Lincoln tilts back his head, indicating two cars that have stopped behind him. “Get in the truck. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Just pull to the curb.”

The second car behind his truck gives a long blast on its horn. Fifty people from the crowd look our way.

“You want to keep Big Daddy out of Parchman or not?”

“You’re the one who made this whole trial happen.”

A taunting smile touches his wide lips. “Yeah. But a trial is a fluid thing, like a war. The tides change fast. Every lawyer knows that. You want to hear what I’ve got to say.”

Translation: Quentin got onto something with that last line of questioning. Both drivers honk angrily now, drawing the attention of a deputy beyond the big glass door behind me, but I still don’t get into the truck. “You’re talking like this is a civil suit and you want to cut a deal.”

Lincoln shrugs. “There’s different kinds of settlements. I’m driving away in five seconds. The deal leaves with me.”

I hate to be manipulated, but before five seconds pass, I climb into the truck’s passenger seat, wishing I had my pistol. But I never take a gun into court.

Lincoln drives around the block, then heads down to Canal Street and turns toward the twin bridges over the Mississippi. He looks at me a couple of times as he drives, but he doesn’t say anything.

“What’s across the river?” I ask as the bluff drops away and a hundred feet of space yawns beneath us.

“Rednecks. All the way to New Mexico.”

“Lots of brothers, too.”

“Yeah. But outside the cities, they’re an endangered species.”

“This recess may not last long. Let’s hear your offer.”

Lincoln laughs heartily, turning south at the foot of the bridge. After passing between a few houses and a one-story school, he drives over the top of the levee to the Vidalia, Louisiana, riverfront. Compared to the Natchez shore, where growth has been stymied for years by a multimillionaire, the Vidalia shore has seen the construction of hotels, restaurants, an outpatient surgical center, and a public amphitheater. Lincoln drives slowly past the train of new buildings, then pulls onto a white shell road that leads to the steep boat ramp beneath the bridge. My stomach flips as we tilt nose-first toward the vast river. Stopping the truck within a few feet of the water, Lincoln switches off the motor but leaves on the battery.

“You planning to shoot me and drop me in the river?”

He grins gamely. “That is kind of a tradition on this side of the river, isn’t it? Only it’s my tribe that gets dumped.”