Rennell gave it back to her. "You keep it," he said softly.
Feeling wretched, Terri searched for something to say. Behind Rennell, the guard shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly as unhappy to be present as Terri was to have him there.
Then, casually, Carlo tasted some Jell-O. "Not bad," he told Rennell. "Strawberry. This your favorite?"
Distracted, Rennell looked over at him. "Yeah. My grandma used to make it."
"Want some?"
When Rennell nodded, Carlo put the bowl and plastic spoon in front of him. Taking the spoon in his manacled hand, Rennell put a dollop of red Jell-O in his mouth.
"It's good," he told Carlo.
Anthony Lane pulled up a seat, his bulky frame filling the chair. "It reminds me of when I was a kid," he told Rennell. "I tried to make a mountain of Jell-O out of seven different flavors. Should have seen my mama's face."
With this, Lane launched into a long anecdote which, Terri felt sure, he was inventing as he went along. But it ended well, with a description of a glutinous mass of Jell-O, worthy of Dr. Seuss, which caused Rennell to nod.
"Ugly," he said solemnly. "Bet your mama whipped you. Or your daddy."
Lane glanced at Terri. "Never did," he answered easily. "Never even made me eat it. It was way too ugly."
This, at last, made Rennell smile. "My brother woulda hid me."
Terri felt an emptiness in the pit of her stomach, deeper than hunger. "Bet he would have," Carlo affirmed. "Behind that bush you told us about."
Rennell looked over at him, as though touched that Carlo remembered. "That's right," he said softly. "Behind that bush."
As before, the thought of Payton seemed to surface the reality which lay before him. Tentative, Rennell took Terri's hand. "If they do me like Payton, you be there?"
"Of course," she answered firmly. "But maybe I won't need to."
Rennell did not seem to hear the last. Softly, he asked, "You be okay?"
Terri could not answer. "I'll be there, too," Carlo answered him. "And my dad, if he can. Just don't lose hope, Rennell."
Rennell turned to him again. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Maybe someday we go to that baseball game."
"Yeah," Carlo affirmed. "A Giants game, with plenty of peanuts and hot dogs."
With obvious reluctance, the guard stepped forward. "It's six o'clock," he told Terri. "You're going to have to leave now."
After a moment, Terri stood. But Rennell did not stand, as though unwilling to let go. "We can still talk on the telephone," she assured him. "I'll call you later, when you're with the minister."
Mute, Rennell nodded, his eyes fearful now. Circling the table, Terri held him close, his head pressed against her cheek. "I love you, Rennell."
Lane embraced him next. "We all love you."
Rennell blinked. When Carlo hugged him, Rennell said huskily, "You be my best friend now, Carlo. 'Cept for Terri."
Another guard led them out. As they glanced over their shoulders, Rennell sat at the table, craning his neck to see them. "I love you," he called out.
The man guarding Rennell closed the door. Speechless, Carlo shook his head. Tears ran down his face.
* * *
Carlo drove back to San Francisco to help Chris. Tony Lane left—he had never witnessed an execution and could not stand to witness this one. "Thank God he didn't ask me," he said, and wished the Pagets good luck.
Terri stayed at the prison, in a small, bare room with a telephone and desk, waiting for a call from Chris.
At a little before seven o'clock, the telephone rang. "No news from the Ninth Circuit," Chris said tersely. "Or from Johnny Moore. But I've tracked down Darrow. He's three blocks from our house—at Howard Shipler's, having dinner with his biggest donors to raise money against the recall. I've been promised a brief audience thereafter."
Terri had once had dinner at the Shiplers'—then, too, the Governor had been present. They had sat in a candlelit dining room with a Matisse and two Manets on the wall as Darrow spoke with the faux intimacy he reserved for those whom he hoped would become his most generous contributors. Then it struck her that Rennell, too, was having a meal, this one chosen to be his last—mashed potatoes and chicken like his grandmother had made, but with this chicken cut away from the bone, to be eaten with another plastic spoon.
"Just keep me posted," she said. "We're not going anywhere."
"How's Rennell bearing up?"
