Conviction

by Richard North Patterson

  FIFTEEN

  FIVE DAYS BEFORE TRIAL, MAURIANI RECEIVED A LETTER FROM Yancey James.

  He read it with rising irritation. Then he placed a call to James. "What's this with the supplemental witness list?" he asked. "We're five days away from trial."

  "The amenities," James rejoined in a parody of a preacher, "must give way to the in-ter-ests of justice. Tasha Bramwell's just now come forward—despite, Louis, the potential opprobrium she could face on account of your prejudicial and perverse public relations efforts to paint my clients as guilty before they're even tried. Are you now suggesting that you'll try to bar the courtroom doors to truth?"

  Mauriani could imagine James lounging back in his chair, expansive with self-admiration and, perhaps, a cocaine-fueled grandiosity. "Cut the bullshit," the prosecutor said coldly. "Who the hell is Tasha Bramwell, and what 'truth' does she have to offer?"

  Mauriani's annoyance elicited a soft chuckle from Yancey James. "Time will tell, Louis. Truth will out . . ."

  The repeated use of his given name was beginning to irk Lou Mauriani. "Damned straight it will," he shot back. "Right now. Either you give proper notice of what this mystery woman has to say, or she'll never see the inside of Judge Rotelli's courtroom."

  This proposition—so plausible that even James could not dispute it—provided Mauriani with a moment's welcome silence. When James spoke again, his tone was sober and more tentative. "This young woman is close to Payton Price. She's way too concerned for his welfare to live in silence with what she knows—that she was with him and Rennell for several hours on the very afternoon that Thuy Sen disappeared."

  "You must be joking."

  "No, indeed, Louis—no, indeed. You can try to exclude her. But if you do that, you'd be condemning two innocent young men, perhaps to death."

  Mauriani put down the phone and then called Charles Monk.

  * * *

  At eight-thirty the next morning, Monk and Ainsworth arrived at Mauriani's office, its tile floor littered with the building blocks of an impending trial—witness statements, crime lab results, mug shots, Liz Shelton's report, and autopsy photographs of Thuy Sen. For an instant, Monk glanced at the photographs, shaking his head, and then said briskly, "Tasha Bramwell."

  "Yeah." Mauriani poured himself a third cup of coffee. "Tell me all about her."

  * * *

  Like Eddie Fleet's girlfriend, Betty Sims, Tasha Bramwell lived in public housing in the Bayview. But the impression she made on Monk was different: more that of an office worker who aspired to be a professional—straight, processed hair; a neatly pressed skirt; clean white cotton blouse—and her apartment was as meticulous as her trimmed and painted nails. She was tall and slender, with a thin, fox-pretty face; Monk knew at once from her wary eyes that their presence made her nervous.

  They sat at her kitchen table, with a vase of flowers between the two detectives and the woman. "I was with them both," Tasha insisted. "Right here. From maybe noon to almost eight o'clock."

  "Was anyone else here?" Ainsworth asked.

  "No. Just the three of us."

  "Anyone visit—someone who might corroborate what you're telling us?"

  Tasha screwed up her face in what, to Monk, seemed a pantomime of someone straining to remember. "Don't recall," she said finally. "Didn't seem important then."

  "What did the three of you do?" Monk inquired. "All that time."

  "Stuff. Listened to music, watched some TV—soap operas, mostly. Rennell likes those."

  "That's all?"

  Tasha's eyes froze and then refocused on the flowers instead of on Monk. In a wan, embarrassed voice, she answered, "Payton and me made love."

  If Tasha was acting, Monk thought, she had a certain gift. Though perhaps it was lying, not sex, which discomfited her most. Evenly, he asked, "With Rennell in the room?"

  "No." Her tone was sharper, defensive. "Alone, in my bedroom."

  "How long were you alone?"

  Tasha's eyes lowered. "I don't know. Maybe an hour or so."

  "For that hour or so, where was Rennell?"

  "Sitting here, I guess." She hesitated, then added, "Rennell sleeps a lot. I think maybe he was asleep on the couch when we came out."

  "But you don't know Rennell was here."

  Tasha gave a minimal shrug, as though she found the question inconsequential. "I guess not, no. But he doesn't go too many places without Payton."

