Sims is unable to conceal his self-satisfaction as he takes his seat, but if he was hoping for congratulations from his client or co-counsel, he is disappointed. Leo stares sullenly ahead like a truck driver in the eleventh hour of a drive, while Livy sits with the cool composure of a pinch hitter waiting to be called to the plate.

In the restless silence of the crowd, I rise from my table and walk slowly toward the jury box. Their faces are expectant, as they always are at the beginning of a trial. Before boredom has set in. Before resentment against vain attorneys who love to hear themselves talk has settled in their veins. I lay my hands on the rail and speak directly to them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Penn Cage. I am a writer. Before I wrote books, I was a prosecuting attorney. I spent every day of my life putting violent criminals behind bars. I put more than a few on death row.

“I was born and raised right here in Natchez, but like a lot of our young people, I had to move away to earn my living.”

Several jurors nod their heads, probably those with adult children.

“I earned that living as a prosecutor in Houston, Texas. Now, if you were to go to Texas and ask about Penn Cage, you might find some people willing to speak ill of him. If you went to the penitentiary at Huntsville, you’d find a lot of them.”

General laughter from the gallery.

“What you would not find is a single person who would describe me with the word Mr. Sims just used. Irresponsible. Because when you are prosecuting murderers and asking for the death penalty, irresponsibility is not a weakness you can afford. It’s not a trait that my former boss, the district attorney of Harris County, would tolerate for one minute. Folks, you are looking at a man who says what he means, and means what he says.”

From the rapt faces of the jury, I can see that I haven’t lost the old touch. It’s a good feeling, like climbing onto a horse after ten years away and feeling him respond without a moment’s hesitation. It’s a pity that I have no case.

“When I called Leo Marston a murderer,” I say evenly, “I meant it. Together with a brutal and crooked cop named Ray Presley, Leo Marston engineered the death of a young father, army veteran, and civil rights worker named Delano Payton. And contrary to what Mr. Sims suggested—and what the citizens of our town have believed for thirty years—that murder had nothing to do with civil rights. No, Leo Marston had Del Payton killed for profit.” I glance back at Livy, but she refuses to look at me. “The same reason he does everything else. And despite what Mr. Sims told you, money is never of secondary importance to Leo Marston.