“Let’s talk about the tape that was in the video camera when you arrived.”

“I didn’t know there was a tape in that camera.”

“Goddamn it,” I mutter under my breath. “That tears it.” If Shad ever proves he knew about that tape, much less erased it in an MRI machine, Dad will be convicted of murder.

Shad says, “I would find it very difficult to believe that someone would begin the process of euthanasia with a live camera pointed at the sickbed.”

“I’d have to agree with you there,” Dad replies, and several people in the audience chuckle.

“What I’m suggesting is that you must have checked that camera to make sure it wasn’t recording. At least made sure the red light wasn’t on.”

Dad shrugs. “I don’t recall seeing any red light.”

“So you deny, under oath, any knowledge of a videotape that might have recorded Viola Turner’s murder or events shortly before it?”

“Yes.”

As Dad awaits the next question, I realize that even if the Dumpster tape is restored and shows Dad inside Cora’s house, that doesn’t mean he knew anything about it. Nor does it prove that he erased it in an MRI machine.

“Listen to me carefully, Doctor. Did you remove one or two tapes from the Revels house that night?”

“One.”

“Did you erase a Sony mini-DV tape in the MRI machine at St. Catherine’s Hospital?”

This time Dad hesitates before answering. But after a few seconds, he says, “I did not.”

What will he do if John Kaiser walks in here with a fully restored Dumpster tape . . . ?

“I only know of one tape,” Dad continues. “The one Viola made for Henry Sexton.”

As my father falls silent, I am filled with a horrific conviction that he is lying. He’s making a brazen gamble, betting his life on his belief that the FBI won’t be able to bring that Dumpster tape back from the dead. And that is exactly what Shad wanted him to do. The whole cross up to this point was designed to take Dad to this assertion.

“Well, Doctor,” Shad says, “I think we’re going to be able to judge that for ourselves in due course. Now, I’d like to—”

The door at the back of the courtroom stops Shad in midsentence. Sheriff Billy Byrd steps inside. Catching Shad’s eye, he raises one finger to his right cheek. Shad goes still. Then he holds up two fingers and raises a single eyebrow. Billy Byrd turns up his palms.

“Your Honor,” says Quentin, “the district attorney and the sheriff appear to be practicing baseball signals.”

“I see that, Mr. Avery. Mr. Johnson?”

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. With a sickening sense of dread, I pull out the device, already certain of what it will say.