Mississippi Blood

by Greg Iles

  “Seriously, Penn. Stay away from Lincoln. When you get twisted the way that boy was growing up . . . there’s just no hope. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “He’s no boy anymore. He’s a grown man. A lawyer. And regardless of what happens in this case, he’s going to file a federal suit against Dad for violation of his mother’s civil rights. He’ll probably file a medical malpractice case as well. You know I’m right. That audiotape has value beyond this case. A million dollars might sound cheap before this mess is finished.”

  Quentin reaches out and lays his hand on my forearm. “Listen to me. If I was worried, I’d be trying to buy that tape myself. But I’m not. When a crook like Lincoln Turner starts trying to work the system for revenge, he always screws up. Lincoln’s mistake is greed. Don’t play into it. Let him twist in the breeze. By the time I’m done with him, he won’t be filing shit against your father or anybody else. He’ll never get his license back.”

  “And Will Devine? Do you have him now or not?”

  Quentin taps the tip of his nose with his long forefinger. “Put it this way: If I get him, I’ll be happy to squeeze him like a rotten lemon. But if I don’t, I’m happy to proceed without him.” Quentin gives me a wink. “Remember . . . the Lord helps those that helps themselves.”

  Chapter 54

  When the trial resumed at 1:35 p.m.—after exhaustive searches of the judge’s home and the courthouse—I couldn’t keep my mind on the testimony of Virginia Sexton. For one thing, I was stunned to find that my mother had finally agreed to let Annie attend the court proceedings. This morning’s recitation of Dad’s war heroism must have tipped the balance. Annie sits at Mom’s right shoulder, Mia beside her, then Jenny. Annie looks fascinated by the whole spectacle, while Mia takes in everything with her usual cool thoroughness.

  I can’t stop silently replaying the tape recording I heard in Lincoln’s car. That recording alone would inject reasonable doubt into the collective mind of this jury. And Lincoln was right in his assessment of my character: if someone had told me on day one of this trial that one million dollars would buy my father an acquittal, I would have found a way to pay the money.

  Now it’s no longer an option.

  Despite his bravado back at Edelweiss, Quentin is still painstakingly following the thread of Viola’s supposed alternate will, which, despite the remainder of Henry’s mother’s testimony, remains theoretical. Shad releases the tearful Mrs. Sexton after getting her to admit that she never saw any will even purportedly written by Viola Turner.

  Next, Quentin calls to the stand a history professor from Syracuse University, a pale, soft-spoken man whose voice carries great conviction. The professor has brought with him an e-mail written by Henry Sexton ten days before his death. In this e-mail, which the professor reads aloud, Henry informs him that Viola told Henry she had changed her will, and in the new will stipulated that Henry would receive fifty thousand dollars to be used to finance the continued investigation of Viola’s brother’s death, and also to complete his documentary film about that investigation, among others. The problem, despite the professor’s passionate sincerity, is that no one will come forward and swear they ever saw such a will, much less produce it for the court.

  When I glance at Rusty on my left, he looks half-asleep, but when he sees me looking at him, he covertly makes a masturbatory gesture with his right hand. Clearly, his reassessment of Quentin as a genius has taken a beating in the past hour. After Shad gets the professor to admit that he never saw a copy of the supposed new will, the district attorney faces the jury and turns up his hands, as though to say, Why are we wasting our time with this nonsense?

  I am inclined to agree with him until Quentin, in a revitalized voice, says, “Your Honor, the defense calls Mr. Junius Jelks to the stand.”

  Shad whips his head toward the back door so fast that he might require a visit to a chiropractor, and only with obvious difficulty does he squelch the compulsion to bark “Objection!” But he has no grounds for objection. Shad is merely stunned that Viola Turner’s husband—a man who until ten seconds ago Shad believed was safely behind bars in Joliet, Illinois—is about to take the stand and say God knows what. Trying a case without the benefit of discovery is proving to be a devilish ordeal for the district attorney. I can only thank my stars that this was never an option for defense attorneys in Texas.

