Mississippi Blood

by Greg Iles

  The most alarming thing Quentin has done to date, though, is fail to request “discovery” from the State. In most states, the defense is entitled to examine any and all evidence against the accused in possession of the prosecutors, including exculpatory evidence, as well as a list of all witnesses the State intends to call. In short, the defense is entitled to see everything the State has, in advance. Likewise, the prosecution is entitled to see whatever the defense has, as well as a list of witnesses the defense intends to call. In Mississippi, however, nothing about this process is automatic. The defense attorney must request discovery, and by so doing, he agrees to reciprocally show the State the same courtesy. It’s the adult version of “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Yet even though this process is not automatic by law, in practice it has become so, because no defense attorney would dare enter a courtroom to face the vast power of the State without having the most complete possible inventory of what he was up against.

  Except Quentin Avery.

  During the past three months, that lion of the law has not asked the State of Mississippi to provide any information about the case against my father. I only learned of this professional negligence from Caitlin’s sister, Miriam, just prior to her reporting it in the Natchez Examiner, and I nearly exploded when I did. Before I spoke to Quentin about it, I was certain he was going senile. After I talked to him, I wasn’t convinced I was wrong, but rather that he had some arcane strategy he was not going to share with me no matter how loudly I demanded it. My father clearly agreed with his strategy—which appeared to be legal suicide—and that left me no option but to consult a couple of older criminal lawyers in town about the matter. As it turned out, both recalled rare cases in which a defense attorney had declined to request discovery in order to conceal a surprise witness from the State. I can only hope that this method lies at the heart of Quentin’s apparent madness. If so, however, he has not confided it to me.

  “. . . above the law!” Shad cries with startling vehemence.

  These three words, uttered with an icy edge of indignation, break through my anxious reverie.

  “That’s what we have here!” Shad declares, in the tone of a self-satisfied prosecutor headed home to the barn. “A privileged white physician who believed that nothing he did on that night would be questioned, much less raised against him as an accusation. Because, ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Tom Cage was not doing anything he had not done before, as you will see.”

  There he goes again, I think, with a nightmare vision of former patients’ family members parading through the witness box with horrifying tales of unwanted euthanasia. Tom Cage as Dr. Kevorkian . . .

  “This time, he was merely doing it for a different reason,” Shad says. “In this case, to silence a dying woman he had once claimed to love, and by so doing, to hide the fruits of his sin from the eyes of a world that had revered him for most of his life.”

  Ten minutes later than he should have, Shad points at my father with the accusatory fire I always summoned in the courtroom. “That man there,” he says with what sounds like genuinely righteous anger, “held the power of life and death over a powerless patient—a patient he had exploited in the most shameful way possible—and he exercised that power solely to protect himself. He chose to take her life. He meticulously planned the crime, and he ruthlessly carried it out. Were it not for the conscience of Viola’s sister, the anger of Viola’s son, and the random chance of an accidental video recording being made, Dr. Cage would have gotten away with it. But if we do our duty here this week, he will not get away with it. Before this trial is over, you will know in your heart that Tom Cage committed murder in the first degree, that he is as guilty of that crime as any man can be.”

  While Shad stands with his finger still pointing at my father, I turn slightly to my right and see that Mom has gone pale, so pale that I worry she might slide off her chair onto the floor.

  “Mom?” I whisper. “Do you need to leave?”

  She shakes her head, but her color does not return. While I try to figure out how to help her, my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. As covertly as possible, I take it out. It’s Serenity. Her text reads: You need to get home. Dolores is losing her shit. She can’t reach Cleotha Booker by phone.

  The heels of Shad Johnson’s Italian shoes click on the hardwood floor as he walks back to the prosecutor’s table. As quickly as I can, I type: Can u handle her for 20 minutes? I need to hear Q’s opening statement. Call Carl Sims and have him check on CB.

  Judge Elder says, “Mr. Avery, you may begin your opening statement.”

  Tried Carl already, Serenity replies. Got voice mail. Trying him again. FYI Dolores freaking out is upsetting Annie. Mia handling that.

