Greg Iles - Turning Angel

My father once learned this lesson in a very painful and public way. It took me almost twenty years to pay back the man who tried to ruin him. ”Dad, I need some advice, and I need it fast.“

”Shoot.“

”I need the best black lawyer you know.“

”To defend Drew?“

”You got it.“

”You’re the hotshot lawyer. Why ask me?“

”You know why. I want him local, and I’d actually rather have a her. Does anybody in town fit the bill?“

”Hang on, I’m thinking.“

”Take your time.“ I hear Esther talking in the background.

”I only know of three black female lawyers in town. I’ve heard good things about two of them, but that’s not who I’d hire if Shad Johnson was trying to nail me to the barn door.“

”Why not?“

”I’m not sure. You asked my opinion, I’m giving it to you.“

”Fair enough. What about men?“

”We ought to ask Esther.“

”I’d go to her if I was sick, but not for this.“

More silence. Dad calls out a medication and dosage to someone. ”Penn, I’m at a loss here. When I think of local lawyers-black or white-and then I think of the situation Drew is facing, I just come up blank.“

”I know what you mean.“

”Sorry I can’t be more help.“

”It’s okay. I’ll just-“

”Wait a minute!“ Dad says in an excited voice. ”Hell, I should have thought of that first thing.“

”What?“

”Not what- who. “

”You have someone in mind?“

”The smartest lawyer for a thousand miles around, if you ask me. No offense.“

”Who are you talking about?“

”Quentin Avery.“

Images of a tall black man in a black suit arguing before the Supreme Court fill my mind. In some of those old news photographs, the ”Negro lawyer“-as the captions referred to him then-stands beside Thurgood Marshall. In others, beside Robert Carter and Charles Huston. I even remember Quentin Avery standing shoulder to shoulder with an angry-looking Martin Luther King, Jr.

”Quentin Avery,“ I echo. ”I knew he owned a house out near the county line. But I didn’t think he spent much time there.“

”Quentin travels a lot, but he’s been staying out there most of this past year. He’s sort of a recluse now. I’ve been treating him for diabetes and hypertension.“

”How old is he?“

”Mm, two or three years older than I am. Seventy-four?“

”What kind of shape is he in?“

”Mentally? He’s writing a law textbook. And in conversation, he’s so quick I can barely keep up with him.“

”What about physically?“

”He lost a foot a couple of months ago-diabetes-but he still gets around better than I do. He’s like a spry old hound dog.“

”What made you mention him? I mean, Avery is a legend. Why would he take a case like this?“

Even as I ask this question, a possible answer comes to me. Quentin Avery might be a legend of the civil rights movement, but time has not increased his stature. The moral leadership he demonstrated in the sixties and seventies seemed to vanish in the 1980s, when he began handling personal injury cases and class action lawsuits against drug companies. This giant who argued landmark cases before the highest court in the land was suddenly trying accident cases in Jefferson County, Mississippi, the predominantly black county famed for its record-breaking punitive damages awards, most of them based on the prejudices of the African-Americans who filled the jury box each week. Recently, federal prosecutors began reviewing many of those awards, and initiating action against both jury members and the attorneys involved.

”Oh, I don’t think he’d take the case,“ Dad replies. ”Although you never know what will interest Quentin. But you can bet he knows the perfect lawyer to get Drew out of this jam.“

”Does Avery know who I am?“

”Sure he does. Quentin wasn’t in town when you solved the Del Payton murder, but he followed it from New Haven. He was teaching law at Yale then. He said he admired you for bringing Leo Marston to justice after all those years. I think he’s read a couple of your books as well. Maybe he was just being nice, but that’s not Quentin’s style.“

”Should I just call him out of the blue?“

”You could, but he probably wouldn’t answer. Why don’t you let me call first? I’ve got a good idea of your situation. If Quentin’s willing to help, he’ll call you.“

”Good enough. But time is critical.“

”I got that, son.“

Someone is beeping in on my phone. It’s Chief Logan again. ”I’ve got to run, Dad.“

”Go. Bring Annie by to see us soon.“

”I will.“ I click the phone to take the incoming call. ”Chief?“

”Penn, somebody just told Billy Byrd that he saw Dr. Elliott’s car parked in a vacant lot in Pinehaven on the afternoon of the murder. That lot’s adjacent to St. Catherine’s Creek, and not a quarter mile from where we found Kate Townsend’s cell phone.“

”Mother fucker. “ Drew’s recklessness is going to damn him in the end. ”Is that the worst of it?“

”Afraid not. This witness says he saw Drew’s car at about three forty-five p.m. Kate Townsend’s cell phone records show that she answered a text message from a girlfriend at three twenty-two p.m. We found her cell phone in the woods less than two hundred yards from where Drew’s car was parked. That means they were in very close proximity to one another within twenty-three minutes. That’s provable, Penn. What a jury would read into that, you know better than I.“

I can’t believe this. ”Is there anything else, Don?“

”My source says Sheriff Byrd’s planning to arrest your man for capital murder. She even heard that with the D.A.’s help, Byrd might try to take Drew right out of my custody.“

Astonishment paralyzes me.

”Penn, are you Drew’s lawyer or not? He doesn’t seem too sure himself.“

”I guess I am for the moment.“

”What do you want me to do if Byrd shows up and tries to take him out of here? I’ve called the attorney general in Jackson for an opinion, but all I got was the same old runaround. Goddamn lawyers…pick any dozen of them and you won’t find a pair of balls in the bunch. No offense.“

”None taken,“ I mutter, searching desperately for a solution.

”What do you want me to do?“

Desperate times, desperate measures…

”Penn?“

”Charge Drew with capital murder.“

The silence on the other end of the line is absolute. ”On my own authority?“

”You know what the evidence is. You’ve got the girl’s cell phone. Charge him with murder right now. Don’t wait. Do it the second you hang up.“

”I take back what I said before. You’ve got a pair of balls on you, all right.“

”Will you do it, Don?“

”I’ll do it. But you’d better get your ass down here in a hurry.“

Drew is a sobering sight today. Gone are the Ralph Lauren khakis and Charles Tyrwhitt button-down he wore to work yesterday morning. Now he wears the orange-striped prison garb I usually see on inmates picking up trash around the city. His handsome face is shadowed by thirty hours’ growth of beard, but it’s his eyes that unsettle me most. They’re no longer the eyes of an accomplished physician in command of his surroundings; they’re the haunted eyes of a man who realizes that the world he once bestrode with confidence may soon contract to an eight-by-ten-foot cell.

”Tell me you have some good news,“ he says.

”I do. But it’s not all good. You’d better put your game-face on.“

He blinks slowly. ”Give me the bad first.“