“But you can’t afford to wait on the change-of-venue motion. You should at least file and make him deny it.”

“I know that. My problem is my client. Tom actually believes that Natchez is where this case needs to be tried. Natchezians are the people most affected by the case, and he’s content to put his fate in their hands.”

More suicidal logic. “Then why did you discuss moving the case with Elder at all?”

Quentin’s eyes harden. “Because I’m worried about Tom’s safety once he’s moved to the Adams County jail.”

“No shit. That alone ought to be grounds for a change of venue.”

“Joe Elder promised me Tom would be at no risk while in Billy Byrd’s custody.”

“He can’t guarantee that!”

Quentin shrugs, then touches his joystick and spins his wheelchair ninety degrees left. “Listen,” he says, his face in profile, “your father’s gonna be escorted through that door in a minute. You’ve had a lot of experience in the criminal courts. You’ve seen a lot of men and women in jail. Put a lot of them there yourself. But seeing your father in jail is a whole different thing.”

“I know that.”

“No, you don’t. This would be like Tom having to operate on you in an emergency. He might think he could handle it, but once he stuck that scalpel into your body, I promise you, his hands would be shaking. This kind of situation hits you in a soft place, where you ain’t ready for it. And I want you to be ready when Tom comes in here.”

“I can handle it, Quentin.”

The old man’s eyes soften, but the look in them is not comforting. “It’s not you I’m worried about. I don’t want Tom thinking you’re coming apart because of this situation. While he’s locked in this place, he sees you as the head of his family. And if he’s going to last until the trial, he’s got to know you can hold everybody together. Keep them safe.”

“He knows that.”

“Reinforce it.”

There’s so much gravity in Quentin’s voice that I find myself peering deep into his eyes for some clue to his thoughts. Rather than endure my gaze, the lawyer looks down at the comforter draped over his knees.

“I had to go see my daddy in jail once,” he says softly. “He was a sharecropper, you remember?”

This tale has long been a staple of Quentin’s courtroom repertoire, and I’m not sure I have the patience to listen to it today. “I know this story, Q.”