die.”
“After thirty-seven years?”
“Happens all the time, brother. Black folk might have run from the South as fast as they could when they were young, but they miss it when they get old. Don’t you know that?”
Shad’s down-home soul brother voice is an act; a Mississippi-born African-American, he lost his drawl a month after his parents moved him north to Chicago to attend prep school.
“The son,” he goes on, “whose name is Lincoln Turner, says his mother worked as a nurse for your papa back in the sixties. Anyway, after Viola came back here, Dr. Cage started treating her at home. Or at her sister’s house, rather. The sister never left Natchez. Her name is Revels—Cora Revels. She never got married. So Viola started out a Revels, too. That’s a famous black surname, you know? First black man to serve in the U.S. Senate.”
“But Dad’s not even working right now. He’s taking time off to recover from his heart attack.”
“Well, he’s apparently been making house calls on his old nurse. For the past several weeks, at least. The victim’s sister verifies that.”
The victim.
Christ. “Keep going.”
“According to Cora Revels—and to Viola’s son—your father and Mrs. Turner had some sort of pact between them.”
“What kind of pact?”
“You know what kind,” Shad says in his lawyer-to-lawyer voice. “An agreement that before things got too bad, your father would help the old lady pass without too much suffering.” Shad’s voice carries the certainty of an attorney who has seen most things in his time.
Sixty-five’s not that old
. “How did this even wind up in your office? She was terminal, you said. The police don’t usually get called in these situations.”
“I know. It’s the son pushing this thing. He seems to feel your father crossed whatever line exists, and Turner’s a lawyer. He’s sitting outside my office right now.”
“Where’s my father? He hasn’t been arrested, has he?”
“Not yet. But that’s what Turner wants.”
“How does he think Dad crossed the line?”
“Turner was driving down here from Chicago when it happened. His mother died thirty minutes before he got here, so he didn’t get any last visit with her. He believes his mother could easily have lasted another day, or maybe even a few weeks. I’m hoping he’ll calm down after the reality sinks in.”
A faint buzzing has started in my head, the kind you’re not sure belongs to a honeybee or a yellow jacket. “Are you, Shad?”
“You’re goddamn right. I haven’t forgotten what you’ve got on me. Pushing this case has no upside whatever for me.”
At least Shad hasn’t lost his instinct for self-preservation. “What else does the sister say?”
“Not much. I think Cora Revels is sort of simple-minded, to tell you the truth.”
“Well, what are you going to do? Did you say the son is talking about a
murder
charge?”
“At first he was, but then he went online and checked the Mississippi statutes. We have an assisted suicide law, in case you didn’t know. Now he’s asking that your father be charged under that.”
“What’s the penalty?”
“Ten-year maximum.”
“Fuck! That’s a life sentence for my father.”
“I know, I know. Take it easy, Penn. There’s no way it’s going to come to that. I made a couple of calls before I phoned you. Cases like this hardly ever make it to trial. When they do, it’s usually nonphysicians who are charged, not doctors. Unless you have a nut like Kevorkian, which your father obviously isn’t.”
It’s odd hearing Shad Johnson talk this way, because under normal circumstances, the DA would be thrilled to deliver any news that caused me grief. But eight weeks ago, I gained some unexpected leverage over him, and our relationship skidded far outside the bounds of normalcy.
“Still … this doesn’t sound good.”
“That’s why I called. You need to talk to your father fast, find out exactly what happened last night.
“After thirty-seven years?”
“Happens all the time, brother. Black folk might have run from the South as fast as they could when they were young, but they miss it when they get old. Don’t you know that?”
Shad’s down-home soul brother voice is an act; a Mississippi-born African-American, he lost his drawl a month after his parents moved him north to Chicago to attend prep school.
“The son,” he goes on, “whose name is Lincoln Turner, says his mother worked as a nurse for your papa back in the sixties. Anyway, after Viola came back here, Dr. Cage started treating her at home. Or at her sister’s house, rather. The sister never left Natchez. Her name is Revels—Cora Revels. She never got married. So Viola started out a Revels, too. That’s a famous black surname, you know? First black man to serve in the U.S. Senate.”
“But Dad’s not even working right now. He’s taking time off to recover from his heart attack.”
“Well, he’s apparently been making house calls on his old nurse. For the past several weeks, at least. The victim’s sister verifies that.”
The victim.
Christ. “Keep going.”
“According to Cora Revels—and to Viola’s son—your father and Mrs. Turner had some sort of pact between them.”
“What kind of pact?”
“You know what kind,” Shad says in his lawyer-to-lawyer voice. “An agreement that before things got too bad, your father would help the old lady pass without too much suffering.” Shad’s voice carries the certainty of an attorney who has seen most things in his time.
Sixty-five’s not that old
. “How did this even wind up in your office? She was terminal, you said. The police don’t usually get called in these situations.”
“I know. It’s the son pushing this thing. He seems to feel your father crossed whatever line exists, and Turner’s a lawyer. He’s sitting outside my office right now.”
“Where’s my father? He hasn’t been arrested, has he?”
“Not yet. But that’s what Turner wants.”
“How does he think Dad crossed the line?”
“Turner was driving down here from Chicago when it happened. His mother died thirty minutes before he got here, so he didn’t get any last visit with her. He believes his mother could easily have lasted another day, or maybe even a few weeks. I’m hoping he’ll calm down after the reality sinks in.”
A faint buzzing has started in my head, the kind you’re not sure belongs to a honeybee or a yellow jacket. “Are you, Shad?”
“You’re goddamn right. I haven’t forgotten what you’ve got on me. Pushing this case has no upside whatever for me.”
At least Shad hasn’t lost his instinct for self-preservation. “What else does the sister say?”
“Not much. I think Cora Revels is sort of simple-minded, to tell you the truth.”
“Well, what are you going to do? Did you say the son is talking about a
murder
charge?”
“At first he was, but then he went online and checked the Mississippi statutes. We have an assisted suicide law, in case you didn’t know. Now he’s asking that your father be charged under that.”
“What’s the penalty?”
“Ten-year maximum.”
“Fuck! That’s a life sentence for my father.”
“I know, I know. Take it easy, Penn. There’s no way it’s going to come to that. I made a couple of calls before I phoned you. Cases like this hardly ever make it to trial. When they do, it’s usually nonphysicians who are charged, not doctors. Unless you have a nut like Kevorkian, which your father obviously isn’t.”
It’s odd hearing Shad Johnson talk this way, because under normal circumstances, the DA would be thrilled to deliver any news that caused me grief. But eight weeks ago, I gained some unexpected leverage over him, and our relationship skidded far outside the bounds of normalcy.
“Still … this doesn’t sound good.”
“That’s why I called. You need to talk to your father fast, find out exactly what happened last night.
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