“The tape he referred to was indeed found, but at this time it is undergoing complex forensic analysis and processing.”

“Of what nature, Counselor?”

“Your Honor, only very recently I was told that technology exists that might allow a partial restoration of the videotapes in question. I queried the FBI about this, and I was told that my best bet was to contact the manufacturer. I did so. At this time, those two tapes are being worked on in a California lab owned by the Sony Corporation . . .”

The acid flooding my stomach is probably minor compared to the reaction Quentin Avery must be enduring.

“. . . if I may beg the court’s indulgence,” Shad continues, “I could call Mr. Turner at this time, but my direct examination could take quite a while. And since Sheriff Byrd brought up the tape found in the hospital Dumpster, I would prefer to enter both it and the tape found in Mr. Garrity’s van into evidence and deal with them before examining any other witnesses.”

“And will you be ready to proceed with that evidence first thing in the morning?”

“I believe so, Your Honor.”

“Very well.” Elder looks at his watch once more. “Court is adjourned until nine a.m. tomorrow.”

The crowd comes to its feet as one, like a human hive about to set out on an evening hunt. I need to talk to Quentin, but rather than try to buttonhole him in this mob, I’ll wait a bit, then get Tim to run me over to Edelweiss.

Joining the river of people sweeping through the back doors, I text my bodyguard to pick me up on Market Street. As I cut that way to make my exit, I realize that while it’s only two blocks from the courthouse to the bluff, the trial has brought chaos to the one-way streets of downtown Natchez. It could easily take Quentin and Doris half an hour to make it to Edelweiss in their van.

“Penn!” shouts a male voice. Tim Weathers’s voice. “Down here!”

The armored Yukon is parked in the middle of Market Street, blocking traffic like it’s waiting for Jay-Z and his entourage. I dart around a man trying to negotiate the steps in front of me with a walker, then race down to the street and jump into the backseat.

“Where to?” Tim asks, only half turning his head.

“I need to talk to Quentin, but we’ve got thirty minutes to kill. How about we take Annie and Mia to get a hamburger?”

“Sounds good to me.”

As we roll up Market Street, we pass a half-dozen TV satellite trucks, with reporters doing stand-ups under the courthouse oaks. Undoubtedly they are trumpeting to the world the existence of two videotapes that might be miraculously restored from oblivion. If they are—if the Sony Corporation’s wizards can perform a digital resurrection—what truths will those tapes reveal?

I don’t want to think about it.