“I see no reason that this defendant should be handcuffed. Everybody knows Dr. Cage has terrible arthritis. Look at his hands. Take those restraints off, Wilbur.”

The deputy standing behind my father instantly complies. Dad’s wrists look red and inflamed after only a short time in the chafing cuffs. That’s what psoriatic arthritis will do to you.

Taking refuge in routine, Judge Noyes reads the charge against my father and asks if he understands it. When Dad answers in the affirmative, the judge recites his rights, concluding with the promise that if he can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed for him. At this point, I state that I’m representing my father in this matter, at least for the time being. Judge Noyes gives me a smile of appreciation, as if this is only as it should be.

When the judge moves his gaze to Shad Johnson, he looks like an artilleryman bringing a cannon to bear. “On the matter of bond,” he says, a note of challenge in his voice. “Does the district attorney have anything to say?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Shad steps forward, compensating for his diminutive height with hidden insoles, a bespoke suit, and his naturally powerful voice. “I realize that Dr. Cage is a long-standing resident of this county. But this was a particularly heinous murder, and life imprisonment is a possibility. The defendant is wealthy by local standards, he has a passport, and he could easily flee the jurisdiction if he so chose. To ensure that he appears at trial, I respectfully ask that bail be denied in this case.”

Shad’s request stuns me speechless. Granted, the charge is murder, but he could easily have covered his ass with his primary constituency by asking for a one- or two-million-dollar bond.

Judge Noyes’s gaze hardens into a basilisk stare. “Mr. District Attorney, are you suggesting that Dr. Cage be held in the county jail for up to nine months while he awaits trial in the Circuit Court?”

Under Mississippi’s laughable “speedy trial” rule, the state is allowed to wait 270 days before a defendant must be given his day in court. This long delay pleases most defendants, who are in no hurry to accelerate the wheels of justice. But this case is different.

“The charge is first-degree murder, Judge,” Shad says with quiet insistence.

“It is, indeed,” says Noyes. “And here’s my thinking on that. Tom Cage has been practicing medicine in this town for … how long?”

“Forty-two years,” my mother says softly.