And yet . . . despite the genius Shad displayed in his close, no rational jury that followed the law could convict my father of murder. And certainly not this jury, which must contain at least a few people who have loved and admired him for decades.

A few feet ahead of me, my father and Quentin are engaged in muffled argument. Dad is speaking with low intensity, while Quentin seems to be trying to quiet him. Quentin’s white hair bobs up and down as Dad’s voice gains in urgency. The first coherent phrase I catch is “I won’t let you do it.” I’m not sure which of them said that, and before I can figure it out, Judge Elder has turned from the jury and focused on the argument.

“Mr. Avery?” he says. “Is there a problem?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” my father says, pushing Quentin away from him. “I want to change my plea.”

The shock produced by this statement is so profound that for a couple of seconds no one even breathes. In this brief vacuum, my father turns in his chair and looks back at my mother, his eyes filled with apology. The sorrow and guilt I see there shake me to the core.

Then Judge Elder says, “You want to change your plea?”

Dad faces forward again. “Yes, Your Honor. I want to plead guilty.”

“Your Honor,” Quentin interjects, “my client doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s overcome by grief over the death of Mr. Garrity last night, and—”

“No,” Dad says with undeniable force. “I know what I’m doing, Judge.”

Joe Elder’s face darkens as the full import of the situation penetrates his shock. “All right, now. We’re going to excuse the jury, and I’m going to have the lawyers approach the bench to discuss this. Bailiff?”

As the bailiff moves to herd the stunned jury from the court, the gallery explodes into conversation. Only then do I regain my faculties sufficiently to realize my mother is in severe distress beside me. She looks like she did on the night I found her in the upstairs hall, thinking she’d had a stroke. The only difference is that she’s still sitting erect.

“Mom?” I say, gripping her arm. “Can you hear me?”

She turns her head then, and in her eyes I see despair and desperation. “Go with them,” she whispers. “Don’t let him do it. Hurry!”

Jumping to my feet, I scan the gallery for a doctor. Every face out there stares at me like a driver gaping at the carnage of a highway traffic accident. I haven’t been on my feet for three seconds when Drew Elliott steps away from the back wall and waves to me.

“Drew! Mom needs you!”

My old friend hurries forward.