“Did that look like a morphine overdose to you?” Henry asks.
“No. Is that what Shad thought it was?”
“I think he expected to see a morphine overdose until he saw this.” Henry puts his hand on my arm. “Did I break the law by making a copy of this? Or by showing it to you?”
“That’s probably open to interpretation. But you don’t have to worry about it. I won’t tell a soul I’ve seen it.”
“I trust you. I just don’t trust Shad Johnson.”
“You’re not alone in that.” I take a deep breath, then rub my eyes until I see stars. “I don’t mean to keep you, but you said Shad mentioned my father to you?”
“When I first got to his office, he said he thought he had an assisted suicide situation on his hands. He said Viola and your father had some kind of pact about it. But after he saw this, I got a very different feeling.”
“What did he say afterward?”
“Just that the drive was evidence and he had to keep it. But everything had changed somehow. It was more his demeanor than anything else. I had the feeling he was gloating inside. You know?”
“I do.” Given the past enmity between Shad and me, this would normally be no surprise, but considering the leverage I have over him—
“This looks bad for your father, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Do you intend to report this in the Beacon?”
“Not until I have a much better idea of what’s going on.”
I look at Henry from the corner of my eye. “A lot of reporters would.”
He shakes his head firmly. “Your father took care of my daddy right up to the day he died. Some days, Dr. Cage listened to Mama cry for an hour in his office. Not many doctors would do that. None, these days. I owed you this, Penn. Or him, I reckon.”
I lay my hand on his forearm and squeeze it. “Thank you, buddy.”
“What does Doc say about all this? Off the record.”
“He told me to mind my own business.”
“Huh.” Henry pooches out his lower lip. “Well … I’m sure Doc knows what he’s doing.”
“Don’t count on it. When it comes to the law, he’s about as naïve as a seventh grader. He believes the law is about justice.”
Henry shakes his head slowly. “It ought to be, but it ain’t. I’ve sure learned that these past few years.” He looks over at the door of the public library, where a heavy woman with three small children tries to herd them up the steps. “I hate to say this, Penn, but I need to go. Do you want me to drop you back where we were?”
“You don’t need Shad to see you doing that. I’ll run from here.”
Henry takes the computer from my lap and sets it on the backseat. “I appreciate it. Good luck to you.”
As I jog back toward the courthouse, Henry puts the Explorer in gear and roars past me, making for the river.
SHADRACH JOHNSON NORMALLY SITS behind his antebellum-period desk with the condescension of an Arab potentate. Today, however, his customary arrogance is tempered by a watchfulness I’ve rarely seen in him. Shad’s wary demeanor can only be explained by his awareness that I have the power to destroy his political career, and I see no reason to let him forget that during this conversation.
“Before we begin,” he says, “I want us to be clear about something.”
“What’s that?”
“We both know two months ago, you had a certain photograph in your possession. A photograph with me in it.”
“Mm-hm,” I murmur in a neutral tone, my gaze playing over Shad’s jacket, which looks like a Zegna. The DA has always been a clotheshorse. He dresses as precisely as he grooms himself, which is rare among our lawyers and city officials these days. His keeps his hair cut close to his skull and his nails manicured, another unusual touch. The county coroner—an African-American woman with keen observational skills—once quietly suggested to me that Shad is gay, but I’ve never heard this confirmed. And since Natchez has long been a haven for gays in Mississippi, it seems odd that Shad would remain in the closet.
The photograph that so worries him has nothing to do with sexuality—not so far as I know, anyway. Rather, it shows the district attorney in the presence of a professional football player and a pit bull dog. The dog in question is hanging by its neck from a tree limb, and the football player has a cattle prod in his hand. Both men look fascinated, even excited, by the brutality in which they are taking part.
“You told me you gave me the original JPEG file,” Shad goes on, as though each word causes him discomfort. “On that SD card.”