As Quentin takes a handkerchief from his coat pocket and begins wiping my father’s coat and shirt with it, pandemonium erupts in the courtroom. In the balcony I see Serenity on her feet, both hands on the rail, her eyes locked on mine as she slowly shakes her head. When Judge Elder orders a ten-minute recess so that my father can clean up, my mother sags against me, but I jump up and pull Jenny into my seat to support her. I have time for only one thing now.

Firing Quentin Avery.

Chapter 40

The crowd of spectators stunned silent by Major Powers spitting on my father are now on their feet and swirling in place like too many cattle forced into a pen. My first instinct is to pass the bar and go straight to Quentin, but a sheriff’s deputy blocks my way. Over his shoulder I see the bailiff leading Quentin and my father out of the courtroom through the judge’s chambers. With the chaos behind me, it’s not hard to see why. As the jury members file into the jury room, George Dobson, the circuit clerk, calls something to the deputy blocking my way, then beckons me into the well of the courtroom.

“What the hell’s going on in this trial, Penn?” he asks in an urgent whisper. “Thurgood Marshall’s just about got your daddy in the penitentiary. Two days ago I didn’t think Shad had a chance in hell of convicting Doc. But if that jury had to vote right now . . . Is Avery all there, or is it time for the nursing home?”

“I’m afraid it’s the latter.” I grab the clerk’s forearm. “If I can get to him before this break is over, I’m going to fire him. Can you get me out through the judge’s chambers? If I have to fight my way through this crowd, I’ll never catch Quentin in time.”

“I’d call that a critical mission.” Dobson looks over his shoulder at the guarded door. “Give it fifteen more seconds, then I’ll take you through.”

“Thanks, George. I owe you.”

Even after being led to the broad hallway between the circuit court and the chancery court via the judge’s chambers, I find myself in the midst of a milling crowd. Rising onto tiptoe, I catch sight of Quentin’s wheelchair rolling into the tax assessor’s office, a deputy walking escort. Casting aside the good manners I was raised with, I bull through the crowd and cover the distance to the door of the tax assessor’s office. Through the glass in the door I see a secretary I’ve known since I was a teenager. Spying me, she tilts her head toward the door to the assessor’s private office.