Richard Patterson - Conviction

Nor did they now. Liz Shelton's testimony seemed to have driven home to Payton how desperate were his circumstances, displacing his look of anger with a dead-eyed stare at nothing. Rennell simply scribbled on his yellow pad.

* * *

"Those questions about blood type," Carlo said now, "Mauriani was covering for the defense lawyer's screwups."

Nodding, Terri put down the felt-tipped pen she used to underline key questions. "Mauriani didn't want a verdict based on prejudicial error, or a record so bad that the verdict might be reversed for ineffective assistance of counsel. You can almost feel him wishing James were better, then deciding that the only certain answer is self-help."

"Not so certain," Carlo answered. "James's cross-examination was terrible, pretty much all the time. Like the stupid way he climbed all over Thuy Sen's mother."

Terri made a wry face. "If terrible and obnoxious were enough, our job would be a whole lot easier. At least James was awake—too awake, probably, because he was all coked up. Aside from constantly wiping his nose, grandiosity and lack of judgment are the hallmarks of a cokehead.

"But that's our take. The Attorney General's Office will call his tactics the aggressiveness of a dedicated advocate fighting for his clients' lives. In fact, they did say that, on appeal, and our state Supreme Court agreed. The Court also said the evidence was so overwhelming that nothing James did or didn't do would have changed the verdict."

"Amazing."

Terri gave him the jaded smile of a lawyer who had seen far too much of this. "Only mildly amazing," she rejoined and tossed him another transcript. "Take a look at James's defense."

NINETEEN

THE SOLE WITNESS FOR THE DEFENSE WAS TASHA BRAMWELL.

In Lou Mauriani's estimate, she made a good impression. Neatly dressed, well-spoken, and unusually composed, Tasha, by her relationship with Payton, suggested a man very different from the menacing crack dealer the jury saw before it. In a manner quiet but unequivocal, she told the courtroom that the brothers had been with her on the day Thuy Sen had vanished.

"So you're completely confident," James summarized, "that Payton and Rennell spent the afternoon of September twenty-seventh inside your home."

"Yessir," Tasha answered and addressed the jury with her first hint of passion. "The very next night, at work, I saw that little girl's picture on TV. I'll never forget that as long as I live. I can tell you two things—Payton would never do that, and Rennell and him couldn't have done it. We were together."

Rising to cross-examine, Mauriani could read the jury's puzzlement. The task before him was delicate—though Tasha Bramwell could not account for the evidence placing Thuy Sen in the brothers' living room, her certainty must give the jurors pause, and her demeanor created sympathy. It would not do to attack her.

He stood some distance from the witness, amiable and pleasant, hands in the pockets of his suitcoat. "The afternoon of September twenty-seventh," he began, "the three of you watched TV."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you remember what programs?"

"Soap operas, mostly. I remember Days of Our Lives and General Hospital—Rennell likes those."

At the defendants' table, Mauriani noted, Rennell smiled to himself. "Did the brothers hang out with each other a lot?"

"Yes, sir. I mean they lived together."

"Would you call them inseparable?"

Bramwell seemed to turn the question over in her mind. "I'd call them close. Where Payton went, there'd usually be Rennell."

"So even though you were Payton's girl, Rennell spent time with both of you."

Bramwell nodded. "He liked being with us, and Payton didn't seem to mind. So I didn't either."

With this answer, Mauriani had created an assumption that buttressed Flora Lewis's testimony—where one brother was, so was the other. He chose not to solicit Tasha's admission that, for an hour of private lovemaking, Rennell was left alone: it did nothing for Mauriani's case, directed at both brothers, and James had chosen not to raise it.

"Every Tuesday," Mauriani asked, "you had a bookkeeping class. Correct?"

"Yessir. Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. At three o'clock."

"But that Tuesday, you chose to skip it."

"Yes."

"How many classes did you skip that semester?"

"Just the one."

Approvingly, Mauriani nodded. "I guess you're pretty diligent about attendance."

"I am that," Tasha affirmed. "I want to do my best."

"But you felt comfortable cutting that one class."

"Yessir." Pausing, Bramwell smoothed her skirt, then looked back at Mauriani, adding with satisfaction, "I got an A for the semester."

Mauriani cocked his head, feigning curiosity. "On what basis did your professor grade you?"

"Mostly the exams."

"How many were there?"

For the first time, Bramwell hesitated, puzzled by the level of Mauriani's interest. "Two," she answered. "A midterm, and a final."

"And were these take-home exams? Or did Professor Lee give them to you in class?"

The name of her professor, slipped into Mauriani's question with seeming casualness, caused Bramwell to pause yet again. "In class."

"In class," Mauriani repeated. "How'd you do on the midterm?"

Now Bramwell stared at him. "An A, I think."

"A minus," Mauriani corrected genially. "But close enough." Turning, he walked over to the prosecution table and then paused, asking over his shoulder, "You don't happen to remember the date, do you?"

Suspicion formed in Bramwell's eyes. Tersely, she answered, "No."

Reaching into a file folder, Mauriani withdrew a document, three photocopied pages, stapled together at the left-hand corner. Courteously, he showed the document to Yancey James, noting the glassy look appearing in his opponent's gaze. Payton's eyes narrowed to slits; only Rennell seemed unaffected. As Mauriani completed the ritual of marking People's Exhibit 27, he spotted Henry Feldt following its progress back into Tasha Bramwell's hands.

Turning, the prosecutor walked toward Bramwell. She slid back in the witness chair, her slender body suddenly appearing frail. When he held out the document for Bramwell to take, she hesitated before accepting it. "Can you identify this document?" he asked.

Silent, she seemed fixated on one corner of the paper. "Yes."

The smile had vanished, Mauriani noted. "Is that your midterm exam?"

"Yes."

She looked stunned, almost sick. Evenly, Mauriani said, "I draw your attention to the upper-right-hand corner of the first page. Can you tell the jury what you see."

"A date."

"Would you mind reading it aloud?"

Bramwell exhaled, a slow release of breath. "September twenty-seventh, 1987."

"September twenty-seventh," Mauriani repeated. "If Professor Lee says that this date is correct, and his grading records confirm that, do you have any concrete reason to believe that was not the date you took the midterm?"

Bramwell's lips parted slightly. "Just my own recollection," she answered softly. "Nothing else."

Mauriani nodded. "And if your recollection's wrong, then you were in class that afternoon, and couldn't have been with Payton and Rennell the afternoon when Thuy Sen disappeared."

Bramwell glanced toward Payton, as though in silent apology. "No, sir."

"In that case, you don't know where they were, do you? Or what they might have done?"

Briefly, Tasha's eyes closed. "No, sir. Except Payton would never do that."

With a chivalrous air, Mauriani took the document from her hands. "You care about Payton, don't you?"

"Course I do." Bramwell's voice held a renewed strength. "I love him."

"Enough to visit him in jail?"

"Yes, sir. Every day I can."

Gravely, Mauriani considered her. "During those visits, Tasha, did Payton ask you to tell this story?"