The question reminded Terri of another inmate about to be executed, this one so retarded that he had set aside the key lime pie from his last meal to be eaten after he came back. "All right," she answered. "But he's absorbed more about what's happening to him than a retarded person might. Payton brought it home—"
"Hang on," Chris interrupted.
In the background she heard Carlo's voice. "The Ninth Circuit just turned us down again," Chris told her. "Two to one, Montgomery dissenting."
Terri glanced at her watch. Less than five hours and Governor Darrow, or perhaps Chief Justice Masters, stood between Rennell Price and death.
"Carlo's already calling the death clerk," Chris assured her and got off.
TWENTY-TWO
AT EIGHT-THIRTY, TERRI STILL WAITED FOR THE SUPREME COURT, or Governor Darrow, to seal or alter Rennell's fate.
Rennell, she knew, was now housed in an execution holding cell. In the separate cell beside him would be the Unitarian minister Terri had chosen, a woman willing to give solace to those about to die, experienced enough that she would not lose her composure and make Rennell's last hours more terrible. Through the bars between them, the minister could speak to him or read aloud from the Bible or, if Rennell preferred, simply hold his hand.
Full of dread, clinging to hope, Terri sat by the telephone.
* * *
At nearly midnight in Washington, the Chief Justice and Callista Hill, reviewing Rennell Price's last petition, peered at the computer screen in Caroline's office. "Pretty thin," Caroline said. "Fleet's murder says nothing about the crime itself. The only other piece is hearsay from Price's lawyer, with no new witness she can name. Just someone on the phone."
"But if it's true," Callista countered, "Fleet came close to admitting guilt—'if you choke to death, at least it'll be an accident.' Shouldn't Price's lawyers have time to find the woman who called them? Why does the State insist on killing him tonight?"
"There'll always be something, Justice Fini would say—it's not this Court's job to wring our collective hands over every last wisp of 'new evidence.' " With an anger she knew to be misplaced, Caroline turned on her clerk. "What's the legal justification for granting a stay, Callista? AEDPA? Do you think Justice Fini and his four allies will find this 'clear and convincing'? And where's the constitutional violation which kept this evidence from coming out in trial?
"It didn't even exist at the time of trial, for Godsakes. And it's inadmissible—"
"It wouldn't be," Callista cut in, "if Price's lawyers could find this woman."
Caroline reined in her own emotions. "Callista," she said more calmly, "I went out on a limb a few days ago. The Court dissolved my stay. If I keep doing this, it will look like I'm sticking my thumb in Fini's eye. At some point I have to think about my own credibility, and not inflaming tensions on the Court. There are other cases."
Callista folded her arms. In the bleak light of the Chief Justice's office, she looked both sad and fierce. "Maybe so," she answered, "but Rennell Price has only got one life."
Caroline studied her. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "But perfect justice does not exist."
"I know that."
The cool response was more disturbing to Caroline than more argument. Turning from the screen, she walked to her window and gazed out into the darkness, at nothing.
"I won't enter a stay," she said. "But call the others. Make sure they see this petition and know they should vote by two A.M. If you want to draft a short recommendation, you can."
"Thank you," Callista said simp
ly. When the Chief Justice turned from the window, her clerk was already gone.
* * *
At nine-thirty, Pacific daylight time, Terri had no word from Chris. Picking up the telephone, she called Rennell in his holding cell.
"We still haven't heard anything," she said, as though passing on routine information, then tried to infuse some cheer into her voice. "I just felt like talking with you."
"Yeah." Rennell's voice was soft. "Preacher's here with me. But I feel like talkin' to you, too."
"Do you know what I was thinking about? Some of the good things that happened in your life."
"Like Payton?"
"Like Payton. But I was thinking about Mrs. Brooks, your third-grade teacher. She really cared about you."
She heard Rennell breathe heavily, a sound akin to a sigh. "Think she did?"
"She kept your picture, Rennell. All these years, and she still kept it. She wanted to remember you."
Again, Rennell was silent. Then he said, "Talkin' to you makes me feel better." He paused again. "I'm real tired, though. You tired?"
