“It’s not completely up to me, but I’ll do all I can to ensure it.”

“Who has those damned journals, Quentin?”

“I can’t tell you that. But I will tell you, the page came to me through Penn Cage.”

“Shit! This is blackmail.”

“No! It’s not. The saint who kept the ledgers secret all these years gave them to Penn Cage because he trusts Penn to do the right thing. He did that because, after watching the trial, he thinks you’re not being fair. He thinks you’re trying to convict your own father by helping Shad Johnson convict Tom Cage.”

“Shad doesn’t need any help from me. Not on this case.”

“All I want from you is impartiality, Joe. Let the jury decide this case on their own.”

“I don’t trust Cage to keep quiet. Not if his father is convicted.”

“Have a little faith in your fellow man, Joe. It’s like trusting a jury.”

Elder was about to reply when a skinny black boy of about eighteen stepped out of the shadows and approached them along the fence. He wore unkempt clothes, and his pants were hanging off his behind in the current fashion.

“He’s not out here for exercise,” Quentin said softly.

“Have a little faith,” Judge Elder said in a mocking tone. “Isn’t that what you just told me?”

The stranger stopped about three feet from the judge. “Yo, brother,” he said. “You got a couple dollars for a man in trouble?”

“Not tonight,” Elder said. “We’re talking here, and we need some privacy.”

The stranger’s head ducked and weaved as he looked back toward the road. Then a glittering knife appeared in his hand.

“I’ll give you privacy, after you give me all yo’ shit. The crip, too.”

Judge Elder stared at the man in amazement. “Boy, do you have any idea who you’re pointing that knife at?”

“A richer man than me. That jacket you’re wearing would rent my crib for six months.”

Elder straightened up and shook out his arms like a center about to defend the lane against an All-American forward. “So, you’re gonna rob a man in a wheelchair?” He looked down at Quentin, who was watching the knife warily. “Jesus wept, Quentin.”

The mugger looked back at the road again. “Hey, homes, I gots to live, too.”

“Nigga, please,” Elder snapped. “You listen up. I’m Judge Joe Elder, and if you don’t get straight back to your crib and stop hassling people, I’ll put you under the fucking jail. You hear me?”

The mugger’s eyes widened, revealing bloodshot sclera in the dim light. “Man, you crazy? Don’t you see this knife?”

“Do you see this gun?”

Elder and the mugger whipped their heads toward Quentin, who had taken a small black automatic from beneath the blanket on his lap.