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.