“The language on the tape is profane,” Judge Franklin goes on, “as language spoken between men in private sometimes tends to be. I will play only that portion of the tape I believe relevant to this case. I want no displays of emotion. I want absolute silence. I will eject anyone who disobeys that order.”

She rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs. Then another liver-spotted hand emerges from the black robe. It presses a button on the machine and turns the speakers toward the jury.

Static fills the courtroom. Then an unfamiliar male voice comes from the speakers, the New Orleans accent plain: Brooklyn with a little crawfish thrown in. This must be Clayton Lacour.

“. . . and this problem, Leo, it’s, you know, one of those things you could earn a lot of gratitude by fixing.”

“I’m listening.”

A collective intake of breath by the crowd as it recognizes the resonant voice of Leo Marston.

“Order!” demands Judge Franklin.

“This goddamn new guy they got at the field office here,” Lacour goes on, “Hughes, his name is, he’s not playing by the old rules. This is the new SAC I’m talkin’ ’bout. He’s stoppin’ by for coffee at Carlos’s office at the Town and Country, for God’s sake, got surveillance on him around the clock. Uncle C is gettin’ ulcers. You gotta help me out here, cher.”

“I’m not sure what you want.”

“What I want? It’s not me, Leo. I’m just passing a message from the man.”

“From Marcello?”

“Yeah. Elvis was down here a few months ago, and he told Carlos you were tight with Hoover. He said—”

“Elvis?”

“Yeah. Presley. That, ah . . . what’s his first name? Ray. Carlos’s guys call him Elvis.”

A pause on Marston’s end. Then: “I thought Frank Costello greased the skids with Hoover for Marcello.”

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, okay? But Carlos and Frank are on the outs just now. Not a good time for Carlos to call New York for a favor. So anyway, Elvis was down here, and he told the man you guys cooled out a nigger down there two or three years back, and Hoover let it slide for you—”

A gasp from the jury box.

“—said you call him Edgar, like he’s your uncle or something.” Lacour laughing now. “Anyway, Carlos wants you to talk to the old queen and get this Harold Hughes off his back. This fucking guy don’t know how it works down here.”

“Does Marcello understand how things work with Hoover?”

“What do you mean?”

“Hoover expects a quid pro quo.”

“Hey, there’s always a quid pro quo, right? That’s business. But look, Elvis wasn’t just talkin’ shit about this nigger, was he?”