Richard Patterson - Conviction

Athalie said nothing. The only sign that she had heard Tammy's voice was that she turned away.

"Those burn marks on Rennell's backside," Tammy said, "did Vernon do that?"

Athalie froze. Studying her silent profile, Tammy briefly thought that tears might have caused her eyes to blink.

"After he got born," Athalie murmured, "boy always cried at night. Pissed Vernon off so bad he spanked him, and Rennell just a baby in diapers."

"What did you do?"

"Put beer in his bottle. Made him sleep better."

* * *

"That was how she protected him," Tammy said. "Feeding Budweiser to an infant. Not very good for the cerebrum, I wouldn't think."

Terri made a note. "But nothing about abuse beyond the crib."

"Nothing." Tammy gave an ironic smile. "When I tried to push her, something else came out. You could say it's the difference between Payton and Rennell."

* * *

How, Tammy wondered, could she get Athalie Price to tell her what she needed?

The woman before her had receded into the silence of the insane, so profound that her essence seemed to have vanished. The husk who remained, face turned toward the wall, was preternaturally still. "Were you afraid," Tammy inquired gently, "that Rennell might turn out to be like Vernon?"

At first, Athalie did not seem to hear. Then, to Tammy's astonishment, the woman slowly shook her head.

"Because Rennell was different?" she asked.

" 'Cause his daddy was different." Athalie Price turned to her, a tight smile of anger lighting her eyes. "I got my revenge on Vernon Price. Rennell's daddy was a boy from down the street—real slow, but real sweet. Just like Rennell."

* * *

Listening, Terri felt a psychic shiver.

Only blood of mine you'll ever get.

"She wouldn't give me a name," Tammy concluded. "But if you believe her, Rennell's father was someone else. Maybe retarded himself."

"We need to try and find him." Terri rubbed her temples. "Athalie thought Vernon didn't know. But for sure he suspected, and Rennell became his scapegoat."

"If you ask me," Tammy answered, "he still is."

FOURTEEN

EARLY MORNING FOUND THE SAME CONFERENCE ROOM OCCUPIED by Anthony Lane, Tammy Mattox, Johnny Moore, Carlo Paget, and Teresa Peralta Paget, the last running on three hours' sleep.

"So," Terri asked Lane bluntly, "is our guy retarded?"

Lane rested both elbows on the table. "The state will say no. I need to do more work, but my tentative answer is yes. The biggest problem we've got is Rennell's IQ."

"Which is . . ."

"Seventy-two, according to our test. Seventy's the standard, of course. With a standard deviation of five points either way, Rennell's IQ falls within a range of sixty-seven to seventy-seven—"

"Seventy-two," Carlo interjected, "is dismal."

"Maybe to you," Lane answered. "But we're dealing with a death row population whose IQ , on average, is in the eighties."

Carlo shook his head in disbelief. "Are you telling me the State of California's going to execute Rennell Price for being two points too smart?"

"Not necessarily. Remember that IQ is only one of three indicators. The second is age of onset—there it's clear Rennell had problems from early childhood. As for the last, adaptive functioning, he's got problems in basic life skills all across the board. Which is why Payton looked after him: Rennell's brain just doesn't work right."

"What about organic brain damage?" Tammy asked. "Mama drank all during pregnancy, and then put beer in his bottle."

Lane turned to her; in this meeting, Carlo began to notice, his voice and manner were more deliberate, the judicious aura of an expert crafting an opinion on which a life might depend. "Let's start with fetal alcohol syndrome. That's one of the common causes of retardation. And it can affect a couple of capacities: intellectual functioning, where Rennell has real problems, and impulse control." Lane paused to adjust his glasses. "Problems with impulse control could make Rennell more likely to force a nine-year-old girl into giving him oral sex. He could go from idea to execution in a matter of seconds."

Carlo thought of Flora Lewis's testimony that it was Rennell, not Payton, who had pulled Thuy Sen inside. "Does Rennell seem like that to you—impulsive?"

"Not particularly," Lane answered. "He strikes me as depressed—the headaches, the fear of sleeping, phobias about rain and darkness, feelings of worthlessness. Not to mention that very troubling scar on his wrist. He's more like a person who had the joy beat out of him."

"Still," Moore observed, "once you throw in smoking crack, even a slug can have an impulsive moment." Glancing at Tammy, he added, "We've still got no evidence that he ever had sex with anyone, right?"

"Not so much as a hand job."

"That's helpful," Lane told Terri. "But it's a problem that Rennell looks normal, except maybe for impaired coordination . . ."

"That could be fetal alcohol."

"Sure. But a judge may see just another sullen murderer, with what the A.G.'s folks will portray as superior lineage: Vernon Price may have been crazy but not dumb. Even Mom's IQ—at least from the hospital records—checks in at seventy-eight . . ."

"So all I've got to do," Tammy said dryly, "is find his supposed real dad, the nameless slow but sweet one, and blood-test him for paternity."

Lane smiled. "That would help, yeah."

A moment passed in silence, the others sifting their thoughts and drinking coffee. "Another problem," Moore said to Terri, "is this pubic hair of Payton's."

"That's Payton's problem," Terri answered. "There's still no physical evidence directly linking Rennell to a sex act with Thuy Sen."

Moore stroked his grizzled beard. "But if I'm the A.G., my version goes like this: Payton told Rennell to pull Thuy Sen off the street, then hold her head while she goes down on Payton. Even if Rennell's got no sexual interest in a nine-year-old, his brother does. The semen belongs to Payton. But Rennell's still guilty of felony murder—"

"But not fit to be executed," Carlo objected. "Isn't a mitigating factor against the death penalty that Rennell acted under the domination and control of Payton? He's retarded, for Godsakes—Payton ran him his whole life."

"That," Terri answered, "would be the argument." She sat back, her gaze taking in her team. "I still wish we knew what really happened. Whatever it is, I'd work with it."

Moore frowned. "I'm not so sure, Terri. This may be one case where ignorance is as close to bliss as we'll ever get—"

The telephone rang.

Terri stood, her expression of annoyance quickly switching to curiosity. "I told Julie to hold my calls, unless it's the President or the Easter bunny."

"Maybe," Moore suggested helpfully, "it's Rennell's real father, calling in from Yale. Where he's chairman of the Physics Department."

With a wan smile, Terri walked over to the far end of the conference room and picked up the phone. "Teresa Paget."

Carlo watched her expression change to one of taut attention, so complete that she barely seemed to breathe. "When?" she asked and then, a moment later, said simply, "I'll be there."

As the others watched, she slowly put down the phone, taking a moment to acknowledge their presence.

"You'll never guess," she told them. "That was Payton's lawyer. Before he dies, Payton wants to see me."

FIFTEEN

FROM THE MOMENT THAT TERRI STEPPED INTO THE PLASTIC CUBICLE where he waited with his lawyer, Payton Price surprised her.

The first jolt was his appearance. She still thought of him as the twenty-two-year-old crack dealer in the mug shot, with a smooth, hard handsomeness and the cold, indifferent stare meant to signal his lethality. But fifteen years had passed. The man sitting across from her had a premature touch of gray in his close-cropped hair and creases of age in a thin face lit by eyes bright with intelligence, its harsh angles leavened by a full mouth, turned up slightly at one end to signal amusement at their circumstances. The other thing that struck Terri was Payton's stillness. Compared with his lawyer, Paul Rubin—a lean, bespectacled, thirtyish public defender twitching with repressed energy—Payton seemed an oasis of calm, facing his last ten days of life with the fatalism of someone who has moved beyond hope.