"What did Rennell know about Jamal?"
"Nothin', like always. When Jamal saw me whisperin' to Rennell, all I was tellin' him was everything was cool." Payton's voice was soft with irony. "Rennell smiled 'cause he believed me."
Dismayed, Terri rubbed her temples. "Same with Tasha Bramwell's alibi?"
"For all Rennell remembers, maybe it's true. Near as I can make out, his days sort of run together."
The full dimensions of Rennell's potential innocence, Terri realized, were hard for her to grasp. "Does anyone else know what you've just told me?"
"Just Eddie." Payton looked somber. He paused and then asked softly, "Do you know what ever happened to her? Tasha, I mean."
Surprised, Terri heard the regret in his voice, a sense of loss that involved more than his own death. "No," she answered, "I don't know anything about Tasha."
Payton closed his eyes. "She just disappeared, 'bout a week after we was convicted. Don't blame her, really, the shit I did, even things she never found out about. Just wish I knew . . ."
His voice trailed off. In a tone devoid of sentiment, Terri redirected his attention to Eddie Fleet. "Do you think Fleet told anyone what you two did?"
After a moment, Payton shrugged. "Why would he do that?"
"Why would you do that?" Terri stood, palms resting on the table as she stared down at Payton Price. "You're the smart brother, after all. So you let a judge and jury sentence Rennell to death for a sex crime committed by you and the principal prosecution witness. Then you watched him sit here for fifteen years, waiting to die, and said nothing. All to save your own ass."
Expressionless, Payton met her eyes. "Maybe so, counselor. But you tell me this—if I'm inside, and he's on the streets, how's Rennell gonna survive?" The mirthless smile returned. "Least here I could keep an eye on him."
Terri drew a breath. "But now you've found religion. At last."
Payton gave her a long, cool look. "You're a caring person, Ms. Teresa. You know Rennell can't stay here no more. Remember what they did to his ass in juvenile hall?" His voice softened. "Next place I'm goin', don't want that sucker taggin' after me. Maybe you can see to him now."
Terri sat down again. "Thank you," she said succinctly. "Too bad for 'all our sakes' it's probably too damned late. You've out-waited your credibility."
She watched the comprehension in his eyes turn to apprehension. " 'Cause now I've got nothing to lose?"
"Worse," she answered. "Now you've got something to gain—time. That's the other problem with waiting until they're ready to kill Rennell. They're planning to kill you first."
SEVENTEEN
AT ELEVEN THAT NIGHT, AS ELENA AND KIT SLEPT UPSTAIRS, the adult Pagets—Terri, Carlo, and Chris—met with Anthony Lane and Tammy Mattox around the Pagets' kitchen table. The conversation was tense and muted. Only Johnny Moore was absent; he was already searching for Eddie Fleet's ex-girlfriend, Betty Sims. Only Terri knew, behind her façade of detachment, how much she needed Rennell to be innocent for her own sake, and for Elena's. And only Terri knew how much she wanted to tell Elena what she had learned, before her own complex set of boundaries—that it was wrong to further immerse Elena in the case, false to intimate that Terri's continuing involvement rested on Rennell's innocence—made her withhold Payton Price's confession from the member of her family who, for her own reasons, might have cared the most.
" 'I didn't do that little girl,' " Tammy murmured aloud.
"Could just be the truth," Lane told her. "Rennell's got a low capacity for lying, I think. And Monk couldn't draw him into a confession."
"Course not, the A.G.'s gonna say. Even a dummy's too smart to hang himself."
"Maybe so. But I think Rennell's asexual, or pretty close to it. Being retarded may have held him back."
"There's at least one problem with that," Terri cautioned. "Payton's story about their father forcing Mom to go down on Rennell. It's a paradigm for what happened with Thuy Sen: the A.G.'s shrink could argue that the family normalized pedophilia—it seems to have done that for Payton, after all. A shrink could also say that a retarded man is more likely to feel comfortable with children than to feel shame about having sex with them."
Tammy nodded. "Grandma's important here. Doesn't Rennell claim she taught him to be 'a respectful man'?"
"True," Terri answered. "But how persuasive that is depends on who else Rennell identified with most. Maybe it's Eula. But there's Payton, who abused Thuy Sen, then lied to the cops about it. Then there's Mom. Does Rennell identify with her, the victim—or Dad, the abuser? And given what he saw as a child, where would Rennell learn the difference between sex and sexual violence?" Pausing, Terri looked at Lane. "Unless," she inquired softly, "the sex act his father forced on him would cause him to identify with someone as helpless as Thuy Sen?"
"That's possible," Lane agreed. "In Rennell's own childhood, sex probably meant dominance and aggression. But there's no evidence that experience made him into a child predator."
Carlo touched the bridge of his nose. "What about being gang-raped at juvenile hall?" he asked Lane. "What might that do to him?"
