He hesitates before replying. “All right.”
As concisely as possible, I brief him on my conversation with Shad Johnson. “Viola’s son is still in Natchez,” I conclude. “He’s pressing Shad to charge you with assisted suicide. At first he asked for murder, but he’s since checked the Mississippi statutes. Now, I’m not asking you to tell me what happened at Cora Revels’s house, or even if you were there last night. But will you tell me if you have been treating Viola?”
Dad waits a considerable time before he answers. “I have.”
“Does anybody know that?”
“Melba knows. And Cora Revels, of course.”
“Mom?”
Another pause. “No. A local pharmacist knows. Maybe some people who lived near the Revels house. I’ve stopped by there every couple of days, sometimes once a day, for the past six weeks. People out that way know my car. Viola was in bad shape, son.”
“Lung cancer?”
“That’s right. It metastasized some time ago.”
The very word metastasized brings back all the horror of my wife’s illness. Almost against my will, I ask for details. “Were you at Cora Revels’s house last night?”
“I’d prefer not to discuss it, Penn.”
“I understand. But with a family member pushing for criminal charges, you’re going to have to say something if you want to avert a very public mess.”
Dad pauses again, and I can hear him breathing. “I’m not concerned about that. Whatever happened between Viola and me last night occurred between a patient and her physician. I have nothing to say to Shad Johnson about it—or to you or anybody else. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but there it is.”
This statement leaves me speechless for several seconds. “Dad, the penalty for assisted suicide is ten years. Even without prison, you could lose your medical license.”
“I realize that. But I still won’t talk about it. If Shad Johnson wants to arrest me, he can do it. I’m not hard to find.”
Jesus Christ. “You and I should speak face-to-face.”
“There’s no point, Penn. I have nothing else to say about the matter.”
“Silence isn’t an option! Viola’s son is an attorney. If he keeps pushing the DA, and there’s corroborating evidence, you could well be tried in criminal court. Believe it or not, Shad Johnson would like to avoid that prospect. But to help him, we’re going to have to give him your side of the story.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” Dad says, neatly separating his fate from my own in a tone I recognize all too well.
“Refusal to talk about what happened is going to be viewed as an admission of guilt.”
“Don’t American citizens have the right to remain silent?”
“Yes, but—”
“I don’t think the Miranda rules have the word but in them, Penn. The Constitution, either, as I recall.”
God spare me from amateur lawyers. “Do you know Viola’s son?”
“Never laid eyes on him.”
“Well, the vibe I’m getting from Shad is that if you handle this right, it could all go away.”
“And what would the ‘right’ way be?”
“I’m not sure. Telling the truth, maybe. Unless …”
“What?”
I close my eyes. “Unless you did it.”
This time the silence is alarmingly protracted. “I can’t say anything else about this. The doctor-patient privilege is sacred to me.”
“I’m afraid that privilege ended with Viola’s death. Under these circumstances, anyway.”
“Not in my book.”
His voice carries absolute conviction. I might as well hang up now. “Dad … please reconsider. You’re required by law to assist the coroner in determining the cause of your patient’s death. I’m not even the prosecutor, and what I’m hearing sounds like a doctor admitting he helped someone to die.”
“People hear what they want to hear. I told you, if Shad Johnson wants to arrest me, let him do it. I’m through talking, and I’m sorry you were bothered with this. I’ll see you later.”
“Dad!”
But he’s gone.
Reaching behind me, I take down the Annotated Mississippi Code of 1972 and page through it, searching for the assisted suicide statute, but before I can get my bearings the phone rings again.
“The district attorney again,” says Rose. “Line two.”
I stab the second button on my phone. “Shad?”
“Tell me you’ve got a miracle story,” he says. “The ultimate alibi.”
“I wish I did.”
“What do you have?”
“Nothing.”
“You couldn’t find your father?”
“Oh, I found him. He won’t talk to me.”
“What?”
“He’s giving me the Ernest Hemingway treatment. Stoic and silent. He says whatever happened last night is none of my business. Doctor-patient privilege.”
“I hope you told him that’s not going to fly.”
“He doesn’t care, Shad. He’s as stubborn as they come when he wants to be.”
“But he admitted to being there? At the woman’s house?”
“He admitted nothing. He told me he’d been treating the lady, that’s it.”
“Penn, are you being straight with me? Was my call the first you’ve heard about all this?”
“Absolutely. But I think we’d better stop the questions for now.”
“What the hell am I supposed to tell Roy Cohn down here? He wants your father’s hide nailed to the courthouse door.”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking.”
“Think faster.”
“Maybe I should talk to the son myself.”
“Forget it. I don’t want Lincoln Turner even knowing I called you. If you can’t come up with a medical justification for whatever happened last night—one that will stand up in court—your father is screwed. Turner wants Tom Cage in jail, and the evidence apparently supports his version of things. I’ll tell you something else for free: Turner is already playing the race card.”
“The race card? How?”
“He told me that if a black doctor had euthanized a white woman, and her son had complained, the doctor would already be in jail.”