  When the big back doors open, I don’t see the witness, but two federal marshals. One holds open the door while the second stands a few feet inside it, awaiting their charge. With a jangling clink of metal on metal, a black man of medium height enters the courtroom with a graceful walk and a twinkle in his eye. Junius Jelks’s hair is gray, but he still looks virile, and he seems to draw keen pleasure from the hundreds of eyes now riveted upon him. As he walks down the aisle, an audible hiss rises from the gallery. The sibilant rush is soft, snakelike, but when it continues without break I realize it must be coming from many mouths at once. This crowd clearly remembers Lincoln’s testimony about how cruel this man was when he acted as Lincoln’s pretend-father. And if the crowd remembers that description, the jury does, too.

  When Jelks passes me, I note the handcuffs on his wrists; they look odd on a man wearing what looks like a funeral suit. In my mind’s eye, I see the old con man selling “preordered” Bibles to recently bereaved widows, à la Ryan O’Neal in Paper Moon. He probably dragged Lincoln to every door with him, like the little girl in the movie.

  While the clerk swears Jelks in, Rusty leans to my ear and says, “Vondie Curtis-Hall.”

  “What?”

  “That’s who Jelks looks like, Vondie Curtis-Hall, but old.”

  “Rusty, I don’t know these actors.”

  “Shit, Vondie’s been in everything from Crooklyn to the Sopranos, but you probably remember him in the movie they made of that James Lee Burke novel. The one with Alec Baldwin as Dave Robicheaux, not Tommy Lee Jones. He played Minos Dautrieve.”

  “I guess I need to get out more.”

  “He looks just like Cora Revels made him sound. A born con man.”

  “What the hell’s he doing here? That’s my question.”

  Rusty chuckles and whispers, “Quentin wouldn’t have brought him down from Joliet if he wasn’t going to set off some fireworks.”

  “Fireworks are dangerous, Rusty, especially in court.”

  Quentin rolls up to his spot beside the lectern and regards his witness sternly. “Mr. Jelks, I see you’ve brought a few people with you today. What is the reason for that?”

  Jelks gives a rueful smile. “They’re federal marshals. Apparently they consider me a flight risk.”

  “Where did you travel from to be with us today?”

  “The Illinois State Prison.”

  “What are you presently serving time for?”

  “Uhh, they said I tried to bribe a judge, but that’s an oversimplification. A man of your legal experience would see it in a minute. They—”

  “I’m going to lead this discussion, Mr. Jelks, if you don’t mind. What was your relation to the victim, Viola Turner?”

  “I’m her husband. I was, anyway.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Oh . . . ’bout thirtysomething years. Thirty-five or -six.”

  “And how did you meet your wife?”

  Jelks chuckles softly. “I was preaching a sermon in the Abundant Life Church in Chicago, and she happened to be there.”

  “Are you an ordained minister?”

  “Not exactly. I’m more of a lay preacher.”

  “I see. And Viola had a son at the time you married her?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were you the father of that child?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know who was?”

  Jelks takes his time with this. “Well . . . I knew what she told me. But that wasn’t the truth. Took me a long time to find that out. I doubt Viola told ten lies in all her life, but every one she told was about that child.”


  “Who did she tell you the father was?”

  “Her first husband, James Turner. The war hero.”

  “And when did you learn different?”

  “Thirty-two years later.”

  “How did that come about?”

  “Somebody sent me a picture of James Turner’s death notice in the Natchez paper. That’s when I realized he’d got killed in Vietnam nine months before Lincoln was even conceived.”

  “Do you know who sent you that picture?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who?”

  “Cora Revels.”

  “Like I said,” Rusty whispers in the stunned silence. “Fireworks.”

  “The defendant’s sister?” Quentin asks.

  “That’s right.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She admitted it to me, two days later.”

  “Cora Revels testified in this court that someone had sent you such a picture, but she didn’t know who.”

  Jelks chuckles knowingly. “I’ll bet she did.”

  “What did you do when you got the picture?”

  “I questioned my wife.”

  “Did you beat her?”