"A little," Terri said gently. "But I'm still waiting to hear from Chris. After that, I'll call again."
* * *
Howard Shipler's solarium had floor-to-ceiling glass walls, wicker furniture, and a full complement of miniature palm trees and exotic leafy plants. Tautly waiting for the Governor in an oversize chair worthy of the Viceroy of British India, Chris half-expected a cockatoo to appear in Darrow's place.
Instead, the Governor stepped briskly into the room, his shirt starched, his thin blade of a body erect, his eyes keen. Even in the company of such very good friends, Craig Darrow drank only soda water.
"Chris," Darrow said, shaking his hand, "I know these are some pretty bad hours. For both of us, however hard that may be to accept."
"Worse for Rennell Price," Chris answered. "He's only got two hours left, and only you can save him—"
"What about the Supreme Court?"
"We haven't heard. But I'm not expecting that they'll help."
Darrow shoved both hands in the pockets of his pin-striped suit. "But you expect that I will."
With effort, Chris achieved a tone of reasoned calm. "Aside from Fleet's murder, we have new evidence, an anonymous call. It's another case where Fleet—the State's witness—forced a minor into oral copulation. Only this time he used a gun, and offered a kind of confession."
"Yes," Darrow said coolly. "I read your letter myself. Have you found the caller?"
"Not yet. That's why we want more time."
Gazing at the tile floor, Darrow grimaced, then placed a hand on Chris's shoulder. "I respect what you're doing, Chris. I consider you a friend. But how many courts have looked at this, how many different times . . ."
"That's why they call it clemency. It's not about AEDPA, or even about standards of guilt or innocence—it's about mercy. But we're not even asking for that. All we want is a reprieve—a chance to find new evidence." Disheartened by the opacity of Darrow's gaze, Chris said abruptly, "Dammit, Craig, he didn't do it."
"So you say," Darrow answered in a tone of resignation and apology. "But so does any lawyer say. If I intervene for this man, it would seem as though I was doing a favor for a friend. And so I would be."
The transcendent cynicism of this answer frayed Chris's nerves even further. "What will a few weeks' grace time cost you?"
"Quite a lot. If I'm not seen to be acting on principle."
Moving closer, Chris stared into Darrow's eyes. "What principle?" he said. "You've never granted clemency. Neither did the last two governors. Since they ran Rose Bird off the State Supreme Court, no one has. Because there's no money in it, and no votes.
"We don't have clemency in this state anymore. It's just another level of emotional brutality, a way station to death, exploited by governors who shut their eyes to scavenge a few more votes. You can do better, Craig. This is the case."
The Governor dropped his arm, and his face seemed to close. "It's only a case. So let's be real. Our state's economy is tanking. The right wing is ginning up a recall to run me out of office, with a tough-guy movie star waiting in the wings to front for them. You think he's going to be passing out clemency like communion wafers? Forget it.
"If I lose this office, all the other things you care about—education, child care programs, environmental protection—are going with me. If I do what you want me to—overruling a slew of courts—they'll make me into another Kathleen Brown, the last Democrat to run for governor and against the death penalty."
Now Chris's face was inches from Darrow's. "And you'll have done a decent thing—"
"Do you remember Governor Kathleen?" Darrow interrupted with asperity. "Well, neither do I. She never had the chance to do one decent thing. So don't lecture me on moral leadership."
Chris felt the pulse pounding in his temple. Placing both hands on Darrow's shoulders, he said, "It's very simple. In less than two hours, Rennell Price lives or dies."
Almost imperceptibly, the Governor shook his head.
For a white-hot instant, Chris fought back the urge to grab Darrow by the lapels and smash him against the wall. With difficulty, he lowered his hands and reached into a pocket for a business card. Then he gently grasped the Governor's right lapel and slid the card inside the pocket of his suit coat.
"That's the warden's telephone number," Chris said. "It's a long drive back to Sacramento, Craig. At twelve-oh-one, you'll still be awake. That gives you one last chance to call."
Turning, Chris left.
* * *
A few minutes before eleven o'clock, the phone in front of Terri rang.
