'Oh, it's true. I used to watch his girlfriend's kid—she lived in the neighborhood.'
This seemed meant to establish the caller's credentials. 'Where was that?'
'South Central. Eddie came here 'bout the time we had the Rodney King riots.'
In terms of chronology, that sounded right—Fleet had vanished from the Bayview about four years after Thuy Sen's death. Tense, Terri asked, 'What do you know about him?'
'He's a pig.' The voice became a low hiss of anger. 'One day he come to the house when Jasmine wasn't there, and her kid was napping.'
The story stopped abruptly, as though its end was obvious. Straining to infuse her voice with sympathy, Terri asked, 'Can you tell me what he did?'
'He was high,' the woman burst out in anger. 'Said he'd been watchin' me, knowin' I'd been watchin' him. I said he was crazy.'
Hastily, Terri began scribbling notes. 'Yes?' she prodded.
The woman seemed to inhale. 'Said he want me to go down on him. I told him to do himself. Then he takes out a gun . . .'
Startled, Terri asked, 'He threatened to kill you?'
'He puts it to my head,' the woman continued huskily. 'When I still wouldn't do it, he said it didn't matter shit to him whether I lived or died. But if I died chokin' on his come, at least it be an accident.'
Terri leaned on the desk, feeling a flutter in her throat. Tammy watched her closely. 'What you've told me could save a life,' Terri said simply.
The woman was silent. 'That's why I'm callin' you. So you can tell my story to whoever.'
'Our investigator, Johnny Moore, is in South Central now. I want him to come see you—'
'What I need to do?'
'Just take me through what happened. Then I'll type up a statement and send it to Johnny for you to sign.'
'Like for court?'
'It doesn't need to be long. But the Court has to know I didn't make this up.'
'I told you, all right? I don't want to see no court—got my own problems with the law. Just want to see your guy not get killed. How you do that's up to you.'
Terri's chest tightened. 'The execution's tonight,' she said. 'Without your help, he's going to die—'
Terri heard a click, then silence.
Quickly, she hit a button on the telephone to trace the woman's number. 'Unavailable' flashed on the screen.
'What was that?' Tammy asked.
Terri sat on the edge of the desk. 'She's gone.'
* * *
They gathered in the conference room—Chris, Terri, Carlo, and Tammy Mattox, with Johnny Moore on the speaker phone.
Chris began pacing. 'They'll never buy it,' he predicted. 'Pell will imply that we made this up, knowing a dead man can't refute it, or that our anonymous caller was a crackpot. Or maybe knew from the media what story to tell.'
Terri leaned toward the speaker phone. 'You have to find her,' she told Moore. 'Maybe she's somebody you stirred up when you were poking around. Maybe someone knows who she is, like Fleet's girlfriend—Jasmine.'
'No telephone number,' Johnny said. 'No address. Twelve hours to go.'
'Try,' Terri said. 'At least we've got the girlfriend's name.'
* * *
After ten minutes of debate with Chris and Carlo, Terri glanced at her watch. It was 12:51.
'We've got no choice,' she said flatly. 'We have to request leave to file another petition with the Ninth Circuit, and send a supplemental letter to the Governor, citing Fleet's death and an anonymous call. They'll take my word for that or not—at least until Johnny finds this woman.'
Carlo looked from Terri to his father. 'There's no other way to do it,' Chris said finally. 'We've got an artificial deadline of twelve-oh-one tonight. I'll keep trying to find the Governor.'
Tammy went back to the phones.
TWENTY-ONE
AT FOUR-THIRTY ON THE AFTERNOON OF JULY 21, HAVING DRAFTED an emergency petition to the United States Supreme Court in the event the Ninth Circuit turned them down, Terri and Carlo went to San Quentin for what would likely be their final visit with Rennell.
It was a bright Monday afternoon. As he drove, Carlo intently watched the road, and yet Terri could read the distance in his eyes, an absorption in the imminent death of another human being. In the last ten months, Terri realized, Carlo had changed—he looked older, and his air of careless ease had diminished. The death penalty had killed his innocence.
