Before the silence can swell into a suffocating blanket, I say, “When I left the hospital, I passed through that wing they’re redoing. They still have the old call panel on the wall. Disconnected, of course.”

He looks surprised by my choice of topic. “Is my name still on it? I can’t lean down there to read it anymore.”

“It’s still there. Do you remember your call number?”

“I was sixty-two for a long time. Not anymore, of course.”

He waves a hand like this doesn’t matter, and I notice the once-straight finger now curled with arthritis, its nail pitted and opaque.

“I still think of that place as ‘the Jeff,’” he says, a wistful look in his eyes. “You know? It’s a good thing they changed the name, of course. Though a lot of my patients don’t even know who Jefferson Davis was.”

This makes me think of our maid, who died in St. Catherine’s Hospital seven years ago. “Ruby didn’t know who Colin Powell was, the year he considered running for president.”

“Christ. I can’t bear to think of that.”

This time the silence stretches out, and Dad looks as though he’s afraid I’m going to start berating him about his plea decision.

“I’m not here to talk about your plea.”

Once more his eyes register surprise. “Thank you.”

“I’m here as your lawyer, to give you legal counsel.”

My formal tone takes him aback, but I need to establish that fact before mentioning anything that could be used against either of us.

“I’m here because I know Mom was in Cora’s house on the night Viola died. I know she injected her with morphine.”

His face loses what little color it had. “Jesus, Penn.” He looks around as though someone is listening. “Can this room be bugged?”

“In theory? Yes. In practice, no. Now they couldn’t use what they recorded anyway. Because I’m your attorney, this is a privileged conversation.”

“I see.”

I wait for him to continue. When he does, his voice barely registers above a whisper.

“Did Peggy tell you she was there?”

“Who else could have told me that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Jenny suspected it first, but she doesn’t really know. She just started chattering about calling the house the night Viola died, and Mom not answering the phone. When I pressed Mom about it, she finally cracked.”

“Was anybody in the room with you and Jenny? A nurse? Drew, even?”

“No. Now, come on. The trial is over. I’ve got to know what happened.”

Dad leans back in the plastic chair, then brings his hands together in front of him. “Things happened exactly the way I described on the stand, only I left out everything to do with your mother.”

“Obviously. So?”

“Just the facts, ma’am?”

“Please.”