Oh, Christ … this is bad. After rubbing my temples for a few seconds, I stand and reach for the doorknob. “Don’t kid yourself about this. If you don’t give me more than you have, Sheriff Byrd is going to arrest you for murder in the morning.”

“Nothing can stop that, son. I’ve already accepted it.”

“Are you telling me Shad would arrest you even if he knew all that you know?”

“I didn’t say that.” Dad sighs wearily. “Is there any chance that Johnson would ask for the death penalty?”

“I don’t see how Shad could stretch this into capital murder. Even if you killed Viola, it wasn’t during the commission of a separate felony, so the felony murder rule doesn’t apply.”

Dad exhales with relief. “I just don’t want your mother to have to contemplate that.”

“Have you told Mom about any of this?”

He gives me a sheepish look. “Not yet.”

I drop my hand from the doorknob. “Dad, for God’s sake. If you’re charged with assisted suicide, we can almost certainly plead it down to probation. Even if a jury found you guilty, we’d have a shot at a suspended sentence, or maybe just losing your license. So far as I can discover, no physician in Mississippi has gone to prison for assisted suicide. But several have gone to Parchman for murder.”

“Penn … we’re going in circles again.”

My impassioned argument has made no impression. “I suppose so. Well … the sheriff’s deputies could come as early as six A.M. Hopefully, they’ll wait until eight or nine, but you never know. I’ll be ready to bail you out. That’s if the judge sets bail, of course.”

“I can’t control the district attorney or the sheriff,” Dad says with the resignation of Mohandas Gandhi. “What I told you this morning is what I’ll tell the judge tomorrow. What happened between Viola and me happened between doctor and patient, and that’s where it’s going to stay. I owe her that much. At least that much. Shad Johnson and his ilk can go spit. They’re dogs barking at a passing hearse.”

My face colors. “And Viola’s son? Is Lincoln Turner a dog barking at a hearse?”

“I’m sure that boy is grieving. But time can work wonders with grief. I’ve seen it ten thousand times. A night’s sleep just might change his mind.”

I doubt it.

“Will you call me if Henry Sexton has new information?” he asks.

“I will, if you’ll tell me what you’re hiding from me.”

He looks away like a caged animal turning from a door it knows is locked. Then he picks up the medical record he was reading when I walked in and lifts the phone to resume his dictation.