“Don’t call me that, scum. That’s not even a word. You show me where it says ‘nigger’ in the Bible.”

Viola starts to wheeze, and both men laugh. “What if I just come over there and pinch that oxygen hose shut?” Snake asks. “Probably wouldn’t take more’n a minute to shut off the lights, shape you’re in. Your days of jawin’ with liberal reporters would be over.”

“Go on, if you want another stain on your soul. Do it. That’s the only way you’re going to shut me up.”

“Just keep on,” Sonny says, sounding like a nervous grade-school bully, “and one of these nights, we will.”

I don’t realize how hypnotized I am until Lincoln ejects the tape with a mechanical click and whir. I grab for the tape, but by the time my fingers jam against the empty slot, Lincoln is holding the old-style cassette outside his open window, smiling with confidence.

“I’m waiting,” he says.

“For what?”

“Your offer.”

Acid has flooded my stomach. “That’s evidence, goddamn it. You’re obligated to give that to the police.”

Lincoln belly laughs at this. “Is that your considered legal opinion, Mr. Mayor? That redneck sheriff you got over in Natchez might just misplace something like this. He’d love to see your daddy go down for killing my mother.”

“He’s your father, too.”

As the words leave my lips, Lincoln’s face lightens a shade—his blood is draining from it.

“Where did you get that tape?” I ask. “Who made it?”

“You heard Henry Sexton’s mother. Henry left Mama an audio recorder a week before he set up that video camera. He wanted her to put down her memories of the 1960s, and especially anything she remembered about her brother, Jimmy. She had it in the bed with her when them two come in. She just hit the button and taped what they said.”

This I can believe. “Okay. What do you want for it?”

“Look in the glove box.”

I do. Lying atop the truck’s owner’s manual is a white notecard. Typed on the card is a series of numbers and the name of a bank: Cayman West Holdings, Limited.

“I’m going to check the balance of that account in one hour,” Lincoln says, looking out over the river. “And if I feel happy after the call, the tape you just heard will turn up in time to be used as evidence in the trial. If I’m not happy—”

Lincoln flicks his wrist, and the cassette goes sailing out over the brown water of the Mississippi. It stays afloat, swirling gently, but it’s moving south fast. “Just a copy, of course. What you’re paying for is the original.”

“Goddamn it,” I mutter. “If you’ve had that tape all along, why are you pushing to have your own father convicted?”

“Is that a trick question?”