“Thank you, Your Honor,” Quentin says, his white shock of hair now looking like the flag on an anchored ship.
As Joe Elder begins the tedious process of reading his jury instructions, my gaze wanders to the jury box. If I were trying this case, I’d have been stealing glances at those twelve anointed citizens every chance I got, and having associates watch them for signs of which way they were leaning. But during this trial I’ve mostly watched the lawyers, and if not them, then the witnesses or the judge. It was Tuesday—an eternity ago—that I advised my mother to do exactly this, and wondered whether I could take my own advice. As it turned out, I have. I’ve coined no nicknames for these jurors, as was once my habit, and even now I find little of interest in their studiously severe faces.
But when Judge Elder begins instructing them about reasonable doubt, I see some eyes flicker, and I realize that, if nothing else, Quentin Avery has summoned doubt into this courtroom as a living, breathing spirit. This jury is not going to convict Tom Cage of murder. They might go for physician-assisted suicide, but that’s not on the menu. So, unless something happens that I cannot foresee, unless Shadrach Johnson performs actual magic during his closing argument, my father is going to walk out of this courtroom a free man.
Chapter 67
We eat lunch at my house on Washington Street, Mom and Jenny and me. Rusty hinted about coming with us, but I worried that his presence during this break might raise our sense of relief to mild euphoria, and I didn’t want to risk that. Dad has been taken back to his cell, which for me conjures images of Billy Byrd or even Snake Knox sending someone in there to dispatch him on the verge of acquittal. Quentin and Doris have repaired to Edelweiss, and as they departed the courtroom, Quentin looked back at me and gave me a thin smile. I returned a respectful salute.
A mood of cautious optimism prevails during our meal of salad and grocery-store-made lasagna from the Natchez Market. We get through most of it by avoiding any mention of the day’s events in the courtroom. As the clock ticks into the final quarter of the hour, a strange silence descends on the table. Then Mom says, “I miss Walt. Has anybody heard how his wife is doing?”
“A little better,” I tell her, though I actually have no idea.
Just as I think we’re going to get through lunch without any drama, Jenny says in a brittle voice: “I don’t want to jinx anything, but—do you think it went as well as I do this morning? From a legal perspective, I mean. Please don’t sugarcoat it.”
Mom sighs irritably, but Jenny has made up her mind to push forward. I have a feeling that despite her words, she’s scared to death Dad will be convicted.
After a few seconds’ thought, I say, “Today was a good day. A great one, actually. But Shad won’t lose any time taking the jury back to day one in his close—the forensic case.”
Mom’s face pinches with concern. “Didn’t Tom dispense with that when he explained about the fentanyl?”
“Let’s hope some jurors agree.”
“I saw several perk up when he explained that point.”
“Shad made a huge mistake missing the fentanyl being in Dad’s bag. Maybe fatal. But he painted a compelling picture of how Dad might have gone from intending to euthanize Viola for the wrong reasons, to finishing the job with adrenaline. I can’t see twelve people buying it, but that scenario would be easy to understand for a layman.”
“Daddy never argued that he tried to resuscitate Viola with adrenaline,” Jenny points out.
“You’re right. That’s one of the few virtues of his self-destructive honesty.”
Mom’s jaw has tightened, and her face lost some color. “Isn’t Quentin at his best in things like closing argument? Isn’t that how he got the nickname ‘Preacher’?”
“Yes. And I expect him to do well. But we’d be foolish to underestimate Shad, and I think Quentin has done that throughout the trial.”
Jenny looks more worried than before. “But hasn’t Quentin done a wonderful job in the end? He destroyed two of Shad’s main witnesses.”
“Absolutely. He proved that they both perjured themselves.”
“Well, then,” Mom says. “That’s reasonable doubt right there.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Well, what’s about to happen?” Jenny asks. “I tried to pay attention during the judge’s instructions, but I kept drifting off. Give me the last act for dummies.”
“Closing arguments,” I tell her. “Shad Johnson and Quentin each get one hour to summarize their cases for the jury. Typically, the prosecutor will take thirty minutes of his hour, then sit down. The defense is required to give all his remarks in one go, the full hour, if he wants to speak that long. Then the prosecutor has thirty minutes left to finish.”
“So Shad gets to hear Quentin’s whole pitch before he finishes.”
“Right. And that’s a real advantage. It helped me win a lot of cases back in Houston.”
Mom kicks me under the table, and I feel my face go red.
“I think we’re about to see Quentin Avery’s finest hour,” she announces.
She stands up and flattens her skirt. “I’m going to run upstairs to the ladies’ room. I’ll see you all in a minute. Jenny, we should get back to the courthouse as soon as possible.”
After Mom leaves the room, Jenny swallows her last bite of lasagna. “What’s wrong? Were you holding something back in front of Mom? Did we miss something important?”
“No, not really.”
“Then what is it?” she presses.
“Everybody seems to be forgetting the fact that when Viola made that tape for Henry, she was doing it in the expectation that Dad was going to euthanize her. The things she said in the recording did a lot to puncture Shad’s theories about Dad’s motive to silence her, but even if he injected her out of a desire to give her a dignified death, that’s murder. Not assisted suicide. I expect Shad to make that clear in his closing. Trying this case on motive may have bitten Shad in the ass, but that doesn’t change the facts. Motive doesn’t really have anything to do with whether Dad committed murder or not. It comes down to what the jury believes happened in that room. What physically happened. If they think he injected her with that adrenaline as well as the morphine, they could convict him.”
“But if they think Daddy injected her out of a sense of mercy, don’t you think they’ll acquit him in the end?”
The base of my skull has begun to throb. Leaning forward, I squeeze my neck as tightly as I can with my right hand. “Imagine twelve people, most of whom have about a fourth of your scientific knowledge. A lot can depend on who takes control of that jury once they begin deliberations.”
Seeing worry in my sister’s eyes, I reach out and squeeze her shoulder. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate. It’s an old defense against getting overconfident. Most people are going to believe Dad did just what he said: pushed that needle through her vein and walked out of there with her alive.”