  “I may have slapped her a time or two. I was pretty upset, as you might imagine.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “First, some BS story about a one-night stand. I knew that was a lie. Viola never had a one-night stand in her life. Then she told me the Ku Klux Klan had raped her back in Mississippi. That I could believe. When I called down to Natchez to check, some people told me that rumor had gone around back in ’68. The numbers added up, so I bought that story.”

  “When did you learn that Tom Cage was in fact Lincoln’s father?”

  “Three months ago, when the story hit the national papers. After Viola died.”

  Glancing to my right, I see my mother sitting as pale and motionless as a marble in the British Museum. Only her right hand, clenching Annie’s, gives any indication of life.

  “Did you ever tell Lincoln that his birth had resulted from a Klan rape in Mississippi?” Quentin asks.

  “Yes, sir. Seven months ago.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “The boy disappointed me. I was upset. I wish I hadn’t done it now, but wishin’s no use. Wasn’t his fault, however he got born.”

  Quentin rotates his chair toward the jury box but continues to address Jelks. “Let’s go back to Cora Revels for a moment. Please characterize the relationship between Cora and her sister, as you came to understand it after you joined the family.”

  “Well . . . it wasn’t good.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Cora was always jealous of Viola. Viola was the pretty one, the smart one, she could sing and dance like somebody on TV. Like Martha and the Vandellas. The Supremes. Cora was like Mary Wells to Viola’s Diana Ross. Only Viola was like Diana Ross with Mary Wells’s voice. She had it all, brother.”

  Suddenly Jelks catches sight of Cora sitting in the row behind the prosecution table. She looks as though she’s trying to shrink beneath her seat.

  “There you is, Cee. Ha. Don’t crouch down, baby. You still looking good!”

  Judge Elder says, “Mr. Jelks, don’t speak unless you are first asked a question.”

  “Yes, sir, Judge.”

  Quentin says, “How well did you come to know Cora during the thirty-five years you were married to her sister?”

  “Well . . . about as good as a man can come to know a woman, if you know what I mean.”

  A shocked murmur ripples through the crowd. Everyone is staring at Cora Revels.

  “When Mae Ola was dying,” Jelks goes on, “—that’s Viola’s mama, Mrs. Mae Ola—Cora and me got a little closer than we should have. I ain’t proud of it. Just stating a fact. But a man’s got needs, and all Viola could think about during those weeks was taking care of her mama. She was bone tired every day. But Cora didn’t strain herself like that. Viola always did most of the work, ’cause she was a nurse, I reckon. But those two women were just different. Always was. And having this jealousy thing between them, Cora wanted to try me out, I guess. So I let her. I didn’t care what her reason was.”

  So this is what Lincoln was referring to on the stand when he said his mother had lost a lot of sympathy for Junius Jelks after her mother died . . .

  “You’re saying Cora slept with you out of a desire to hurt her sister?”

  “Objection,” says Shad. “Is this soap opera leading to anything relevant?”

  Judge Elder looks curiously at Shad. “When you were directing the soap opera, Mr. Johnson, you seemed quite content to hear this kind of lurid detail. Overruled.”

  “Like I said,” Jelks intones, “being with me was one way of getting back at Viola for all those years of feeling second class. If Cora could take Viola’s man, then she could feel superior for just a little while.”

  “Did Viola ever learn about this extramarital affair?”

  “Uhh, I’m afraid so. The night before we were due to go back to Chicago, she caught us messin’ a little in the kitchen, and she saw the way it was. Then out of nowhere Cora busts out and says I’m leaving Viola for her, which was complete bullsh— nonsense. I wasn’t that kind of fool. But the upshot was, Cora and Viola didn’t speak to each other for a long time after that.”

  “How long, Mr. Jelks?”

  “Years.”

  “How many years?”

  “Eight or nine, I guess. Until Viola got the cancer.”

  “And it was during this period that Cora sent you James Turner’s death notice?”

