“Okay, Quentin. Okay. I get your position. But I have to ask you one thing. Given all the physical evidence I know about, I’ve worked through every imaginable scenario of what could have happened in that room on the night Viola died. Natural causes, suicide, physician-assisted suicide, and murder. And I know one thing for sure: unless the videotape stolen from Henry Sexton’s camera recorded the actual murder—and it exists somewhere and is played in court for the jury—nobody can say for sure how Viola died. Which gives you reasonable doubt. If you paint a convincing enough story, the jury should have no trouble voting to acquit.”

Quentin is enjoying this like a law professor watching a student wrestle with a difficult case. “And which story would you choose, Counselor?”

“Easy. Viola tried to inject herself with a lethal dose of morphine but only partially succeeded, due to physical impairment. That explains the botched injection. Maybe Dad was there when she did that, maybe not. But once he was in her presence, she suffered a heart attack. Naturally, Dad used adrenaline to try to revive her. In his zeal to do everything possible to save her, he administered a fatal overdose. Maybe that was excessive zeal, or maybe he picked the wrong syringe. But either way, if you tell that story right, no jury in Natchez is going to convict him of murder.”

Quentin has steepled his long fingers. “You might be right about that. But here’s the problem. If that’s the way things happened, then why the hell didn’t Tom say that immediately after her death? Why didn’t he sign Viola’s death certificate and call for the ambulance or the coroner? Why refuse to speak? And worse . . . why skip bail?”

This, I have no facile answer for. “Can you tell me?”

“I’m afraid not, my young brother.”

“Do you know?”

“I do not.”

“Good God, Quentin. What is he playing at? Is he really on some self-sacrifice trip?”

“For the last time, Penn . . . I can’t discuss it.”

“What about change of venue? Surely you can tell me about that. Have you made your motion?”

Quentin shakes his head.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because Judge Elder let me know in no uncertain terms that he would deny it.”

“Without even considering it?”

This earns me a sober nod. “Joe’s being surprisingly difficult. Like backing up Billy Byrd on not letting Tom attend Caitlin’s funeral. If I didn’t know him pretty well, I’d be worried about judicial bias going forward.”

“So you know Elder?”

Quentin chuckles. “He’s a black Mississippi judge, ain’t he? Joe worked for me one summer when he was in law school.”

“Well, surely he’s cut from better cloth than Shad or Billy Byrd.”

Quentin clucks his tongue. “Joe’s a good boy. We’ll get a better idea of where he stands when he starts ruling on pretrial motions.”