“And why would she suggest that?”
“As I said, she had been following the trial. And she understood that Mr. Mosley—or Mr. Turner, rather—had claimed that he only arrived in Natchez on the morning his mother died. That in itself was not technically false, since my motel is in an adjacent county. However, he also claimed to have just arrived from Chicago on that morning, which I knew to be false.”
Quentin is nodding slowly. “It surprises me a little that you took the action you did, Mr. Patel. Not many Americans are so eager to come forward with information that might put them in the middle of a criminal trial.”
Patel gives a very formal nod. “I understand, sir. Indeed, our housekeeper said she wanted no part of this, once she learned why I had asked her about the photograph.”
“But that didn’t deter you?”
“No, sir. This is a most serious matter. If a man gives false witness under oath, it is the duty of every citizen to point this out. The law cannot work impartially otherwise.”
Quentin smiles with something like wistful admiration. “You’re right, Mr. Patel. In the way that converts make the most scrupulous religious practitioners, I often find that immigrants make the most dutiful American citizens.”
Mr. Patel sits a little straighter. “Thank you, sir.”
Quentin nods at the Indian man, then looks up at Judge Elder and says, “I tender the witness.”
I do not envy Shadrach Johnson.
Shad rises with slow deliberation and crosses from the prosecution table to the lectern, his expression projecting an air of accusation.
“Mr. Patel, were you offered anything in exchange for your testimony today?”
The innkeeper looks perplexed. “Exchange, sir?”
“Shad’s not going to get anywhere with that,” Rusty whispers. “Not with this guy.”
“He’s just stalling for time.”
“Do you have a relative who might be incarcerated, for example? Someone Mr. Avery might be able to help you with, on a pro bono basis?”
As the thrust of the question comes to him, Patel’s face darkens. “I have no relations in prison, sir!”
“What about your housekeepers? I’ll bet at least some of them have legal trouble. Or their husbands?”
“Regrettably, yes. I help where I can. But Mr. Avery has offered me no assistance of any kind.”
“I see.” Shad paces out the space between the witness stand and the lectern, apparently intent on some line of thought. Suddenly he stops and looks at the motel owner. “Mr. Patel, do you have security cameras in your motel?”
“Only at the checkin desk.”
If I were Shad, I would not ask the next question, but he’s seen one level deeper than I on this issue. “Have you gone back and checked your tapes for Mr. Turner’s face?”
“I have.”
“And what did you find?”
“The time we are speaking of was three months ago. We recycle our tapes every sixty days, to save money. Regrettably, we do not have a recording of Mr. Turner checking in. We do have his receipts and the register, though.”
“You mean you have Keith Mosley’s receipts and signature.”
The helpful look vanishes from Mr. Patel’s face, replaced by one of consternation. “I stand by my testimony, sir. It is the same man.”
“He’s lying,” Lincoln says from his seat behind Shad’s table. “He made a mistake.”
“Silence, Mr. Turner,” Judge Elder says.
“I recognize his voice as well,” Mr. Patel says with almost feminine snippiness.
“You’re a liar,” Lincoln asserts.
Joe Elder gives Lincoln a burning glare. “One more word, Mr. Turner, and you’re going to jail. Mr. Johnson, do you have any further questions?”
“Nothing further, Your Honor.”
Judge Elder nods at Mr. Patel. “You may step down, sir.”
“Shad did all right,” Rusty murmurs.
“Call your next witness, Mr. Avery.”
Before Quentin speaks, I scoot up to the table and speak in his ear once more. “Okay, now you’ve destroyed Lincoln. Don’t call any other witnesses. It’s time to rest your case.”
“Your Honor,” Quentin says testily, “may I have a moment to confer with my co-counsel?”
“A brief moment.”
Quentin turns to me with his last reserve of patience. “Go ahead, if you must.”
“The jury believed that guy. If not all of them, then three-quarters, surely enough to get an acquittal.”
Quentin lays his wrinkled brown hand on my forearm and fixes me with eyes that look ancient. “One more witness. That’s all.”
“You’re both wrong,” says my father, leaning over from his chair beside Quentin. “I’m still going up there.”
“To take the stand?” I ask in disbelief. “That would be insane at this point. We’re way past reasonable doubt. Quentin just planted the possibility that Lincoln himself killed Viola. For God’s sake, it’s time to declare victory and go home.”
Dad shakes his head slowly, and white hair falls over his wrinkled forehead. “Snake Knox is still out there, son. Have you forgotten that?”
“Snake’s another problem for another day!”
“No. He’s always been at the heart of this case. Penn, you’ve got to trust that we know what we’re doing.”
I look back at Quentin. “Are you really going to put him on the stand?”
“Let’s see how the next witness does.”
For the first time in the trial my father’s face darkens in anger. “We talked about this. We have an agreement.”
Quentin cuts his eyes at Dad. “I know.”
“You promised the jury I would testify.”
“Mr. Avery,” prompts Judge Elder, “we’re not getting any younger.”
“You’ve got a lot more cushion than I do, Joe,” Quentin says under his breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was just clearing my throat,” Quentin says. “The defense calls Will Devine.”
Chapter 56
This time when the back door opens, the courtroom doesn’t fill with federal marshals but with FBI agents. I can tell from their suits. Kaiser gets up from a seat about halfway back in the gallery and confers with the lead agent, then four men surround and escort Will Devine into the courtroom. Contrary to how he’s looked when I’ve seen him—brandishing a shotgun in my face—Devine now appears as a mild, balding man with an oxygen mask on his face. One of the FBI agents rolls a trolley behind him with a green metal tank on it. But what draws the eyes of everyone in the courtroom is the bulletproof vest Devine is wearing.
“Quentin?” I murmur, turning and searching the court for Devine’s family. I see no sign of Deke, Nita, or Will Junior.
“He’s having some health issues,” Quentin says. “But he’s here.”
“Where’s his family?”
“Already in protective custody. Now sit down and pray that we’re lucky.”
A Double Eagle is about to testify in court. I guess fifty thousand dollars buys more than I thought it did. “Lucky how?”