“Bailiff, if that man does not sit down, you will remove him from the court. And if he attempts to follow the witness out of this room, stop him.”

The armed bailiff seems flummoxed by the turn this trial has taken, but he steps away from the wall with his right hand on the butt of the pistol at his belt.

As I take my seat, I realize that Quentin is staring at Lincoln with an uncertain look on his face. With an electric shock I realize what he’s thinking. As calmly as I can, I move out of my chair and lean over the rail toward Quentin.

“Rest your case, Q. It’s over. You just destroyed the State’s witnesses.”

“No, I didn’t,” he says, still looking at Lincoln. “I only wounded them.”

“Quentin—”

“If I rest now, Shad can call Lincoln up on rebuttal and let him say whatever he wants.”

“I doubt he’ll risk that.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

Quentin is right: Shad has the technical right to recall Lincoln to the stand. It would be unusual in a Mississippi trial, but if Shad thinks Lincoln can rehabilitate himself to any degree, he might give it a shot. And knowing Quentin’s penchant for control, he will not cede to his enemy the power to choreograph Lincoln Turner’s final appearance before the jury.

“Your Honor,” Quentin says after only a few seconds’ reflection, “the defense recalls Lincoln Turner.”

Judge Elder’s long face whips around to Quentin as though the old lawyer had suddenly started barking like a dog. I can almost hear him asking, Are you sure? But of course he doesn’t.

“Please take the stand, Mr. Turner,” Judge Elder commands.

Rusty grabs my left forearm and squeezes tight. “What the fuck is Quentin doing?”

“Playing chess. Very risky chess.”

“Chess, my ass. Trial lawyers are like painters. Every one of ’em needs a guy with a hammer standing behind him to hit him on the head when the painting’s finished.”

“I agree, buddy. Be my guest.”

But Rusty, despite his passion, knows there’s nothing we can do to save Quentin from himself—or my father from Quentin—if indeed they need saving.

As Lincoln Turner walks to the witness stand, the bright-eyed man who during lunch tried to sell me a tape that could free my father looks as remote as the convict the marshals are escorting through the back door. His eyes now see nothing immediately before him; they’re focused on the vanished past and a provisional future.

They’re the eyes of a man with nothing left to lose.

Chapter 55