Joe Elder doesn’t like the sound of this. “Elaborate.”
“First, I’m concerned that Mr. Avery will try to rush forward and close his case before the restored tapes can be delivered.”
“Mr. Johnson, we’re not going to hold up this trial for a week waiting for tapes that might never come.”
“Of course not, Your Honor. But if it’s a matter of one day or even two—”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Counselor.”
“Yes, Your Honor. But that coin has another side. If Mr. Avery’s next witness is Dr. Cage, and the courtroom is ready tomorrow, I assume you will expect Mr. Avery to proceed with direct examination?”
Judge Elder looks irritated for a moment, but then his eyes narrow in anger. “Mr. Johnson, don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining. You want Dr. Cage to have to testify before he has any idea whether those restored tapes will be played in the courtroom.”
“That seems like the fairest thing all around, Your Honor.”
“Except you want it both ways! You want him to testify first thing in the morning, but you don’t want Mr. Avery to be able to rest his case and give it to the jury if your precious tapes aren’t ready. Correct?”
Shad gives the judge a wide-eyed look of innocence.
“Mr. Avery hasn’t begged me for a recess until we know the outcome of the FBI’s efforts. He’s behaving like a professional.”
“It’s a difficult situation, Judge.”
Joe Elder nods slowly, the scowl still on his face. “I’ll reflect on all this tonight, but I’ll tell you one thing now. I’m inclined to move forward at our usual pace. If the Bureau can get those tapes here in time for them to play a part in this trial, so be it. But if they can’t, we will give the case to the jury.”
Shad gulps audibly, then looks at Kaiser.
“The ball’s in your court, Agent Kaiser,” Joe Elder says, getting to his feet. The former basketball player towers above us. “Please keep me apprised of any developments regarding today’s murder.”
“Of course, Your Honor.”
Elder makes his way to the door, then slips out.
As soon as he disappears, Shad looks down at Quentin with triumph in his eyes. Quentin rolls himself to the door without looking back, like a tribal chief on a chariot, certain that I’ll follow like a loyal spear carrier.
As I pass Shad, he catches my arm and whispers, “It’s over, Penn. Quentin had it won, but he’s lost it now. You should have defended your father. You know that.”
“I guess that depends on what’s on those tapes, doesn’t it?”
I don’t look left as I jerk my arm free, but I can feel Shad’s smile on my skin like a coat of oil.
On the ground floor I find Quentin waiting with two of my bodyguards. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the old lawyer look as adrift as he does in this moment.
“Guys, can we have a little space?” I ask.
The guards turn their backs and move twenty feet away.
“Quentin, you’ve got to ask Elder for a recess until we know whether those tapes are coming in. You should have asked him as soon as he made it clear he would allow the tapes in if they can be restored.”
“He’s not going to look favorably on that.”
“I know. But you can’t put Dad on the stand when there’s a chance the tapes could come in. If he denies knowing about either one, and then the content proves him a liar . . . that’s it. He’s going to Parchman.”
“You heard your father earlier. He’s not going to do what I tell him to do.”
“Would he actually get up there while that chance exists?”
“He might.”
“I want to see his face when you tell him about this. If he panics, then we’ll know something we didn’t know before. At least I will.”
“Tom won’t panic. I’ve never seen him panic. But you’re not going to be there for that conversation.”
“Why not?”
“Penn . . . I’m too tired to have this argument again.”
Anger rises in me with frightening force, but there’s nothing to be gained from yelling at Quentin. “Just tell me this, then. That tape they found in the hospital Dumpster. Did Dad put it there or not?”
Quentin looks up at me with a far more convincing portrayal of ignorance than Shad Johnson could ever muster. “I don’t know.”
I hear myself sigh. “That hospital serves a lot of doctors. Plenty of them probably have mini-DV cameras. I’m sure some even use them in their practices.”
“Maybe,” Quentin allows, but his eyes tell me what he really believes.
“If Dad did take both tapes . . . why would he erase one tape one way, and another a different way?” The question spins through my head for a few seconds. “And why would he ditch one immediately but hang on to the other for a week?”
Quentin only shrugs, but the answer comes to me. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
“Dad felt like he owed it to Viola to hang on to the tape she made for Henry. He only erased it when he felt he had no choice. But the other—the one that was in the camera while the murder was committed—that one he erased the morning of the murder, by putting it through an MRI machine.”
Quentin is shaking his head. “You don’t know that.”
“No?”
Before we can go any farther, John Kaiser steps out of the stairwell and into the lobby. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Shad pulled an end run, and I’ve got no way to stop him.”
I wave him on.
Kaiser ignores my gesture and walks up to us. “Look, there’s another angle to this that could help you guys out. There’ll be some powerful factions in the Bureau who’ll fight letting this capability become public in this way. Even if the tapes are successfully restored, the director, the attorney general, or even the president might refuse to authorize their release for use in a public trial. The precedent could have a lot of unintended consequences.”
I consider the politics for a few seconds, then go with my instinct. “John . . . I have a feeling we’ve passed the tipping point. Those tapes are coming back to us, like a karmic punishment.”
Kaiser looks like he’s genuinely torn between his duty and his personal desires. “I have to be frank with you. I want Tom to be acquitted. But if those tapes are restored and authorized for release tomorrow, there’s no way I can slow them down. Too many people involved.”
“We know that.” My voice is tight with frustration. “If you get any kind of progress report tonight, please give me a call.”
He gives me an empathetic nod.
“Thank you,” Quentin says. “Now you’d better get moving. I have a feeling your own people are watching you.”
“I’m afraid you’re right. Thanks to Shadrach Johnson.”
Kaiser pushes through the door and trots across the street to the brick monolith that houses the sheriff’s department and jail.
“Quentin,” I say, watching Kaiser enter the ACSO building, “when I was eighteen, Dad was sued for malpractice. The case dragged on forever. He was finally exonerated, but the months of tension almost killed him. It was the cross-examination that did it.”