by Greg Iles
In truth, it wouldn’t have mattered if not one word had been printed or spoken about this case in the media. With a beloved white physician accused of murder, and wild rumors flying about him having several illegitimate black children, Natchez folks alone would have filled this courtroom twenty times. As we were ushered into the courtroom by the circuit clerk, he told me that people began lining up at six a.m. in hopes of getting a seat in the gallery. The judge has even allowed a certain number of people to be admitted without seats and stand at the back of the chamber. Amazingly, the eight chairs between the windows on the left wall are filled with ranking deputies, when normally five or six would stand empty.
Looking over my shoulder, I see a crowd that’s about 50 percent black, and 50 white. A little ominously, the races seem to have segregated themselves, like boys and girls at a junior-high-school party. The self-segregation isn’t absolute: the black section is salted by a few white faces, the white section peppered by a few African-Americans, but I can’t escape the feeling that deep currents of emotion seethe beneath the muted roar of expectant conversation in this room.
To my surprise, I see several faces that belong to potential witnesses—at least, they would be witnesses if I were defending my father. Viola’s sister, Cora, and Lincoln Turner are the most obvious examples. Quentin could easily clear them from the court by “invoking the rule,” which any competent criminal lawyer would do to prevent witnesses from adjusting their stories based on the testimony of others. Yet for some reason Quentin has not done so. What kind of crazy game is he playing? I wonder. And does he truly understand the stakes?
My mother is squeezing my hand so hard that my fingernails are turning blue, but I don’t protest. Wearing a dove-gray dress and gloves—yes, gloves—she looks like a first lady facing a congressional hearing in which her husband could face evidence for impeachment. But Mom came from far humbler origins than Hillary Clinton. Born on a subsistence farm in Louisiana, she picked cotton from the time she was old enough to drag a sack until she left for college, the first person in her family to attend one. Educated in a two-room grade school, she read seventy-five novels the summer after her senior year and ultimately graduated first in her college class. After teaching in the slums of New Orleans to put my father through medical school, she served several years in Germany as a military wife, among women who spent more on their spring wardrobes than she’d spent on clothes since her wedding day. Yet despite her marital “success,” Mom never basked in the glow of being a doctor’s wife, which confers considerable status in a town like Natchez. Nor did she have patience with the ex-sorority girls who ran the garden clubs, though she joined one for a while and worked tirelessly at whatever projects she was assigned, so that her children would become part of the social fabric of the town.
How must it feel for her to sit here and watch a black judge, two black lawyers, and a predominantly black jury decide the fate of her husband, whose alleged crime is killing a black woman to whom he once turned for romantic comfort? Twelve citizens of Adams County, Mississippi, seven black people and five white. And no matter how noble their intentions might be, no matter how objective they’ve told themselves they can be, such detachment is not possible. The people on this jury represent a divided city, a fractured state, a wounded nation. Evidence will be presented to them, but they will not see that evidence the same way. Arguments will be made to them collectively, but they will not hear the same words. Those jurors will be like men and women in the middle of a divorce. The facts at issue may be as clear as glass to neutral observers, but the principals will see only reflections of their own fears, hear only echoes of their own prejudice, act only out of anger and wounded pride.
I’m surprised Mom can sit here without a toxic level of Xanax or Zoloft in her system. Though she may be seventy, Peggy Cage is still the farm girl whom her mother called to kill the copperheads and rattlesnakes that sometimes slithered up onto the porch while the men were away in the fields.
The small hand now gripping mine—the hand that once gripped a hoe handle just as hard—is damp enough to wet the glove that covers it, and its nails dig into the back of my hand like knife points. Leaning close to Mom’s ear, I whisper, “The judge will be here any minute. Then Shad will give his opening statement. It’ll be tough to listen to, but Quentin will make up whatever ground we lose as soon as Shad sits down.”
“Penn,” she whispers, “I know people on that jury. Third from the left, second row, that’s Edna Campbell. And the man two seats down from her. He worked at a service station I used to patronize. He was always rude. And—my God, that black woman on the other end, first row . . . she used to cook for Margaret Corwin over in Glenwood, at parties.”
