Was that look prearranged? I wonder.
“All marriages have their strains,” Quentin says with regret, “and we never know what’s cooking in someone else’s pot. But take a moment to imagine poor Viola Turner learning that her young husband had been killed in Vietnam. Imagine that young widow enduring a year of terrible loneliness while her brother did dangerous work for the civil rights movement. Picture this dedicated young sister working at Dr. Cage’s side each day, witnessing his unique commitment to helping people. Her people. And not with cocktail party rhetoric, mind you, but down in the trenches, where it mattered. Is it not easy to see how strong feelings might develop in that kind of situation?”
It would be just as easy, I realize, for a modern-day jury to read that situation as sexual harassment. But today Quentin will benefit from Mississippi always being ten years behind the times.
He makes eye contact with several women on the jury. “I’m not condoning an extramarital affair, ladies and gentlemen. We all know that adultery is wrong. But in extraordinary circumstances, the heart will seek its own comfort. And the flesh is weak, as the Good Book tells us.
“We can’t shy away from human truth in this court, however painful it might be. We have been called here specifically to uncover the truth. But Tom Cage is not on trial for adultery. And he has never denied that he had a relationship with Viola Turner. He didn’t advertise it, mind you, and I don’t blame him. In 1968, a revelation like that would have put his whole family in mortal danger. But neither did Dr. Cage try to deny that he might be Lincoln Turner’s father, once he’d been told of the child’s existence. Why didn’t he try to evade that responsibility? Because he’s not that kind of man. Tom Cage loved Viola, and she loved him in return. Theirs was a tragic affair. They were two good people caught in a bad situation. But whatever sins Tom Cage may have been guilty of in 1968, they have a lot more to do with the Seventh Commandment than the Sixth, which is not, by the way, ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ as most people quote it, but ‘Thou shalt not do murder.’”
While most people in the court try to remember what the Seventh Commandment was, Judge Elder says, “‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ That’s the Seventh Commandment.”
“Thank you, Judge,” Quentin says to the younger man, like a Sunday school teacher complimenting his favorite student.
Before Joe Elder can find a way to put Quentin back in his place, the click and whir of the wheelchair sounds, and Avery rolls out from behind the defense table. He steers toward the jury box, but stops a few feet short of it and speaks in a conspiratorial voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to let you in on a secret of the legal profession. There’s an interesting test that district attorneys apply when they decide whether or not to prosecute a murder case. They ask themselves two questions. One: Did the victim need killing? And two: Did the right person do the killing?” Quentin pauses to let these questions sink in. “If the answer to both those questions is yes, most DAs won’t touch the case with a barge pole.”
While the jury members ponder this, Quentin says, “That logic might seem cynical to laymen, but there’s a sound reason for it. And the reason is, sometimes judges don’t fully define reasonable doubt, and sometimes jurors follow their hearts instead of their heads to find it. We lawyers call that gut sense of right and wrong the Unwritten Law. Why? What is the Unwritten Law? Well, it’s exactly what it sounds—”
“Not another word, Mr. Avery!” erupts Judge Elder. “Against my instincts, I have been patient with you, but you just walked up to the precipice of a mistrial. And what’s worse, you know it.”
Quentin’s embarrassment looks genuine enough, like that of an elderly man who momentarily forgot he was in church and started discussing sexual intercourse. But I’m not buying it, and neither is Joe Elder. Quentin was purposefully leading his jury to the prosecutor’s worst nightmare: jury nullification. Jury nullification occurs when a jury disregards all instructions and votes with what some people call its “collective conscience,” but which could more accurately be described as its collective gut instinct. Less charitable critics would call it “frontier justice.”
In a bass voice that could have come from Zeus on Olympus, Judge Elder says, “Mr. Avery—you have been warned.”
“My sincere apologies, Your Honor.” Quentin looks back at the jury. “Let’s return to those two cynical questions I mentioned for a moment. First: Did the victim need killing? Let’s say our murder victim was a foulmouthed, hyena-headed, belly-dragging baboon who beat his wife, cuckolded his neighbors, and abused his children. Everybody who knew him agreed that the world was better off without him in it. So . . . did he need killing? Yes.”