Hastily, she picked it up. "I'm sorry," Chris told her wearily. "The Supreme Court just turned us down, seven votes to two."
Terri felt sick. "What about Darrow?"
"I tried." Chris's voice was bitter. "He sees no future in Rennell, and so Rennell has none. Unless he changes his mind and calls the warden, it's over."
"What chance is there of that?"
"None. And Johnny Moore's gotten nowhere." His tone softened. "Carlo and I are on our way. We'll be there with you soon."
* * *
Before placing her last call to Rennell, Terri took five minutes to compose herself. When she picked up the phone again, her watch read 11:03.
"Terri?" Rennell said, voice filling with fear and hope.
"It's me." Pausing, she fought to keep her voice from breaking. "I'm sorry, Rennell. The Supreme Court turned us down. So did Governor Darrow. There's nothing else we can do."
She could not go on. In a dull voice, Rennell asked, "That means I'm gonna die?"
"Yes." Terri groped for words. "I hate telling you that, Rennell. But I wanted to say how much I love you."
"Me, too." Rennell's voice was husky. "You take care of Chris and Carlo, okay?"
The words pierced Terri's heart—somewhere, this limited man had learned to imagine, and to feel for, the two fortunate men who had learned to care for him. The irony felt devastating—its sadness, the immense waste of a human being who, fifteen years before, a jury had believed to be too callous to pity a nine-year-old girl.
"I will," Terri promised, and her voice began to falter. "I have to say goodbye, because our time is up. But only for now, Rennell. You'll see us all again."
"In heaven?"
It was what Terri, as a child, had been taught to believe and no longer could. But there was nothing else to say. "In heaven," she affirmed. "Your grandma's there already."
She heard Rennell inhale. "And Payton?"
"Yes," Terri answered. "And Payton."
TWENTY-THREE
AT ELEVEN-THIRTY, TERRI ENTERED THE WITNESS AREA.
The family of Thuy Sen—Meng, Chou, and Kim—clustered together, awaiting Rennell with impassive patience. As before, Kim Sen clutched a photograph of her murdered sister. Terri did not speak to them.
She stood alone, picturing Rennell. They would be issuing him fresh denims to put on
in a cell next to the chamber. She imagined him with his head lowered, awaiting death as it crept toward him, second by second. Each of Terri's thoughts was excruciating—the most terrible part, the part she suffered now, was to have lost all hope.
Staring at the empty chamber, she tried to indulge herself in fantasy—the Governor relenting, new evidence emerging in this final hour. But each scrap of forlorn hope, evaporating in the merciless light of reality, left her more anguished than before.
If only . . .
If only Flora Lewis had not peered out her window; or Payton had told Charles Monk about Fleet; or Yancey James had been capable and sober. Even more deeply than before, Terri felt a creeping, existential dread: the death of Thuy Sen had come to nothing but, perhaps, the death of another innocent. And then it struck her that only the prospect of Rennell's death had drawn Terri to him—if the Supreme Court had abolished the death penalty, she would have spent her energies elsewhere. Yet thousands of men, blameless like Rennell might be, would die in prison because they were too poor, too limited, too disadvantaged from birth to stand up for their innocence. For some such men, helpless and bereft of caring, death might be a mercy.
Terri felt herself shiver and then, to her surprise, saw Charles Monk and Lou Mauriani enter the viewing area.
They went to the Sens, speaking softly, Mauriani lightly embracing Thuy Sen's mother and sister. But Kim Sen seemed dissociated, barely able to acknowledge his words or touch.
Seeing Terri, Monk nodded grimly, and she read the doubt in his eyes, the expression of whatever feeling had led him to help her locate Betty Sims. But it was Mauriani who approached her.
He stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, his blue eyes cool and somber. "I thought I should be here," he said simply.
Terri nodded. The comment was ambiguous—she could not tell if he meant that he owed this to the Sens, or to their murdered child, or to his responsibility to witness the death of a man he had helped put here and now, his own career over, was uncertain that he should have. Finally, Terri said, "He's innocent, you know."
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