I start to ask the deputy for more detail, but before my first word emerges, he bellows, “I can’t do nothin’ ’bout that, dumbass! I don’t care if you the governor’s brother!”
For emphasis, he whangs the bars of my cell with his billy club and marches back toward the door, mumbling, “Man wants to see his kid. Everybody up in this motherfucker got kids.”
“No shit!” shouts someone down the block. “Who that motherfucker think he is? The president?”
“He be Dr. Cage’s son,” says a wiseass voice. “Little Lord Fuckleroy.”
Scattered laughter reverberates through the cells. Then another voice says, “He’s the mayor, man. I guess his power don’t quite extend to the jail, though.”
“I guess it don’t!” hollers someone else, as the block door clangs shut.
I walk back to my cot and sit, hoping to lessen my silhouette in the consciousness of my jail mates.
So . . . Quentin Avery has enough juice to send me covert messages via Billy Byrd’s own deputies. I shouldn’t be surprised. Quentin has contacts all over the South. If I asked about this, he would only laugh and say something about the “soul-brother network” or something similar. And I have no doubt that the black deputy feels far more allegiance to Quentin than to a redneck like Billy Byrd, despite working for Byrd. If he’d passed me a more substantive message, I might doubt its authenticity. But “don’t say nothin’ to nobody” is the first law of the jailhouse, and I’m surprised Quentin felt he needed to send that advice to a former assistant district attorney. Then it hits me: if Quentin felt he needed to tell me that, then he seriously doubts my present mental state.
Maybe he should, says a voice in my head. You couldn’t have fucked up much worse than you did.
But once Forrest told me what he did about Caitlin, I had no choice in what followed. I don’t think I even made a conscious decision to kill him. At some level I realized that Caitlin had known she was pregnant but had decided to spare me that pain by omitting that information from her last message to me. And in some unquantifiable fraction of time after that realization flashed through my brain, every nerve and muscle fiber in my body fired.
The buzz and clang of the cellblock door don’t signify anything at first, or else I think it’s my imagination. But then the clack of expensive shoe heels sounds between the cells, and Shadrach Johnson appears before my cubicle.
“How are you doing, Mayor?” he asks, straightening the lapels of his expensive suit.
I remain on my cot and say nothing. Whatever Shad has to tell me will be calculated to hurt me in some way, so I might as well sit and take it and give him the least possible amount of pleasure during the process.
“I just gave a press conference on the courthouse steps,” he announces. “Two Jackson TV stations were there, a half-dozen print reporters, and producers from the BET network and Court TV.”
“Congratulations. Next stop, CNN.”
“With any luck. Anyway, I informed those outlets that the prosecution of your father for the murder of Viola Turner will proceed as scheduled in three months. March first on the court docket—just in time for Spring Pilgrimage.”
Despite my familiarity with Shad’s boundless ambition, this surprises me. “I thought my father had been placed in protective custody by the FBI.”
Shad gives me a knowing look. “I don’t know what kind of strings you pulled with the Bureau, but we both know that they can’t grant him immunity on a state murder charge. They may find some way to shake him and Garrity loose from that dead state trooper, but not even the president can make Viola Turner go away.”
“So you’re a happy man. I really appreciate you coming by with the bad news.”
The DA shrugs. “I wanted you to hear it from me first. This is going to be a high-profile case, Penn. Historic.”
“Maybe you can kick-start your mayoral campaign for the special election they’ll be having after they throw me out.”
Shad snorts with what sounds like derision. “I’ll be shooting a lot higher than that, after this case is over. But that brings up the real reason I came. The Lusahatcha DA will probably want to try you in his county. Since they’re in our judicial district, you’d normally get one of our circuit judges. But since you know them all so well, the attorney general will probably bring in an outside judge. My office could prosecute your case, but I haven’t yet decided whether to take it on. Given our history, the AG may decide to appoint a special prosecutor.”
“That must really rankle, Shad. You’d probably rather convict me than my father.”
He looks philosophical. “A week ago, I’d have said yes. But given the issues in your father’s case? No. You killed a dirty cop who’s going to be looking like a world-class dirt bag by tomorrow. I’m happy to leave you to the special prosecutor. By the way, my condolences on Caitlin’s passing.”
I can’t tell if he’s feeding on my pain or hoping I’ll give him some sort of absolution. “Seriously?” I whisper. “You do realize that if you hadn’t grabbed onto Lincoln Turner’s accusation and turned it into a three-ring circus, she’d still be alive?”
“That’s absurd,” he snaps, but he knows it’s true. “Caitlin was killed by her own ambition. You know that as well as I do.”
“Get out of here, Shad. While you still can.”
His dark face cycles through several changes of expression I can’t quite read. Then he says, “I have something else to tell you, but you’ll have to come closer if you want to hear it.”
He’s worried about the closed-circuit cameras. “Not interested,” I tell him.
“It’s about Forrest Knox and your father.”