“He didn’t sidestep it. He shoved race right onto the front burner. And not even the great Quentin Avery can predict how a jury of seven blacks and five whites is going to react to evidence of an interracial affair, a mixed-race baby, and a white man killing a black woman to keep her quiet. The blacks may want to punish Dad for not acknowledging that baby, and the whites might crucify him for letting down his own race and his legal family. Hell, Shad could argue that every good thing Dad has done to help blacks since 1968 was a pathetic attempt to expiate his guilt over Viola and her child.”

“Is that what you’d argue in his place?”

“You’re damn right.”

Quentin nods slowly, as if listening to me for the first time. “Do you think Shad’s smart enough to do that?”

“Harvard Law isn’t a charm school.”

“No. But it’s the kind of place that turns out lawyers so clever that sometimes they outsmart themselves.”

“That’s wishful thinking, Q. Look, either you give me some sort of substantive outline of your strategy, or a change is going to have to be made.”

He glances back at Doris, but she’s looking at the floor. “You hear that, baby? Penn’s talking like he’s my client.”

“I heard him,” she says softly.

The old man turns back to me with hardened eyes. “Boy, you know only your father can fire me.”

“Quentin, Dad may be your client, but Mom’s paying your fee.”

“Bullshit.”

“He put his assets in her name long ago.”

The old eyes flare with indignation. “I’ll handle the case pro bono, then.”

This brings a faint smile to my lips. “Will you?”

“You’re damn right I will. I’m rich as Croesus, goddamn it!”

“It may come to that, buddy. But it doesn’t have to.”

“So long as I run every step of my case by you for approval? No, thank you. Hey, what have you been spending your time doing? You made any progress convincing a Double Eagle to flip?”

This stops my train of thought. So Dad told him about our conversation in the Pollock FCI.

“What about Will Devine’s truck?” he asks. “The Darlington Academy sticker?”

I glance at Doris, who looks confused by this conversational turn.

“I’ve made some progress,” I tell him, thinking of my last visit to the Devine house and of Dolores St. Denis. “But until you show me more than you have today, I think I’ll keep it to myself.”

“How’s that supposed to help Tom?”

With a quick glance at Doris, who seems to be silently pleading with me for something, I say, “How did Dad feel after court adjourned today?”

“He knew what to expect.”

“He wasn’t ready for the news about that Dumpster tape. I can’t believe today’s events didn’t shake him.”