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.
He glanced over at his son and saw, for an instant, the scared seven-year-old boy who had first come to live with him. But the image—surely a father's imagining—was replaced by a young lawyer tempered by adversity and gripped by sorrow and anger. A different man; still the son he cherished, but changed.
Silent, they began walking toward the prison.
* * *
To her intense relief, Terri saw her husband and stepson enter the viewing area. It was 11:50, and soon Rennell Price would appear in the death chamber, the IVs protruding from his arm. Terri did not wish to be alone.
Quiet, Chris stood at one side of Terri, Carlo the other, each taking one of her hands. 'How are Elena and Kit?' Terri murmured to her husband.
'Fine. Kit's asleep. Elena says she's waiting up for you.'
The door of the death chamber slowly opened.
Rennell stumbled, eyes wide and fearful, guided by the medical technician who would connect his arms to the syringes. Then he looked up, gazing dully at the faces watching him through the glass. Hoping that he would find her, Terri managed a smile.
At last Rennell saw her. He seemed to pause, as though to imprint her face in some eternal memory. But when he tried to smile back, his eyes moistened. Shamed, he tried to wipe them with the swath of denim sleeve rolled back for the syringe.
'Oh, God, Rennell . . .'
It was her own voice, Terri realized. As he gazed up at her again, Rennell's mouth formed words but made no sound.
Carlo's grip tightened on her hand.
With palpable reluctance, Rennell faced the Sens. In a voice thick with fear and sadness, he said, 'I didn't do your little girl . . .'
Once more, Kim held up the picture of Thuy Sen, covering her own face. Standing behind them, a reporter scribbled in his notepad.
Turning Rennell, the technicians laid him on the gurney.
Wordless now, Terri watched them strap Rennell to the table—spread-eagled, unable to protect himself, about to die. She had the visceral urge to scream, to pound the glass window and say that this must stop. And still she