A white man in the jury actually laughs, earning a baleful glare from Judge Elder. I’m sure Shad has been wanting to shout in protest throughout Quentin’s open, but since he liberally abused the rules himself, he hasn’t got much of a foundation for it.
“Question two,” Quentin pushes on. “Did the right person do the killing? Well, if the killer was the victim’s battered wife, his abused son, or his cuckolded neighbor, the answer is probably yes again. And under those circumstances, it’s doubtful that any jury would vote to convict the killer, no matter what instructions the judge gave them. And the DA knows that. So, what happens? He finds a way to avoid going to trial.
“But let’s look at a different set of circumstances. What if the victim was an elderly black woman with terminal cancer? A woman beyond all hope, suffering agonizing torment, and ready to leave this world of toil and tears? Question one: Did the victim need killing? Well, according to the State, the victim herself believed she did. The assisted-suicide pact proves that. What about question two? Did the right person do the killing? If the State is to be believed, the man who took the victim’s life was her personal physician and former lover, a man beloved by the community and trusted by thousands of patients. Now, if that man did the killing, I’d say that by the standards of the Unwritten Law, he was the right man for the job.”
The jury seems stunned by this assertion, but Shad Johnson looks positively apoplectic. The DA can already feel the foundation of his carefully constructed case shifting on sand, where he thought he’d built on bedrock, and Quentin hasn’t even called his first witness. Worse, because Quentin didn’t request discovery, Shad has no idea who Quentin’s witnesses might be.
“Given what I’ve told you,” Quentin says, “I find myself wondering why this case was brought before the bar at all. Don’t you? Why are we sitting here today, ladies and gentlemen? The answer has nothing to do with justice, I assure you. That shouldn’t surprise you. A Natchez judge whose picture hangs on that wall used to tell juries that the court system wasn’t about justice, but compromise. ‘Justice,’ he said, ‘is when everybody gets exactly what they deserve—and Lord knows none of us wants that.’”
As hesitant laughter echoes through the court, Quentin’s voice drops into the register of a man dealing with the gravest matters. “My friends, we are gathered here today because of the broken heart of a fatherless child.”
After looking at Lincoln with sympathy, Quentin shifts his gaze to Sheriff Byrd, who now sits against the wall with a couple of his deputies. “We are also gathered here because of the envy, hatred, and ambition of powerful men.” Then Quentin’s eyes fall on Shad Johnson. “Ultimately, we are here because of the base human desire for revenge at any cost.”
Even Judge Elder looks shocked by this statement, but if Quentin intends to prove that my father has been framed, he has the right to say these things.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he intones, “this may not be a capital trial, but make no mistake: a man’s life is at stake here. Tom Cage is seventy-three years old. His health status is grave. If he’s sentenced to spend even a year in jail, he’s unlikely to survive. So I humbly ask you to bear with me as I present my case. Your time is precious, and public service a dying virtue. But with the stakes so high, I implore you to per
severe until the truth lies naked before us all. For only then can we say that we have done our duty, and that justice has been served.”
After a full visual survey of the jury, Quentin rolls back toward his table. But before he reaches it, he stops and looks over his shoulder as though troubled by some thorny moral dilemma.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I can’t leave it at that. I have a confession to make. During the 1960s I was known as a crusader for justice, a defender of human rights. But I tell you now, I have represented guilty men. Every defense lawyer has. A client never tells you he’s guilty, and you don’t ask. But deep in your soul—in your inmost heart—you know. Nevertheless, you hold your nose and remind yourself that you’re serving the Constitution, which was written by men a lot wiser than yourself. Men who believed it was better that ten guilty men go free than one innocent man rot in prison.”
Quentin rolls himself slowly back toward the jury. “Why am I telling you this? Because I want you to know that today I came into court with a clear conscience. Today I am not holding my nose, or willfully blinding myself to some dark truth. Because on this day, in this trial, my client has more integrity in his little finger than I have in what’s left of my whole body.”
