“They tried to prove that an assisted-suicide pact existed between Viola Turner and Dr. Cage. Their source for that information was Cora Revels, a proven liar. Cora Revels did not know that such a pact existed. Only because Dr. Cage took the stand and freely admitted entering into this pact do we know that it, in fact, existed.

“Mr. Johnson spent many hours of testimony trying to prove that a motive existed for Tom Cage to murder Viola, to ensure her silence. And yet, after all the lies of his witnesses had been drawn out like poison, what did Mr. Johnson prove? That the State’s witnesses themselves had profited by the victim’s death and sought to cover their crime by getting Tom Cage charged with murder.”

Quentin rotates his wheelchair slowly in place, allowing him to make eye contact with not only the jury, but also every spectator in the courtroom.

“And while we’re on the subject of motive, let me pose a very simple question, one so simple that I don’t believe our ingenious prosecutor even thought of it. How could killing Viola Turner protect Dr. Cage’s reputation from what most threatened it? Killing Viola Turner would not erase Lincoln Turner from the earth. Lincoln Turner is a living fact. A simple DNA test would prove that Dr. Cage is Lincoln’s father, as it did three months ago. So . . . what could Dr. Cage gain by killing the mother of his child? If he meant to cover his sin with Viola and hide the existence of his illegitimate son, he would have had to kill Lincoln Turner as well. But if that was his plan, why did he not wait for Lincoln to ‘arrive from Chicago’? Dr. Cage had drugs ready to hand that would have killed Lincoln stone dead. A few drops of fentanyl in a cup of coffee . . . But wait”—Quentin slaps his forehead like a cartoon character—“Lincoln Turner wasn’t on his way from Chicago, was he? He was on his way from Mr. Patel’s motel, thirty miles from his mother’s sickbed! He’d been hiding out by the county line for several days, under an alias, waiting to put his schemes for theft and revenge into motion.”

I glance over at the prosecution table. Shad looks as though he might be on the verge of vomiting. What must it feel like to sit mute under a barrage like this? To be made to look foolish by one of the masters of your profession? As a prosecutor in Houston, I experienced some bad days in court, but I never faced an attorney of Quentin Avery’s caliber with a case like this one. If Shad is going to get a conviction today, he’s going to have to turn iron into gold during his final close.