As my friends and family look into my eyes with emotions ranging from hope to desperation, I think about Quentin and my father. Dad always taught me that fear is contagious, and disastrous to decision making. Three days ago, Quentin told me I probably wouldn’t understand his strategy in this case, and he made me promise not to run to him every five minutes for an explanation of his tactics. Does what happened this morning constitute genius or incipient dementia? I don’t have enough information to answer that question. In the last analysis, with Quentin Avery pulling the strings, I’m willing to bet on the former—at least for a little bit longer.

“No,” I tell them. “Quentin and Dad have information we don’t. We can’t even guess what that might be. And even if Dad were willing to fire Quentin right now, there’s not enough time for me to prepare for the afternoon session. Tomorrow would be the earliest I could start.”

“Your dad could be toast by tonight,” Rusty says with brutal frankness. “He’s halfway to Parchman already.”

I spear my old friend with a glare for saying this in front of Annie and my mother, but he only shrugs. The truth is the truth, say his eyes. What’s the use in sugarcoating it?

“Let’s give Quentin the afternoon. If he goes any farther off the rails, Judge Elder will have to shut the thing down anyway.”

“Declare a mistrial?” Miriam asks.

“Elder won’t do that,” Rusty argues. “He knows nobody’s going to reprimand him for letting Quentin Avery run his own show.”

“I’m not so sure. But the point’s moot anyway. You barely have time to finish eating and get back.”

“Jesus,” groans Rusty.

“You guys go play your roles. Annie and I will be here. And try to get closer to the bar, if you can, so I can hear better.”

Rusty rolls his eyes, but in the end he gobbles down the remains of a sandwich and walks into the hall. As the women file past Rusty toward the front door, he looks back with a pragmatic tilt of his head.

“Start warming up that pitching arm, Counselor. Avery’s coming off the mound.”

“Get out of here.”

Thirty seconds after Rusty’s Town Car pulls away from the curb, followed by the Yukon, two black sedans glide into the space. Four FBI agents get out, and there’s absolutely nothing casual about their movements. I nearly jump out of my skin when John Kaiser touches my shoulder from behind.

“Let’s go in the den,” he says, his eyes troubled.

“What is it?” I ask once we’re clear of the hall.

“Dolores St. Denis has agreed to enter protective custody.”

“What’s the status of Cleotha Booker?”

“She’s unlikely to regain consciousness.”

His answer covers me like a shadow. “Is there any chance it was a real fall?”