“Thank you.”
As Shad Johnson walks to his seat, the sheer brilliance of his closing argument takes my breath away. What has this trial been but a battle of competing narratives? A Rashomon-like drama in which different characters have recounted different versions of the same event and its attendant history? Faulkner did the same thing in Absalom, Absalom, demonstrating that no two people ever experience the same event, and that history is doomed to be only a version of events. In his radically unorthodox closing argument, Shad seized control of the narrative. By stripping away all the distracting particulars of the relationship between Viola and my father, he lifted the story into the realm of the mythic and made it universal. And in that symbolic realm, the tragic truth that underlay their relationship was laid bare.
My father, however pure his motives might have seemed to him while living out that episode of his life, was part of the dominant, oppressive class. Viola was only a few generations out of slavery. The power differential between them was almost incalculable, a gulf that could not be bridged in the context of the era in which they lived. As Viola knew—probably long before my father—no positive outcome for them had ever been possible.
As I feared he would all along, Quentin underestimated Shadrach Johnson. Shad did not make the same mistake. Tactically outmaneuvered by his legendary foe, Shad adapted accordingly. By creating a parable with biblical resonance, and tailoring it to the case before the bar, he beat “Preacher” Avery at his own game. Were my father’s freedom not at stake, I would be filled with admiration for Shad’s accomplishment. But right now my throat burns with the caustic taste of ashes. The cases have been presented, the last argument has been made, and the reality of the present cannot be denied: Quentin Avery miscalculated badly.
And yet . . . despite the genius Shad displayed in his close, no rational jury that followed the law could convict my father of murder. And certainly not this jury, which must contain at least a few people who have loved and admired him for decades.
A few feet ahead of me, my father and Quentin are engaged in muffled argument. Dad is speaking with low intensity, while Quentin seems to be trying to quiet him. Quentin’s white hair bobs up and down as Dad’s voice gains in urgency. The first coherent phrase I catch is “I won’t let you do it.” I’m not sure which of them said that, and before I can figure it out, Judge Elder has turned from the jury and focused on the argument.
“Mr. Avery?” he says. “Is there a problem?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” my father says, pushing Quentin away from him. “I want to change my plea.”
The shock produced by this statement is so profound that for a couple of seconds no one even breathes. In this brief vacuum, my father turns in his chair and looks back at my mother, his eyes filled with apology. The sorrow and guilt I see there shake me to the core.
Then Judge Elder says, “You want to change your plea?”
Dad faces forward again. “Yes, Your Honor. I want to plead guilty.”
“Your Honor,” Quentin interjects, “my client doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s overcome by grief over the death of Mr. Garrity last night, and—”
“No,” Dad says with undeniable force. “I know what I’m doing, Judge.”
Joe Elder’s face darkens as the full import of the situation penetrates his shock. “All right, now. We’re going to excuse the jury, and I’m going to have the lawyers approach the bench to discuss this. Bailiff?”
As the bailiff moves to herd the stunned jury from the court, the gallery explodes into conversation. Only then do I regain my faculties sufficiently to realize my mother is in severe distress beside me. She looks like she did on the night I found her in the upstairs hall, thinking she’d had a stroke. The only difference is that she’s still sitting erect.
“Mom?” I say, gripping her arm. “Can you hear me?”
She turns her head then, and in her eyes I see despair and desperation. “Go with them,” she whispers. “Don’t let him do it. Hurry!”
Jumping to my feet, I scan the gallery for a doctor. Every face out there stares at me like a driver gaping at the carnage of a highway traffic accident. I haven’t been on my feet for three seconds when Drew Elliott steps away from the back wall and waves to me.
“Drew! Mom needs you!”
My old friend hurries forward.
When I turn back to the bar, I see Quentin, Dad, and Shad following Judge Elder through the door to his chambers, with Doris Avery scurrying to catch them. Without Judge Elder to enforce decorum, the courtroom dissolves into chaos. The deputies on the left wall look like witnesses to some one-in-a-million sports phenomenon, while the circuit clerk and court reporter stand together, shaking their heads, their faces red.