  “Mom, I have to help Serenity with Dolores,” I say into her ear. “Don’t lose your faith. Quentin is worth ten of Shad Johnson. They don’t call him ‘Preacher’ for nothing. He’s going to stand up and pull that whole jury right into the palm of his hand.”

  “I don’t know,” Mom whispers. “I’m frightened, Penn.”

  “Don’t be. Quentin can talk to a jury like a father to his adult children, and thunder like Moses come down from the mountaintop. You watch. Shad Johnson won’t ever forget this day.”

  “Mr. Avery, are you ready?” Judge Elder repeats.

  The click of an electric brake echoes in the courtroom, and Quentin’s wheelchair whirs softly for about three seconds. Then the legendary voice speaks in a soft and passionless tone.

  “Judge, the defense elects to defer its opening statement until prior to presenting its case in chief.”

  While the puzzled crowd tries to work out what this means, my blood pressure plummets. For a few seconds I fear that I and not my mother might faint to the floor. Just as with the issue of discovery, Quentin has exercised a little-used prerogative of the defense, which is to make no opening statement until after the prosecution has presented its entire case. There’s a reason this option is seldom used. Almost no defense attorney believes his client can withstand several days of unopposed accusations and damning evidence without sustaining devastating damage in the minds of the jury.

  No attorney except Quentin Avery.

  “Penn, what’s happening?” my mother asks with barely restrained panic.

  “Wait a second,” I temporize, certain that Quentin must be stalling for some reason.

  Judge Elder is staring down at Quentin with one eyebrow raised, but Quentin appears to be intent on something on his table.

  “Mr. Avery?” asks Judge Elder. “For the record, are you sure about that?”

  Quentin looks up and answers with the same lack of passion. “Positive, Judge.”

  “Well, then. All right.”

  My pulse is somewhere north of 110 beats per minute when my cell phone buzzes again. This time the text is from Mia Burke: You need to get here. Serenity just reached Carl, and he’s 20 minutes away from old lady’s house. Dolores is losing it. Premonitions of disaster. Annie is freaking out because of D. Come NOW.

  “Mom, I have to go,” I whisper.

  “What? Penn, what’s happened?”

  “Dolores is so upset she’s freaking Annie out.”

  “Oh, God. But what about your father? Penn, why didn’t Quentin argue with everything Johnson said?”

  “I don’t know, but I promise I’ll find out. Stay here and remember every word that’s said. Rusty will keep me posted via text. I love you, Mom.”

  Before I can rise, Judge Elder says, “Mr. Johnson, please call your first witness.”

  “Your Honor, the State would like the jury to see the video recording of the death of Viola Turner, which has been stipulated into evidence as State’s Exhibit One.”

  While the crowd thrums in anticipation, I rise into a crouch and start moving toward the aisle, grazing knees and thighs, triggering protests and even muffled curses from those I pass. It would have been better to wait until the room was darkened for the playing of the video, but Mia’s SOS sounde
d desperate. Praying for leniency from Judge Elder, I push into the aisle and start toward the back door.

  “Mayor Cage,” booms the judge. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  I freeze in the aisle like a schoolboy caught trying to sneak out of assembly.

  “No one enters or leaves my court except during a recess.”

  Turning toward Joe Elder, I speak with all the conviction I can muster. “Judge, I have a family emergency. I implore the court for understanding.”

  The judge looks back as if to say, That’s obvious, and your emergency’s right here in this courtroom.

  “It’s a medical emergency, Judge. My daughter. I apologize.”

  “Go, then. But you won’t be readmitted until after the lunch recess.”

  “Thank you, Judge.”

  “Bailiff, please dim the lights so that the jury can see the videotape.”

  As I hurry toward the door, I wonder whether Quentin has truly begun going senile. I need to research the mental complications of diabetes . . .

  I’m almost running when the courtroom goes dark behind me.

