Chris tilted his head. "Did Payton go, too?"
"Sometimes." Rennell gave a reminiscent smile. "Sometimes she just take me. Special times, she say."
How much, Chris wondered, had Eula Price understood about his early childhood? Perhaps more than she had wished to, and far less than he had needed. But then what could she have done—there was so much damage to repair, so few resources. And therapists like Tony Lane did not set up shop in the Bayview.
"When I get out," Rennell said, "maybe you take me to a game. With Terri and Carlo and all."
Chris nodded. "They'd like that."
Rennell shook his head in wonder at the thought. "When you think I'm gettin' out?"
Chris hesitated. "Maybe June," he answered. "July, at the latest." One way or the other.
"July," Rennell repeated. "Sunny then. They still be playin' baseball?"
"Yeah. For sure." Chris mustered a smile. "If the Giants go to the championship, they'll still be playing in October."
Rennell hesitated, a frown of worry creasing his smooth forehead. "Where you think I be livin'?"
"I'm not sure yet."
Rennell bit his lip. "See, I was hopin' I could stay with you."
Chris had no answer. "Terri and Carlo love you," he said at last.
To his surprise, Rennell's eyes filled with tears. And then he half-stood, reaching across the table, and leaned his head against Chris's shoulder.
Feeling Rennell's hair and skin against his neck, Chris thought of Carlo, much younger, and then Kit. "They love you," he repeated softly.
SIX
PRESIDENT KERRY FRANCIS KILCANNON WAS NEARING THE END of a very long day and plainly had no patience for internecine warfare. "Why is this my problem?" he inquired of his Chief of Staff.
They sat in the Oval Office, two friends who were markedly different in temperament and appearance. At forty-four, Kerry bore the unmistakable stamp of Ireland, the country of his forebears—a slight but sinewy frame, thick ginger hair, a thin face at once angular and boyish, blue-green eyes which reflected the quicksilver of his moods—sometimes cold, at other times remote and almost absent, and at still others deeply empathic or glinting with amusement or outright laughter. Clayton Slade was the first African American to serve as Chief of Staff, and everything about him seemed earthbound—from his sturdy build and shrewd brown eyes to his plainness of speech and blunt determination to save his romantic and intuitive friend from his own worst impulses. With affection and amusement, Kerry had once remarked to Clayton, "Together, we make a passably good President. But don't start believing you could do the job without me."
Now Clayton smiled at his friend's annoyance. "Because your Solicitor General called me, back-dooring your Attorney General—"
"So tell them to work it out," Kerry snapped. "I'm the President, not a mediator. Or a judge."
"True," Clayton answered imperturbably. "People have to elect you. Next year you'll be asking them to do it again—this time, hopefully, by more than a few thousand votes. Given that you've already inflamed the pro-lifers and the gun lobby, you might want to embrace at least one of our nation's deeply rooted values."
"What?" Kerry inquired. "Executing people?"
Left unsaid were the complexity of Kerry's own feelings. After Kerry's older brother, Senator James Kilcannon, had been assassinated while running for President, Kerry—as a matter of private conscience—had asked the prosecution not to seek the assassin's execution. Yet Senator Kilcannon's death, which had propelled Kerry toward the presidency, haunted him still. "It's what Americans believe in," Clayton responded with the same air of calm. "During the last election you claimed to believe in it, too." Clayton took a brief sip of his diet cola, adding pointedly, "If you hadn't, Mr. President, you wouldn't be President."
"Oh, I know." Kerry emitted a sigh of resignation. "What's this contretemps about?"
"AEDPA. You voted for it, as you'll recall—"
"I try not to, actually."
"Anyhow, the Supreme Court's about to hear a death penalty case involving a prisoner named Rennell Price. You may have seen Bob Herbert's columns in the Times."
Reflective, the President rested an elbow on one arm of the wing chair, propping his face in the palm of his hand. "It's coming back to me," he said. "From the evidence, it sounded like he might well be innocent, and another man guilty."