“Penn, go after them!” my sister says from my shoulder. “Drew and I will take care of Mom!”
I cross the well at a run and reach the door just as a deputy moves to take up a post in front of it.
“I’m co-counsel for the defense!” I tell him. “Let me through.”
The deputy hesitates, then opens the door and lets me pass.
Ten steps take me to Judge Elder’s office, and by the time I get there, Quentin is begging his old clerk to call a recess and have Dad examined by a psychiatrist. But the instant he falls silent, Dad speaks in the voice of a man completely in charge of his faculties.
“Judge Elder, I understand my attorney’s distress. But I am of sound mind, and I want to change my plea to guilty. I fully understand the consequences of such a change.”
Shad is staring at my father like he might at someone who has done something completely contrary to human nature—which he has.
“Dad, you can’t do this,” I tell him. “Judge, you can’t let him do it. He’s distraught over the deaths of Walt Garrity and my fiancée. He’s been deeply depressed ever since Caitlin’s death, and Walt’s death pushed him over the edge.”
Joe Elder listens very carefully to me. Then he says, “Your father sounded perfectly in control when he testified this morning. And not particularly depressed.”
“Judge, come on. Nobody does this. Nobody.”
“Mr. Cage, I have seen criminal defendants change their pleas while the jury is in deliberation.”
“Sure, when they know the jury is about to hammer them with life in prison. This jury’s about to acquit. We all know it. Dad’s just had an attack of Catholic guilt.”
“I’m not Catholic,” Dad says in a matter-of-fact voice.
“It’s a suicidal gesture,” I insist. “A cry for punishment, because he blames himself for the deaths of his friends.”
“I do,” Dad says calmly. “But I’m also responsible for Viola’s death. I’m sure of that.”
In the corner of the room, Doris Avery shakes her head, as though grieving over a death occurring before her eyes.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because to plead guilty, you’ll have to sign something saying you injected Viola with adrenaline with the intent of killing her. Will you do that? Can you do that?”
Dad looks momentarily confused, but before he can answer, Shad says, “Actually, he wouldn’t have to do that. He could make an Alford plea.”
“What’s an Alford plea?” Dad asks.
“Shut up, Shad! Try to rise above your nature, for once.”
“Mr. Mayor, you forget yourself,” Judge Elder says in a taut voice.
“With an Alford plea,” Shad explains, “you can simply say that there’s enough evidence that a reasonable person might conclude that you’re guilty of the crime, and therefore you’ve chosen to plead guilty.”
Dad nods slowly. “That’s what I want to do.”
“That’s usually done in exchange for a reduced sentence,” Quentin says.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dad mumbles.
“Listen to him,” I almost yell at Judge Elder. “Is that the statement of a sane man?”
“Penn,” Dad says, looking up at me with an express
ion I’ve never seen on his face, “I know you don’t understand, but I know what I’m doing. You have to let me do this.”
I’ve got it. He looks like a martyr about to walk into the flames. “I can’t,” I tell him. “No son would let his father do this.”
Dad nods slowly, his eyes filled with regret. “Penn . . . I hope you never do the things you’d have to do to be able to understand what I’m doing now.”
As I try to parse his words, he says, “Son, you’re fired.” He turns to Joe Elder. “Judge, I only want Quentin Avery representing me in this room.”
Judge Elder stares at Dad for a few more seconds, then he nods and turns to me. “Penn, I’d like you to excuse yourself. I know you don’t want to go, but . . . please don’t make me call a deputy.”
Quentin looks at me with pain-filled eyes, then reaches out and squeezes my arm. “I’ll take care of him. You’d better go.”
For a moment I wonder if everything that’s happened during this trial was leading here all along. But the agony in Quentin’s face tells me I’m wrong.
“Mr. Mayor?” Judge Elder says again. “Please leave us to it.”
