Jelks shrugs philosophically, the gesture of a pragmatic man who can calculate the odds of any proposition before most people even understand the question. “Mr. Johnson, money don’t mean much to a man facing thirteen more years behind bars. Not a man my age. Even a small chance of freedom is worth fifty times the paper I’ve got rotting in the bank.”

“Obviously. And given your feeling about this, is there anything you would not do to hasten your release from prison?”

“Probably not.”

“You would lie on the witness stand?”

“Of course. I might even kill somebody, if he was the only thing standing between me and freedom.”

Loud murmurs come from the crowd behind me. Shad faces the jury and again turns his palms up, as if to say, What are we to do with such a man?

“But my wife wouldn’t lie for any reason,” Jelks says with conviction. “Except maybe to protect her child. She wrote that letter, sir. Nobody can prove different.”

“I didn’t ask you a question, Mr. Jelks.”

“I don’t care, Mister Johnson. But I sure thank you and all these good people for getting me a day outside that stink-hole of a prison. I almost feel alive again.”

Judge Elder looks as though he’s endured all he intends to from Junius Jelks, but what can he do? The man’s headed back to prison anyway, and it’s better for Mississippi taxpayers if his room and board are paid by the State of Illinois. “Any further questions, Mr. Johnson?” Elder asks.

“No, Your Honor.”

“No redirect, Mr. Avery?”

“None.”

“The witness is released. Will a marshal please get this man out of my courtroom?”

As two marshals walk to the witness box to escort Junius Jelks from the court, I hear a commotion behind me, and I turn. Behind the prosecution table, Lincoln Turner has risen from his seat and is staring at the man he once believed was his father. He looks as though he might bull-rush Jelks at any moment.

I’m about to suggest that a bailiff get between the two when Lincoln says in a clear voice: “Judge, I want to speak.”

Even the marshals escorting Jelks pause as Judge Elder looks down at Lincoln.

“You had your time on the stand, Mr. Turner. Though I suspect you may find yourself back in court before too long. Please sit down.”

But Lincoln doesn’t sit down. In fact, it looks like it might take a squad of cops to make him sit. I have seen that look on faces in court before—more than once on the faces of men who opened fire on defendants.

“Judge?” I say, coming to my feet, but Elder has finally picked up on the escalation. He motions for me to sit even as he speaks to the bailiff.