Now I’m the one left breathless by Quentin’s audacity. With an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, I watch him point at my father in exactly the same way that I, as a prosecutor, often pointed at murderers. With almost religious conviction Quentin says, “That man—Dr. Thomas Jefferson Cage—is innocent.”
Shad leaps to his feet, yelling something I can’t make out over the roar of the crowd, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no rule that prohibits a lawyer from saying that his client is innocent, but few take that risk. Quentin has just done so with devastating effect. Shad might be able to call into question the way Quentin prefaced his statement, but right now that doesn’t matter. Both the jury and the spectators have been knocked out of their socks. It’s as though a football team trailing in the Super Bowl suddenly followed a ninety-seven-yard touchdown run with a successful onside kick, and the momentum shift was enough to give the spectators whiplash.
Judge Elder bangs his gavel, calling for order, and the crowd settles back into a resentful but expectant silence.
“Overruled,” Judge Elder rules with obvious reluctance. (I never even heard what Shad’s objection was.) The judge would clearly like to make Quentin pay a price for his boldness, but he can do little other than give the old lawyer a reproving glare. “Please conclude your remarks, Mr. Avery.”
Quentin looks pointedly at his watch, as if to say, I’ll take my full allotted time and no less, thank you.
“I’ll tell you something else,” Quentin says defiantly. “My client is not required to defend himself against these malicious charges. He’s not required to take the witness stand and testify to his innocence. He is presumed innocent. The burden of proof lies with the State of Mississippi. Dr. Cage is protected by the full power of the Constitution of the United States. Nevertheless, Mr. Johnson over there is salivating in the hope that an old country doctor just might be proud enough, or foolish enough, to give a Harvard-trained prosecutor a chance to go after him with his sharpest legal scalpels. Well”—Quentin turns up both palms and gives Shad a beatific smile—“I have good news for Mr. Johnson. He is going to get his chance.”
An electric buzz ripples through the courtroom, and my heart starts to pound.
“At the conclusion of this case, Dr. Tom Cage will walk into that witness box and tell you all what happened on the night Viola Turner died. And I will make you all a promise.” Quentin glances at Shad, then turns slowly to the audience, which includes not only Sheriff Byrd, but probably also some corrupt law enforcement officers and even survivors of the Double Eagle group. “When Dr. Cage finally speaks, men sitting in this room now will tremble.”
The silence that follows this prophecy is like the vacuum of deep space. There’s only the soft whirring of Quentin’s wheelchair as he rolls back behind the defense table and lays a comforting hand on my father’s arm.
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
As the silence grows, Doris Avery scuttles forward and whispers in her husband’s ear.
“Your Honor,” Quentin says in a surprised voice, “I’ve been informed that my first witness has arrived outside the courthouse. I’m ready to proceed with my case.”
Judge Elder looks at his watch.
Shad Johnson stares at Quentin like an animal trying to determine whether another is predator or prey. The DA is desperate to know whom Quentin, after two days of sitting mute during devastating testimony, intends to call as his first witness.
“Call your witness,” Judge Elder orders.
“The defense calls Colonel Karl V. Eklund, U.S. Army, Retired.”
“Objection!” Shad cries.
“On what grounds?” Judge Elder asks.
“We’ve had no notice of this witness.”
Judge Elder looks conflicted about his ruling. At length, he says, “You’ve had no notice of any witnesses, Mr. Johnson. Nor will you get any.”
While Shad tries to appear unfazed, Judge Elder takes it upon himself to explain to the jury the concept of discovery and the rules pertaining to it in Mississippi. When he concludes, Colonel Eklund still has not appeared.
“Mr. Avery,” says the judge, “is your witness ready to be called?”
“I believe so, Your Honor. But the colonel is over seventy, and he’s from out of state. I’d better send somebody to find him.”
“Before you do that, tell me, will you be examining this witness at length?”
Quentin smiles affably. “I will, Your Honor. Since the district attorney saw fit to end his case with Korea, I thought I’d start mine there. So we could be here for some while.”
