This gives Mom no comfort, but she allows the conversation to be steered away from imminent danger. Jenny is the slowest to calm down, and as I watch her, I realize my older sister is one of those children who seem to take after neither parent. After another couple of minutes of decompression, Quentin tells Mom he needs some time alone with Dad, and together Mom and Walt shepherd Jenny toward the door. As I walk them out, Jenny takes my hand and whispers, “Will you please talk some sense into them? I can’t understand what they’re trying to do.”

“It’s going to be all right,” I tell her, though I’m far from sure of this.

Mom motions for Walt to escort Jenny down the hall, then looks back at me and whispers, “Don’t let your father take the stand.”

The idea strikes me as absurd. “Dad’s not going to testify now. No way.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. “Don’t be so sure. He’s going to want to. You and Quentin have to talk him out of it.”

“But we’ve won the case.”

Mom’s eyes narrow as though she’s trying to see whether I’m lying. “Have we?”

“By any normal standard we have.”

“Well, they’re not acting like it. Quentin looks anything but triumphant, and Tom has sunk inside himself. I know how he is when he gets that look. There are things driving him that we know nothing about.” Mom reaches out and squeezes my hand; her skin is startlingly cold. “Don’t let him sway you, Penn.”

I consider questioning her further, but there’s no time or privacy to do it. “I won’t. Go catch up with Walt. And please do whatever Tim tells you to do. That’s your only job now.”

“I will. Penn, did you really see Snake Knox out there?”

“I think I did.”

She sighs and bows her head, then turns and hurries down the hall to catch up with Jenny. I give Tim a pointed glance, and he gives me a firm thumbs-up.

As Mom’s heels click down the steps, I hear her speak to someone, and then Rusty Duncan appears at the head of the staircase. He raises his eyebrows, asking permission to join the group in my office. I beckon him on and lead him into the suite.

“What’s he doing here?” Quentin asks as we enter.

“Two against two is a fairer fight,” I reply, taking my chair behind my desk and motioning for Rusty to sit down before Quentin can argue.

Rusty sits in a club chair facing the sofa where Dad has stretched out, while Quentin holds court from his wheelchair in the space between.

“Will the judge stop the trial?” Dad asks. “Or postpone it?”