Richard Patterson - Conviction

"No telephone number," Johnny said. "No address. Twelve hours to go."

"Try," Terri said. "At least we've got the girlfriend's name."

* * *

After ten minutes of debate with Chris and Carlo, Terri glanced at her watch. It was 12:51.

"We've got no choice," she said flatly. "We have to request leave to file another petition with the Ninth Circuit, and send a supplemental letter to the Governor, citing Fleet's death and an anonymous call. They'll take my word for that or not—at least until Johnny finds this woman."

Carlo looked from Terri to his father. "There's no other way to do it," Chris said finally. "We've got an artificial deadline of twelve-oh-one tonight. I'll keep trying to find the Governor."

Tammy went back to the phones.

TWENTY-ONE

AT FOUR-THIRTY ON THE AFTERNOON OF JULY 21, HAVING DRAFTED an emergency petition to the United States Supreme Court in the event the Ninth Circuit turned them down, Terri and Carlo went to San Quentin for what would likely be their final visit with Rennell.

It was a bright Monday afternoon. As he drove, Carlo intently watched the road, and yet Terri could read the distance in his eyes, an absorption in the imminent death of another human being. In the last ten months, Terri realized, Carlo had changed—he looked older, and his air of careless ease had diminished. The death penalty had killed his innocence.

"Why Tuesday?" he finally asked. "Why twelve-oh-one?"

"A death warrant's good for only twenty-four hours. They don't want an execution date to slip away . . ."

"So if we get a stay from the Ninth Circuit, or the Chief Justice, they'll still have time for the full Court to dissolve it."

"Uh-huh. As for why Tuesday, it used to be Friday." Terri took out her sunglasses. "My theory is that Tuesday cuts down on out-of-town demonstrators, because they'd have to go to work the next day. It also allows three-day weekends for prison personnel, and early getaways for vacations."

Carlo did not respond. Abruptly, he said, "If they execute him, I'm coming."

Terri turned to him. "You don't ever want to see one, Carlo. Let alone Rennell's."

"You're going."

"I have to be there. That's the last place he needs to feel abandoned."

Carlo took the exit for San Quentin. "Just by you?" Softly, he added, "I don't need anyone's permission but his. If you check the list, you'll see I'm on it."

Sometime in the last few days, Terri realized, Rennell and Carlo had discussed this. "Did you bring it up?" she asked.

"No. He did."

They said nothing more until they reached the prison. Gazing up at the ventilator above the death chamber, Terri wondered if Chris had tracked down the Governor, and when they would hear from the Ninth Circuit. Maybe Johnny Moore would still find Jasmine.

There were seven hours left.

* * *

Inside, they met Anthony Lane and went to the cinder-block room where, until six o'clock on the day the State meant to be his last, Rennell was allowed to greet visitors.

Rennell sat alone at a folding table with plastic chairs, his arms and legs shackled, a stolid prison guard watching over him. The windowless room was roughly nine feet by ten; beside Rennell's table was another with plastic spoons, a bowl of red Jell-O, and slices of nondescript meat, snacks for Rennell's visitors. Terri could not imagine eating.

As Rennell stood, Tony Lane enveloped Rennell in a bear hug. Watching Lane over Rennell's shoulder, Terri saw him close his eyes.

Carlo hugged Rennell as well, fiercely and for some moments. When Rennell bent toward her, Terri kissed him on the forehead. He smelled like soap, she realized, as though he had prepared himself for visitors.

Rennell looked down at her. "Been waitin' here. I always knew you'd come."

The simple words pierced her. When he was a child, Terri thought, there had been no one but Payton to rely on, no parents coming to his school or keeping a promise to take him somewhere special on a weekend. His three visitors had become, at the end of his life, the family he had missed.

"Chris wanted to come, too," she told him. "But he's meeting with the Governor and waiting to hear from the courts. No one's giving up."

Rennell nodded, a trace of hope appearing in his eyes. "Chris is real smart," he said as if to comfort himself. "I can tell that."

Terri mustered a smile. "No one smarter. Except for maybe Carlo and me." Remembering Lane, she added lightly, "And Tony, of course."

Rennell leaned his head back, taking in his guests. "All you guys is smart," he said sagely. "Know you be takin' care of things."

Once more, Terri felt the gap between their desperate last maneuvers and the dimness of Rennell's perception of them. Reaching inside her suit pocket, she took out a picture she had found among his grandmother's effects—Eula Price with her arms around a bright-eyed Payton and a solemn, round-faced Rennell at roughly the age of ten. "I brought this for you," she said.

Rennell gazed down at the photograph, eyes dimming, and Terri realized that the photograph must remind him of death—his grandmother's and Payton's—and how his brother had died. "I love this picture of you," she swiftly added. "You look like a little man."

Rennell gave it back to her. "You keep it," he said softly.

Feeling wretched, Terri searched for something to say. Behind Rennell, the guard shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly as unhappy to be present as Terri was to have him there.

Then, casually, Carlo tasted some Jell-O. "Not bad," he told Rennell. "Strawberry. This your favorite?"

Distracted, Rennell looked over at him. "Yeah. My grandma used to make it."

"Want some?"

When Rennell nodded, Carlo put the bowl and plastic spoon in front of him. Taking the spoon in his manacled hand, Rennell put a dollop of red Jell-O in his mouth.

"It's good," he told Carlo.

Anthony Lane pulled up a seat, his bulky frame filling the chair. "It reminds me of when I was a kid," he told Rennell. "I tried to make a mountain of Jell-O out of seven different flavors. Should have seen my mama's face."

With this, Lane launched into a long anecdote which, Terri felt sure, he was inventing as he went along. But it ended well, with a description of a glutinous mass of Jell-O, worthy of Dr. Seuss, which caused Rennell to nod.

"Ugly," he said solemnly. "Bet your mama whipped you. Or your daddy."

Lane glanced at Terri. "Never did," he answered easily. "Never even made me eat it. It was way too ugly."

This, at last, made Rennell smile. "My brother woulda hid me."

Terri felt an emptiness in the pit of her stomach, deeper than hunger. "Bet he would have," Carlo affirmed. "Behind that bush you told us about."

Rennell looked over at him, as though touched that Carlo remembered. "That's right," he said softly. "Behind that bush."

As before, the thought of Payton seemed to surface the reality which lay before him. Tentative, Rennell took Terri's hand. "If they do me like Payton, you be there?"

"Of course," she answered firmly. "But maybe I won't need to."

Rennell did not seem to hear the last. Softly, he asked, "You be okay?"

Terri could not answer. "I'll be there, too," Carlo answered him. "And my dad, if he can. Just don't lose hope, Rennell."

Rennell turned to him again. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Maybe someday we go to that baseball game."

"Yeah," Carlo affirmed. "A Giants game, with plenty of peanuts and hot dogs."

With obvious reluctance, the guard stepped forward. "It's six o'clock," he told Terri. "You're going to have to leave now."

After a moment, Terri stood. But Rennell did not stand, as though unwilling to let go. "We can still talk on the telephone," she assured him. "I'll call you later, when you're with the minister."