“Mom, that’s how it is in small towns. Take a piece of advice: Try not to think about the jury. Don’t even look at them. You’ll drive yourself crazy analyzing every twitch and raised eyebrow, and in the end all you’ll do is miss half the testimony.”
“But your father’s fate is in their hands!” she hisses with urgency.
“Yes and no. It’s Quentin and Shad who’ll determine Dad’s fate, far more than those twelve people. And Dad himself, maybe. So save yourself the aggravation.”
Mom doesn’t answer, but her grip tightens another notch, and my hand begins to go numb. As I try to ignore the pain—and wonder whether I can take my own advice—it hits me just how historic this trial really is. Natchez has a distinguished judicial history: the first bar association in the entire United States was founded here in 1821. Most recently the Justice Department decided to relocate a federal district court to Natchez, which over two hundred years ago was the capital of the Mississippi Territory. Between those two historic benchmarks lie several notable trials, some of which are best forgotten. But my father’s trial is certain to be remembered for more than the matter at issue before the bar. A trial in which not only the judge but also both principal attorneys are black is as rare as snow in Mississippi—rarer, in fact, since it actually snows in Natchez every couple of years. Black district attorneys are thin on the ground in my state. Since each judicial district has only one DA, whereas many districts have multiple judges, gerrymandering has carved out a significant number of “black” posts, making black judges quite common.
Judge Joe Elder is one of those smart lawyers who, around the age of fifty, realized that the state retirement system was one of the best around and decided to run for the bench. He has fulfilled most of his first four-year term, and by all measures he’s been an exemplary judge. A native of Ferriday, Louisiana, Elder attended historically black Alcorn State University, where he played basketball, then Howard University School of Law in Washington, D.C. He joined a corporate firm in D.C. for a few years, but then returned to Mississippi and set up shop on Lawyers’ Row in Natchez. Like most local attorneys, he handled whatever walked through the door, and he was overqualified for most of the work. He often trounced the white Ole Miss law school graduates whom he faced in court, and I suspect that gave him more than a little enjoyment.
To my immediate left sits one of those Ole Miss lawyers. Rusty Duncan has practiced almost every kind of law imaginable, but it’s plaintiffs’ cases and divorce work that pay his four kids’ tuition at St. Stephen’s Prep. Fifty pounds heavier than when we graduated from St. Stephen’s together, the unrepentant cynic has the lobster-red skin of a guy who spent the past week water-skiing on Lake St. John with his belly hanging over his 1970s-style cutoff blue jeans. But his appearance is deceptive: Rusty can still water-ski barefoot if challenged, and he’s got as keen a grasp of courtroom psychology as any lawyer I know.
“All rise!” cries the bailiff. “All rise for the Honorable Joseph D. Elder of the Fifth Circuit Court of the great State of Mississippi!”
Conversation dies as Judge Elder, all six feet six of him, strides into the courtroom from a side door and climbs the stairs to his lofty seat. Still trim and fit, Elder moves with athletic grace, and his shaved head makes him look ten year
s younger than his true age, which is near sixty. His deep-set eyes radiate authority; he doesn’t need to speak to make clear that he will brook no nonsense from anyone. Judge Elder is darker than Quentin Avery, whose skin is the color of shelled pecans; and compared to Shad—who’s as yellow as a Cotton Club chorus girl—Elder looks like a Masai warrior. As the judge leans over some papers on his desk, a few brave souls in the crowd begin to whisper to each other.
“You know how I think of them?” Rusty Duncan says in my ear.
“Who?” I ask.
“Shad, Quentin, and Judge Elder.”
“How?”
“Shad is Sidney Poitier, Quentin’s Morgan Freeman, and the judge—”
“Shut up, Rusty.”
“Aw, come on, Joe’s busy.” Rusty bumps my shoulder with his. “Look, George is talking to him now.”