I want to argue, but I feel as though someone has injected me with a powerful anesthetic. As I look from Quentin to my father, and then to Doris, who has tears on her face, someone takes my left hand from behind and gently turns me. It’s the deputy from outside. He must have been listening at the door. By the time he leads me through the outer door, my face is wet and numb.
Chapter 71
The courtroom is still a hurricane of activity when the bailiff leads me back into it. But almost immediately deputies begin clearing the room, herding the flustered spectators out without any semblance of courtesy. As I stand wiping my face, Rusty Duncan hurries across the well, his face flushed with effort or emotion.
“What happened back there, Penn? Is Elder going to let him do it?”
“They’re not done. Rusty . . . Dad fired me.”
“What? Jesus.”
“Is my mom okay?”
“I think so, but Drew’s taking her to the hospital. He’s worried she may be having a stroke. A real one this time. I think she was just overwhelmed. To have that happen after days of sitting there . . . it was more than she could take. More than any wife could take.”
“Rusty, what do I do?”
He shakes his head, as much at a loss as I am. “I think it’s up to the judge now. The judge and Quentin and Shad. But for God’s sake, if your dad’s going to plead guilty, it should be to a lesser charge. Shad would have to go for it. That jury was about to set Tom free, no question.”
“I don’t think Dad cares about the sentence. He’s trying to punish himself. And his health is so bad, anything over a year is a death sentence.”
Rusty takes hold of my shoulders and squeezes hard, like he once did after high school football games, and I flinch from pain on my right side.
“Sorry,” he says. “Let’s sit down over here in front of the jury box. We’ll wait and talk it out. Quentin won’t let your dad do anything stupid.”
“But my mother—”
“Drew’s taking care of Peggy. Come sit down, buddy. You look like you might faint yourself.”
Five minutes later, the door to Judge Elder’s chambers opens and Quentin’s wheelchair emerges, followed by Doris Avery. When Quentin sees me sitting with Rusty, he doesn’t try to avoid us but steers directly toward me. I lean forward, my heart pounding heavily.
“What happened?” I ask as he rolls to within a couple of feet of me.
Quentin takes a deep breath and says, “This is hard, Penn. Please don’t interrupt until I’ve explained the whole thing.”
“Come on, Quentin!”
“Your father was going to plead guilty no matter what I did. There was nothing I could do to stop him. And Judge Elder was inclined to allow it.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“Let me finish, goddamn it. Tom was trying to plead guilty to murder, but I told Joe Elder I’d quit on the spot if he allowed that. Then I told Shad Tom would only plead guilty to a lesser charge. Shad asked what charge I had in mind. I said physician-assisted suicide. The penalty would be loss of Tom’s medical license and time served.”
“Oh, Quentin . . . thank God.”
“You are the man,” Rusty exults.
Quentin grimaces and holds up his right hand. “Shad wouldn’t agree to that, I’m sorry to say. He said manslaughter was as low as he could go.”
“Same penalty, though, right? Or a suspended sentence?”
Quentin shakes his head. “He said Tom had to serve some time.”
“Oh . . . oh, no. How much—”
“Three years, Penn. That was the best I could do.”
His words hit me like a gut punch. Sweat breaks out on my face.
“This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening.”
“I’m afraid it is. Now tell me about Peggy. A deputy came in and said she collapsed.”
“We don’t know,” Rusty says. “Drew Elliott’s taking her to the hospital.”
“Did Dad hear that she collapsed?” I ask.
“No. They’d taken him out by then.”
“Back to jail?”
Quentin nods solemnly.
“Quentin . . . this is wrong. You know it is.”
The old man looks back at me, his face bereft. “I don’t know what I know anymore. Except I’m tired. Too tired for this.”
“But—”
“Go check on your mother, Penn. You’re the head of the family now. It’s time to start acting like it.”
While I stare in disbelief, Quentin tilts back his head and looks up at his wife. “Let’s go home, Doris.”
