Richard Patterson - Conviction

"That cuts both ways," Lane observed. "It's an argument that Rennell might have helped Payton molest a child. But it also cuts against sentencing Rennell to death: Yancey James never developed the degree to which Payton directed Rennell's whole life."

Nodding, Chris turned to Terri. "When are you seeing James?" he asked.

"Tomorrow afternoon. We can only hope he chooses to help."

Chris faced Tony Lane again. "What might have been the impact on Rennell of watching his mother knife his father? Not to mention the father's dying act of sadism—'Want my blood,' and all of that?"

"It's Gothic." Lane shook his head in bemusement. "But the answer is I don't know. Still, Rennell was only nine when he went to Eula Price. That gave her a little time to mold him before Payton took over."

"What about our claim that he's retarded? Can the A.G. find some psychiatrist to testify that retardation limits Rennell's empathy for someone like Thuy Sen?"

"Probably. But I don't believe that. There's a difference between intellectual and emotional capacity—even a retarded person like Rennell could have learned love from his grandmother and, in an odd way, from Payton. So it's possible for Rennell to feel much the same sensitivities as you or I. Just like it's possible for a decent man to emerge from a nightmare childhood—"

"But that's also the A.G.'s argument," Chris objected. "That Rennell had choices, so his environment shouldn't make a difference when it comes to meting out the death penalty."

"We've got no choice," Terri said flatly. "If Rennell's guilty, we have two arguments—he's retarded, and therefore can't be executed, or he was dominated by Payton, and therefore shouldn't be executed. So let's turn to whether he might actually be innocent."

"Starting with how he got convicted," Tammy suggested, "and all the assumptions that got him there. First, they both lived with Grandma, so it was easy for Lewis to assume she saw Rennell."

"Second," Terri interjected sardonically, "they're black. Therefore they're guilty. They're already guilty of being crack dealers in the Bayview, so the police are quicker to assume the worst than if some white lady had pointed the finger at, say, Carlo." She paused, surveying the others. "But what's missing is critical—any physical evidence tying Rennell to Thuy Sen's death."

"And after she died," Carlo added quickly, "everything that made the brothers look guilty was Payton's doing—soliciting Jamal Harrison, and Tasha Bramwell's stupid alibi. So without Flora Lewis and Eddie Fleet, the case against Rennell rests on nothing. And Payton just turned their testimony upside down."

Chris shook his head. "You've just named the problem with that," he told Carlo. "In two words—'Payton' and 'just.' As in 'at the eleventh hour.' "

"If you're the A.G.," Terri concurred, "Payton's not only an admitted murderer, but he lied to Monk about being one. Now he's lying about Fleet to save Rennell—and to screw an innocent man for putting both of them on death row. If that's not motive enough, Payton knows I'll try to keep him alive as long as it takes to bail out his brother. As long as there's life, there's hope."

"So the A.G. figures Payton's gaming you," Tammy finished, "knowing you'll game the system for him, trying to save Rennell."

Carlo turned to Terri. "This is surreal. With Payton's testimony, no jury would find Rennell guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."

"But we don't have a jury," she reminded him. "Or the presumption of innocence. We've got AEDPA, which presumes the jury was right fifteen years ago, Yancey James or no. Now we have to prove Rennell's innocent. Payton's not enough."

"But do you believe him?" Carlo persisted.

Terri paused. "Yeah, I believe him. I guess you had to be there. But to me his story makes sense."

Tammy leaned forward, both elbows resting on the table. "We have to package innocence with retardation, folks—Rennell was convicted 'cause he didn't remember he was sleeping, couldn't figure out what was happening with Eddie Fleet, couldn't tell James was selling him down the river, and couldn't keep Payton from digging both their graves."

"The last also helps with mitigation," Carlo added. "The idea that Payton may have led him into the crime."

"Of course," Tammy answered tiredly. "But there's a conflict between 'only my brother did it,' and 'my brother made me do it.' The A.G. will exploit that—"

"No help for it," Terri said. "The problem's proving 'only my brother did it.' We can't make Lewis retract her testimony—she's dead. We can't DNA the semen—it's degraded. The pubic hair's Payton's, not Fleet's." Terri sat back. "We need to find Eddie Fleet, and then we need to nail him. Johnny's looking for every scrap of evidence that suggests it's Fleet who choked Thuy Sen—other acts of pedophilia, inconsistent statements to the cops. Everything beyond what's also obvious about Payton, only in reverse: that pointing the finger at Rennell kept Eddie Fleet off death row."

Restless, Carlo stood. "There's Laura Finney's story about Fleet's girlfriend and her child. It sounded like he scared them both."

"Johnny's looking for them," Terri told him. "On Rennell's behalf, we should hope that Finney sensed something more than Sims's fear of another beating. Though I wouldn't wish the other possibility on any child."

Carlo fell quiet, as did the rest. In their silence, Terri again felt how intensely she wanted Rennell Price to be innocent. It was a weakness, surely.

Quietly, Chris asked, "When are you telling Rennell about Payton?"

For Terri, the question was shadowed by another: Why can't you tell Elena? "Tomorrow morning," she answered.

EIGHTEEN

ALONE IN THE KITCHEN, TERRI SIPPED HER THIRD GLASS OF RED Bordeaux, contemplating the filigreed label of a half-empty bottle too expensive to be drunk as she was drinking it, to find escape.

Chris was upstairs, asleep, as were Kit and, she could only hope, Elena, for once lost in a dreamless slumber. But for Elena and, Terri knew, herself, escape was momentary and memory never far from the surface. And now, Terri's memories were roiled by Payton's confession, his wrenching evocation of the childhood which had formed Rennell, the man she had vowed to save.

Feeling the glow of wine, Terri slowly closed her eyes, and remembered.

* * *

She was fourteen; Terri could no longer hide beneath the covers or inside the closet. And now her mother's cries have drawn her from her bedroom.

Terri creeps down the stairs. Unsure of what will happen, afraid of what she will see. Knowing only that, this time, she must stop him.

The first thing she sees is her mother's face.

In the dim light of a single lamp, it is beautiful and ravaged, and drained of hope. Her mouth has begun to swell.

Her father, Ramon Peralta, steps into the light.

His hand is raised. Terri's mother, Rosa, backs to the wall. Her eyes glisten with tears. By now Terri knows that the tears will never fall; it is Rosa's pride that she endures this without crying. But she cannot stifle the sounds when he hits her, cries from deep within her soul.

"Whore," Ramon says softly.

Helpless, Rosa shakes her head. Her shoulders graze the wall behind her.

"I saw you look at him," Ramon prods. His accusation is sibilant, precise; Terri can imagine his whiskey breath in her mother's face. Ramon comes closer.

Watching, Terri freezes.

She stands there, trembling, ashamed of her own cowardice. No one sees her; there is still time to turn away.

Her father's hand flashes through the light.

Terri flinches. Hears the crack of his palm on Rosa's cheekbone, the short cry she seems to bite off, the heavy sound of his breathing. In the pit of her stomach, Terri understands; her mother's cries draw him on for more. Rosa's lip is bleeding now.