“Alzheimer’s?” Rusty asks, looking for confirmation in our eyes. “I mean . . . surely it’s in the realm of possibility. The guy’s lost both legs to diabetes already. Could he have had, like, mini strokes or something? Something not obvious, but still incapacitating?”

“I’m no doctor,” Miriam points out, “but from what I saw this morning, I’d say it’s possible. Penn, did you notice anything worrisome when you spoke to him prior to the trial?”

“When I saw him at the prison, he did tell me to expect an unconventional strategy. But we’ve hardly talked to each other since. This is his and Dad’s show, and I’m not part of it.”

My mother cuts her eyes at me, the old maternal reproach.

“Have you tried to call Quentin?” Rusty asks.

“At least ten times before you guys showed up. His mobile keeps kicking me to voice mail.”

“We’ve got to fire him,” Mom insists from the corner. “I don’t see any other way.”

This draws every eye in the room to her.

“Nobody can fire Quentin except Dad,” I repeat. “And Dad won’t do it. I wasn’t in the courtroom. Did he look panicked by what Quentin was doing? Or not doing?”

“All I could see was the back of his head,” Mom says with frustration.

“He’s not scared,” Jenny says from the sofa. “He just sat calmly through it all. But I don’t know what that says about his mental state.”

“That could just be resignation. Fatalism.”

Everyone suddenly looks at me, as though I have the answer to the riddle of Quentin Avery.

“Whatever Quentin’s doing, ” I think aloud, “it’s been part of his plan all along. As I said, he told me three days ago that he was going to take an unconventional approach to Dad’s defense.”

“Unconventional,” Rusty grunts. “Like driving thirty miles per hour is an unconventional way to win the Daytona 500.”

In the wake of this comment, the front door opens and closes softly. A moment later John Kaiser leans past the door frame, acknowledges me with a quick salute, then vanishes. The next thing I hear is his feet padding softly up the stairs.

My mother is gazing curiously at me, but I ignore her.

“I think we’ve done what we can here,” I tell them. “Which is basically nothing. I’ll keep trying to reach Quentin. You guys need to eat something. There are sandwiches in the kitchen fridge.”

“I can’t eat,” Miriam says miserably.

“I can,” Rusty growls, getting up and lumbering toward the kitchen. “My fingers have about seized up from texting you all those updates.”

Mom catches my eye over Annie’s shoulder. “Penn, you need to go back to court for the afternoon session. I’ll stay with Annie.”

I shake my head. “No way. The jury has to see you there, supporting Dad.”