  “That’s right. For a long time Cora felt real guilty about me, and Viola wouldn’t ever ease up on her. So eventually Cee got mad. She wanted to prove to me—and to Viola—that Viola wasn’t any better than she was. Hell, I knew Viola wasn’t perfect. But she was as perfect as any mortal woman I ever met, and better than I deserved.”

  “Mr. Jelks, two days ago, right there in that chair you’re sitting in, Cora Revels painted a verbal picture of the time when her mother was dying. She described it as a period of special closeness between her and her sister. She said it was then that Viola had confided the secret of Lincoln’s paternity to her.”

  “I don’t know about Viola telling Cee that. But I know that time wasn’t any ‘period of closeness.’ Cora spent every minute trying to find excuses to get away from the house to have sex with me.”

  A hum of conversation rises, then dies. A rustle of cloth to my right makes me turn, and I can see that my mother deeply regrets allowing Annie to attend these proceedings. But if I know Annie, she won’t be leaving until court has adjourned for the day. Not without making a scene, anyway.

  “The day we left town,” Jelks adds, “it would have taken an ice pick for Cora to get one word out of Viola.”

  Quentin nods as though he expected this answer all along. “I see. Well, why didn’t Viola divorce you over this incident?”

  “I’ve thought about that a lot. She said it was because she wanted Lincoln to have a stable family. But looking back, I think the real reason was she was afraid I’d get mad and tell Lincoln I wasn’t his father. That was her greatest fear, that he would find out the truth about himself.”

  “But you yourself didn’t know who Lincoln’s real father was at that time, did you?”

  “No. That’s right. But she knew I’d tip to it eventually.”

  Quentin rolls his chair closer to the witness box, testing the invisible boundary that exists in the judge’s mind. “Mr. Jelks, did your wife ever talk to you about any crime that she might have committed back in Natchez, Mississippi?”

  This question obviously strikes Junius Jelks as absurd. “A crime? Viola? She was the most proper woman you ever met, except for her drinking. And she always drank at home. Butter wouldn’t melt on that woman’s tongue, brother. Not unless she wanted it to.”

  “So, your answer is no?”

  “My answer is hell no. She never
mentioned committing any crime.” Jelks smiles crookedly. “I was the criminal in our marriage.”

  “In your earlier testimony, you said you told Lincoln Turner just last year that he’d been fathered by Ku Klux Klan rapists. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you and he have any contact after that?”

  “Not really. I was in prison, and he stopped coming to see me.”

  “What about phone calls?”

  “Coupla angry ones the first couple of weeks, but then nothing.”

  “How did Viola react to you telling Lincoln the Klan rape story?”

  “She told Lincoln that as far as she was concerned, I was dead. She never wanted to hear my name again. He told me that during one of those calls.”

  “Did you ever again hear from your wife prior to her death?”

  “Just once.”

  “What was the nature of the contact? A prison visit? A call?”

  “She sent me a letter.”

  “To the prison?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did the letter say?”

  “Well . . . I brought it with—”

  “Objection!” Shad barks. “We’ve had no notice of this letter. Contents of writings, recordings, and photographs.”

  “Your Honor,” says Quentin, “we enter this letter as Defense Exhibit Five subject to verification of Viola Turner’s handwriting by the State’s expert, which our own expert has already done to our satisfaction.”

  “Your Honor,” Shad goes on, “this witness is a known confidence man and convicted felon. How can the court give any weight to anything he might bring before us?”

  “That’s up to the jury to decide,” Judge Elder says calmly. “Denied. I’ll allow it, subject to authentication. Please continue, Mr. Avery.”

  “Exception,” Shad says testily.

  “Noted.”

  “Please read the letter, Mr. Jelks,” Quentin says.

  “Junius. I am writing to inform you that I am cutting you out of my will.”

  A sharp babble of conversation erupts in the gallery.

  “Order,” demands Judge Elder.

  “You will probably think I am doing this because your actions got Lincoln disbarred, and possibly ruined his career, but that is not the reason. I would have divorced you for that, but since I am dying, there’s not much point in going through all that. I don’t have the strength for it, anyway. You may also recall that I didn’t cut Cora out of my will, not even after she committed adultery with you.