Leo himself sits facing the bench with imperious detachment. He is a head taller than Blake Sims, and his close-cropped silver hair and chiseled features give him the look of a wise but austere judge, which he was. Four decades spent roaming the corridors of power have served him well. His tailored English suit was made for the television cameras, and no one looking at him this morning would suspect that he executed a man last night.

Moving toward my table, I scan the faces of the spectators who have managed to get into the packed courtroom. This morning I arranged with the bailiff that my parents be allowed in, with Sam Jacobs escorting them, and also Althea and Georgia Payton, with Del Jr. All are seated in the second row on the right, behind my table. The first row was roped off for city officials, who have turned out in force. Mayor Warren and District Attorney Mackey shoot me glares whenever I look their way. Beyond them are many faces from my youth and, peppered among these, the characters who have populated my life for the past two weeks. Ex-police chief Willie Pinder. Reverend Nightingale. Some of the neighbors who helped search for Annie on the day of the fire. Charles Evers. What sobers me is my awareness of those who aren’t here. Ruby. Ike. Ray Presley. Dwight Stone.

I shake hands with my father over the bar, then take my seat. As I begin reviewing the notes I made last night about questioning potential jurors, someone touches my shoulder. It’s Caitlin Masters. For the first time since the cocktail party, she has abandoned her informal uniform of jeans and button-downs for a dress. A blue sleeveless one that emphasizes her lithe body. The effect is so profound that I simply stare at her.

“I do own dresses,” she says, obviously pleased by my reaction.

“You look very nice. Any word from Stone?”

She bites her lip and shakes her head, then pats her pocket. “He has the number of the paper. They’ll call me the second he or his daughter calls in.”

“If he calls. Is Portman here?”

“They’ve got him in a room upstairs with five FBI agents.” She reaches out and touches my forearm. “Hold on to your hat. They’ve got the governor up there too.”

“The governor of what?”

“Mississippi. He’s here as a character witness for Marston.”

I feel my face flushing. “He’s not on the witness list.”

She gives me a “get real” look. “Do you think Judge Franklin is going to tell the governor to go back to Jackson without letting him take the stand?”

“Damn.” I fight the urge to tear out a handful of my hair.

“Take it easy. African Americans hate the governor. Did you get any sleep?”