Shad sits blinking like a blindsided driver after a minor collision. “Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant. The State has no record of a Karl Eklund being present in or around the ambulance where the events Major Powers testified about occurred.”
“That’s because Colonel Eklund was not present in the ambulance,” Quentin says, “or anywhere near it.”
“Then how is his testimony relevant?” Shad asks in a challenging tone.
Quentin’s smile broadens. “You’ll find out soon.”
Doris Avery is heading down the aisle toward the door when Judge Elder says, “Mr. Avery, I’ve reconsidered your earlier request, and I think we should adjourn for the day. Tomorrow we can be assured that your witnesses will be present and ready to testify, that the jury will be fresh, and that your health needs will be attended to.”
Quentin is taken aback by this decision, but he recovers quickly. “Thank you, Judge. I know the jury will appreciate the break as much as I do.”
Shad says, “Your Honor, as I said before, if Colonel Eklund wasn’t present in the ambulance, his testimony is obviously irrelevant to the present case.”
Every lawyer in the courtroom looks at Shad, amazed that he would have the nerve to say this when the entirety of Major Powers’s testimony should never have been allowed.
“Mr. Johnson, you opened the door to Korea. How do you suggest I stop Mr. Avery from walking through it?”
“But Your Honor—”
“I’ll rule on relevance as his testimony proceeds,” Judge Elder says ominously. “Court is adjourned until nine a.m. tomorrow.”
Chapter 43
Snake Knox stood on wet sand just south of Rodney, Mississippi, and watched a fiery sun slip into the river. Sky and wind told him there would be rain tomorrow, and that suited him fine. It had taken most of the day to set up a secure hideout and redundant escape routes, but Snake no longer settled anywhere, not even for a day, without doing both. His Air Tractor was chocked under some trees in a field one mile north of Rodney. Across the river, just west of St. Joseph, Louisiana, was a Cessna 182 he’d had a share in for the past twenty years. And thirty feet away, tied to a cottonwood tree, floated a twenty-four-foot Four Winns
Horizon speedboat. The city of Natchez lay only twenty-five miles to the south by river. Snake could get there in forty minutes in the Four Winns, and he was only thirty minutes from Natchez by road, if he used the old pickup he had borrowed from Red Nearing, who owned the little farm they were using at Rodney.
Snake could scarcely imagine a safer hiding place. In the early 1800s, this little town had nearly become the capital of the Mississippi Territory. Though small, it had been a famous crossing point of the Mississippi River since Indian times, and it was surrounded by wealthy plantations. But a sudden shift in the course of the river had changed all that, and by 1870, Rodney had become a ghost town. Today about fifty people clung to their old houses, but they were ghosts themselves. Nobody came here but a few tourists, to stare at the Yankee cannonball that had stuck high in the brick wall of the church during some brief shelling by an ironclad during the Civil War. It wasn’t even the original cannonball, Snake knew, the real one having been stolen long ago. Rodney’s surviving public buildings were falling to pieces, and you could barely see most of the houses, thanks to the chest-high weeds choking the yards. The main traffic was hunters, and most of them had Confederate flag decals behind the gun racks in their pickups.
Rodney was friendly territory.
Alois and Wilma had wanted to stay by the boat and watch the sunset, but Snake had told them to get back up to the house. He was sick of listening to them yap. They wanted to know what he was going to do next, but if he’d learned anything from Frank, it was keep your plans to yourself until the last possible moment.
Being forced to leave the sod farm at Sulphur hadn’t sat well with Snake at first, but once Wilma had told him about Viola Turner killing Frank in Dr. Cage’s office—and Tom Cage likely covering it up—Snake had been glad to get closer to Natchez. The truth was, while Forrest was alive, Snake had had to be careful about how he approached Dr. Cage’s situation. Forrest believed violence was bad for business, except where it was a direct requirement of business, and he wanted it minimized. But with Forrest’s death at the hands of Penn Cage, Snake had gained the freedom to deal with Dr. Cage as he wished, though being hunted as a fugitive had limited his options.