“Judge, come on. Nobody does this. Nobody.”
“Mr. Cage, I have seen criminal defendants change their pleas while the jury is in deliberation.”
“Sure, when they know the jury is about to hammer them with life in prison. This jury’s about to acquit. We all know it. Dad’s just had an attack of Catholic guilt.”
“I’m not Catholic,” Dad says in a matter-of-fact voice.
“It’s a suicidal gesture,” I insist. “A cry for punishment, because he blames himself for the deaths of his friends.”
“I do,” Dad says calmly. “But I’m also responsible for Viola’s death. I’m sure of that.”
In the corner of the room, Doris Avery shakes her head, as though grieving over a death occurring before her eyes.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because to plead guilty, you’ll have to sign something saying you injected Viola with adrenaline with the intent of killing her. Will you do that? Can you do that?”
Dad looks momentarily confused, but before he can answer, Shad says, “Actually, he wouldn’t have to do that. He could make an Alford plea.”
“What’s an Alford plea?” Dad asks.
“Shut up, Shad! Try to rise above your nature, for once.”
“Mr. Mayor, you forget yourself,” Judge Elder says in a taut voice.
“With an Alford plea,” Shad explains, “you can simply say that there’s enough evidence that a reasonable person might conclude that you’re guilty of the crime, and therefore you’ve chosen to plead guilty.”
Dad nods slowly. “That’s what I want to do.”
“That’s usually done in exchange for a reduced sentence,” Quentin says.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dad mumbles.
“Listen to him,” I almost yell at Judge Elder. “Is that the statement of a sane man?”
“Penn,” Dad says, looking up at me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face, “I know you don’t understand, but I know what I’m doing. You have to let me do this.”
I’ve got it. He looks like a martyr about to walk into the flames. “I can’t,” I tell him. “No son would let his father do this.”
Dad nods slowly, his eyes filled with regret. “Penn . . . I hope you never do the things you’d have to do to be able to understand what I’m doing now.”
As I try to parse his words, he says, “Son, you’re fired.” He turns to Joe Elder. “Judge, I only want Quentin Avery representing me in this room.”
Judge Elder stares at Dad for a few more seconds, then he nods and turns to me. “Penn, I’d like you to excuse yourself. I know you don’t want to go, but . . . please don’t make me call a deputy.”
Quentin looks at me with pain-filled eyes, then reaches out and squeezes my arm. “I’ll take care of him. You’d better go.”
For a moment I wonder if everything that’s happened during this trial was leading here all along. But the agony in Quentin’s face tells me I’m wrong.
“Mr. Mayor?” Judge Elder says again. “Please leave us to it.”
I want to argue, but I feel as though someone has injected me with a powerful anesthetic. As I look from Quentin to my father, and then to Doris, who has tears on her face, someone takes my left hand from behind and gently turns me. It’s the deputy from outside. He must have been listening at the door. By the time he leads me through the outer door, my face is wet and numb.
Chapter 71
The courtroom is still a hurricane of activity when the bailiff leads me back into it. But almost immediately deputies begin clearing the room, herding the flustered spectators out without any semblance of courtesy. As I stand wiping my face, Rusty Duncan hurries across the well, his face flushed with effort or emotion.
“What happened back there, Penn? Is Elder going to let him do it?”
“They’re not done. Rusty . . . Dad fired me.”
“What? Jesus.”
“Is my mom okay?”
“I think so, but Drew’s taking her to the hospital. He’s worried she may be having a stroke. A real one this time. I think she was just overwhelmed. To have that happen after days of sitting there . . . it was more than she could take. More than any wife could take.”
“Rusty, what do I do?”
He shakes his head, as much at a loss as I am. “I think it’s up to the judge now. The judge and Quentin and Shad. But for God’s sake, if your dad’s going to plead guilty, it should be to a lesser charge. Shad would have to go for it. That jury was about to set Tom free, no question.”
“I don’t think Dad cares about the sentence. He’s trying to punish himself. And his health is so bad, anything over a year is a death sentence.”
Rusty takes hold of my shoulders and squeezes hard, like he once did after high school football games, and I flinch from pain on my right side.
“Sorry,” he says. “Let’s sit down over here in front of the jury box. We’ll wait and talk it out. Quentin won’t let your dad do anything stupid.”
“But my mother—”
“Drew’s taking care of Peggy. Come sit down, buddy. You look like you might faint yourself.”
Five minutes later, the door to Judge Elder’s chambers opens and Quentin’s wheelchair emerges, followed by Doris Avery. When Quentin sees me sitting with Rusty, he doesn’t try to avoid us but steers directly toward me. I lean forward, my heart pounding heavily.
“What happened?” I ask as he rolls to within a couple of feet of me.
Quentin takes a deep breath and says, “This is hard, Penn. Please don’t interrupt until I’ve explained the whole thing.”
“Come on, Quentin!”
“Your father was going to plead guilty no matter what I did. There was nothing I could do to stop him. And Judge Elder was inclined to allow it.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“Let me finish, goddamn it. Tom was trying to plead guilty to murder, but I told Joe Elder I’d quit on the spot if he allowed that. Then I told Shad Tom would only plead guilty to a lesser charge. Shad asked what charge I had in mind. I said physician-assisted suicide. The penalty would be loss of Tom’s medical license and time served.”
“Oh, Quentin . . . thank God.”
“You are the man,” Rusty exults.
Quentin grimaces and holds up his right hand. “Shad wouldn’t agree to that, I’m sorry to say. He said manslaughter was as low as he could go.”
“Same penalty, though, right? Or a suspended sentence?”
Quentin shakes his head. “He said Tom had to serve some time.”
“Oh . . . oh, no. How much—”
“Three years, Penn. That was the best I could do.”
His words hit me like a gut punch. Sweat breaks out on my face.
“This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening.”
“I’m afraid it is. Now tell me about Peggy. A deputy came in and said she collapsed.”
“We don’t know,” Rusty says. “Drew Elliott’s taking her to the hospital.”
“Did Dad hear that she collapsed?” I ask.
“No. They’d taken him out by then.”
“Back to jail?”
Quentin nods solemnly.
“Quentin . . . this is wrong. You know it is.”
The old man looks back at me, his face bereft. “I don’t know what I know anymore. Except I’m tired. Too tired for this.”
“But—”