“Approximately how much did she have?”

“Objection,” Shad says, later than I would have expected him to. “I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.”

Quentin looks at Judge Elder without the slightest hint that he might back away from this. “We will all see the relevance very soon, Your Honor, I assure you.”

“Overruled,” Elder declares.

“Exception.”

“Noted.”

“May I approach the bench, Your Honor?” Quentin asks.

Judge Elder nods.

Shad practically scrambles out of his seat to reach the bench at the same time Quentin does. After Judge Elder covers his mike, an indistinct hum of discussion follows, lasting about thirty seconds. Then Shad returns to his seat with a grim look, and Quentin wheels himself back over to the podium.

“Now that that’s settled,” he says, “would the witness answer the question?”

Cora is looking at someone in the spectators’ seats, I realize. Someone to my left. She was focused on the same spot throughout the sidebar. It’s Lincoln. He’s sitting one row behind the prosecution table. Cora is searching for guidance, and so clumsily that Quentin turns and stares at Lincoln himself, so that the jury will see what’s happening. Under this scrutiny, Lincoln cannot risk coaching her with the slightest signal. He sits with his jaw clenched tight, staring straight ahead.

“Ms. Revels?” Quentin repeats.

“Um . . . Vee had about seventy-two thousand dollars in an account up in Chicago.”

Quite a few spectators gasp at this figure, and I sense that most of them are black.

“Seventy-two thousand dollars,” Quentin echoes. “And the house?”

“The house was mine.”

“Was it always yours?”

“No, that was Mama’s house. But she deeded it over to me after I got hurt at work.”

“Where did you work?”

“At the tire plant. I fell and hurt my back, and since then I can’t do no work. All I got is my disability check. Mama gave me the house so I’d always have somewhere to stay.”

“Did she give Viola anything at that time?”

“No. She knew Vee could take care of herself. Vee always knew how to do that.”

For the first time, I hear resentment in Cora’s voice when she speaks of her sister. I can’t remember whether she or Viola was the younger sister, but I think it was Viola.

“Back to the seventy-two thousand dollars,” Quentin says with the persistence of a dripping faucet. “What happened to that money?”

Again Cora looks at Lincoln, but she finds no help there. He’s pretending to look out one of the tall courtroom windows. “It was divided up according to the will,” she says. “Viola’s will.”

“I see. And how was it divided?”

“Objection!” Shad says. “We’re far afield from the death of Viola Turner, Judge.”

“Are we?” Quentin asks, looking straight at Shad. “Judge, my client has been charged with murder. He is entitled to explore the possibility that someone else committed the crime.”