After the door closes, Brody beckons me nearer. As I move toward him, I realize that age has not robbed him of his virility. He projects a restrained power, more like the aged Burt Lancaster than Charlton Heston, to whom Henry Sexton compared him. Royal has an acrobat’s proportions, which are accented by his tailored shirt.

“To what do I owe this honor, Mr. Mayor?” he asks without a trace of irony.

This opening takes me aback. I’d expected to confront a querulous old caricature of Theodore G. Bilbo, the red-faced, overweight archetype of Big Daddy, Boss Hogg, and all the other southern shouters. Finding myself facing a trim and courteous businessman is more than a little disconcerting.

“I need to tell you some rather unpleasant things, Mr. Royal. And then I need to ask you a favor—a couple of them, actually.”

The cool gray eyes don’t blink. “I’m a captive audience. Fire away.”

“Somebody shot Henry Sexton tonight. He survived, in case you didn’t know.”

Royal shrugs as if nothing could interest him less. “Can’t say I’m surprised. That boy’s been pushing certain people for a long time. Stands to reason they’d push back eventually.”

“And you know nothing about it?”

The eyes remain steady. “What would I know?”

I can’t help but smile in appreciation of Royal’s poker face—and at my knowledge of what is about to happen. This consummate power broker hasn’t had his will challenged for years.

“I’ve got good news and bad news for you, sir. The bad news is, I’ve got enough evidence to buy you a guaranteed seat on death row at Angola. That’s in the long run. In the short run, I’ve got enough information to destroy your reputation and the value of most of your companies by noon tomorrow.”

Royal’s face alters less than the surface of a rock when the wind passes over it. “What’s the good news?”

“I’m not that interested in forty-year-old murders today. I’m interested in one that happened this past Monday at five thirty in the morning. A woman named Viola Turner.”

Royal studies me like a gambler watching his opponent deal cards. “You haven’t said what you want, Mayor. You want to know who killed that old colored woman? Your daddy’s old squeeze? Is that what you came for?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I want you to listen for a minute. I want you to think about what I’ve told you. Then decide whether or not you’re going to do what I need you to do.”

“Well, get started. You’re boring the hell out of me so far.”

It suddenly strikes me that Brody Royal hasn’t said one word about his comatose daughter. Squatting before him, I look into the opaque gray eyes and begin my pitch.