“It was you who brought us here,” Quentin says, just loud enough to be heard by the jury. “And I think we’re all beginning to understand why. You’re a very angry man. And while that may not be the main issue before the bar, perhaps it should be. The courts, Mr. Turner, do not exist to be used for personal revenge.”

“Objection,” says Shad. “Judge, we’ve gotten far afield of the central issue. Mr. Turner is right, his mother’s will is a matter for the chancery court, not this venue.”

“You may be wrong about that,” Judge Elder says ominously. “But this has gone far enough. Mr. Avery, bring this to a close.”

Quentin rolls his chair to within three feet of the witness box. I’m put in mind of a veteran lion tamer getting dangerously close to the beast he wants to manipulate.

“Are there any other lies you wish to confess, Mr. Turner? If so, now’s your chance.”

“I’ve said what I had to say.”

“All right, then. No further questions, Judge.”

“Mr. Johnson?” says Judge Elder.

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

Elder turns to Lincoln. “You may step down.”

As Lincoln walks back to his seat, where his aunt Cora waits like a woman who has suffered a mild stroke, the silence in the room reminds me of some public venue where someone has done something shocking and no one is quite sure whether they did it because they’re uncouth or because they’re mentally ill. By any conventional assessment, Junius Jelks proved that two of the State’s main witnesses lied on the stand for the basest of reasons. That alone has introduced sufficient reasonable doubt into the case to trigger an acquittal. But somehow Lincoln’s impassioned plea to the jury—uttered so obviously against his own interest—has raised the specter that despite his and Cora’s venal lies, my father might still be guilty of murder.

“Tell him to rest his case,” Rusty says in my ear. “Hurry! Quentin looks like he’s going to call another witness!”

A horrifying prospect causes me to rise from my seat and risk Judge Elder’s wrath by moving through the rail to kneel beside Quentin’s wheelchair. “You’re not still thinking of calling Dad to the stand?”

“Calm down,” Quentin says irritably. “And get back to your seat. I have things well in hand.”

“So quit while you’re ahead!”

“Go back to your seat, Penn.”

“You’ve won, damn it.”

“If you think that, you’ve misjudged the issues in this trial.” Quentin glances toward the judge. “The defense calls Mr. Vivek Patel to the stand.”

“Who the hell is that?” I hiss.

“You’re about to find out.” With a shove off my shoulder, Quentin rolls away from me.