Dad looks momentarily confused, but before he can answer, Shad says, “Actually, he wouldn’t have to do that. He could make an Alford plea.”

“What’s an Alford plea?” Dad asks.

“Shut up, Shad! Try to rise above your nature, for once.”

“Mr. Mayor, you forget yourself,” Judge Elder says in a taut voice.

“With an Alford plea,” Shad explains, “you can simply say that there’s enough evidence that a reasonable person might conclude that you’re guilty of the crime, and therefore you’ve chosen to plead guilty.”

Dad nods slowly. “That’s what I want to do.”

“That’s usually done in exchange for a reduced sentence,” Quentin says.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dad mumbles.

“Listen to him,” I almost yell at Judge Elder. “Is that the statement of a sane man?”

“Penn,” Dad says, looking up at me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face, “I know you don’t understand, but I know what I’m doing. You have to let me do this.”

I’ve got it. He looks like a martyr about to walk into the flames. “I can’t,” I tell him. “No son would let his father do this.”

Dad nods slowly, his eyes filled with regret. “Penn . . . I hope you never do the things you’d have to do to be able to understand what I’m doing now.”

As I try to parse his words, he says, “Son, you’re fired.” He turns to Joe Elder. “Judge, I only want Quentin Avery representing me in this room.”

Judge Elder stares at Dad for a few more seconds, then he nods and turns to me. “Penn, I’d like you to excuse yourself. I know you don’t want to go, but . . . please don’t make me call a deputy.”

Quentin looks at me with pain-filled eyes, then reaches out and squeezes my arm. “I’ll take care of him. You’d better go.”

For a moment I wonder if everything that’s happened during this trial was leading here all along. But the agony in Quentin’s face tells me I’m wrong.

“Mr. Mayor?” Judge Elder says again. “Please leave us to it.”

I want to argue, but I feel as though someone has injected me with a powerful anesthetic. As I look from Quentin to my father, and then to Doris, who has tears on her face, someone takes my left hand from behind and gently turns me. It’s the deputy from outside. He must have been listening at the door. By the time he leads me through the outer door, my face is wet and numb.

Chapter 71

The courtroom is still a hurricane of activity when the bailiff leads me back into it. But almost immediately deputies begin clearing the room, herding the flustered spectators out without any semblance of courtesy. As I stand wiping my face, Rusty Duncan hurries across the well, his face flushed with effort or emotion.