Free Natchez Burning by Greg Iles Page B

happened is going to be viewed as an admission of guilt.”
    “Don’t American citizens have the right to remain silent?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “I don’t think the Miranda rules have the word
but
in them, Penn. The Constitution, either, as I recall.”
    God spare me from amateur lawyers.
“Do you know Viola’s son?”
    “Never laid eyes on him.”
    “Well, the vibe I’m getting from Shad is that if you handle this right, it could all go away.”
    “And what would the ‘right’ way be?”
    “I’m not sure. Telling the truth, maybe. Unless …”
    “What?”
    I close my eyes. “Unless you did it.”
    This time the silence is alarmingly protracted. “I can’t say anything else about this. The doctor-patient privilege is sacred to me.”
    “I’m afraid that privilege ended with Viola’s death. Under these circumstances, anyway.”
    “Not in my book.”
    His voice carries absolute conviction. I might as well hang up now. “Dad …
please
reconsider. You’re required by law to assist the coroner in determining the cause of your patient’s death. I’m not even the prosecutor, and what I’m hearing sounds like a doctor admitting he helped someone to die.”
    “People hear what they want to hear. I told you, if Shad Johnson wants to arrest me, let him do it. I’m through talking, and I’m sorry you were bothered with this. I’ll see you later.”
    “Dad!”
    But he’s gone.
    Reaching behind me, I take down the Annotated Mississippi Code of 1972 and page through it, searching for the assisted suicide statute, but before I can get my bearings the phone rings again.
    “The district attorney again,” says Rose. “Line two.”
    I stab the second button on my phone. “Shad?”
    “Tell me you’ve got a miracle story,” he says. “The ultimate alibi.”
    “I wish I did.”
    “What do you have?”
    “Nothing.”
    “You couldn’t find your father?”
    “Oh, I found him. He won’t talk to me.”
    “What?”
    “He’s giving me the Ernest Hemingway treatment. Stoic and silent. He says whatever happened last night is none of my business. Doctor-patient privilege.”
    “I hope you told him that’s not going to fly.”
    “He doesn’t care, Shad. He’s as stubborn as they come when he wants to be.”
    “But he admitted to being there? At the woman’s house?”
    “He admitted nothing. He told me he’d been treating the lady, that’s it.”
    “Penn, are you being straight with me? Was my call the first you’ve heard about all this?”
    “Absolutely. But I think we’d better stop the questions for now.”
    “What the hell am I supposed to tell Roy Cohn down here? He wants your father’s hide nailed to the courthouse door.”
    “I don’t know. I’m thinking.”
    “Think faster.”
    “Maybe I should talk to the son myself.”
    “Forget it. I don’t want Lincoln Turner even knowing I called you. If you can’t come up with a medical justification for whatever happened last night—one that will stand up in court—your father is screwed. Turner wants Tom Cage in jail, and the evidence apparently supports his version of things. I’ll tell you something else for free: Turner is already playing the race card.”
    “The race card? How?”
    “He told me that if a black doctor had euthanized a white woman, and her son had complained, the doctor would already be in jail.”
    I try to imagine our black DA reacting to Turner’s accusation. “What did you tell him?”
    “I told him I’m handling this case just like I would any similar case. But I’m not sure he’s wrong.”
    “Have you ever
had
a similar case?”
    “Hell, no. Have you?”
    “I prosecuted one once. Not exactly like this one, though. The doctor was a nut job. But what you told me before held true in Houston. Ninety-nine percent of these cases never get to the police, much less the DA’s office.”
    Shad grunts. “I’ll tell you something else for free. Lincoln Turner isn’t impressed by my melanocytic credentials.