But today offers an opportunity to wipe all those setbacks away. In the three to five days that this trial is likely to take, Shad can revenge himself against me, redeem himself in the eyes of the more resentful faction of his people, pile up a mountain of political capital, and—best of all—strut in the media limelight for a few precious hours. Shad’s vanity is considerable, but not so great that he takes anything for granted. He’s learned a few lessons from dealing with me. And he knows better than to underestimate Quentin Avery. At Harvard they still cite cases Quentin tried before the nation’s highest court as landmarks of jurisprudence.
Quentin knows better than to underestimate Shad Johnson as well. He also feels a great animus toward Shad, for complex racial reasons I can only partly understand. Quentin once tried to explain them to me, and while I understood his reasoning, I cannot feel the same emotions he does. What I do know is that Quentin—the black Mississippi lawyer who helped to conquer Jim Crow with practical idealism and unshakable fortitude—looks at Shad Johnson with sadness and more than a little anger. Quentin understands selfish impulses; he himself endured withering criticism during the 1990s for defending drug dealers and trying several class-action suits in Jefferson County, greatly enriching himself in the process. But Quentin senses a different sort of greed in Shad—a hunger to be admired, revered, even worshipped, but without putting in the trench labor usually required to earn those things. Quentin also believes that Shad, having attained those things, would be the last man ever to give back anything to the community or to his own people. In my judgment, Shad feels only envy of or contempt for others, and nothing in between. What made him that way I do not know, nor does Quentin. What I do know is that Shad’s ambition and anger make him a dangerous adversary, and his first order of business this week is revenge.
He plans to get it by making sure my father dies in prison. As Shad rises and walks to the podium in his $2,500 suit, I sense his barely disguised lust for retribution running like an electric current through the courtroom, setting everyone’s hair on end before he speaks a word. This may not be a capital murder case, but when a seventy-three-year-old man goes on trial for murder, everyone understands the reality:
My father is on trial for his life.
Chapter 23
“Nothing about this trial is normal,” Shad begins. “Not—one—thing. We have one of the most respected white physicians in this city accused of premeditated murder of a black woman by the State—”
“All right, Counsel, both of you approach right now,” bellows Judge Elder. “Now.”
Shad freezes for a moment, then moves toward the bench, but Quentin’s wheelchair remains silent.
“Your Honor,” Quentin says with supreme confidence, “there is no issue from our side as regards the mention of race. We have no concern about the prosecutor using race to inflame the jury, and thus we see no need for a sidebar. The defense is ready for the State to proceed as it began.”
Judge Elder blinks in disbelief, and probably on two counts: first, that Quentin would consider allowing Shad to begin his opening statement with the mention of race; second, that Quentin would dare to contradict his instruction to approach the bench. I can hardly believe it myself. Any Natchez attorney worth his fee would have been yelling to the rafters the second the words black woman escaped Shad’s lips. Quentin’s entire approach to this trial has been unconventional, to say the least, but with this step he is veering into the radical. Joe Elder studies his former mentor with what looks like suspicion. Maybe he’s asking himself—as others have—whether the old lawyer has finally lost his grip on reality. But the longer I look at Judge Elder, the more I think he senses a deep strategy concealed behind Quentin’s aged face, the genius of a chess master playing a very long game.
“Dr. Cage?” says Judge Elder. “Do you agree with your attorney that a frank discussion of race and what part it might have played in this crime will not prejudice the jury against you?”
“I do, Your Honor. I fully understand the implications, and I am fine with them. All I want from these proceedings is the truth.”
Judge Elder frowns at this. “Very well, it will be noted. The jury will disregard the defendant’s last statement. Mr. Johnson, you may proceed.”
“Thank you, Judge,” Shad says, looking at Quentin like a man studying a familiar dog that has begun acting strangely.
Turning back to the jury, Shad says, “Think about what I said before, ladies and gentlemen. Not many years ago, this trial would not even have happened. Dr. Thomas Cage would not even have been accused of this crime by the State. Viola Turner would have been buried under the ground, and that would have been the end of her. But today, in this room, we are living out the progress that this nation, and hopefully this state, has made since the 1960s. Here in this courtroom, we have a black judge, two black attorneys, and seven black jury members. And I tell you now: Nothing will be hidden. Before we are through, all will be revealed.”
This obviously rehearsed statement comes off as anticlimactic after what my father said moments ago. But this is what the crowd has come to hear, both black and white. They want to know what secret history underlies the scandal that has swept through Natchez like an unquenchable fire during the past few months. Shad acknowledges this by addressing not only the jury, but also the assembled audience.
“Some people may be upset that I’m speaking so openly about race. We’re supposed to be living in a color-blind society, aren’t we? But we all know that we do not live in such a society. I keep hearing about a post-racial society. Whatever a post-racial society is, we’re still decades away from it. In Mississippi, and in Washington, D.C., too. And make no mistake: race lies at the very heart of this case. Were it not for the fact of race—the perceived difference between people of different colors—Viola Turner would not have been murdered.”
This statement brings a hush over the crowd. Judge Elder looks right at Quentin as if expecting an objection, but Quentin appears unperturbed, even carefree.
Shad holds up his forefinger like a passionate professor. “Let me explain something to you. As a prosecutor, I normally stay away from the issue of motive during trials. Everybody who watches TV is familiar with the terms ‘motive, means, and opportunity.’ But in this room, means and opportunity carry a whole lot more weight than motive. Why? Because the State is not required to prove why anybody did anything. What the State is required to prove is that a given person did on a certain day, at a certain time, with malice aforethought, kill a particular person. That’s all. The why doesn’t come into it. That’s for the Law & Order writers to worry about.”
Soft laughter reverberates through the room.