  Chapter 24

  Serenity wasn’t exaggerating about Dolores. Her anxiety has almost escalated into full-blown panic by the time I reach home. The elegant and decorous woman I met in New Orleans has become a quivering, wild-eyed wreck. She’s convinced that Cleotha Booker—the Cat Lady from Athens Point—has been murdered.

  “Carl will be at Cleotha’s house in fifteen minutes,” Serenity assures her. “I’m sure he’s going to find her working in her garden or something.”

  Dolores shakes her head like a mental patient who thinks you’re trying to convince her that grass is blue. Annie, by contrast, settles down to something like normalcy within two minutes of my return. Mia walks her into the den, leaving Serenity and me to sit with Dolores at the kitchen table, waiting to hear from Carl.

  When my cell phone pings, Dolores nearly jumps out of her skin, but it’s only a text update from Rusty. As I switch my phone to silent, I read a message that’s not very uplifting.

  8:36 a.m. Shad just played the vid of Viola dying. Can’t believe Q stipulated that into evidence! Not challenging the chain of evidence, authenticity, nothing. Wow . . .

  I didn’t think about it before, but why wouldn’t Quentin challenge the video recording? I guess since he knows it’s almost certainly authentic, he doesn’t want to go through the vain hassle of trying to suppress it. Nevertheless, most defense lawyers would. What worries me more is that Shad has apparently made no mention of the videotape that should have been in Henry Sexton’s camcorder when the police arrived—the one whose removal made the hard drive the default recording medium. Did the sheriff recover it at the scene, or maybe locate it elsewhere? If Quentin had filed for discovery we would know that, but since he didn’t, that hypothetical tape waits like a buried land mine somewhere in the unknown terrain before us.

  When another text flashes up, I excuse myself and walk into the den, promising to come right back if I hear from Carl.

  8:53 a.m. State pathologist on stand. Confirms V had terminal cancer. Describes botched morphine injxn. Cause of death adrenaline overdose. Resulting death terrifying and painful, as video showed. Jury horrified by CSI-type detail. Good bang for the buck, if ur Shad.

  As Annie realizes what’s going on, she begins to hover around my chair, waiting for updates, but I shoo her back to the television.

  “Why doesn’t Mr. Rusty just call you on his cell and leave the line open?” she suggests.

  Not a bad idea, I think. But then the likely reason hits me. “I think that would technically be breaking the law, or at least the judge’s order about media in the courtroom. Rusty would technically be broadcasting the trial.”

  “That’s called narrowcasting,” Annie corrects me.

  Jesus. “Okay, but you know what I mean. The judge has only allowed six pool reporters into the courtroom, and they can only make audiotapes for their records, not for broadcast.”

  She shrugs and looks back at the television, but I sense that her attention has not left me.

  8:55 a.m. Shad questioning M.E. n detail bout why adrenaline injected. Complicated. Going to record voices on my dictation recorder. U listen later.

  For the next few minutes no texts come in, and anxiety begins to rise in me. Not only because of Quentin’s apparent unwillingness to act like a lawyer, but also because Carl should have called by now. Glancing back into the kitchen I see Serenity sitting with an arm around Dolores’s shuddering shoulders. Tee looks at me and shakes her head. I decide to give Carl one more minute.

  My mind shifts straight back to the trial. In his opening statement Shad offered no explanation for why Dad would have chosen adrenaline to kill Viola if he botched the morphine injection. Convincing the jury that this was a plausible choice under the circumstances is critical to Shad’s case, and as a former prosecutor, I can see problems with it. But there’s no point in speculating. If Rusty succeeds in his covert recording, I’ll hear Shad’s examination of the pathologist soon enough.

  My phone vibrates powerfully in my hand, signaling an incoming call. Checking the LCD I see carl sims. A premonition of death passes over me, leaving a sense of dread behind.

  “Hello?” I say quietly.

  “Penn, I’m at Mrs. Booker’s and it’s not good.”

  “Tell me,” I whisper, having struggled mightily not to say, Is she dead?