  Curious, Monk considered asking why. Then Ainsworth interjected, "You say they were here till eight or so. How do you remember that?"

  " 'Cause I work weeknights over at the Double Rock Bar. Shift always starts at eight."

  "That your only job?"

  "Yeah." Tasha nodded toward a small shelf of what appeared to be textbooks. "Days I go to City College," she amplified with a touch of pride. "I'm studying to be an accountant."

  Considering her, Monk felt the habitual melancholy he experienced on returning to the Bayview, this time at the depressing fact that, even while reaching for something better, Tasha Bramwell remained entangled with a man like Payton Price. "Thuy Sen disappeared on a Tuesday," he said. "Got classes on Tuesday?"

  "This semester I got three. But last semester—the Tuesday we're talking about—I only had but one. Bookkeeping."

  Tasha, Monk thought, either had an excellent memory or had reviewed her prior schedule. "What time on Tuesday, Tasha?"

  She smoothed her skirt, as though erasing an imagined crease. "Three o'clock."

  "So you cut class?"

  "Just that once." Looking up at Monk, she finished in a prideful tone. "I'm a good student—got an A in that course. Professor didn't grade us on attendance."

  Monk tried to imagine this ambitious girl cutting class to hang out watching soap operas with Payton and his sluggish, sullen brother. But there was no way, for the moment, to get at this. "Do you know Eddie Fleet?" he asked abruptly.

  Her lips compressed. "I know Eddie."

  "What you know about him?"

  "He pretended to be Payton's friend." Her voice held quiet fury. "But he's a stone liar, out for himself."

  "Know why he'd lie about Payton?" Ainsworth asked.

  "Jealousy. The way he used to look at me like to made my skin crawl."

  "He ever hit on you?"

  Her eyes flashed anger and disdain. "He knew better. He knew not to get on Payton's bad side, that I'd tell him if Eddie tried a thing. Eddie likes his women too scared to come back at him."

  Monk considered her. "I guess you've been talking to him," he said more pointedly. "Payton, I mean. Records say you've been visiting County Jail."

  Tasha sat straighter. "Why wouldn't I? He's my boyfriend, and he's in bad trouble for something he didn't do."

  "So why didn't you just come to us, say where Payton was the day that little girl disappeared?"

  For an instant, Tasha averted her head, and then she looked Monk straight in the eyes. "I hadn't put two and two together—not till Payton finally remembered where we'd been. Then it all came back to me."

  "How?"

  "About cutting my accounting class—'cause that's unusual for me—then seeing that girl's picture the next night on TV, working at the Double Rock." Her voice filled with defiance. "Payton would never do that with a child. I know him—he's gotten in trouble maybe, living down here, having to become a man before his time. But that's all. The rest is Eddie Fleet, using you to push my man aside for him."

  Silent, Monk regarded her, his expression conveying muted sorrow. "You're a classy-looking young woman," he said in measured tones. "More important, you're sharp, and you've got plans. You could be someone in this world. Don't mess it up."

  A spark of fear surfaced in her eyes. "How would I be doing that?"

  Monk erased the sympathy from his face. "Perjury," he said flatly. "This is an important matter—to us, to the city, and to that girl's family. We're going to find the truth about it."

  Tasha bit her lip, although her eyes, with an apparent effort,
still met her interrogator's. "I'm telling the truth, Mr. Policeman. You just don't like hearing it."

  * * *

  "She's lying," Monk told Mauriani. "Payton put her up to it."

  "Sure he did. But as it stands, her story gives the brothers at least a shot at acquittal, if the jury's squirrelly enough." Mauriani cocked his head. "Though I suppose there's always the chance," he added dryly, "however small, that Yancey James may not have thoroughly vetted her story. Maybe you should check her out."

  "Right now," Monk answered with a smile. "Nothin' better to do."

  * * *

  Four days later, in the courtroom of the judge who would try People of California v. Price, the Honorable Angelo J. Rotelli, Mauriani moved to exclude from evidence the testimony of Tasha Bramwell.

  Angie Rotelli, another former colleague, regarded Mauriani sternly. "On what grounds?"

