I feel like it should be raining, but the sun is hot on the back of my suit jacket. As we shovel the diminishing pile of dirt over the gleaming casket, I think of the white funerals I have attended, how everyone walks away at the end of the graveside service, leaving the coffin to be covered by a backhoe or by couple of unknown gravediggers. This way is better. We should be covered into the earth by people who loved us.

After the grave is full and tamped down, and the camera crews have shot all the footage they want, only a few people remain on the hill. My parents stand with Annie and Reverend Nightingale beside the BMW, which someone has brought from wherever it was parked. Kelly and his associates drift around the edge of the hill, looking for possible threats. Caitlin and the photographer sit on the church steps, fiddling with a camera as Ike Ransom watches.

After Reverend Nightingale toddles off toward his baby blue Cadillac, Ike beckons me to the side of the church, out of earshot of Caitlin and the photographer. I walk over and speak to my parents, then join Ike.

“What you got?” he growls, stepping around me so that I can see no one but him. The blood vessels in his eyes form a red network around the dark irises, and the smell of cheap whisky blows past me with every word. “You got enough to nail Marston on Wednesday?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Working? The trial’s three days from now!”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“So, tell me what you got.”

I quickly summarize my case, from Frank Jones to Betty Lou Beckham and everyone in between.

“Will that bitch testify in open court?” Ike asks, loudly enough to be heard across the hill. “Betty Lou?”

“I don’t know. She’s scared of Presley, and her husband doesn’t want her to testify. I’ve got my father working on her.”

“What about tying Presley to Marston?”

“I’ve got something working,” I say grudgingly, thinking of Peter Lutjens, who at this moment may be risking prison to get a copy of Stone’s original FBI report.

Ike grabs my wrist, his grip like a claw. “What you talking about?”

I jerk my hand free. “I’ll let you know if it works out.”

His glare is disquieting. “Is Stone helping you?”

“No.”

“You ask him to testify?”

“He won’t. Look, I need to go. My family’s waiting.”

“You ain’t telling me shit, man!”

“You need to get some sleep, Ike.”

“Sleep? Let me tell you something. I been thinking. I been thinking I messed up coming to you. You may put Presley in jail, but that ain’t nothing. He’s dying anyway. Marston’s laughing at you, man. Old Shad may be right about you leaving this alone, even though the nigger be a little bright for my taste.”