I summarize the day’s action with the precision of a legal brief, and Caitlin doesn’t interrupt. This is the upside of living with a brilliant woman. She may not be much of a cook, but she can digest information in a fraction of the time it takes most people. I begin with Shad’s call to my office this morning and edit myself on the fly. I tell her there’s a video recording of Viola’s death, and that Henry Sexton made it, but not that he kept a copy for himself. I explain that Viola died brutally and that a botched mercy killing seems possible, but Shad Johnson is contemplating murder charges against Dad. After quickly outlining the crime scene evidence, I tell her that, according to Henry, the Double Eagle group had a standing hit order on Viola if she ever returned to Natchez, probably because Viola knew things that could send surviving Double Eagles to prison—things related to the kidnapping and murder of her brother, a local civil rights activist. I also explain that the murder charge is being driven by Viola’s son, who only appeared in Natchez this morning. Caitlin pays particularly close attention here, but I distract her by moving quickly past the subject.
I sketch Henry’s theory about Double Eagle involvement in the local meth trade but elide Henry’s belief that my father had suspicious ties to Brody Royal or individual Double Eagles. I also leave out the murder of Glenn Morehouse, the fact that Morehouse was one of Henry’s sources, and everything about the murders of Albert Norris, Pooky Wilson, and Dr. Leland Robb. (No Brody Royal avenging his daughter’s “honor,” no “Huggy Bear” who could put Brody Royal in jail, and most of all, no plot to assassinate RFK. Those items are the heroin that Caitlin could not bear to resist.) Most damning (should Caitlin discover the truth), I say nothing about Henry and me working together to nail the Eagles, or Kirk Boisseau covertly diving the Jericho Hole tomorrow. I’ve become adept at the self-editing process over the past few years with Caitlin, and the only reactions I see are an occasional raised eyebrow and some added color in her cheeks.
As soon as I finish my summary, though, she says, “You’re not telling me everything about Henry Sexton. Not by a damn sight.”
“I promised him I’d keep some things confidential. Henry’s pretty sensitive about the work he’s done on those old cases.”
She smiles with more than a hint of envy. “Rightfully so. He’s done good work, and he doesn’t want me to steal it.”
“So, now you’re up to speed. Back downstairs?”
“Not quite yet. Your father’s silence worries me. Why the hell won’t Tom talk to you about his nurse’s death?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But you have a theory.”
After several seconds of hesitation, I outline the possibility that Lincoln might believe that Dad is his father, and that this—more than forensic evidence—may be what pushed Shad toward a murder charge.
“Did Tom have an affair with Viola?” she asks bluntly.
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t asked him?”
“No. I’m going to see him again later. But he already told me he’s willing to take a DNA test to establish paternity. He sounded confident.”
Thankfully, Annie calls up the stairs to tell us supper is getting cold.
Caitlin closes her eyes, inhales deeply, then exhales slowly. Then she opens her eyes and says, “We’re going to have to postpone the wedding.”
I walk to the bed and take her hand. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. We have to make sure Tom is safe. We’re not getting married with that cloud hanging over our heads. The wedding’s going to be everything we planned, and your father sitting in jail is not part of that picture.”
“Annie won’t like it.”
“Let me handle Annie. That’s a girl thing.” Suddenly Caitlin’s hand goes to her mouth. “Does your mother know any of this?”
“I think Dad’s telling her about it now.”
“Ahh. I talked to her just a few minutes ago, and she didn’t say a word about it. She must not have known.”
“Not necessarily. Mom could put on a perfect bridge party with a riot going on in her backyard.”
Caitlin nods thoughtfully. “Whatever Tom’s hiding, he’s more afraid of it than of being arrested for murder. That can’t be good.”
She slips off of the bed, takes my hand, and pulls me toward the stairs. “Come on. You tell Annie about the legal trouble, and I’ll explain the wedding.”
At the top of the stairs, she stops suddenly, her jaw set tight.
“What is it?”
“Shad Johnson,” she almost spits. “What’s his fucking problem? Doesn’t he realize what you could do to him with that dogfighting photo?”
I give her a sheepish look. “Actually, I gave him back the original. In exchange, he promised he wouldn’t run for reelection.”
Caitlin lowers her chin and raises her eyebrows, peering into my eyes with irresistible intensity. “Bullshit. If you did, you kept a copy.”
I try to play out the bluff, but she sees through me.
“Where are you guys?” Annie calls from downstairs.
“Coming!” Caitlin yells down the stairwell.
“Getting Shad disbarred could be counterproductive,” I tell her. “Better the devil you know, you know? There’s no telling who might be appointed to take his place.”
“I don’t care. Shad hates you. And given what he knows you could do to him with that photo, I’m stunned that he’s gone as far as he has with this. There’s something going on that we’re not seeing.”
A fleeting image of Lincoln Turner’s burning eyes flashes through my mind. I’m glad I didn’t tell Caitlin about his impromptu visit outside.
“Da-ad!” Annie yells.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Caitlin says, trotting down the stairs and leaving me feeling like a fool standing at the head of them.
SUPPER IS IN OUR bellies, the dishes are in the sink, and the three of us were sitting comfortably around the oak table by the large kitchen window until I gave Annie a PG-13 summary of Dad’s problems and Caitlin broke the news about postponing the wedding. My daughter is far from the “fine” state that Caitlin predicted, but it’s her grandfather she’s worried about.
“So did Papa do something wrong, or not?” she asks, her chin quivering. “What do you mean by laws on the books?”
In the matter of assisted suicide, she seems to be having trouble with the idea that written laws don’t always ideally reflect right and wrong.
“Well,” I temporize, thinking how the simplest things can sometimes be the most difficult to explain, “laws are legislated by men and then recorded in books. But—”
“By men and women,” Caitlin interjects.
“That’s right. But those laws don’t always stay the same. We’ve talked before about how the Supreme Court changes laws from time to time, on things like capital punishment. Remember?”
Annie nods.