Quentin sits silent in his wheelchair, seemingly cowed by the intensity of Lincoln’s indignation. This is exactly what I was afraid of, though I didn’t know Lincoln would go quite so far in expressing his righteous anger. But Jelks’s testimony so enraged him that he seems unconcerned by the prospect of being charged with fraud, or whatever the charge will be for destroying his mother’s valid will.

I want Quentin to put an end to this, but there’s really no way to do it. If he tries to shut Lincoln up, Shad can simply walk up on redirect and let him finish whatever he wants to say. Quentin knows this, of course. That’s why he let Lincoln get up in the first place. My mother has leaned across Annie to speak urgently to Mia, and I can guess what she’s telling her, but Annie’s having none of it. If Mom wants Annie out of this court, she’s going to have to miss the proceedings herself, which she’s unwilling to do.

Lincoln turns to the jury, his eyes glinting with tears. It’s unexpectedly moving to see such a large and muscular man reduced to this.

“Listen to me, folks,” he implores. “Please listen to this, if nothing else. What Tom Cage and his lawyer are doing is just what Junius Jelks taught me to do. What every good con man and magician does. They’re getting you to look at one thing—one hand—so you don’t see what the other hand is doing. But it’s that other hand that’s dipping into your pocket, or pulling the fifth ace from a sleeve. That other hand does the real business, see? Don’t let yourselves be taken in! Don’t be suckers.”

Lincoln blinks at the twelve bovine faces like a prophet trying to get through to a crowd of tired peasants. “People have been talking about Tom Cage like he’s some kind of saint. The patron saint of downtrodden black folks. Don’t you know why? Who’s going to convict a saint of murder? Nobody. But have you ever asked yourself why he’s spent his life doing things for black people? Did you ever wonder if what drives him might be guilt, and not Christian charity?”