The Bone Tree

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

As if on cue, the door to the visitation room bangs open behind Lincoln. I first see the big deputy who first brought me into this room, but with surprising grace he steps sideways so that the man behind him can see into the room. That man is Quentin Avery, seated in a motorized wheelchair with two stump supports jutting out from the seat. Quentin’s wearing a beautiful three-piece suit, the pant legs sewn shut beneath what remains of his legs. For a moment there is only silence. Then Quentin raises his right hand and points a long forefinger at Lincoln.

“Get this bum out of my sight, Larry.”

Black rage darkens Lincoln’s face. “You don’t talk to me like that, you Tom motherfucker.”

The big deputy leans into the room and glowers at Lincoln. “Don’t be callin’ Mr. Avery names, now. I’m the one gon’ escort you out, remember.”

“You kiss my ass, too, Larry,” Lincoln spits. “I’ll kick your fat ass down those stairs and sue you out of a job.”

The deputy shakes his head without rancor, but I remember him charging into the cellblock like a blitzing linebacker, and I wonder about Lincoln reaching the exterior of the jail without injury.

“Don’t pay that chump any mind, Larry,” Quentin says affably. “Just make sure he gets outside in one piece.”

“All right, Mr. Q.”

“Yassa, boss!” Lincoln mocks. “Anything the house nigger say do, I gwine to hop right to it!”

Quentin’s deep-set eyes focus on Lincoln. “Like I said, Larry . . . ignore him.”

“I’m a lawyer, too, old man,” Lincoln says. “Just like you.”

A rumbling chuckle comes from Quentin’s chest. “There aren’t many lawyers like me left, boy. And Lord knows you’re not one of them.”

“I’m glad of it. You’re long past your prime, dog. I checked you out. You sold out a long time ago, and you’re in this fight for the wrong reason. You’ve made a lot of enemies over the years, too. And when you go down in flames on this case, a lot of people are going to be glad to see it, you old crip.”

For the briefest instant I see doubt in Quentin’s eyes, and it frightens me. I expected a deft riposte from him, but what I hear instead is the ringing impact of Lincoln’s head being slammed against the wire screen by Larry. Lincoln is a muscular man, but his struggles against the deputy are like the thrashing of a toddler against a full-grown man. Lincoln tries to yell, but Larry mashes his mouth against the steel and jams a knee as thick as a tree stump against his spine.

Quentin lets this go on for perhaps eight seconds, then calmly tells Larry to let Lincoln go. When my half brother finally slides off the screen, he gasps like a winded fighter on his last legs.

“That’s battery, goddamn it,” he croaks.

“I guess he is a lawyer,” Quentin says, his equanimity restored.

“Disbarred,” I inform him.

“Good to know. Take him out, Larry. And don’t worry. If he sues, I’ll defend you in court.”

Ignoring Lincoln’s parting threats as Larry drags him out, Quentin carefully navigates his black wheelchair through the door.

“One thing you never are,” I say to the old lawyer, “is boring.”

Quentin smiles, but his once proud and handsome face is lined with pain and care. “I’ve got good news for you.”

“Your face doesn’t show it.”

“Well, things aren’t so good for your father.”

I let this slide past me. “Kaiser told me that Griffith Mackiever was working on getting me out.”

Quentin nods. “They ought to have you processed in a few minutes. I was surprised that Brother Shadrach would go along with this little maneuver. Do you have any thoughts on why our esteemed district attorney would accede to this?”

“I can think of one. Shad told me that Forrest threatened to destroy him unless he agreed to do certain things. That means Forrest had some sort of leverage over Shad. He and Mackiever were both state cops. I’m betting they have a file on Shad dating back to the dogfighting stuff in Louisiana. Maybe they have a photo like I had, or even a videotape. Sheriff Byrd neutralized mine by saying he’d testify that Shad had been working undercover for him, but Billy Byrd’s not going to line up against the Louisiana State Police and commit perjury. Not to save Shad’s ass.”

“You have the FBI to thank as well,” Quentin adds. “Agent Kaiser has spoken up for you where it counts.”

I raise my eyebrows at that. “Kaiser’s a good man.”

“Good for you. But none of that helps your father.”

“Bullshit. Mackiever is clearing him and Walt of the cop-killing charge, and John has spared him the hell of Billy Byrd’s jail by taking him into protective custody. I think that’s about the best Dad could hope for, considering.”

“You sound like you want to see him go to trial over Viola Turner.”

I look down, trying not to let my anger engage. “I think that may be the only way we’ll ever find out the truth of what happened in Viola’s house that night, Quentin. In a court of law, under oath.”

Avery closes his eyes and sighs like a weary old wizard. Then he opens them and shows me his irritation. “Don’t be naïve, Pe

“That’s a pretty remarkable statement for a trial lawyer. If you really believe that, you’ve stayed in the profession too long.”

“If you think I’m wrong, you were right to get out when you did. Now”—Quentin claps his hands and wrinkles his nose—“let’s get the hell out of this dump. That stink reminds me of my wayward youth.”

AFTER BILLY BYRD’S FUNCTIONARIES process me out of the lockup—a ritual at which the sheriff chooses not to appear—Quentin stops me in the corridor that leads to the ground floor lobby of the sheriff’s department.

“What is it?” I ask, itching to get out of the building before someone realizes they’ve made a mistake and set a cop killer free. Through a glass window to my left I hear a dispatch radio and the clicking of an actual typewriter being pecked with painful slowness.

Quentin looks up from his wheelchair with some trepidation. “Don’t be angry, but your mother and daughter are waiting out there for you.”

A ball of ice forms in my chest. “Where? Outside the building?”

“In the lobby.”

“With the pimps and hookers?”

“Ain’t you high and mighty for a jailbird? Look, Peggy hasn’t left that lobby since they brought you in. It’s like she’s standing vigil in a surgical waiting room, waiting to hear the worst. Even Walt Garrity’s out there, and he ought to be in a hospital bed.”

“A

“No. She’s been at home, with Kirk Boisseau and half a dozen Natchez cops. But she’s here now. An FBI agent drove her over.”

To my embarrassment, hot tears are rolling down my face. They’re tears of shame, a special variety I saw on the faces of many men in my former life. “Just tell me one thing,” I say, wiping my face on my shirt sleeve. “And don’t bullshit me. Did Dad run a DNA test on some baby teeth of Lincoln’s?”

Quentin mutters something under his breath. “Goddamn that boy.”

“What was the result, Quentin?”

The lawyer looks up like a man who’d rather be anywhere but here. “Viola was telling the truth. Tom fathered Lincoln Turner.”

I nod slowly, taking it all the way in. “All right, then. So now we know. Let’s go see Mom and A

“Wait.” Quentin grips my wrist with surprising strength. “You don’t want to hear this, but I’ve got to say it. Right this minute, your father’s sitting in a cell exactly like the one you just left. And he’s in a lot worse shape than you, physically speaking. He wants to see you, Pe

The ice in my chest has begun climbing up my throat. “After a week of ru