Sure enough, the circuit clerk has climbed up to confer with the judge about something. “Shad Johnson reminds you of Sidney Poitier?” I ask with astonishment. “That’s like saying Rush Limbaugh ought to be played by Gregory Peck.”
“I know, I know. Poitier would have to play against type, but that always works for great actors. When Sidney was young, he had that same striving intensity Shad has, the Mississippi black boy who made it all the way to Harvard.”
“I’d cast Poitier as Judge Elder. He’d have to wear elevator shoes, though. Who would you cast as Judge Elder?”
“Isaiah Washington.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“The black surgeon on Grey’s Anatomy.” Rusty gives me a sidelong look. “I thought Annie was a fanatic for that show.”
“She is, but I don’t watch it that closely. It’s just the time with her I like.”
“Oh. Well, Quentin’s definitely Morgan Freeman. He’s got the white kinky hair, the Visa-commercial voice, and that held-in temper, like he might go off if you push him too far. Like Crazy Joe Clark, remember?”
“At least Morgan Freeman’s from Mississippi.”
Though Rusty has too much tact to mention Lincoln Turner, I turn and look to my left, past my mother, to where my half brother sits behind the prosecution table. Lincoln looks like exactly what he is: a man involved in a blood feud, waiting for the law to punish the cruel father whom he believes killed his mother. The hard-set jaw and sheen of sweat on Lincoln’s face give me the feeling that if the impaneled jury doesn’t deliver the verdict he desires, he’ll gladly carry out the appropriate sentence himself. Perversely, I find myself trying to mentally cast an actor who could embody the malevolent emotions radiated by Lincoln Turner.
“Clarence Williams the Third,” Rusty whispers in my ear.
“What?”
“To play Lincoln. Clarence Williams played Prince’s father in Purple Rain. He was Linc in the old Mod Squad, too, but he was a pretty boy then. As he got older, he developed that barely restrained rage that’s steaming off your brother over there.”
“Half brother. Damn it, Rusty, my father’s on trial for murder, and you’re ready to turn it into a TV miniseries.”
“Let me agent the deal, and I will.” Like most plaintiff’s lawyers I know, Rusty Duncan has no shame. “Did I tell you I met Morgan once, up at his blues club in Clarksdale? I wonder if he remembers me.” Rusty elbows me again. “This is big, buddy. Why do you think Court TV and CNN are outside on the steps?”
“Because Joe Elder has more sense than to allow them in here.”
“Don’t get too comfortable with that setup. Joe’s liable to cave on that any minute. That’s probably what George is talking to him about now.”
Fresh anxiety brings on a sudden urge to urinate. “Bullshit. How can they pressure a judge?”
“Elected judges are politicians, my man. And what politician doesn’t want to be on TV?”
“Me.”
Rusty pulls a wry face. “You’re an aberration. Mark my words: the first big revelation that comes out of this trial, we’ll have cameras inside the court.”
“The court will come to order!” cries the bailiff.
This time the hum dies more slowly, slowly enough that Judge Elder pans his eyes across the crowd like a machine gunner sighting his weapon.
“Before we begin,” Elder says in a deep baritone, “let me be clear about something. Because of the notoriety of this trial, people may feel that the normal rules of decorum do not apply.” He glances down at the lawyers’ tables. “Some attorneys may even feel that way. But let me assure everyone in this room: If you cause trouble in this court—if you make undue displays of emotion or cause a disturbance of any kind—you are going to jail. You will not pass Go, nor will you collect two hundred dollars.”
If this is a joke, nobody laughs.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Elder says gravely, “a distinguished member of the community stands accused of first-degree murder, and the sharks are circling outside. Media people, political fanatics with their own agendas. Some may even have made it into this room. So I say it again: There are deputies present who will enforce my commands without a moment’s hesitation. I won’t lose five minutes’ sleep over jailing anybody in this courtroom. I can’t be clearer than that. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
The spectators have drawn back from Judge Elder’s daunting presence, and while they’re still pressed into their chair backs, the judge says, “Mr. District Attorney, you may begin your opening statement.”