  "Surprise. Miss Bramwell was hardly unknown to the defense. And yet Mr. James disclosed her existence five days before trial. Aside from the dubious credibility this suggests, it's trial by ambush—"

  "Okay, counsel," Rotelli cut in with an unimpressed manner. "I get it. Mr. James."

  Slowly, James rose. "If there was any untoward delay, Your Honor, Ms. Bramwell here can account for that to this Court and the jury." His voice became solemn. "Mr. Mauriani is seeking the ultimate penalty—death. Now he wants to exclude vital evidence on a technicality. Any prejudice to the prosecutor pales in comparison to death by lethal injection."

  Briskly, Rotelli nodded. "I have to concur," he told Mauriani. "Where two lives are in the balance, justice requires us to hear Ms. Bramwell out. Motion denied."

  Mauriani was very careful to look somber.

  * * *

  Fifteen years later, he walked Teresa Peralta Paget to her car.

  They had emptied the second bottle of cabernet, with Terri finally accepting a glass. The man simply wanted company, she thought, and she owed him the courtesy of not feeling set apart.

  And Mauriani reacted with a courtesy of his own; dignified and solicitous, he walked her to the car, carefully repeating the directions he had already given her. When she drove away, he remained at the head of the driveway, watching.

  She arrived home late, around ten-thirty, and encountered Carlo sitting in the kitchen, waiting for her as she had asked.

  "Did Mrs. Price recall anything about Tasha?" she inquired.

  Sitting on the stool at the kitchen counter, Carlo sipped from a steaming cup of coffee. "Some," he answered. "But more about Yancey James."

  * * *

  It was the last time, Eula Price remembered, that she spoke with the lawyer alone.

  They sat in Eula's living room on the night before the trial began. "Tasha Bramwell," James said in forceful tones, "could become the cornerstone of our defense. But taken by herself, I can assure you, Mrs. Price, that she just won't be enough to save your boys. A death penalty case is complicated, and the prosecutor's office is bringing their full might down upon us."

  "What can we do?"

  "More investigation—to find all the evidence we can, from whatever source, that this terrible crime is contrary to your grandsons' basic natures." He paused, as though reluctant, then added firmly, "We're going to need more money, Mrs. James. To fund our further investigation before it's too late."

  Eula felt panic, a swift palpitation of her heart. "What about the money from the house?"

  "Gone," he said flatly. "Investigation fees. The last dollars went into checking out Tasha Bramwell."

  Tears came to Eula's eyes. "Lawyer James, I got no more money. This trouble's taken it all."

  James lowered his gaze in sorrow. "Not even savings?" he asked.

  Beneath the words, Eula could feel his desperation. "Just pension money," she answered, feeling her voice become husky. "We already used up all Joe left me."

  Shaking his head, James reached for the familiar white handkerchief. "Then all we can do," he said mournfully, "is whatever we can. Can't do any more than that."

  SIXTEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM WHERE THEY sat reviewing trial transcripts, Carlo scanned Mauriani's questioning of prospective jurors. "It reads almost like he's helping James," Carlo remarked. "He retained two African Americans on the jury who as good as said they thought cops target blacks."

  Terri poured herself a second cup of coffee. "He was worried about jury demographics," she answered. "Mauriani wasn't about to risk a reversal on the grounds of racial exclusion. But I assume the two black jurors said they'd have no problem imposing the death penalty."

  "Yup. The judge kept bouncing people with qualms about capital punishment."

  "Not surprising. A jury with scruples isn't likely to impose it."

  Carlo frowned. "But if all the jurors were pro-death, weren't they also likely to be pro-prosecution?"

  "You'd certainly think so," Terri answered dryly. "But Rotelli and Mauriani were only following the law.

  "A year before Rennell's trial, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that death-qualified juries don't violate a defendant's right to an impartial jury drawn from a fair cross section of the community. That's another way the death penalty warped Rennell's trial—Mauriani got to pick a jury more likely to convict him."

  "You don't suppose," Carlo suggested, "that crossed Mauriani's mind when he decided to seek the death penalty."

  Terri nodded. "In a city this liberal, you can knock out a slew of jurors. But, in retrospect, he thinks any twelve people off the street would have sentenced Rennell to death."

