WAITING IN MY office for my confrontation with Shad Johnson, I plugged the USB flash drive into my computer and opened the JPEG that has hung over the DA like a sword of Damocles for the past seven weeks. The fresh sight of it still engenders disbelief. I can’t quite get my mind around the fact that a calculating manipulator like Shad would put himself in a situation that could destroy his career overnight. On the other hand, he certainly wouldn’t be the first.
In the photo, a blood-soaked pit bull hangs by its neck from a rope tied to a tree limb while three men look on. The dog appears to be jerking its hindquarters away from something in the hand of one of the men. It’s an electric cattle prod, and the man holding it is Darius Jones, an All-Pro wide receiver. Standing to the left of Darius is Shadrach Johnson, his face shining with something like rapture. Few things in life have shocked me more than seeing Shad in this context, but it only proves the lesson I’ve learned time and again: none of us truly knows anybody. How Shad could possibly try to use my father’s plight to get revenge on me is unfathomable, given the existence of this image. I recall former Louisiana governor Edwin Edwards’s campaign boast that the only thing that could keep him from retaking the governor’s office was “being found with a dead woman or a live boy.” But Governor Edwards hadn’t seen this picture. In this day and age, being seen torturing a dog is political suicide.
As the screen trips over to my screen saver, my mind turns to Quentin Avery. Among trial lawyers, Quentin is known as “Preacher” for his awe-inspiring ability to sway juries. But even in dry history books, his name figures prominently in some chapters. During the 1960s and ’70s, Quentin argued four cases before the United States Supreme Court—one a landmark civil rights case—and won them all. He became a hero to many, and his name was mentioned in the same sentences as Thurgood Marshall and James Nabrit. But by the mid-1980s, the young firebrand had turned his mind to lucre rather than to justice, taking on high-profile (and very profitable) drug cases. In the 1990s he moved on to personal injury cases, two of which made him genuinely wealthy. Throughout those years, Quentin did enough pro bono work that the people who mattered maintained their respect for him, but the image of a black knight on a shining steed had been forever tarnished, and his name was never again spoken with the same reverence as those of the men with whom he’d rubbed shoulders during the most dangerous years of the movement.
“Mayor?” Rose says over my intercom. “I haven’t been able to reach Mr. Avery, but I have his wife on the phone.”
“Thank you, Rose. I’ll pick up.”
Though in his seventies, Quentin is married to an attorney in her early forties, a woman very protective of her husband. When Quentin and I worked a case together two years ago, it took Doris Avery some time to warm up to me. I like to think that she and I ended up in a state of mutual respect, but from what Dad told me about Quentin’s health, Doris has probably been under immense strain in recent months.
“Doris, this is Penn.”
“Hello,” says the weary alto voice I remember.
“Thank you for taking my call. I know things have been difficult for Quentin lately, and I wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency.”
“Emergency is a relative term. I know why you’re calling. A friend from Natchez told me Tom was arrested this morning, and why.”
“Does Quentin know?”
“No. He’s a sick man, Penn. Very sick. I will tell him after he wakes up, but only because he’ll be angry if he finds out later that I kept it from him.”
“Are you guys in D.C.?”
“No, Jefferson County. Your father has actually been treating Quentin, despite his heart attack.”
Yet another fact Dad has kept from me, and possibly from my mother as well.
“Tom has been a godsend,” Doris continues. “But I have to tell you this: Quentin can’t handle a murder trial. Not a case he’d be as personally invested in as this one. If they lost, and your father went to jail, it would kill Quentin. He can certainly give you advice, but please don’t ask him to handle the trial.”
“I hope there won’t be a trial, Doris. But Dad’s already been indicted. It happened only a couple of hours after his initial appearance, and I think Shad’s going to try to have his bail revoked.”
“Hmm. That sounds fishy.”
“It is. Joe Elder is the judge, at least for now. And unless I’m mistaken, Joe clerked for Quentin back in the day. I’m hoping Quentin can help me get the charges reduced, if not dismissed altogether.”
“I hope that’s possible. You’re right about Joe Elder working for Quentin. I’ve met him several times socially. He’s a fair man. I have your phone numbers, Penn. We’ll get back to you after Quentin’s awake and up to speed.”
“Thank you, Doris. I mean it.”
“I know.”
And then she’s gone.
A cold emptiness settles in my chest as Doris’s voice echoes in my mind: Quentin can’t handle a murder trial.
I run through a mental short list of the most gifted defense attorneys I faced during my courtroom career, and even jot down a couple of names. But in the last analysis, not one measures up to Quentin Avery. And yet … all that talent and experience is contained in a body that is falling apart. The parallels with my father are downright eerie.
“It’s after five,” Rose says over the intercom. “Do you need me for anything else?”
“Go home, Rose. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Should I lock the door?”
“No, I’ll be right behind you, and I’ve got files to carry. Tomorrow is my meeting with the selectmen about the Forks of the Road proposal, right?”