Doris Avery looks at me with infinite sadness. Then she lays her hands on her husband’s shoulders and nods twice.
“Let’s go, bubba,” Rusty says, gently pulling me to my feet. “Let’s find out how mama’s doin’.”
The waiting room of the Natchez ER is mostly empty at midday, even on a Friday. The only people there when we arrived looked like they were using the place for routine illnesses. When Rusty and I gave our names to the reception nurse, she asked us to wait by the door, then came out and escorted us to an empty treatment room. For a couple of minutes, I was sure Drew was going to walk in and tell us Mom had died, but Rusty kept insisting that was impossible, that my mother might well outlive us both.
When Drew finally did come in, Jenny was with him. He told us then that he was fairly certain Mom had suffered some sort of cerebral vascular event. He’d hoped it was a repeat of her silent migraine episode, but instinct told him there was something more serious going on. “I’ve ordered quite a few tests, and we’ve started them. But Peggy wants to see you before we take her down for her MRI and other scans.”
“Okay,” I say dully, trying to wrap my mind around everything.
Jenny says, “She’s scared to death, Penn. For Daddy mostly, but I think she’s actually afraid she might die for once. That’s why she wants to talk to you.”
“I’ll go talk to her.”
“Wait about ten minutes,” Drew says. “There’s a med tech in with her now.”
“Just let me know when I can go in. And thanks, Drew. Thanks for being there and moving so fast.”
“I’m just glad I was.” He starts to go, then from the door says, “I’ll be here all day, okay? We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
I nod thanks, then turn to Jenny, who has begun shivering. When Rusty puts his arms around her to warm her up, she starts to cry.
“Come on, now,” I say, trying to calm her down. “Mom’s going to be all right.”
“It’s not Mom I’m thinking about. I mean . . . not the stroke, if that’s what it is.”
As I look into my sister’s eyes, I see a well of fear that appears to have no bottom. “Rusty, can you give us a minute?” I ask, not taking my eyes off hers.
“Sure thing. I’ll be right outside. Holler i
f you need anything.”
Rusty doesn’t wait for an answer, and soon Jenny and I are alone.
“Talk to me,” I tell her, taking hold of her hands, which are limp and clammy.
“Why did he do that, Penn? You don’t believe . . . Daddy really killed her?”
“No. I think he’s distraught over Caitlin and Walt. Viola, too, of course. He changed his plea out of an overwhelming sense of guilt. Survivor’s guilt, you know? Like the Holocaust, or wartime. He wants punishment.”
Jenny nods, but I can see she doesn’t fully accept this explanation.
“What is it?” I press. “What are you thinking about?”
“Penn, I need to tell you something else.”
“I’m listening.”
“The night Viola died, I was in England, of course. But I called the house, and Mom didn’t answer.”
“So?”
“I was worried, because it was early morning in Natchez.”
“How early?”
“Before dawn.”
I start to say “So?” again, but suddenly I understand why Jenny is upset. My mother is not merely a light sleeper; she has lived her nocturnal married life awaiting the late-night phone call heralding family tragedy. She’s always been haunted by dreams of Dad falling asleep and hitting a tree on the way to some distant house during a night call; and once Jenny and I could drive, Mom’s Pavlovian response to the telephone during those hours was forever imprinted in her brain.
“Can you be any more precise about what time you called?”
“That’s the thing,” Jenny says, her brow knitted with anxiety. “Because of the time zone difference, I didn’t think about it much in the beginning. But I called her during my noon break at school. With a seven-hour difference, that means it was—”
“Five a.m., or thereabouts,” I finish. “Viola died at five thirty-eight.”
Jenny shakes her head like a child trying to deny some dreaded reality.
“Did you just call once?”
“No. I thought she might have been in the bathroom, so I kept calling back.” Jenny flattens one hand against her chest as though to slow her heart. “When I finally reached her, much later, Mom told me she’d been sleeping and hadn’t heard the phone. God, my chest hurts.”