Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl

“She ought to wear a sign,” Caitlin says drily. “Please stare at my tits.”

“I’m surprised you’d comment, after the blouse you wore the day you interviewed me.”

Caitlin takes her eye away from the viewfinder and gives me an elfin smile. “That was different. I was trying to distract you.”

“It worked.”

“It always does. I’m really rather modest.”

“Modesty isn’t what comes to mind when I think of you.”

Her smile changes subtly. “You don’t really know me very well, do you?”

She reaches over and switches off the engine, killing the windshield wipers. “Any word on when Ruby Flowers’s funeral will take place?”

Her quick segues are hard for me to follow. “Mose—Mr. Flowers—is thinking of Sunday, but that’s not set in stone.”

“Sunday? But that’s … five days after she died.”

“That’s how the blacks do it. Haven’t you read your own paper’s obituary column?”

“Why do they wait so long?”

“Well, they usually have to wait days for relatives who live up North to get back to Mississippi. Sometimes they have to ride the bus. Ruby has two sons in Detroit, a daughter in Chicago, and another boy in Los Angeles.”

“Can’t you fly them in?”

“I’ll do anything Mr. Flowers asks me to do, but he hasn’t asked. My father already bought Ruby’s coffin and headstone, which probably cost more than the church the funeral will be held in. Personally, I think he overdid it. Ruby never wanted to stand out from her own people in life, and I don’t think she’d want to in death. Why do you care when the funeral is, anyway?”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, Penn, but Ruby’s funeral is going to be the epicenter of a media hurricane.”

“What?”

“Shad Johnson is going to speak, and there are bound to be TV trucks there—”

“Damn it, that’s all wrong.”

“You should thank God for small miracles. Al Sharpton called Shad this morning and offered to come down and ‘help out with the Movement.’ Shad told him to stay in New York.”

Even as I say a silent thank-you to Shadrach Johnson, bitter gall rises into my throat.

“Take it easy,” Caitlin says, touching my arm. “Tell me what you did today.”

“What I did? It’s isn’t what I did. It’s what the judge did.”

“Which judge?”

“The white one. Franklin. Two hours ago she set our trial date.”

Caitlin goes still. “Our trial date? The libel trial?”

“Just my part of it. You don’t have to worry. But my slander trial is set for next Wednesday.”

“Next Wednesday? That’s only”—she counts swiftly on her fingers—“six days from now!”

“Yep.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I expected a quick trial date, but I thought I’d get at least a month. Simply going through the materials I’ve requested under discovery could take a month.”

“How can the judge set a date like that?”

“Easily. She’s in Marston’s pocket. Why do you think he picked her?”

“Picked her? I thought they assigned judges by drawing lots or something.”

“In this district they match cases to judges by simple rotation. Theoretically, whichever judge’s name is up when a suit is filed gets that case. But all the clerk has to do to steer a case to a particular judge is hold on to it until that judge’s turn comes up. One phone call from Marston to the clerk would do it.”

“How do you know he has Franklin in his pocket? Maybe he just has the clerk.”

“I talked to a local lawyer I went to school with. Marston was the heavy hand in getting Franklin elected. Big contributions, an endorsement, words in the right ears. That was eight years ago, but she won’t have forgotten who put her on the bench.”

“But how can she possibly defend that trial date? No one could build a defense that fast.”

“In my answer to Marston’s complaint, I stated that my defense would be truth. Truth is the oldest defense against a slander charge. By definition, truth cannot be slanderous. If Franklin is challenged about the trial date, she’ll say, ‘The defendant doesn’t dispute that he uttered the alleged slander. He claims that his statements are true. Therefore, let him prove that without delay. Leo Marston’s reputation should not suffer any more than it already has while Mr. Cage goes on a fishing expedition.’ She can also cite the racial violence in the community resulting from my charges.”

Caitlin is shaking her head. “Shit. You’re in a deep hole.”

“Will you help me wade through the materials I’ve requested in discovery?”

“Absolutely. I’ll get my reporters and interns going through the stuff as soon as you get it.”

She digs into her windbreaker pocket, pulls out a Snickers bar, and tears open the wrapper. After two bites she freezes and looks guiltily at me.

“Sorry.” She offers me what’s left.

“That’s okay. You eat it.”

“Come on. It’s not like we haven’t already exchanged germs. Though that seems quite a while ago.”

I take it from her hand. “Thanks. I haven’t eaten for hours.”

The chocolate seems to be absorbed directly through the lining of my mouth, giving me an instant sugar buzz.

“Stakeouts are the worst,” Caitlin grumbles. She glances toward the law office, then looks back at me. “Was your wife from a wealthy family?”

“Sarah? No. Why?”