The Natchez courthouse stands two blocks from the bluff, directly opposite the sheriff’s department and jail. On one side of State Street, set on a small hill, the classic Greek Revival building rises above the majestic oak trees that surround it. On the other side of the street squats a brick Stalinist version of a medieval pile, with slit windows on the jail floors piled atop one another to compete with the white columns and airy cupola facing them. The architect probably copied those windows from a castle in a book. My father is behind one of those slits, but I can’t tell which. If I stand here long enough he might look out, for like me, he doesn’t usually go to sleep until long past midnight.

Tim has given me about thirty yards of space, which is more than he usually does. Tonight I’m thankful for the separation. As I stare at the ugly, sodium-lit building, it suddenly strikes me that Dad hasn’t excluded me from this case to hurt me. Rather, he has cut himself off from us all, like a father in the Middle Ages infected with plague, crawling off into the forest to die before infecting his family. The only person he’s willing to talk to is an ailing peer: Quentin Avery.

Turning to face the courthouse, I reflect on the fact that I have tried more than a thousand criminal cases in my life—many of them murder cases—but tomorrow I will be only a spectator. I will carry Quentin’s water during the voir dire, but once the real action starts, I’ll be relegated to the gallery. Many lawyers would probably be content with this; Quentin’s courtroom skills are legendary. But that is cold comfort tonight. To my knowledge, he has no investigators, no co-counsel, not even assistants working for him (other than his wife). How in God’s name does he plan to break down the nearly impervious forensic case built up by Shadrach Johnson and Sheriff Byrd over the past three months? I suppose I’ll find out at the same time as everyone else in the courtroom. I can only pray that the old fox lives up to his legend one last time.

“Mr. Mayor?” calls a soft voice.

I squint and see the courthouse janitor—an old black man, naturally—walking down the concrete steps.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asks.

“Actually, I was thinking about going in and taking a look at the courtroom. But I guess it’s too late for that.”

“I’m afraid so. I just locked up, and the sheriff took my key. Normally I could take you in, but this trial’s different. The FBI was down here with dogs all evening, sniffing all over the building.”

I’m actually relieved to hear this. “It’s all right. I’m fine out here.”