When I turn back to the bar, I see Quentin, Dad, and Shad following Judge Elder through the door to his chambers, with Doris Avery scurrying to catch them. Without Judge Elder to enforce decorum, the courtroom dissolves into chaos. The deputies on the left wall look like witnesses to some one-in-a-million sports phenomenon, while the circuit clerk and court reporter stand together, shaking their heads, their faces red.

“Penn, go after them!” my sister says from my shoulder. “Drew and I will take care of Mom!”

I cross the well at a run and reach the door just as a deputy moves to take up a post in front of it.

“I’m co-counsel for the defense!” I tell him. “Let me through.”

The deputy hesitates, then opens the door and lets me pass.

Ten steps take me to Judge Elder’s office, and by the time I get there, Quentin is begging his old clerk to call a recess and have Dad examined by a psychiatrist. But the instant he falls silent, Dad speaks in the voice of a man completely in charge of his faculties.

“Judge Elder, I understand my attorney’s distress. But I am of sound mind, and I want to change my plea to guilty. I fully understand the consequences of such a change.”

Shad is staring at my father like he might at someone who has done something completely contrary to human nature—which he has.

“Dad, you can’t do this,” I tell him. “Judge, you can’t let him do it. He’s distraught over the deaths of Walt Garrity and my fiancée. He’s been deeply depressed ever since Caitlin’s death, and Walt’s death pushed him over the edge.”

Joe Elder listens very carefully to me. Then he says, “Your father sounded perfectly in control when he testified this morning. And not particularly depressed.”

“Judge, come on. Nobody does this. Nobody.”

“Mr. Cage, I have seen criminal defendants change their pleas while the jury is in deliberation.”

“Sure, when they know the jury is about to hammer them with life in prison. This jury’s about to acquit. We all know it. Dad’s just had an attack of Catholic guilt.”

“I’m not Catholic,” Dad says in a matter-of-fact voice.

“It’s a suicidal gesture,” I insist. “A cry for punishment, because he blames himself for the deaths of his friends.”

“I do,” Dad says calmly. “But I’m also responsible for Viola’s death. I’m sure of that.”

In the corner of the room, Doris Avery shakes her head, as though grieving over a death occurring before her eyes.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because to plead guilty, you’ll have to sign something saying you injected Viola with adrenaline with the intent of killing her. Will you do that? Can you do that?”