"Nothing good." Lane's voice was tinged with melancholy. "I'd guess that was what caused Rennell to slash his wrist. I think he tried to end his own misery—the sleeplessness, his constant fear of darkness and violation. Which no doubt goes back to his father sitting him naked on a space heater."
Carlo puffed his cheeks. "Unbelievable."
Though she cast an ironic glance around the gleaming modern kitchen, Tammy's voice was kind. "Welcome to the 'other America.' "
"There's another thing," Chris said evenly. "Maybe there's no evidence that Rennell's a pedophile. But child victims tend not to report abuse, and a chaotic environment like the Bayview makes underreporting more likely. Plus sexual predators tend to act alone."
"Except with Thuy Sen," Terri countered. "So everything you just said about Rennell applies to Eddie Fleet."
Tammy nodded. "We know Fleet beat up Betty Sims. And we're pretty sure Rennell's not violent. Ask me to 'pick the pervert,' and I'm going with Eddie."
"The problem's Payton," Chris rejoined. "He's admitted to abusing Thuy Sen; the only question left is who helped him. It's pretty easy to imagine Rennell falling in with whatever Payton wanted from her."
"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 act
ually 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.
"No!" Terri cries out.
Tears have sprung to her eyes; she is not sure she has spoken aloud. And then, slowly, her father turns.
Seeing Terri, his face fills with astonishment and rage, but still she cannot look away.
"You like this," she tells her father. "You think it makes you strong. But we hate you—"
"Teresa, don't!"
Her mother steps from the wall. "This is our business—"
"We live here too." Without thinking, Terri steps between her parents. "Don't ever hit her," she tells her father. "Ever again. Or we'll hate you for the rest of your life."
Ramon's face darkens. "You little bitch. You're just like her."
Terri points at her chest. "I'm me. I'm saying this."
His hand flies back to hit her.
"No." Her mother has clutched Terri's shoulders, pulling her away from him. Her father reaches out and jerks Terri by the arm.
Blinding pain shoots through Terri's shoulder. She feels him twist her arm behind her back, push her facedown on the sofa. Terri wills herself to make no sound at all.
"What," her father asks softly, "would you like me to do now?"
Terri cannot be certain whether he asks this of Rosa or of Terri herself. Can sense only that her mother has draped both arms around her father's neck.
"Let her go, Ramon." Rosa's voice is gentle now. "You were right. I shouldn't have looked at him that way."
Terri twists her head to see. But she can only see her mother carefully watching Ramon as she whispers, "I'll make it up to you. Please, let her go."
In her anguish, Terri senses her father turning to Rosa, sees the look on her mother's face. The look of a woman who has met the man she was fated for. Lips parted, eyes resolute, accepting her destiny.
With a sharp jerk, Ramon Peralta releases his daughter's arm.
"Go," Rosa tells her. "Go to bed, Teresa."
Standing, Terri turns to her mother. Her legs are unsteady, but Rosa does not reach for her. Sh
e leans against her husband now, one arm around his waist. Two parents confronting their child.
"Go," Rosa repeats softly. "Please."
Terri turns, walking toward the stairs. Knowing that, in some strange way, her father has accepted Rosa as a substitute for Terri. Her arm aches, and her face burns with shame. She does not know for whom.
At the top of the darkened stairway, Terri stops. She cannot, somehow, return to her room.
She stands there. It is as if, from a distance, she is standing guard over Rosa.
From the living room below, a soft cry.
Terri cannot help herself. The second cry, a deeper moan, draws her back toward the living room.
At the foot of the stairs, Terri stops.
Two profiles in the yellow light, her mother and her father.
Her father wears only a shirt. Her mother is bent over the couch, facedown, as Terri was. Her dress is raised around her waist; her panties lie ripped on the floor. As Ramon Peralta drives himself into her from behind, again and again, she cries out for him with each thrust.
Terri cannot look away. Her mother's face, turned to the light, is an unfeeling mask. Only her lips move, to make the cries.
And then Rosa sees her.
Her eyes open wider, looking into her daughter's face with a depth of pain and anguish that Terri has never seen before. She stops making the sounds. Silently pleading with her daughter, her lips form the word "Go."
In Rosa's silence, Ramon Peralta thrusts harder.
"Go," her mother's lips repeat, and then, still looking at Terri, she makes the soft cry of pleasure her husband wants.
Terri turns and slowly climbs the stairs, footsteps soft so that her father will not hear. Her eyes fill with tears . . .
* * *
Tonight, twenty-five years later, Terri opened her eyes and saw the Pagets' gleaming kitchen. She had escaped, and now she owed Rennell Price, whose trauma she understood in a way that Chris and Carlo could not, all that she had to give.
She had escaped her own childhood, and yet she had not escaped. The past had reached out for her, and taken Elena.
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