Richard Patterson - Conviction

"Thank you, Your Honor."

Walking back to the defense table, Terri felt the stone-faced stare of Thuy Sen's father.

"That was good," Chris told her softly, and she heard beneath his words the judgment, and the sympathy, of a man who loved her, and a lawyer who was certain that she had lost.

From the bench, Gardner Bond surveyed the parties, the media, and last of all, the Sens. "This Court," he announced, "is prepared to rule."

Looking down, the judge began reading, and Terri realized, with deep foreboding, that Bond had written his opinion the night before. "With respect to the issue of mental retardation," he began, "the question is not whether Rennell Price is of below average intelligence. Rather, even assuming that Atkins applies to Mr. Price's petition, the question, under AEDPA, is whether petitioner has shown that the Supreme Court of California's rejection of his claim 'was contrary to, or involved an unreasonable application of, clearly established federal law.'

"Clearly, he has not."

Blank-faced, Carlo had begun to take notes. Bond's judicial drone seemed to reach Terri from some great distance.

"With respect to innocence," the judge pronounced, "the evidence does not show a constitutional error at trial. And even were this Court to find that Mr. James's performance denied Rennell Price the effective assistance of counsel, Payton Price's last-minute confession does not warrant overturning the verdict rendered by the jury."

Pausing, Bond addressed Terri in a tone of mild reproof. "Fifteen years later, the question before this Court is not whether it believes Rennell Price guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That decision belonged to the original jury. This Court cannot disturb it—or the decision of this state's highest court—unless it has compelling evidence that the verdict was unjust. We do not.

"Therefore, we rule as follows:

"Rennell Price's petition is denied.

"His petition to appeal this ruling is denied." Pausing, Bond finished crisply. "The stay of execution is dissolved. The State of California may now carry out the death warrant."

"Bastard," Carlo murmured.

Bond's gavel cracked. "All rise," his deputy called out, and Bond left the bench, the courtroom buzz at this release from silence sounding mournful and subdued.

Terri picked up her briefcase. "Save it for the Ninth Circuit," she told Carlo. "There's three days until the execution, and we've got work to do."

* * *

That night, after a hasty dinner with Elena, Terri returned to the office to continue preparing the papers Rennell would need for the Ninth Circuit and, she still hoped, to save his life. She worked intently, in silence. Only after an hour or so did the telephone ring. "Teresa Paget," she answered swiftly.

"Been watchin' the news," the deep voice began. "Seems like that judge gone and fucked you in the ass. Got to thinkin' it might feel pretty good."

Terri stood, jolted upright by a current of fear. "I owe you," the voice continued softly. "But maybe you'd like it better in the mouth. Or maybe you got a kid, and I could make you watch."

Laughing softly, Eddie Fleet hung up.

Hand pressed to her mouth, Terri felt herself trembling. Fighting for self-control, she stabbed the ID button, staring at its screen. But all that appeared were the words "private caller."

Scared and angry, Terri collected herself, then called her husband.

"I'm coming to get you," Chris said.

"You don't need to—"

"No arguments, Terri—we're working together, at home. Let's just say I'm doing it for me."

And for Elena, Terri thought. She did not argue further.

Waiting for Chris, she tracked down Charles Monk at home.

She had interrupted his dinner. Nonetheless, and with considerable patience, he heard her out.

"Could have been him," he said. "Could have been some prankster pretending to be him. Your accusation's been all over the news. A more cynical man than me might say you made this up to help your own case, or get us on Fleet's case."

Disheartened, Terri realized this was true. "It was him," she insisted.

"If it was," Monk answered calmly, "he's too smart to get caught at it, and you've got no evidence at all. But we can send someone to roust him, if you want that."

Terri weighed the benefits of his offer. "Can you watch our house?" she said, and then felt foolish.

"On the basis of this? Not twenty-four/seven." Monk paused, his voice acknowledging her worry and, perhaps, his own misgivings about Fleet. "Like I said, Fleet's smart. It would take a stupid black man to start haunting a house in Pacific Heights, menacing rich white folks. Scared black folks would be more his thing."

Perhaps that was right, the reasoning part of Terri thought. But then Monk was not Elena's mother, and knew nothing about her, or the guilt and fears Terri could not express. "I just want my daughter safe," she said.

"How would he even know you have one? But my offer stands—say the word, and we'll go see him. At least it might keep him off the phone."

But maybe I can trap him, Terri thought, and then found herself caught in the crosscurrents of lawyer and mother, and confused by what was best to do for her daughter, and for Rennell.

"I'll think about it," she said simply. Then she thanked him and got off.

SIXTEEN

AT 2:00 A.M., HUDDLED IN THEIR LIBRARY NEAR ELENA'S BEDROOM, the adult Pagets cobbled together Rennell Price's petition to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, seeking a stay of execution and permission to appeal the decision of Judge Bond which condemned Rennell to death. Strewn before them on the conference table were drafts of legal arguments on all potential issues.

"We have to show the 'substantial denial of a constitutional right,' " Chris argued. "If it were up to me, I'd focus exclusively on innocence and retardation. The other marginal issues we crammed into our papers before Bond will only dissipate their impact."

Still haunted by the telephone call, Terri rubbed her temples. "We should use it all. We've got Montgomery, so we've got at least one sympathetic ear. Throwing away any ground which could save Rennell could be throwing away his life."

"Throwing in the kitchen sink," Chris answered tartly, "is too easy. We'll look desperate instead of credible." He waved his hand at the papers. "What do we really believe in here?"

"Everything," Terri snapped. "I don't have a favorite reason Rennell Price ought to live. We can't let this ridiculous statute keep us from making every argument we can. Don't you think there's a constitutional problem if a statute, like AEDPA, can be used to justify executing Rennell for a crime it appears he didn't commit?"

"Are you asking me how I want the world to be? Or what I think this statute says?" Chris glanced at Carlo. "If it looks like we got the Ninth Circuit to turn AEDPA inside out, the Supreme Court will jump all over this case."

"And Rennell will still be alive," Terri answered coolly. "That's a problem I can live with." She paused, speaking with quiet force. "You've never even met Rennell. He's only an abstraction to you. I'm not going to face him tomorrow without having done everything we can to keep the State from killing him."

Softly, Chris asked, "Isn't that the problem, Terri? This isn't about how you feel . . ."

Stung, Terri was momentarily speechless. "Not fair," Carlo said to his father. "I've met Rennell, too. Does caring about him disqualify me from having an opinion?"

"Not unless it keeps you from functioning as a lawyer."

"As a lawyer, Dad, I think there's a more than decent constitutional argument that AEDPA can't be applied to render innocence irrelevant. Call me sentimental, but I'm with Terri on this."

Chris studied his son in silence, and then—despite the hour and the emotion of the evening—Terri detected a faint hint of amusement in his eyes, perhaps commingled with pride. "I guess that makes it two to one," he answered, "in favor of the kitchen sink." Turning to Terri, he said calmly, "About Fleet, Terri, we'll hire a security firm. This case is hard enough."