Richard Patterson - Conviction

Tears welled in his eyes. But he would not look away from Pell until, at last, Pell decided he had no more questions.

After this, Payton's only words were for Terri. With a weary smile, he murmured, "Guess I'll be seeing you." Then the guards took him away.

* * *

The press conference which followed preceded Terri's call to Thuy Sen's family.

In a hotel meeting room crowded with reporters, she distributed Payton's deposition, transcribed overnight by a team of stenographers. Then she spoke to the cameras. Though she would always find this surreal, Terri had learned to imagine her audience behind the blank lens of a mini-camera.

"Payton Price's confession," she told them, "exonerates Rennell Price for the murder of Thuy Sen. And it places responsibility for this horrible act squarely where it belongs—on Eddie Fleet, whose perjured testimony has brought Rennell within eleven days of execution.

"Therefore, we have asked Governor Darrow to delay Payton's execution until—if we're granted the hearing Rennell deserves—Payton can be heard in open court . . ."

This would yield headlines, Terri knew, be the lead story on newscasts across California and, therefore, put pressure on the Governor and, once she filed Rennell's second habeas petition, on Gardner Bond. The price could be Bond's enmity.

As to Thuy Sen's family, she was uncertain of their reaction until, for the first time, she found herself speaking to her father. "Rennell's innocent," she said simply. "He shouldn't die for what Eddie Fleet did to your daughter. All we're asking is that you support our petition to the Governor, so that the right man can be punished."

"Payton Price die," Meng Sen interjected coldly. "Attorney General say you already got his testimony."

"He will die . . ."

"Tomorrow." The spat-out word was followed by a pause. "Tomorrow," the man repeated quietly. "I watch him."

The phone clicked off.

* * *

On the morning of Payton's scheduled execution, Terri began drafting Rennell's habeas corpus petition while Chris, a prisoner in his office, awaited a telephone call from Governor Craig Darrow.

Shortly before 11:00 A.M., Carlo cracked open Terri's door. "Darrow's on the line," he said urgently. "Dad's talking to him now."

Swiftly, Terri followed Carlo to Chris's office. Through the squawk box, the Governor was speaking in the careful tones of a diplomat. "I understand your concern, Chris. But my job is to see that our laws are carried out, including those with respect to capital punishment—"

"We're not asking for a commutation, Craig. Just a delay."

Terri and Carlo stood by Chris's chair. "Fifteen years," the Governor said in mild reproof, "seems like delay enough. The Attorney General advises me that her family wishes this execution to go forward. Where the man's admitted his guilt of a terrible crime, and you've preserved his eleventh-hour testimony, I'm inclined to agree."

Anxious, Terri turned from the squawk box to her husband, willing him to give the answer she would give. "You were a trial lawyer," Chris told Darrow. "You know the difference between a typed page and the words of a living witness."

"I do," Darrow replied with measured sympathy. "But, in itself, it's not enough for me to act. There are other interests at stake . . ."

"Can we talk about this?" Terri whispered sharply.

Chris glanced up at her. "Could you hold, Craig?" he asked. "Just for a moment. I need a word with cocounsel."

Quickly, he stabbed the mute button. "What is it?"

"Dammit," Terri burst out. "He's not just the only real witness, he's the only living witness. Flora Lewis wasn't even there, and now she's dead."

"So's Payton," Chris said evenly. "Darrow's not changing his mind on this."

Carlo looked from his father to his stepmother.

"You raised money for this creep," she shot back. "You at least can push him some."

Anger glinted in Chris's clear blue eyes. "Back off, Terri. The day I push him it'll be for Rennell. If your habeas petition fails, Darrow's all we've got. I'm not using up my chits for Payton Price."

Terri stared at him. "The Governor's waiting," Chris said with perilous calm. "What do you want me to tell him?"

Silent, Terri turned away.

She heard Chris switch the speaker back on. "We understand," he told the Governor. "Thanks so much for your time. We hope you'll keep all this in mind—particularly about Eddie Fleet—should we bring you a clemency petition on behalf of Rennell Price . . ."

Terri glanced at her watch. In thirteen hours, Payton Price would die by lethal injection.

TWENTY-FIVE

THAT EVENING, THE PAGET FAMILY ATE LATER THAN USUAL, ABOUT seven-thirty, and the conversation was quieter, although Carlo, their frequent guest, tried to focus on Elena and Kit. But Carlo, too, was somber. Only Kit seemed unaffected; Elena, knowing her mother's plans for that evening, had lapsed into a silence Terri found ambiguous. Terri ate little, declining Chris's offer to open a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, a favorite from their Italian honeymoon. In the midst of their dinner, softly lit by candles whose flicker refracted on the crystal facets of their chandelier, it struck Terri that by the unvarying protocol of San Quentin, Payton Price was being offered his last meal. She put down her fork.

"I'll read to Kit tonight," she told her husband. "I haven't in a while."

In the event, this ritual of parenthood, usually Chris's domain, soothed her for a time. The current book was from the Lemony Snicket series, and Terri's rendering of its skewed humor was satisfactory enough that she was intermittently rewarded with the laughter in Kit's dark eyes, the play of humor around his mouth, which reminded her of Chris and yet was wonderfully Kit's own. Finishing, she kissed his forehead and repeated a prayer with him, as her own mother had with her, then went down the hall to Elena's room.

Terri's knock on her door was tentative, a mother's request for admission into the moody realm of a thirteen-year-old girl. But Elena's expression was opaque. "Are you really going out there?" she inquired.

Nodding, Terri sat on the edge of her bed. "No choice. Rennell asked me to."

"Too bad," Elena answered. "But I guess you'd do anything for Rennell, wouldn't you. No matter what it does to us."

Terri composed herself. "I know you hate my work. But no one matters as much as you."

The child-woman in the Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt gave an indifferent shrug. "I don't understand your work," she said in an accusatory voice. "And no one matters as much as it does. Rennell Price deserves to die, and it will just kill you when he does."

Though this cutting remark was, at bottom, about something more, Terri had little will to surface that tonight. "It will," she answered finally. "But not nearly as much as what happened to you."

The look on her own face must be miserable, Terri realized; as Elena studied her mother, her expression changed. "Then why," she asked, "do you spend more time on him than me?"

The accusation pierced Terri's heart. As with Kit, Terri kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry about tonight," she tried. "I'm sorry about everything."

Elena gazed at her, tears welling, and then she turned away.

Chris was in the kitchen, listening to Carlo describe his new girlfriend. Of Terri, Chris inquired, "Did Kit induce you to read the entire series?"

"I was counting Elena's moods."

Chris gave her the long, somewhat veiled look he reserved for efforts to gauge her own moods. "Let me drive you, Terri. Carlo's volunteered to watch the kids."

"No," she said sharply, then saw the brief flicker of worry on Carlo's face, the residue of the child who feared conflict. In a more temperate tone, she added, "Really, this is mine to do. I honestly don't want either of you holding my hand."