Mom and Jenny keep asking Dad whether he feels all right—translation, isn’t about to suffer a heart attack—after the shock of Will Devine’s murder. They seem to have forgotten that he survived suicidal Chinese charges at the Ch’ongch’on River. As Mom stands behind Dad’s chair, rubbing his shoulders, Jenny insists that surely the judge is bound to stop the trial now. Quentin and I don’t bother to argue; we’ve both tried cases in which witnesses were murdered—outside of court, it’s true—but that does little to alter this case. The death of Will Devine has not wiped away the murder charge against my father or nullified the criminal proceeding against him. Quentin could ask for a mistrial, of course, but he’s unlikely to get one from Joe Elder.
To my surprise, even Jenny has worked out that the poisoned needle device concealed in the witness chair was probably planted before the trial ever began and was waiting for whatever witness looked to be the most damaging to the Double Eagles.
“How long have you had that Mr. Devine waiting in the wings?” she asks Quentin. “From the beginning?”
“No,” Quentin admits. “I knew nothing about him until last night, and we didn’t know he would testify until this morning.”
“That needle was waiting for Tom,” Mom declares in a flat voice. “That’s who they’re most afraid of, Snake Knox and his gang.” She comes around the chair and looks down at Dad. “That could have been you, Tom. It was supposed to be you.”
Dad sighs and takes her hand. “But it wasn’t.”
This gives Mom no comfort, but she allows the conversation to be steered away from imminent danger. Jenny is the slowest to calm down, and as I watch her, I realize my older sister is one of those children who seem to take after neither parent. After another couple of minutes of decompression, Quentin tells Mom he needs some time alone with Dad, and together Mom and Walt shepherd Jenny toward the door. As I walk them out, Jenny takes my hand and whispers, “Will you please talk some sense into them? I can’t understand what they’re trying to do.”
“It’s going to be all right,” I tell her, though I’m far from sure of this.
Mom motions for Walt to escort Jenny down the hall, then looks back at me and whispers, “Don’t let your father take the stand.”
The idea strikes me as absurd. “Dad’s not going to testify now. No way.”
She closes her eyes for a moment. “Don’t be so sure. He’s going to want to. You and Quentin have to talk him out of it.”
“But we’ve won the case.”
Mom’s eyes narrow as though she’s trying to see whether I’m lying. “Have we?”
“By any normal standard we have.”
“Well, they’re not acting like it. Quentin looks anything but triumphant, and Tom has sunk inside himself. I know how he is when he gets that look. There are things driving him that we know nothing about.” Mom reaches out and squeezes my hand; her skin is startlingly cold. “Don’t let him sway you, Penn.”
I consider questioning her further, but there’s no time or privacy to do it. “I won’t. Go catch up with Walt. And please do whatever Tim tells you to do. That’s your only job now.”
“I will. Penn, did you really see Snake Knox out there?”
“I think I did.”
She sighs and bows her head, then turns and hurries down the hall to catch up with Jenny. I give Tim a pointed glance, and he gives me a firm thumbs-up.
As Mom’s heels click down the steps, I hear her speak to someone, and then Rusty Duncan appears at the head of the staircase. He raises his eyebrows, asking permission to join the group in my office. I beckon him on and lead him into the suite.
“What’s he doing here?” Quentin asks as we enter.
“Two against two is a fairer fight,” I reply, taking my chair behind my desk and motioning for Rusty to sit down before Quentin can argue.
Rusty sits in a club chair facing the sofa where Dad has stretched out, while Quentin holds court from his wheelchair in the space between.
“Will the judge stop the trial?” Dad asks. “Or postpone it?”
“Doubtful,” says Quentin. “Since they had that bomb threat on Joe’s house, there are probably BATF techs in town who can screen the courthouse overnight. And I know Joe Elder. He’ll take this as a personal insult. It would take an act of Congress to stop this trial now.”
“What do you think, Penn?” Dad asks.
“I’ve seen witnesses murdered before. It didn’t stop the trials.”
“Ever seen one murdered on the stand?” Rusty asks.
“I saw a defendant shot on the stand. Died instantly.”
“That’s different,” says Quentin. “You can’t have a trial without a defendant.”
“You should move for a mistrial,” Rusty advises.
“Yeah!” Quentin says with mock enthusiasm. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. It’s a good thing you showed up, Rust Bucket. Hmm . . .”
“Let’s assume the trial will go forward,” I say, signaling for Quentin to get off Rusty’s ass. “It’s over anyway, right?”
Dad and Quentin share a look that I can’t read but makes me nervous.
“Mom’s worried you’re still going to put Dad on the stand,” I say slowly, watching Quentin, who seems to be studying a print on the wall. “She’s crazy, right?”
With painful effort, Dad gets his elbows under him and sits up straight on the couch. Before he can speak, my phone pings. The text message is from John Kaiser.
Judge Elder wants to see all counsel in the conference room at the DA’s office in 30 minutes. I’ll be there. Your father should remain in your office under guard until the ATF guys have signed off on the jail being secure. I’m coming over to update you in 15. No sign of Snake, but we’ve got every LE officer in the city on the streets. What a nightmare.
“We have to meet the judge in Shad’s conference room in half an hour,” I tell them. “Kaiser is coming over here in fifteen minutes to update us.”
“Joe’s going to either postpone the trial or tell us to finish up tomorrow,” says Quentin. “I’ve got a thousand bucks that says the latter.”
Nobody takes him up on it.
“Back to Dad taking the stand,” I say. “Does any lawyer in this room not agree with my assessment that, at this point, that would be insane?”
Quentin doesn’t speak, or even meet my eye.
Rusty clears his throat and says, “In my humble opinion, after what the jury just witnessed—and after Junius Jelks and Mr. Patel gutted Lincoln Turner on the stand—I’d say giving Shad Johnson a shot at Tom would pretty much qualify as malpractice.”
“Quentin, you’re not saying anything,” I observe. “That worries me.”
At last the old lawyer looks over at me, and in his eyes I see a weariness I didn’t see in the courtroom. “You need to talk to your father, not me.”
All eyes turn to Dad, who’s scratching one of the psoriatic lesions beneath his shirtsleeve. Pinpoints of blood appear on the light blue cotton.
“There are four reasons that I have to take the stand,” he says with deliberation, as though about to go through a differential diagnosis for a medical student.
I groan, but that doesn’t stop him.
“One, the jury wants to hear me say I didn’t do it.”
“Will you say that?” I ask him. “That’s not what you told me at the Pollock prison.”
His eyes look almost steely. “I’ll say it.”
But will you mean it? I ask silently.
“Two,” he goes on, “Quentin promised in his opening statement that I would testify.”