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.