"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."
"No." Mauriani answered softly. "I don't know."
It was not an argument, merely a statement of truth, even—perhaps—an admission. And yet Monk and Mauriani had not cheated, as police or prosecutors sometimes did. They had simply used the system as it had always been used—and for the benefit, they must have believed, of Thuy Sen's family. Then Larry Pell, and the machinery of death, had taken Rennell from there to here.
Mauriani retreated to stand with Monk, near, yet apart from, the Sens.
Around them, the people of California slept, heedless of whom the State was executing in their name. In the morning, the radio or a newspaper might remind them of the worst act of Rennell's life—as told by Eddie Fleet—and they would feel that justice had been served. Some of them, comforted, might vote for Governor Darrow.
In the end, Terri knew, no one could prove Rennell's guilt or innocence. There was only one thing she was sure of—among those assembled here to watch him die, she alone understood his life.
* * *
When Chris and Carlo arrived at San Quentin Prison, a hundred or so candles flickered near the gate, lit by those who had to come to witness, or to pray. As they stepped from the car, a low fog, drawn across the bay by the inland heat of the day, left a damp chill on Chris's face.