"So his lawyers claim. But that's not the crux of our problem." Clayton finished his cola. "The Ninth Circuit issued an opinion that can be read to soften AEDPA. Your Attorney General and the head of his Criminal Division want the Solicitor General to support sharply restricting the rights of habeas corpus petitioners—like Price—to prove their innocence. Your new Solicitor General is balking."
Clayton watched the President consider this: the S.G., Avram Gold, had been his personal lawyer, and for a number of reasons, the President was in his debt. "What's Avi want?" he asked.
"Avi Gold," Clayton said with a touch of weariness, "is a civil libertarian. He hates the death penalty. He hates this statute, always has. So he wants us to stay out."
"Is that such a bad idea? What if Price is innocent?"
"Nobody will go blaming you," Clayton answered. "But if Avi Gold had his way, all you'd carry is the faculty room at Harvard.
"We've got capital punishment because that's what most Americans want, by roughly three to one. The people who don't want it—civil rights groups and social liberals—have got no one to vote for but us. But if Caroline Masters and her Court do something funky with the death penalty, the Republicans will come after you like hell won't have it."
Kerry smiled quizzically. "Is that what the Attorney General wants us to say?"
Silent, Clayton fought to repress his exasperation. With an intimacy and candor the President permitted him alone, he said softly, "Don't be perverse, Kerry. I understand what you wrestled with after Jamie was killed. But the difference between your presidency and that of some Republican is way too important to put at risk. Not to mention how you'd feel about losing."
"I appreciate the sentiment," Kerry answered with equal quiet. "That's why I voted for AEDPA, after all."
The President's ambivalence was unmistakable. "I guess you've decided to hear Avi out," Clayton said.
"Both of them—Avi and the A.G. Toward the end of lunch tomorrow."
"Isn't that your time with Lara and the baby?"
"Uh-huh." Kerry smiled again. "I'm making whoever loses change his diapers."
* * *
Though named after Kerry Kilcannon's older brother, at seven months of age James Joseph Kilcannon already had his father's blue-green eyes and inquisitive expression. But Jamie's raven hair and pale skin were Lara's.
Pausing in the doorway, Clayton found them sitting on a carpet in the middle of the Oval Office. They made a lovely picture, as numerous photographers had captured: the young First Lady whose beauty, derived from her Latina mother, had—combined with talent and a fierce will to succeed—helped make her a celebrated television journalist; the infant discovering the world on his hands and knees; the President to whom this child, their first, was an endless source of wonder and delight. Shadowed by the grimness of his childhood, Kerry thought of Jamie as a miracle, for whose happiness and wholeness Kerry would have sacrificed anything but Lara. Jamie, knowing none of this, simply found his father very silly.
Now, captivated by some piece of absurd behavior by the President, Jamie emitted a gurgling laugh. "What he's going to remember about his childhood," Lara told her husband, "is wondering if his father was demented."
"He won't be the first," Kerry answered and then looked up at Clayton.
Clayton smiled at the First Lady. "The real world intrudes."
"This is the real world," Lara corrected. "The rest of you are makebelieve."
"I've often wondered about that."
Standing, the President offered Lara his hand. "Anyhow," Kerry directed Clayton, "send in the holograms."
With this, Cl
ayton ushered in the Attorney General, J. Theron Pinkerton, a silver-haired former Senate colleague of Kerry's from Louisiana, and the Solicitor General, Avram Gold, a mustached and bespectacled ex-Harvard law professor who seemed to burn calories just standing still. As they made their apologies to Lara and she began gathering Jamie's toys, the President said to her, "Why don't you stick around. You may find this interesting."
Kerry, Clayton recognized at once, meant for Lara's presence to mute the antagonism between the Attorney General and Avi Gold, Pinkerton's subordinate. That Pinkerton now felt offended was plain—he sat as far from the Solicitor General as possible, barely deigning to acknowledge him. "Before we get into this," the President told Pinkerton, "I want it understood that Justice is your shop, not Avi's. The only reason you're here is Herbert's column, and the public controversy which may arise once the Court decides the case. I don't expect to be in any more meetings like this. On any subject."
Mollified, Pinkerton nodded. Avi Gold looked contrite—annoying Kerry Kilcannon was not for the faint of heart. The President turned to Pinkerton. "You first, Pink."
