“The district attorney again,” says Rose. “Line two.”

I stab the second button on my phone. “Shad?”

“Tell me you’ve got a miracle story,” he says. “The ultimate alibi.”

“I wish I did.”

“What do you have?”

“Nothing.”

“You couldn’t find your father?”

“Oh, I found him. He won’t talk to me.”

“What?”

“He’s giving me the Ernest Hemingway treatment. Stoic and silent. He says whatever happened last night is none of my business. Doctor-patient privilege.”

“I hope you told him that’s not going to fly.”

“He doesn’t care, Shad. He’s as stubborn as they come when he wants to be.”

“But he admitted to being there? At the woman’s house?”

“He admitted nothing. He told me he’d been treating the lady, that’s it.”

“Penn, are you being straight with me? Was my call the first you’ve heard about all this?”

“Absolutely. But I think we’d better stop the questions for now.”

“What the hell am I supposed to tell Roy Cohn down here? He wants your father’s hide nailed to the courthouse door.”

“I don’t know. I’m thinking.”

“Think faster.”

“Maybe I should talk to the son myself.”

“Forget it. I don’t want Lincoln Turner even knowing I called you. If you can’t come up with a medical justification for whatever happened last night—one that will stand up in court—your father is screwed. Turner wants Tom Cage in jail, and the evidence apparently supports his version of things. I’ll tell you something else for free: Turner is already playing the race card.”

“The race card? How?”

“He told me that if a black doctor had euthanized a white woman, and her son had complained, the doctor would already be in jail.”

I try to imagine our black DA reacting to Turner’s accusation. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him I’m handling this case just like I would any similar case. But I’m not sure he’s wrong.”

“Have you ever had a similar case?”

“Hell, no. Have you?”

“I prosecuted one once. Not exactly like this one, though. The doctor was a nut job. But what you told me before held true in Houston. Ninety-nine percent of these cases never get to the police, much less the DA’s office.”

Shad grunts. “I’ll tell you something else for free. Lincoln Turner isn’t impressed by my melanocytic credentials. He thinks I’m some kind of stooge for the Man.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, I can’t help but chuckle at Shad’s predicament. “How old is this guy?”

“Forty, maybe? He did just lose his mother. I keep thinking he’s bound to calm down. But that doesn’t help us today.”

“How long can you stall him?”