“All rise!” cries the bailiff. “All rise for the Honorable Joseph D. Elder of the Fifth Circuit Court of the great State of Mississippi!”
Conversation dies as Judge Elder, all six feet six of him, strides into the courtroom from a side door and climbs the stairs to his lofty seat. Still trim and fit, Elder moves with athletic grace, and his shaved head makes him look ten years younger than his true age, which is near sixty. His deep-set eyes radiate authority; he doesn’t need to speak to make clear that he will brook no nonsense from anyone. Judge Elder is darker than Quentin Avery, whose skin is the color of shelled pecans; and compared to Shad—who’s as yellow as a Cotton Club chorus girl—Elder looks like a Masai warrior. As the judge leans over some papers on his desk, a few brave souls in the crowd begin to whisper to each other.
“You know how I think of them?” Rusty Duncan says in my ear.
“Who?” I ask.
“Shad, Quentin, and Judge Elder.”
“How?”
“Shad is Sidney Poitier, Quentin’s Morgan Freeman, and the judge—”
“Shut up, Rusty.”
“Aw, come on, Joe’s busy.” Rusty bumps my shoulder with his. “Look, George is talking to him now.”
Sure enough, the circuit clerk has climbed up to confer with the judge about something. “Shad Johnson reminds you of Sidney Poitier?” I ask with astonishment. “That’s like saying Rush Limbaugh ought to be played by Gregory Peck.”
“I know, I know. Poitier would have to play against type, but that always works for great actors. When Sidney was young, he had that same striving intensity Shad has, the Mississippi black boy who made it all the way to Harvard.”
“I’d cast Poitier as Judge Elder. He’d have to wear elevator shoes, though. Who would you cast as Judge Elder?”
“Isaiah Washington.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“The black surgeon on Grey’s Anatomy.” Rusty gives me a sidelong look. “I thought Annie was a fanatic for that show.”
“She is, but I don’t watch it that closely. It’s just the time with her I like.”
“Oh. Well, Quentin’s definitely Morgan Freeman. He’s got the white kinky hair, the Visa-commercial voice, and that held-in temper, like he might go off if you push him too far. Like Crazy Joe Clark, remember?”
“At least Morgan Freeman’s from Mississippi.”
Though Rusty has too much tact to mention Lincoln Turner, I turn and look to my left, past my mother, to where my half brother sits behind the prosecution table. Lincoln looks like exactly what he is: a man involved in a blood feud, waiting for the law to punish the cruel father whom he believes killed his mother. The hard-set jaw and sheen of sweat on Lincoln’s face give me the feeling that if the impaneled jury doesn’t deliver the verdict he desires, he’ll gladly carry out the appropriate sentence himself. Perversely, I find myself trying to mentally cast an actor who could embody the malevolent emotions radiated by Lincoln Turner.
“Clarence Williams the Third,” Rusty whispers in my ear.
“What?”
“To play Lincoln. Clarence Williams played Prince’s father in Purple Rain. He was Linc in the old Mod Squad, too, but he was a pretty boy then. As he got older, he developed that barely restrained rage that’s steaming off your brother over there.”
“Half brother. Damn it, Rusty, my father’s on trial for murder, and you’re ready to turn it into a TV miniseries.”
“Let me agent the deal, and I will.” Like most plaintiff’s lawyers I know, Rusty Duncan has no shame. “Did I tell you I met Morgan once, up at his blues club in Clarksdale? I wonder if he remembers me.” Rusty elbows me again. “This is big, buddy. Why do you think Court TV and CNN are outside on the steps?”
“Because Joe Elder has more sense than to allow them in here.”
“Don’t get too comfortable with that setup. Joe’s liable to cave on that any minute. That’s probably what George is talking to him about now.”
Fresh anxiety brings on a sudden urge to urinate. “Bullshit. How can they pressure a judge?”
“Elected judges are politicians, my man. And what politician doesn’t want to be on TV?”
“Me.”
Rusty pulls a wry face. “You’re an aberration. Mark my words: the first big revelation that comes out of this trial, we’ll have cameras inside the court.”
“The court will come to order!” cries the bailiff.
This time the hum dies more slowly, slowly enough that Judge Elder pans his eyes across the crowd like a machine gunner sighting his weapon.
“Before we begin,” Elder says in a deep baritone, “let me be clear about something. Because of the notoriety of this trial, people may feel that the normal rules of decorum do not apply.” He glances down at the lawyers’ tables. “Some attorneys may even feel that way. But let me assure everyone in this room: If you cause trouble in this court—if you make undue displays of emotion or cause a disturbance of any kind—you are going to jail. You will not pass Go, nor will you collect two hundred dollars.”
If this is a joke, nobody laughs.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Elder says gravely, “a distinguished member of the community stands accused of first-degree murder, and the sharks are circling outside. Media people, political fanatics with their own agendas. Some may even have made it into this room. So I say it again: There are deputies present who will enforce my commands without a moment’s hesitation. I won’t lose five minutes’ sleep over jailing anybody in this courtroom. I can’t be clearer than that. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
The spectators have drawn back from Judge Elder’s daunting presence, and while they’re still pressed into their chair backs, the judge says, “Mr. District Attorney, you may begin your opening statement.”
Shadrach Johnson has prepared his whole life for this moment. Now forty-four years of age, he hasn’t risen nearly as high in the world as he once believed he would have by this time. Shad believed, in fact, that he would be governor of Mississippi by now. That was the goal he set himself when he first returned to Natchez from Chicago and ran for mayor of this city, seven years ago—or nearly eight now, I guess. And rightly or not, Shad blames me for the most crippling setbacks in his quest. In some cases he’s right, others not. The black community here wasn’t nearly so quick to accept an ambitious “outsider” as Shad assumed they would be—not even a prodigal son—but most of their reluctance was based on a collective assessment of Shad as a man bent on furthering his own cause, and not that of his people.