As I take my seat, a dark-skinned Indian man sits in the witness box and takes the oath, though as a Hindu he does not put his hand on the Bible, and he “affirms” rather than “swears” that he will tell the truth. He seems eerily calm compared to the jurors and spectators, who just witnessed Lincoln’s spectacular tirade. His dark eyes gleam with intelligence, and he waits for the first question like he has all day to spend in court.

“Mr. Patel, would you tell us your occupation?”

“Yes, sir. I own a motel in Jefferson County, on Highway 61. Between Fayette and Port Gibson.”

“How far away is that from Natchez?”

“Twenty-eight miles.”

“What’s the name of your motel?”

“The Belle Meade Inn.”

“Mr. Patel, have you been sitting in court during the past fifteen minutes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see the man testifying before I called you up here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ever seen that man before today?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“He was a guest at my motel.”

“When was this?”

Mr. Patel removes a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

“What is that you’re looking at, Mr. Patel?”

“It’s a photocopy of my guest register.”

“I see. Please go on.”

“Yes . . . the man who testified before me stayed at my motel just over three months ago. Last December.”

“Do you have the exact dates?”

“Yes.” The man checks the paper in his hand. “He checked in on December ninth, and he checked out on December thirteenth.”

Quentin pauses to let the jury grasp the significance of these dates. “Are you aware that this is a murder trial, Mr. Patel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you aware of the date on which the victim in this case was killed?”

“Yes, sir. December twelfth of last year.”

“Precisely. And at that time, the man you identified had been staying at your motel for four days?”

“Exactly so.”

Rusty’s hand closes on my arm again, this time with painful force. Like me, he has sensed that the ocean swell that began during Junius Jelks’s testimony is now about to smash into Lincoln Turner—and Shad Johnson’s case—with shattering force. “What name did he register under?”

Patel consults the register again. “Keith Mosley.”

“Keith Mosley? Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Holy fuck,” Rusty breathes. “Lincoln killed his mother.”

“Bullshit,” I say under my breath, but we both turn to look at Lincoln, who is sitting with the mute stillness of a mahogany carving.

“Did you ask for ID when he registered?” Quentin goes on.

“Of course.”

“What did he show?”

“A driver’s license.”

“Then what was he doing here all that time?” Rusty whispers.

“Waiting for his mother to die,” I think aloud. “Waiting for Dad to kill her. So he could bring us here.”

“No, man. I think he killed her. For the money.”

“From what state?” asks Quentin.

“Illinois.”

“In the name of Keith Mosley?”

“Yes, sir.”