“And how did you meet your wife?”

Jelks chuckles softly. “I was preaching a sermon in the Abundant Life Church in Chicago, and she happened to be there.”

“Are you an ordained minister?”

“Not exactly. I’m more of a lay preacher.”

“I see. And Viola had a son at the time you married her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you the father of that child?”

“No.”

“Did you know who was?”

Jelks takes his time with this. “Well . . . I knew what she told me. But that wasn’t the truth. Took me a long time to find that out. I doubt Viola told ten lies in all her life, but every one she told was about that child.”

“Who did she tell you the father was?”

“Her first husband, James Turner. The war hero.”

“And when did you learn different?”

“Thirty-two years later.”

“How did that come about?”

“Somebody sent me a picture of James Turner’s death notice in the Natchez paper. That’s when I realized he’d got killed in Vietnam nine months before Lincoln was even conceived.”

“Do you know who sent you that picture?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

“Cora Revels.”

“Like I said,” Rusty whispers in the stunned silence. “Fireworks.”

“The defendant’s sister?” Quentin asks.

“That’s right.”

“How do you know that?”

“She admitted it to me, two days later.”

“Cora Revels testified in this court that someone had sent you such a picture, but she didn’t know who.”

Jelks chuckles knowingly. “I’ll bet she did.”

“What did you do when you got the picture?”

“I questioned my wife.”

“Did you beat her?”

“I may have slapped her a time or two. I was pretty upset, as you might imagine.”

“What did she tell you?”

“First, some BS story about a one-night stand. I knew that was a lie. Viola never had a one-night stand in her life. Then she told me the Ku Klux Klan had raped her back in Mississippi. That I could believe. When I called down to Natchez to check, some people told me that rumor had gone around back in ’68. The numbers added up, so I bought that story.”

“When did you learn that Tom Cage was in fact Lincoln’s father?”

“Three months ago, when the story hit the national papers. After Viola died.”

Glancing to my right, I see my mother sitting as pale and motionless as a marble in the British Museum. Only her right hand, clenching Annie’s, gives any indication of life.

“Did you ever tell Lincoln that his birth had resulted from a Klan rape in Mississippi?” Quentin asks.

“Yes, sir. Seven months ago.”

“Why did you do that?”

“The boy disappointed me. I was upset. I wish I hadn’t done it now, but wishin’s no use. Wasn’t his fault, however he got born.”