innocence. Now the State tells you that the courts disposed of innocence, and that you must deem him guilty.
'Forget, the State tells you, anything we said before.
'Forget that we insisted on executing the principal witness on Rennell's behalf.
'Forget that our key witness invoked the Fifth Amendment and now—apparently—has disappeared to escape discovery of his own guilt.
'Forget that we refused to compel Fleet's testimony regarding the crime for which we insist on executing someone else.
'Forget that we—all of us—may someday learn through better DNA technology that Eddie Fleet has gotten away with murder, twice.' Turning toward the Sens, Chris finished softly, 'Forget all that. Because the tragic death of a nine-year-old child demands that another life be taken, and Rennell Price's is the life we choose to take.'
Arms folded, Kim Sen turned from him, staring at the panel. Facing them, Chris said, 'The State has already taken one life, that of Payton Price. That execution had the virtue of certainty. This execution reeks of scapegoating and injustice, and only you can prevent it.
'It is 'justice enough,' I respectfully submit, to condemn Rennell Price to die of natural causes in the six-by-six cell in which—unless we can find a way to vindicate him—he will spend the next half century. Especially when his execution may prove to be yet another murder of an innocent.' Chris paused. 'Only this time by the State.'
Stopping, Paget looked at the expressionless faces before him. 'Thank you,' the chairman said politely and called on Larry Pell.
* * *
Pell said little new. But then, Chris thought sourly, no doubt he did not need to. 'As so often in these cases,' he concluded, 'defense counsel focuses on his client's suffering, rather than the suffering of the victim and her family, or the depravity of the crime committed by these two brothers for their own pleasure and amusement.
'It is well, then, to give Thuy Sen a face, and a voice—her surviving sister, Kim Sen.'
In a tense silence, Kim Sen approached the podium, an almost ethereal presence. Then, with resolve which stiffened her posture, she began reading from her paper in a trembling voice.
'Fifteen years,' she began. 'To me, it's yesterday. Yesterday, and all the yesterdays since what these men did, where I relive, over and over and over again, the day that Thuy was murdered.
'Every day, and every night, I let my nine-year-old sister walk home from school alone. Only now, day after day, night after night, I know what I did not know then—that she will never reach our home.' Voice breaking, she paused, steeling herself. 'That she will die in those brothers' living room, choking on their semen . . .'
Silently, Chris implored her to stop, as much for her own sake as for Rennell's. Watching, Chou Sen bent her head in sorrow; only Meng Sen maintained his fierce, implacable stare at the chairman of the clemency board.
'Our family is shattered,' Kim concluded in a parched voice, 'our lives spent sleepwalking through a nightmare without end. Give us peace, the only peace you have to give. End this.'
Again the panel said nothing. But when Kim Sen sat, Chris felt very sure that it would give her the death she asked for.
* * *
Afterward, the onlookers—the media, the partisans of one side or the other—peeled away. Chris saw that Kim Sen stood apart from her parents, arms folded, and head bowed.
After a moment, he approached her, waiting until she looked up at him.
'I'm Chris Paget,' he said simply.
'I know who you are.' Her words were toneless. 'Your wife leaves me notes and messages.'
Chris hesitated. 'I'm sorry. We don't presume to know how you feel. But please know that we feel for you.' He paused, adding quietly, 'It's just that we don't believe that Rennell did this to you, or that seeing him die will heal you.'
Kim folded her arms, looking at him intently. Her voice was soft but bitter. 'We'll all see, won't we. After he dies, if I don't feel any better, maybe I'll join your side.'
Turning, she walked away.
* * *
Waiting for his flight to San Francisco, Chris did what he had never done before—sit in an airport bar.
Alone, he nursed a double scotch on ice. A bulky form sat next to him. It took Chris a moment to look over and see that it was Larry Pell.
'Do you mind?' Pell asked.
Chris shrugged. But he made no sign that he welcomed conversation.
Pell ordered a beer, sipping it in silence. Finally, he said, 'I've always wondered. Why does your wife do this work, knowing she's going to lose?'
Chris turned to him. Softly, he inquired, 'Do you feel better because you always win? Then maybe you can explain to me why that was winning, and just who it was that won.'
Chris turned back to his scotch. Shortly thereafter, without responding, Pell put down five dollars for the bartender and left Chris sitting next to a half-empty beer.
* * *
When Chris reached the San Francisco airport, he called Terri. But there was no answer on her cell, or at the office, or at home.
Finally, he checked his phone for messages and found one from his wife. 'I'm flying to Cleveland,' she said
