Richard Patterson - Conviction

"This semester I got three. But last semester—the Tuesday we're talking about—I only had but one. Bookkeeping."

Tasha, Monk thought, either had an excellent memory or had reviewed her prior schedule. "What time on Tuesday, Tasha?"

She smoothed her skirt, as though erasing an imagined crease. "Three o'clock."

"So you cut class?"

"Just that once." Looking up at Monk, she finished in a prideful tone. "I'm a good student—got an A in that course. Professor didn't grade us on attendance."

Monk tried to imagine this ambitious girl cutting class to hang out watching soap operas with Payton and his sluggish, sullen brother. But there was no way, for the moment, to get at this. "Do you know Eddie Fleet?" he asked abruptly.

Her lips compressed. "I know Eddie."

"What you know about him?"

"He pretended to be Payton's friend." Her voice held quiet fury. "But he's a stone liar, out for himself."

"Know why he'd lie about Payton?" Ainsworth asked.

"Jealousy. The way he used to look at me like to made my skin crawl."

"He ever hit on you?"

Her eyes flashed anger and disdain. "He knew better. He knew not to get on Payton's bad side, that I'd tell him if Eddie tried a thing. Eddie likes his women too scared to come back at him."

Monk considered her. "I guess you've been talking to him," he said more pointedly. "Payton, I mean. Records say you've been visiting County Jail."

Tasha sat straighter. "Why wouldn't I? He's my boyfriend, and he's in bad trouble for something he didn't do."

"So why didn't you just come to us, say where Payton was the day that little girl disappeared?"

For an instant, Tasha averted her head, and then she looked Monk straight in the eyes. "I hadn't put two and two together—not till Payton finally remembered where we'd been. Then it all came back to me."

"How?"

"About cutting my accounting class—'cause that's unusual for me—then seeing that girl's picture the next night on TV, working at the Double Rock." Her voice filled with defiance. "Payton would never do that with a child. I know him—he's gotten in trouble maybe, living down here, having to become a man before his time. But that's all. The rest is Eddie Fleet, using you to push my man aside for him."

Silent, Monk regarded her, his expression conveying muted sorrow. "You're a classy-looking young woman," he said in measured tones. "More important, you're sharp, and you've got plans. You could be someone in this world. Don't mess it up."

A spark of fear surfaced in her eyes. "How would I be doing that?"

Monk erased the sympathy from his face. "Perjury," he said flatly. "This is an important matter—to us, to the city, and to that girl's family. We're going to find the truth about it."

Tasha bit her lip, although her eyes, with an apparent effort, still met her interrogator's. "I'm telling the truth, Mr. Policeman. You just don't like hearing it."

* * *

"She's lying," Monk told Mauriani. "Payton put her up to it."

"Sure he did. But as it stands, her story gives the brothers at least a shot at acquittal, if the jury's squirrelly enough." Mauriani cocked his head. "Though I suppose there's always the chance," he added dryly, "however small, that Yancey James may not have thoroughly vetted her story. Maybe you should check her out."

"Right now," Monk answered with a smile. "Nothin' better to do."

* * *

Four days later, in the courtroom of the judge who would try People of California v. Price, the Honorable Angelo J. Rotelli, Mauriani moved to exclude from evidence the testimony of Tasha Bramwell.

Angie Rotelli, another former colleague, regarded Mauriani sternly. "On what grounds?"

"Surprise. Miss Bramwell was hardly unknown to the defense. And yet Mr. James disclosed her existence five days before trial. Aside from the dubious credibility this suggests, it's trial by ambush—"

"Okay, counsel," Rotelli cut in with an unimpressed manner. "I get it. Mr. James."

Slowly, James rose. "If there was any untoward delay, Your Honor, Ms. Bramwell here can account for that to this Court and the jury." His voice became solemn. "Mr. Mauriani is seeking the ultimate penalty—death. Now he wants to exclude vital evidence on a technicality. Any prejudice to the prosecutor pales in comparison to death by lethal injection."

Briskly, Rotelli nodded. "I have to concur," he told Mauriani. "Where two lives are in the balance, justice requires us to hear Ms. Bramwell out. Motion denied."

Mauriani was very careful to look somber.

* * *

Fifteen years later, he walked Teresa Peralta Paget to her car.

They had emptied the second bottle of cabernet, with Terri finally accepting a glass. The man simply wanted company, she thought, and she owed him the courtesy of not feeling set apart.

And Mauriani reacted with a courtesy of his own; dignified and solicitous, he walked her to the car, carefully repeating the directions he had already given her. When she drove away, he remained at the head of the driveway, watching.

She arrived home late, around ten-thirty, and encountered Carlo sitting in the kitchen, waiting for her as she had asked.

"Did Mrs. Price recall anything about Tasha?" she inquired.

Sitting on the stool at the kitchen counter, Carlo sipped from a steaming cup of coffee. "Some," he answered. "But more about Yancey James."

* * *

It was the last time, Eula Price remembered, that she spoke with the lawyer alone.

They sat in Eula's living room on the night before the trial began. "Tasha Bramwell," James said in forceful tones, "could become the cornerstone of our defense. But taken by herself, I can assure you, Mrs. Price, that she just won't be enough to save your boys. A death penalty case is complicated, and the prosecutor's office is bringing their full might down upon us."

"What can we do?"

"More investigation—to find all the evidence we can, from whatever source, that this terrible crime is contrary to your grandsons' basic natures." He paused, as though reluctant, then added firmly, "We're going to need more money, Mrs. James. To fund our further investigation before it's too late."

Eula felt panic, a swift palpitation of her heart. "What about the money from the house?"

"Gone," he said flatly. "Investigation fees. The last dollars went into checking out Tasha Bramwell."

Tears came to Eula's eyes. "Lawyer James, I got no more money. This trouble's taken it all."

James lowered his gaze in sorrow. "Not even savings?" he asked.

Beneath the words, Eula could feel his desperation. "Just pension money," she answered, feeling her voice become husky. "We already used up all Joe left me."

Shaking his head, James reached for the familiar white handkerchief. "Then all we can do," he said mournfully, "is whatever we can. Can't do any more than that."

SIXTEEN

THE NEXT MORNING, IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM WHERE THEY sat reviewing trial transcripts, Carlo scanned Mauriani's questioning of prospective jurors. "It reads almost like he's helping James," Carlo remarked. "He retained two African Americans on the jury who as good as said they thought cops target blacks."

Terri poured herself a second cup of coffee. "He was worried about jury demographics," she answered. "Mauriani wasn't about to risk a reversal on the grounds of racial exclusion. But I assume the two black jurors said they'd have no problem imposing the death penalty."

"Yup. The judge kept bouncing people with qualms about capital punishment."

"Not surprising. A jury with scruples isn't likely to impose it."

Carlo frowned. "But if all the jurors were pro-death, weren't they also likely to be pro-prosecution?"

"You'd certainly think so," Terri answered dryly. "But Rotelli and Mauriani were only following the law.