there?'
'Her.' For an instant, the words caught in his throat. 'The girl that was missing.'
He stopped abruptly, as if this could forestall the events which followed. It struck Mauriani that, by craft or accident, Fleet had a gift for drawing in his listeners. In deliberate contrast, the prosecutor inquired matter-of- factly, 'Where exactly did you see her?'
'On the floor.' Fleet's voice combined reverence with dread. 'She was dead, and drool was coming out her mouth onto the rug.'
In that moment, Mauriani sensed, James's attack on Flora Lewis had turned back against him, and the jurors' disgust at his treatment of Chou Sen was transforming into hatred of his clients. Mauriani's next question might be all they needed to feel at home with that.
'Did anyone describe what happened?' he inquired.
Once more, Fleet glanced at the defendants. 'Yeah,' he responded quietly. 'Rennell did.'
For whatever reason, Mauriani thought, Fleet was stretching the drama out; perhaps there was no tragedy so terrible that it did not afford someone a moment's pleasure. 'What exactly did Rennell say, Eddie?'
Fleet looked down. More softly yet, he answered, 'He said she'd choked on come.'
* * *
There were moments where Mauriani could feel the flow of a trial change, like a suddenly quickening stream sweeping all before it. Those words were such a moment. By the end of Fleet's narrative, when Rennell was laying Thuy Sen's body on the water, Mauriani imagined death entering the courtroom, and not just Thuy Sen's.
Before he sat, Mauriani glanced at both defendants. Payton riveted Fleet with a look of hatred so visceral and venomous that it felt like an electric current. But Rennell sat back, eyes veiled, as though Fleet's narrative did not involve him. Mauriani spotted Candace Bender in the jury box, watching the brothers with something akin to horror—not only at what she had heard, Mauriani felt certain, but at the men she saw before her now.
* * *
For the first segment of cross-examination—too long, Mauriani thought—James drew out the litany of Eddie Fleet's criminal record. By its end, the jury could have had no doubt that Fleet was a crack-dealing, girlfriend- beating, gun-trafficking sociopath and, as such, fit company for Payton and Rennell. But not that he was a liar.
'This tale you've told us,' James said with theatrical disdain, 'you made a deal with the prosecutor to tell it, right?'
Fleet merely shrugged. 'No deals, man.'
'No deals? Didn't they find crack cocaine in your girlfriend's apartment she said belonged to you?'
'She said that.' The sheer pettiness of such a crime, compared with the weight of Thuy Sen's death, seemed to evoke in Fleet a flash of amusement at Yancey James. 'Two lousy rocks ain't enough to make me a liar. Not about somethin' like this.'
James placed both hands on his hips, softening his voice. 'What about something like dumping a dead nine- year-old? The only thing we know for sure is that Thuy Sen's body was in your trunk—the whole rest of the story we've only got your word for. The jury needs to know what Mr. Mauriani promised you to tell it.'
Fleet steepled his hands together. 'All the cops and the D.A. told me,' he answered with studied composure, 'was they'd consider my cooperation if I told what happened in court. They said I'd better not be lying, and never made no deals.'
James moved closer. 'But you are lying, aren't you. You're lying about my clients to cover for your crime.'
Abruptly, Fleet's expression turned defiant. 'All I was doin',' he retorted, 'was helpin' out my friends. Didn't want this little girl to die, don't know exactly how it happened. By the time I saw her she was already dead.'
'But we've only got your word for that, don't we. Just like we've only got your word about Payton and Rennell.'
Calm renewed, Fleet regarded James impassively. 'Don't know about that,' he answered. 'Before I told the police what happened, they'd already tore up the grandmother's house for evidence.
'We're not all sittin' here just because of me. Seemed like a lot of what I told them they already knew.' He paused, eyes sweeping the courtroom, and a sense of the inevitable crept into his voice. 'Like that this little girl choked to death right where I saw her. Just the way Rennell told me she did.'
* * *
On the stand, Charles Monk pressed the button on the tape recorder.
His own disembodied voice sounded in the courtroom. 'You didn't want for her to die, did you?'
The jury seemed to tense as one. There was a long silence, and then, for the first time, the jury heard Rennell Price speak. 'No.'
His voice was dull and, to Lou Mauriani's practiced ear, utterly unconvincing. On the tape, Monk prodded, 'You just wanted her to make you feel good.'
Scrutinizing the jurors, Mauriani saw Anna Velez's eyes close. In the same emotionless monotone, Rennell's voice asked Monk, 'What Payton say?'
'What does it matter?' Monk rejoined. 'Was Payton the one who killed her?'
'No.' Rennell answered abruptly. 'No way.'
'No,' Monk quietly agreed. 'It was you. But you didn't mean for that to happen.'
Intent, Henry Feldt leaned forward in the jury box. 'No,' Rennell's voice said.
The damning one-word answer seemed to make Feldt freeze. 'I didn't think so,' Monk concurred. 'You were
