“You may, Counselor.”
Quentin drives his chair back up to the witness box. “What tape were you referring to, Sheriff?”
“The tape that was in the camera that night.”
“What about it? Are you saying that you believe you found that tape as well?”
“You’re damn right we did.”
Shad Johnson comes to his feet. “Your Honor—”
“Yes, Counselor?”
Quentin looks over his shoulder at Shad. “Is the prosecutor objecting to his own witness, Your Honor?”
“I’m not sure,” Joe Elder says. “Mr. Johnson?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Honor.”
Shad returns to his seat slowly enough that I can tell his witness has gone off script.
“Tell us about this other tape,” Quentin says.
“We found it in the hospital Dumpster,” Billy Byrd says in a defiant voice.
For a couple of seconds I stop breathing.
“What hospital?” Quentin asks.
“St. Catherine’s, where Dr. Cage puts his patients.”
Oh, man . . .
“And when was this?”
“The day after Viola Turner was found dead. As I said earlier, we made a maximum effort to find those tapes. We covered every place Dr. Cage might have been, and one was the hospital. And we found a Sony mini-DV tape in that Dumpster.”
I’m balling my fists so hard that my right tricep starts twitching. As I suspected all along, Quentin made a suicidal mistake in electing not to request discovery.
“And did the tape have anything on it?” Quentin asks.
Billy grimaces like a man with an ulcer. “No. It had been erased, just like the other one.”
Hell, yes! shouts a voice in my head, and my hands relax. Lost in the sands of time.
“I see,” Quentin says. “And did it also have Dr. Cage’s fingerprints on it?”
My right hand clenches once more.
“No, it had no fingerprints. It had been wiped clean.”
“Clean,” Quentin echoes. “No prints. On a tape found in a Dumpster.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you’re assuming. But in this case, I see no connection whatever between that tape and my client.”
“You will.”
“What does that mean?”
“The lot number on that tape matched the one that had the doc’s prints on it and the two that we found sealed in Ms. Revels’s house. And Dr. Cage had gone to the hospital the morning of Viola Turner’s death. I know that for a fact. He also went the next day, before skipping bail.”
This time Billy silences Quentin, and the pleasure in his face is almost sexual. After about ten seconds, Quentin says, “But there was nothing on the tape, correct?”
“That’s right.”
After several seconds of absolute silence, Quentin turns his chair and drives back to the defense table. “No further questions at this time, Your Honor.”
The courtroom feels as though some machine just sucked half the air out of it. No one knows quite what to do. In this strange silence, Judge Elder looks at his watch, and I do the same. It’s 4:09 p.m.
“Mr. Johnson,” says the judge, “do you have another witness?”
Shad comes to his feet and speaks in a measured voice. “I do, Your Honor. I had intended to call Lincoln Turner. However, in the heat of cross-examination, Sheriff Byrd mentioned evidence that I had not intended to bring forward until tomorrow. That has created a difficult situation.”
Judge Elder doesn’t look very sympathetic. “Explain, Counselor.”
“The tape he referred to was indeed found, but at this time it is undergoing complex forensic analysis and processing.”
“Of what nature, Counselor?”
“Your Honor, only very recently I was told that technology exists that might allow a partial restoration of the videotapes in question. I queried the FBI about this, and I was told that my best bet was to contact the manufacturer. I did so. At this time, those two tapes are being worked on in a California lab owned by the Sony Corporation . . .”
The acid flooding my stomach is probably minor compared to the reaction Quentin Avery must be enduring.
“. . . if I may beg the court’s indulgence,” Shad continues, “I could call Mr. Turner at this time, but my direct examination could take quite a while. And since Sheriff Byrd brought up the tape found in the hospital Dumpster, I would prefer to enter both it and the tape found in Mr. Garrity’s van into evidence and deal with them before examining any other witnesses.”
“And will you be ready to proceed with that evidence first thing in the morning?”
“I believe so, Your Honor.”
“Very well.” Elder looks at his watch once more. “Court is adjourned until nine a.m. tomorrow.”
The crowd comes to its feet as one, like a human hive about to set out on an evening hunt. I need to talk to Quentin, but rather than try to buttonhole him in this mob, I’ll wait a bit, then get Tim to run me over to Edelweiss.
Joining the river of people sweeping through the back doors, I text my bodyguard to pick me up on Market Street. As I cut that way to make my exit, I realize that while it’s only two blocks from the courthouse to the bluff, the trial has brought chaos to the one-way streets of downtown Natchez. It could easily take Quentin and Doris half an hour to make it to Edelweiss in their van.
“Penn!” shouts a male voice. Tim Weathers’s voice. “Down here!”
The armored Yukon is parked in the middle of Market Street, blocking traffic like it’s waiting for Jay-Z and his entourage. I dart around a man trying to negotiate the steps in front of me with a walker, then race down to the street and jump into the backseat.
“Where to?” Tim asks, only half turning his head.
“I need to talk to Quentin, but we’ve got thirty minutes to kill. How about we take Annie and Mia to get a hamburger?”
“Sounds good to me.”
As we roll up Market Street, we pass a half-dozen TV satellite trucks, with reporters doing stand-ups under the courthouse oaks. Undoubtedly they are trumpeting to the world the existence of two videotapes that might be miraculously restored from oblivion. If they are—if the Sony Corporation’s wizards can perform a digital resurrection—what truths will those tapes reveal?
I don’t want to think about it.
Chapter 31
After sharing hamburgers and shakes with Annie and Mia, I convinced Tim to let me drive my own car down to Edelweiss. I’m sure he’s not far behind me, but it feels good to escape the shell of the close-protection drill for even a few minutes. Downtown traffic is still congested, but my Audi is small enough to dart between disoriented drivers on Washington Street.