"There are several good reasons," the Attorney General began at once, "to intervene in support of the State of California.
"To start, most of our party colleagues voted to pass AEDPA. Before that, the Republicans were pillorying us with stories of mass murderers and child molesters stringing out appeal after appeal and then laughing at the victims' families in open court—"
"I remember. We weren't just soft on murderers, we were their nannies."
Encouraged, Pinkerton leaned forward, pressing his argument. "Legally, the purpose of AEDPA is wholly legitimate—balancing a prisoner's right to prove his innocence with society's right to finality. That's the essence of California's argument to the Supreme Court. Which brings me to our real problem, Caroline Masters."
Glancing at the First Lady, Clayton saw her eyes narrow with displeasure. "No one," Pinkerton told the President, "admires you more than I for sticking by her nomination after she and that damned Ninth Circuit ruled in favor of so-called partial birth abortion. But you won that nomination by a single vote. Out in the country, God knows how many votes you lost—"
"Or won," the President objected mildly. "People will put up with a President they disagree with. But they won't tolerate one who doesn't know who he is."
"Too many people," Pinkerton said regretfully, "however deluded, think they know exactly who you are—an East Coast liberal. And they don't like it.
"The probable Republican nominee is Frank Fasano, who's as ruthless as they come. A Supreme Court ruling which erodes capital punishment will give Fasano another weapon to pummel you with from now to next November. Caroline Masters owes you—you're the only reason she's there." Glancing at Avi Gold, the Attorney General finished. "You can't call Masters and tell her what to do. But if Avi intervenes, as I've directed, it sends a signal even the Chief Justice can't ignore. And it gives us cover in the next election."
Scooping up a wriggling Jamie, the President placed him in his lap, trying to direct the baby's gaze toward Avram Gold. "So why shouldn't I be reelected?" he asked Gold. "Inquiring minds would care to know."
Gold smiled at this. "Call me an idealist, Mr. President. But I believe in an America where you get reelected and we don't execute the innocent."
"Are you trying to interest me in the merits, Avi? I'm a practical politician."
"So's Mr. Justice Fini. Word is that he initiated this invitation from the Court to the Solicitor General, hoping we'd give death a little shove." Pressing his palms together, Gold fixed the President with a look of deep conviction. "I know you're up for reelection. But something about this case is rancid—"
"Yes," Pinkerton interjected, "the asphyxiation of a little girl during oral copulation. Price's brother admitted guilt, and there's ample evidence of his own. Tony Fini's put you in a box—"
"But what kind of box?" the President interrupted. "Last night, I reread one of Herbert's columns. I voted for AEDPA, it's true. But I'll admit to some disquiet about executing a man based on the testimony of someone who's used the Fifth Amendment to avoid questions about his own involvement."
Gold nodded vigorously. "We're not asking Congress to repeal AEDPA—let alone the death penalty. But I'm not sure why this administration should go out of its way, at the invitation of Anthony Fini, to help ensure that this particular man is executed. And if the Masters Court allows one possibly innocent defendant to escape death, it's not a threat to the Republic just because a bunch of right-wingers say it is."
It was a shrewd thrust, Clayton thought, appealing to Kilcannon's pride. When he turned to Kerry—hoping to urge caution—he saw a glance pass between the President and First Lady, the trace of a smile surface in the President's eyes.
Only the Attorney General seemed oblivious to what had just occurred. "Let's stay out of this one," the President told him. "Leave the Chief Justice to her own devices." Bending to kiss the crown of his son's head, he told the infant, "After all, Jamie, it's not like I'm coming out against executing innocent retarded people."
Across from them, the First Lady smiled to herself, and Clayton knew that the subject was closed.
SEVEN
THE PRELUDE TO ORAL ARGUMENT IN THE CASE OF RENNELL PRICE was, to its participants within the Court, a minuet of indirection.
Two weeks before the argument, over a drink in Justice Fini's chambers—two fingers of single-malt scotch on ice—Fini inquired of Adam Wendt, "What do you hear about where Justice Glynn is leaning?"
"Nothing yet."
