In that moment, reality breaks through to Shad. I doubt he has ever felt more exposed or impotent than he does now. Strangely, I take no pleasure in his torment. If Billy Byrd were standing there like that, I surely would. But Shad, I can tell, believes he is on the side of right. The problem with the law as a profession is that belief, personal conviction, and even knowledge buy you nothing in a courtroom. If you can’t prove that something occurred . . . it never happened.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Shad says.

“Thank you, Counselor. Redirect?”

“None.”

Judge Elder turns his head to the defense table. “Mr. Avery, do you have any further witnesses?”

“I do not, Your Honor. The defense rests.”

A deep silence follows Quentin’s declaration, like the silence after a storm has blasted all the birds and insects out of a field. No one can quite believe that the old wizard has emptied his bag of tricks. Shad looks like he’s hardly aware of what’s transpiring around him.

“Does the State call rebuttal witnesses?” Judge Elder asks.

“None,” Shad says dully.

“Very well.” Elder leans down to his mike. “At this time, I am going to instruct the jury. Then we’ll adjourn for lunch, and return at noon for closing arguments.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Quentin says, his white shock of hair now looking like the flag on an anchored ship.

As Joe Elder begins the tedious process of reading his jury instructions, my gaze wanders to the jury box. If I were trying this case, I’d have been stealing glances at those twelve anointed citizens every chance I got, and having associates watch them for signs of which way they were leaning. But during this trial I’ve mostly watched the lawyers, and if not them, then the witnesses or the judge. It was Tuesday—an eternity ago—that I advised my mother to do exactly this, and wondered whether I could take my own advice. As it turned out, I have. I’ve coined no nicknames for these jurors, as was once my habit, and even now I find little of interest in their studiously severe faces.

But when Judge Elder begins instructing them about reasonable doubt, I see some eyes flicker, and I realize that, if nothing else, Quentin Avery has summoned doubt into this courtroom as a living, breathing spirit. This jury is not going to convict Tom Cage of murder. They might go for physician-assisted suicide, but that’s not on the menu. So, unless something happens that I cannot foresee, unless Shadrach Johnson performs actual magic during his closing argument, my father is going to walk out of this courtroom a free man.

Chapter 67