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?