“Speaking as a former prosecutor,” I tell him, “that doesn’t sound like hearsay to me. It sounds like your daughter is accusing you of murdering her mother, among other people. And if she dies, I’d say that what you just heard becomes a dying declaration given prior to suicide. Claude Devereux could challenge the recording in court, of course, along with your daughter’s mental status, but by that time your reputation will long since have been destroyed. So … if you don’t do exactly as I ask—tonight—what you just heard will be published tomorrow morning in every newspaper owned by the Masters Media Group. That’s six or seven million readers, at least. By noon you’ll have CNN setting up cameras in the lobby of your bank. There’s nothing like a Klan story to give the liberal media a taste for blood. Think about Trent Lott. He had ten times the connections you’ve got, and he quietly exited stage left when only a hint of this kind of scandal touched him.”

“You print that,” Brody says calmly, “and I’ll own John Masters’s media group.”

“No you won’t. You’ll be watching a jury listen to how you forcibly committed your teenage daughter to an institution where she was given electroshock therapy against her will—and sexually abused—all because she fell in love with a black boy. Crucifixion, flaying … the murder of those women from Royal Insurance. Christ, man. The DA will have a hell of a time even seating a jury who doesn’t want to string you up on the courthouse lawn. But you might actually prefer that to spending your last years in Angola with large, angry African-American gentlemen who are well informed about your past.”

Royal’s eyes are still on the tape recorder.

“Don’t waste time wondering how I got this. It’s only a copy. One of many, and soon to be number one, unless you do what I ask—tonight.”

Royal raises a hand and rakes the gray stubble on his chin. I sense anxiety mounting in him, charging him with energy, like the armature of an electric motor. Despite all his wealth and power, in this moment Brody Royal is nothing more than a cornered animal searching for escape. I half expect him to come out of the chair and throttle me. Instead, he rolls his shoulders to loosen them, then gets to his feet, takes a pull of Maker’s Mark, and gives me a knowing smile.

“Why don’t you tell me about this favor you need?”

I glance back at Kirk Boisseau, who’s staring at us in amazement.

“You want a sandwich?” Brody asks Kirk. “That chicken salad’s pretty good.”

“No thanks.”