  “I found the old lady lying on the ground beside her porch. She’s alive but unresponsive. Looks like a fall to me. Serious head trauma.”

  I close my eyes, overwhelmed by horror and guilt. “That was no fall,” I whisper. “That’s a crime scene, Carl.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. I’ve got paramedics on the way, so I’m about to be real busy. Can you inform the St. Denis woman?”

  “Yes. She’s right here.”

  “I’m sorry, man.”

  “Thanks. We’ll talk later.”

  Hanging up the phone, I quietly ask Annie and Mia if they’ll go downstairs and give me some time to talk to “Mrs. Dolores.” They know instantly that something terrible has happened, and I couldn’t have concealed it no matter what I told them. As they walk into the hall, Mia looks back at me with her lips closed tight. Beyond her, I see Annie raise a hand to the back of her head and pull at the hair there.

  Any hope I had of breaking the news gently is shattered when I turn back to the kitchen. The second Dolores St. Denis sees my face, she begins to shriek.

  Ten minutes later, we’ve gotten a Valium down her throat and Drew Elliott is on the way. At first Dolores wanted to drive straight to Athens Point, but we convinced her she could accomplish nothing there, except putting her own life at grave risk. Somehow Serenity convinced her to lie down upstairs. After they went up, I sat in the kitchen waiting for Drew and reading Rusty’s texts as they arrived from the courthouse. When I wasn’t trying to work out what hidden logic might lie behind Quentin’s seemingly incompetent behavior, I began to realize that I’m going to have to bring John Kaiser into the Dolores situation, whether she wants me to or not. But that can wait until Drew examines her.

  Meanwhile, the ping of my cell phone has become my Pavlovian master.

  9:07 a.m. Shad just tendered the witness. Quentin said No questions. He apparently doesn’t intend to cross-examine the pathologist. WTF?

  WTF indeed. No competent defense lawyer would let the autopsy findings go unchallenged, especially since several aspects of the postmortem offered fertile lines of inquiry.

  9:11 a.m. Shad called Cora Revels to the stand.

  9:13 a.m. Cora explaining she’s Viola’s sister, describing childhood. Compelling witness.

  At 9:18 Tim Weathers escorts Drew into the house, and I gratefully direct him upstairs. I’m happy to see an old-school black bag hanging from his right hand, because it offers the promise of effective sedation. There’s nothing like having doctors “in the family.” After Drew and I separate, I return
to my text updates like someone watching a slow-motion disaster.

  9:19 a.m. Cora affirms existence of asst. suicide pact. Q. doesnt object on hearsay grounds. Id at least object and make judge overrule. I got a bad feeling about Q, man . . .

  The rules governing so-called hearsay evidence are complex; some scholars believe they exist to prevent a defendant from being accused of crimes without being able to confront his accuser. The exceptions to hearsay are several, but any good lawyer would have objected to Cora’s statement so that the issue could be preserved for review on appeal to a higher court. By Quentin’s failure to object, Dad loses that right. So the question is . . . what the fuck is Quentin doing sitting on his ass like a brown Buddha?

  9:22 a.m. Cora establishes your father in her house that night. She went to nearby neighbor’s house to rest. Often did that. Left Tom alone with V, that night n others.

  9:25 a.m. Cora says V’s son Lincoln was on way from Chicago that night. Says she told Tom Lincoln was close to Natz, but didn’t tell V. Cora didn’t want Tom to go thru with pact while Lincoln on way home. Didn’t want Tom and Lncln to meet 1st time over Viola’s dead body.

  9:28 a.m. Next thing C remembers is getting call from Tom asking how V doing. C trotted home & found V dead. She thought then the pact had been fulfilled, even tho Tom acted like V was alive when he left.

  9:31 a.m. Cora had mixed feelings about asst. suicide pact. Religious guilt. She Catholic like V. Cora claims Lincoln was coming because she told him death was close, but nothing about death pact b4 L arrived. Shit, my fingers spazzing out. I may call you and sit here with the line open.

  I type: Can you do that w/o getting caught?