Quentin is nodding slowly. “It surprises me a little that you took the action you did, Mr. Patel. Not many Americans are so eager to come forward with information that might put them in the middle of a criminal trial.”

Patel gives a very formal nod. “I understand, sir. Indeed, our housekeeper said she wanted no part of this, once she learned why I had asked her about the photograph.”

“But that didn’t deter you?”

“No, sir. This is a most serious matter. If a man gives false witness under oath, it is the duty of every citizen to point this out. The law cannot work impartially otherwise.”

Quentin smiles with something like wistful admiration. “You’re right, Mr. Patel. In the way that converts make the most scrupulous religious practitioners, I often find that immigrants make the most dutiful American citizens.”

Mr. Patel sits a little straighter. “Thank you, sir.”

Quentin nods at the Indian man, then looks up at Judge Elder and says, “I tender the witness.”

I do not envy Shadrach Johnson.

Shad rises with slow deliberation and crosses from the prosecution table to the lectern, his expression projecting an air of accusation.

“Mr. Patel, were you offered anything in exchange for your testimony today?”

The innkeeper looks perplexed. “Exchange, sir?”

“Shad’s not going to get anywhere with that,” Rusty whispers. “Not with this guy.”

“He’s just stalling for time.”

“Do you have a relative who might be incarcerated, for example? Someone Mr. Avery might be able to help you with, on a pro bono basis?”

As the thrust of the question comes to him, Patel’s face darkens. “I have no relations in prison, sir!”

“What about your housekeepers? I’ll bet at least some of them have legal trouble. Or their husbands?”

“Regrettably, yes. I help where I can. But Mr. Avery has offered me no assistance of any kind.”

“I see.” Shad paces out the space between the witness stand and the lectern, apparently intent on some line of thought. Suddenly he stops and looks at the motel owner. “Mr. Patel, do you have security cameras in your motel?”

“Only at the check-in desk.”

If I were Shad, I would not ask the next question, but he’s seen one level deeper than I on this issue. “Have you gone back and checked your tapes for Mr. Turner’s face?”

“I have.”

“And what did you find?”

“The time we are speaking of was three months ago. We recycle our tapes every sixty days, to save money. Regrettably, we do not have a recording of Mr. Turner checking in. We do have his receipts and the register, though.”

“You mean you have Keith Mosley’s receipts and signature.”

The helpful look vanishes from Mr. Patel’s face, replaced by one of consternation. “I stand by my testimony, sir. It is the same man.”

“He’s lying,” Lincoln says from his seat behind Shad’s table. “He made a mistake.”