Fini considered this. "I certainly don't want to push him," he told Adam. "McGeorge likes to keep his counsel, and I respect that. But if you happen to hear anything from one of his clerks . . ."
Which was why, though Callista Hill did not know it, Adam Wendt glanced up from chatting in the clerks' private lunch room with Elizabeth Burke, the clerk on whom Justice Glynn relied to monitor the death list, and shifted the conversation before Callista joined them. But all Adam had learned from Elizabeth was that Glynn remained noncommittal.
This was also why—though Callista again did not know it—Justice Fini directed Adam to prepare a memo to the three other justices who had voted to grant California's petition, spelling out the reasons for a unified vote to reverse the Ninth Circuit's opinion. But Bill Faber, one of Justice Millar's clerks, found the memo curious enough to hit a button on his computer and blind-copy it to his friend Callista Hill.
The Chief Justice read Fini's memo with a reflective air. "Prepare a draft reply memo," she told Callista. "I can hear the next shoe dropping."
The next shoe, it transpired, was a Fini-gram to all nine justices, proposing summary reversal of the Ninth Circuit ruling. Its author, Adam Wendt, was startled by the swiftness of the Chief Justice's reply. "It's like she saw us coming," he observed to Justice Fini.
Fini merely chuckled.
* * *
The last item in the Court's Friday conference was Justice Fini's call for summary reversal. If he held his four votes, Caroline knew, all Fini needed was a vote from Justice Glynn or Raymond.
"A comparison of the briefs," Fini urged, "shows that the Ninth Circuit's opinion—both on retardation and on innocence—is not supported by the 'clear and convincing evidence' requirement under AEDPA. As for so-called freestanding innocence, not only is the evidence insufficient but the claim itself does not exist.
"Why waste time on argument? When a court of appeals is as out-of-bounds as Judges Montgomery and Sanders are here, the best course is to tell them so by summary reversal."
"A few weeks ago," Caroline responded, "five of us voted against hearing California's petition at all. Now you tell us, Tony, that the Ninth Circuit's opinion is such a mutation that all five of us must have been asleep.
"Is the brief filed by Price's lawyers really that feeble? I think not." Her voice became sardonic. "Indeed, any one of the five of us, persuaded of our wisdom, could try to must
er five votes for summary affirmance of Judges Sanders and Montgomery. But that would be as unusual as summary reversal—which, in the rare cases where we grant it, is typically unanimous.
"Those few weeks ago, you suggested that we had to hear this case because it raised such novel issues. I think we should do just that—hear the case."
By seniority, it was Justice Huddleston's turn. "Speaking of briefs," he inquired blandly of the Chief Justice, "I gather that the Solicitor General's office has declined to enter the fray."
"That's correct," Caroline answered. "We do have a letter from Solicitor General Gold, which I've copied." She handed the copies to Justice Glynn, who, taking one, passed them along to Justice Raymond. "With respect to AEDPA, Mr. Gold believes that the panel's opinion does not undermine the statute but turns on facts unique to Mr. Price. Indeed, he suggests that an overrestrictive reading of AEDPA may raise constitutional problems best avoided by the Court."
Huddleston gave Fini a glance of veiled spite. "Hardly a ringing endorsement of your position, Tony. Certainly, it suggests we should at least hear from Mr. Price before rushing to reinstitute his execution. I vote no."
"McGeorge?" Caroline asked of Mr. Justice Glynn.
Glynn shook his head. "No," he said softly. "I find this case exceedingly difficult. Hearing argument can only help."
"Thomas?"
"I agree. Let's have argument."
With that, Caroline knew, Fini had lost this round: Miriam Rothbard would be the fifth vote against him. What disturbed her most occurred moments later, when the last Justice—Millar—voted with Justice Fini. Her antagonist had achieved his secondary aim: solidifying four votes against Rennell Price and identifying the two remaining sources, Raymond or Glynn, from whom he could secure the vote he needed to prevail.
"Summary reversal," Caroline said evenly, "is denied."
* * *
That afternoon, the Chief Justice visited Walter Huddleston in the senior justice's chambers, his comfortable redoubt for nearly three decades on the Court.
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