  "Because his case was that good?"

  Terri put down her cup. "Partly that," she answered. "Partly James. And partly because, in Mauriani's colorful phrase, the jury found Rennell Price 'guilty of offensive smiling.' "

  * * *

  Mauriani first noticed Rennell during Yancey James's disastrous cross-examination of Thuy Sen's mother.

  The prosecutor's decision to lead with Chou Sen was simple—of the two parents, she was the more emotive, and only she had even a limited command of English. Gently, on direct, Mauriani had led her through the tragedies that had brought the Sen family to this moment: the murder of Thuy Sen's maternal grandmother and grandfather by the Khmer Rouge; the disappearance of Chou's brother and two sisters; the desperate flight through Vietnam of Meng and Chou—pregnant with Thuy Sen—and their three-year-old daughter, Kim; their harrowing voyage to Thailand on a boat which smuggled refugees in return for what little money the Sens had left; Thuy's birth in a refugee camp; their dream of reaching safety in America. The next minutes were spent recalling the sweetness and docility of the victim, helping the jury to see her. And then, through questions Mauriani found difficult to ask, and Chou Sen harder to answer, they evoked the two agonizing days between Thuy Sen's disappearance and the moment her parents next saw her—a bloated corpse viewed through a window—and learned how she had died.

  Mauriani had an eye for swing jurors, and he had picked out three to watch—the businesslike accountant whom he guessed would become the foreman; the Latina waitress with the expressive eyes and placid manner; and the no-nonsense black day-care worker. His questioning completed, Mauriani glanced at them as he returned to the prosecution table.

  The accountant, Henry Feldt, was intently watching Yancey James approach the witness. Anna Velez gazed at Meng Sen, sitting with his head bowed in mute anguish. But the day-care worker, Candace Bender, was studying the defendants.

  He followed her gaze. Payton Price showed little emotion—only a narrowing of his eyes, a stiffness in the way he sat, betrayed his tension. Rennell was different. Sitting back in his chair with folded arms, he appeared either to be asleep, or to be dismissing Chou Sen and her heartache as unworthy of his attention.

  As his clients' instructor in decorum, Mauriani thought, Yancey James left something to be desired. Dressing them in suit and tie would not be enough to overcome a demeanor like Rennell's—when Mauriani looked back at Candace Bender, she was staring at
Rennell Price with her lips pressed tight.

  James, it seemed at once, would be no help to his clients. After introducing himself to the witness, he asked bluntly, "Your daughter left school alone that day, didn't she?"

  Chou Sen nodded her head in sorrow. "Yes."

  Even this one-word answer seemed to drain her. In James's position, Mauriani thought, he would get her off the stand as quickly as he could, then go after the other, less sympathetic witnesses, who had actual evidence to offer. Mauriani had already accomplished his mission in leading with Chou Sen—creating sympathy while bringing Thuy Sen to life—and Clarence Darrow reincarnate could not undo the damage.

  But James seemed not to know this. His only concession to this woman's tragedy was to mute his accustomed grandiloquence, as though this might disguise the offensiveness of his questions. "And why," he prodded, "was Thuy alone?"

  Chou Sen clasped her hands together. "She stayed after school. For extra help from the teacher. Her sister, Kim, didn't wait."

  "Did you tell Kim to wait?"

  "No." Briefly Chou's eyes closed. "I thought she knew."

  Could it be, Mauriani wondered in astonishment, that James would actually try to impugn the victim's family? "But when Kim came home alone," James continued, "you knew Thuy also would be walking alone. Did you go to the school?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  Chou hesitated. "I eat bad fish the night before. Bad stomach."

  In fact, Mauriani knew, Chou had suffered vomiting and diarrhea so debilitating that she could hardly get out of bed. He had not brought this out on direct; he had not imagined where James was going now.

  Briefly, the lawyer dabbed his nose. "Bad stomach," he repeated skeptically. "Did you send Kim back to look for her?"

  "No. Didn't want her to go back alone."

  "Or your husband?"

  Chou glanced toward Meng. "Not home."

  "So you decided to let your nine-year-old daughter walk home by herself."

  "Yes." Chou's voice was soft with misery. "Alone."