillness of a mahogany carving.
“Did you ask for ID when he registered?” Quentin goes on.
“Of course.”
“What did he show?”
“A driver’s license.”
“Then what was he doing here all that time?” Rusty whispers.
“Waiting for his mother to die,” I think aloud. “Waiting for Dad to kill her. So he could bring us here.”
“No, man. I think he killed her. For the money.”
“From what state?” asks Quentin.
“Illinois.”
“In the name of Keith Mosley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how did he pay you? With a credit card?”
“No, sir. Cash.”
“Cash. Did you find that suspicious?”
“No, sir. Many of my guests prefer to pay in cash.”
“I see. Are you positive that the man you have pointed out is the same man who registered as Keith Mosley?”
“Absolutely.”
“And how is it that you came to be here today?” Quentin asks.
“Well . . . at the beginning of the week, or Tuesday rather, my wife called me over to where she was reading the newspaper—”
“Excuse me, what paper was that?”
“The Natchez paper. The Examiner.”
“Thank you. Please continue.”
“There was a picture of this man in the paper. And my wife said, ‘Vivek, this looks like the man who stayed with us last December.’ When I looked at the photo, I instantly agreed. But then I noticed that he was called by another name in the caption, and in the story.”
“What name was that?”
“Mr. Lincoln Turner. This puzzled me, and I tried to convince myself that we were mistaken. But then my wife began to read every detail of the story, and the trial. She went on the Internet and studied back issues of the newspaper. She found another picture of the man, and I showed both pictures to one of our housekeepers at the motel. She identified Mr. Turner immediately as Keith Mosley.”
“What did you do then?”
“I telephoned the authorities.”
“The city police, or the sheriff’s office?”
“The municipal police, but they referred me to the sheriff’s office.”
“And what did the sheriff’s office tell you?”
“They told me I was mistaken.”
Quentin pauses again to let this sink in, and he cuts his eyes at Sheriff Byrd as he does so. “How could they be so sure?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“You told them everything you told us here today?”
“Most assuredly, sir.”
“But they wouldn’t listen.”
“Objection,” Shad says. “Leading.”
“I’ll rephrase,” Quentin says smoothly. “What action did the sheriff’s office take, if any?”
“None, to my knowledge, sir.”
Judge Elder is glaring at Billy Byrd.
“What did you do then?” Quentin asks.
“I tried to forget about it.”
“And could you?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“My wife would not let me. My wife . . . once she gets hold of something, there’s no stopping her. It was she who told me I should contact the attorney for the defense of Dr. Cage.”