Shadrach Johnson has prepared his whole life for this moment. Now forty-four years of age, he hasn’t risen nearly as high in the world as he once believed he would have by this time. Shad believed, in fact, that he would be governor of Mississippi by now. That was the goal he set himself when he first returned to Natchez from Chicago and ran for mayor of this city, seven years ago—or nearly eight now, I guess. And rightly or not, Shad blames me for the most crippling setbacks in his quest. In some cases he’s right, others not. The black community here wasn’t nearly so quick to accept an ambitious “outsider” as Shad assumed they would be—not even a prodigal son—but most of their reluctance was based on a collective assessment of Shad as a man bent on furthering his own cause, and not that of his people.
But today offers an opportunity to wipe all those setbacks away. In the three to five days that this trial is likely to take, Shad can revenge himself against me, redeem himself in the eyes of the more resentful faction of his people, pile up a mountain of political capital, and—best of all—strut in the media limelight for a few precious hours. Shad’s vanity is considerable, but not so great that he takes anything for granted. He’s learned a few lessons from dealing with me. And he knows better than to underestimate Quentin Avery. At Harvard they still cite cases Quentin tried before the nation’s highest court as landmarks of jurisprudence.
Quentin knows better than to underestimate Shad Johnson as well. He also feels a great animus toward Shad, for complex racial reasons I can only partly understand. Quentin once tried to explain them to me, and while I understood his reasoning, I cannot feel the same emotions he does. What I do know is that Quentin—the black Mississippi lawyer who helped to conquer Jim Crow with practical idealism and unshakable fortitude—looks at Shad Johnson with sadness and more than a little anger. Quentin understands selfish impulses; he himself endured withering criticism during the 1990s for defending drug dealers and trying several class-action suits in Jefferson County, greatly enriching himself in the process. But Quentin senses a different sort of greed in Shad—a hunger to be admired, revered, even worshipped, but without putting in the trench labor usually required to earn those things. Quentin also believes that Shad, having attained those things, would be the last man ever to give back anything to the community or to his own people. In my judgment, Shad feels only envy of or contempt for others, and nothing in between. What made him that way I do not know, nor does Quentin. What I do know is that Shad’s ambition and anger make him a dangerous adversary, and his first order of business this week is revenge.
He plans to
get it by making sure my father dies in prison. As Shad rises and walks to the podium in his $2,500 suit, I sense his barely disguised lust for retribution running like an electric current through the courtroom, setting everyone’s hair on end before he speaks a word. This may not be a capital murder case, but when a seventy-three-year-old man goes on trial for murder, everyone understands the reality:
My father is on trial for his life.
Chapter 23
“Nothing about this trial is normal,” Shad begins. “Not—one—thing. We have one of the most respected white physicians in this city accused of premeditated murder of a black woman by the State—”
“All right, Counsel, both of you approach right now,” bellows Judge Elder. “Now.”
Shad freezes for a moment, then moves toward the bench, but Quentin’s wheelchair remains silent.
“Your Honor,” Quentin says with supreme confidence, “there is no issue from our side as regards the mention of race. We have no concern about the prosecutor using race to inflame the jury, and thus we see no need for a sidebar. The defense is ready for the State to proceed as it began.”
Judge Elder blinks in disbelief, and probably on two counts: first, that Quentin would consider allowing Shad to begin his opening statement with the mention of race; second, that Quentin would dare to contradict his instruction to approach the bench. I can hardly believe it myself. Any Natchez attorney worth his fee would have been yelling to the rafters the second the words black woman escaped Shad’s lips. Quentin’s entire approach to this trial has been unconventional, to say the least, but with this step he is veering into the radical. Joe Elder studies his former mentor with what looks like suspicion. Maybe he’s asking himself—as others have—whether the old lawyer has finally lost his grip on reality. But the longer I look at Judge Elder, the more I think he senses a deep strategy concealed behind Quentin’s aged face, the genius of a chess master playing a very long game.