Shad motions me to the chair before his desk, but I don’t sit. Instead I walk forward and grip the chair back, bracing myself for whatever these two have cooked up. They’re the unlikeliest allies I’ve ever seen—a Harvard-educated, liberal black lawyer and a redneck sheriff who barely escaped high school with a diploma—yet they have colluded before, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

“What’s the deal, guys?”

“No deal,” says Shad. “Congratulations on your father getting bail. He obviously has a lot of support in the community.”

Sheriff Byrd gives a porcine snort, his eyes barely visible beneath the brim of his Stetson.

“After the initial appearance,” I say, ignoring Byrd, “you told me there were some things I didn’t know. You said you thought we ought to clear the air. Then you ran straight to the grand jury for an indictment. Have you cut some kind of deal with Joe Elder to revoke Dad’s bail?”

Shad and Billy share a fast look. “Judge Elder will not only be handling the case for now. I can also tell you in confidence that he’s considering staying on the bench through its conclusion.”

A wave of nausea loosens my bowels. Shad wouldn’t have asked Elder to stay through this trial unless he were confident of some kind of bias.

“Don’t look so frightened, Penn. Joe Elder’s the most impartial judge to sit in this county for decades. He’s firm but fair. Your father won’t get a free pass, of course, but then he shouldn’t. Nobody should.”

“Is Elder going to revoke Dad’s bail?” I ask in a barely controlled voice.

Shad sniffs and looks over at a window. “That’s unlikely without an arraignment. But I’d expect that Monday, when the judge comes back to work. Now, let’s move on to more pressing matters—”

“What did you say to the grand jury?” I demand. “Did you repeat Lincoln Turner’s allegations about his paternity? Because if you did, and it gets out, you’re going to find yourself—”

“Whoa, there, Mayor.” Shad glances at Byrd again. “What did I tell you? He can’t speak three sentences without threatening me.”

“You can’t say you haven’t asked for it.”

The DA shakes his head with what looks like forbearance. “I told you, you’ve got the wrong idea about me. But I’ll let the sheriff explain.”

Sheriff Byrd has a set of keys in his hand, and he works each key through his fingers as he speaks. “Couple months back,” he says, “when all that shit broke loose about the casino boat? With the dogfighting and such?”

I give him a faint nod, hyperconscious of the photograph in the inside pocket of my sport coat.

“Back when your girlfriend was putting your picture in the paper every day, saying what a big hero you were?”