Tried Carl already, Serenity replies. Got voice mail. Trying him again. FYI Dolores freaking out is upsetting Annie. Mia handling that.
“Mom, I have to help Serenity with Dolores,” I say into her ear. “Don’t lose your faith. Quentin is worth ten of Shad Johnson. They don’t call him ‘Preacher’ for nothing. He’s going to stand up and pull that whole jury right into the palm of his hand.”
“I don’t know,” Mom whispers. “I’m frightened, Penn.”
“Don’t be. Quentin can talk to a jury like a father to his adult children, and thunder like Moses come down from the mountaintop. You watch. Shad Johnson won’t ever forget this day.”
“Mr. Avery, are you ready?” Judge Elder repeats.
The click of an electric brake echoes in the courtroom, and Quentin’s wheelchair whirs softly for about three seconds. Then the legendary voice speaks in a soft and passionless tone.
“Judge, the defense elects to defer its opening statement until prior to presenting its case in chief.”
While the puzzled crowd tries to work out what this means, my blood pressure plummets. For a few seconds I fear that I and not my mother might faint to the floor. Just as with the issue of discovery, Quentin has exercised a little-used prerogative of the defense, which is to make no opening statement until after the prosecution has presented its entire case. There’s a reason this option is seldom used. Almost no defense attorney believes his client can withstand several days of unopposed accusations and damning evidence without sustaining devastating damage in the minds of the jury.
No attorney except Quentin Avery.
“Penn, what’s happening?” my mother asks with barely restrained panic.
“Wait a second,” I temporize, certain that Quentin must be stalling for some reason.
Judge Elder is staring down at Quentin with one eyebrow raised, but Quentin appears to be intent on something on his table.
“Mr. Avery?” asks Judge Elder. “For the record, are you sure about that?”
Quentin looks up and answers with the same lack of passion. “Positive, Judge.”
“Well, then. All right.”
My pulse is somewhere north of 110 beats per minute when my cell phone buzzes again. This time the text is from Mia Burke: You need to get here. Serenity just reached Carl, and he’s 20 minutes away from old lady’s house. Dolores is losing it. Premonitions of disaster. Annie is freaking out because of D. Come NOW.
“Mom, I have to go,” I whisper.
“What? Penn, what’s happened?”
“Dolores is so upset she’s freaking Annie out.”
“Oh, God. But what about your father? Penn, why didn’t Quentin argue with everything Johnson said?”
“I don’t know, but I promise I’ll find out. Stay here and remember every word that’s said. Rusty will keep me posted via text. I love you, Mom.”
Before I can rise, Judge Elder says, “Mr. Johnson, please call your first witness.”
“Your Honor, the State would like the jury to see the video recording of the death of Viola Turner, which has been stipulated into evidence as State’s Exhibit One.”
While the crowd thrums in anticipation, I rise into a crouch and start moving toward the aisle, grazing knees and thighs, triggering protests and even muffled curses from those I pass. It would have been better to wait until the room was darkened for the playing of the video, but Mia’s SOS sounded desperate. Praying for leniency from Judge Elder, I push into the aisle and start toward the back door.
“Mayor Cage,” booms the judge. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I freeze in the aisle like a schoolboy caught trying to sneak out of assembly.
“No one enters or leaves my court except during a recess.”
Turning toward Joe Elder, I speak with all the conviction I can muster. “Judge, I have a family emergency. I implore the court for understanding.”
The judge looks back as if to say, That’s obvious, and your emergency’s right here in this courtroom.
“It’s a medical emergency, Judge. My daughter. I apologize.”
“Go, then. But you won’t be readmitted until after the lunch recess.”
“Thank you, Judge.”
“Bailiff, please dim the lights so that the jury can see the videotape.”
As I hurry toward the door, I wonder whether Quentin has truly begun going senile. I need to research the mental complications of diabetes . . .
I’m almost running when the courtroom goes dark behind me.
Chapter 24
Serenity wasn’t exaggerating about Dolores. Her anxiety has almost escalated into full-blown panic by the time I reach home. The elegant and decorous woman I met in New Orleans has become a quivering, wild-eyed wreck. She’s convinced that Cleotha Booker—the Cat Lady from Athens Point—has been murdered.
“Carl will be at Cleotha’s house in fifteen minutes,” Serenity assures her. “I’m sure he’s going to find her working in her garden or something.”
Dolores shakes her head like a mental patient who thinks you’re trying to convince her that grass is blue. Annie, by contrast, settles down to something like normalcy within two minutes of my return. Mia walks her into the den, leaving Serenity and me to sit with Dolores at the kitchen table, waiting to hear from Carl.
When my cell phone pings, Dolores nearly jumps out of her skin, but it’s only a text update from Rusty. As I switch my phone to silent, I read a message that’s not very uplifting.
8:36 a.m. Shad just played the vid of Viola dying. Can’t believe Q stipulated that into evidence! Not challenging the chain of evidence, authenticity, nothing. Wow . . .
I didn’t think about it before, but why wouldn’t Quentin challenge the video recording? I guess since he knows it’s almost certainly authentic, he doesn’t want to go through the vain hassle of trying to suppress it. Nevertheless, most defense lawyers would. What worries me more is that Shad has apparently made no mention of the videotape that should have been in Henry Sexton’s camcorder when the police arrived—the one whose removal made the hard drive the default recording medium. Did the sheriff recover it at the scene, or maybe locate it elsewhere? If Quentin had filed for discovery we would know that, but since he didn’t, that hypothetical tape waits like a buried land mine somewhere in the unknown terrain before us.
When another text flashes up, I excuse myself and walk into the den, promising to come right back if I hear from Carl.
8:53 a.m. State pathologist on stand. Confirms V had terminal cancer. Describes botched morphine injxn. Cause of death adrenaline overdose. Resulting death terrifying and painful, as video showed. Jury horrified by CSI-type detail. Good bang for the buck, if ur Shad.
As Annie realizes what’s going on, she begins to hover around my chair, waiting for updates, but I shoo her back to the television.
“Why doesn’t Mr. Rusty just call you on his cell and leave the line open?” she suggests.
Not a bad idea, I think. But then the likely reason hits me. “I think that would technically be breaking the law, or at least the judge’s order about media in the courtroom. Rusty would technically be broadcasting the trial.”