While Johnson left the office to find a FireWire cable, Henry made a fast decision. After opening the program that would play the video file on the hard drive, he altered its settings so that the file would be copied to his PowerBook’s hard drive at the same time it was being converted and streamed to the district attorney’s computer. In all probability there was nothing on the drive, but if there was, Henry would leave the office with his own copy. By the time Shad returned, Henry was standing beside the DA’s Wall of Respect, looking at a photo of Johnson with Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown, celebrities whose stock had fallen quite a bit since the days of Shad’s mayoral campaign against Wiley Warren.

“This what you need?” Johnson asked, holding out a FireWire cable.

Henry made the necessary connections, then set the program so that all the DA would have to do was tap the PowerBook’s trackpad to play the file.

“Time for you to go,” Shad said. “How do I watch the tape?”

It’s not a tape, Henry repeated silently. “Just tap the trackpad on my Mac. That’ll engage the play button on the screen. Do you want me to start it for you?”

“Yes. But as soon as you hit play, go out to my assistant’s office. I’ll tell you when I’m done.”

Henry touched the trackpad, and the light on the Superstream began to blink. A clattering sound emerged from the Mac’s speakers, then something like a strangled wail.

“Get out!” Shad ordered.

As Henry moved toward the door, he glanced down and saw the familiar image of Viola Turner’s sickbed. The woman herself was rolling across it as though trying to escape from some predatory animal. His heart leaped into his throat.

“Get out!” the DA shouted.

Henry hurried into the anteroom and shut the door behind him, his pulse still accelerating. The drive had recorded something. And whoever had stolen the DV tape from the camera hadn’t realized that. And why would they? Few laymen would recognize a Superstream video drive, and the idea of old Ku Klux Klansmen recognizing advanced digital technology almost made him laugh. Henry hoped Shad Johnson wouldn’t notice the PowerBook’s hard drive thrumming as it copied the file from the Superstream. The DA would probably be too absorbed with whatever was on his own screen to notice the whirring of the Mac’s drive motor; also, his clunky desktop PC would be droning and clicking like an old washing machine as it copied the video stream.

“Are you all right, Mr. Sexton?” asked the DA’s assistant.