when some drug dealer fired a gun—made her feel powerless and afraid, as vulnerable as if she were standing naked on a street corner. Knocking on a stranger's door in the featureless squalor of the Double Rock project, she felt pinpricks on the back of her neck.
After the second knock, a woman in a bathrobe slowly opened the door. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, but her eyes, wide and wary, seemed older, as if no surprise in her life had ever been a good one. A girl of seven or eight leaned against her, gripping the belt of her robe as though it were a lifeline.
'I'm looking for Betty Sims,' Finney told her. 'Can you help me?'
The woman paused before curtly answering. 'I'm Betty.'As she did, Finney saw that her lower lip was swollen, marred by the remnants of a scab which suggested that the lip had been cut by her own tooth.
Finney extended her hand. 'I'm Laura Finney,' she said. 'I represent Rennell Price.'
Sims stared at her hand as though the gesture were Martian. When she took it, her grasp was tentative and fleeting. 'Rennell's on death row,' Finney continued. 'You probably know that.'
Sims hesitated. 'What you want with me?'
The query was delivered in a muted undertone, echoing the fright Finney felt just from being there. 'According to the police files,' she explained, 'you were a friend of Eddie Fleet's. I wanted to talk with you about him, maybe to Mr. Fleet himself.'
What happened next was, to Finney, deeply disturbing: Betty Sims stiffened, looking back over her shoulder, as the girl at her side cast a silent, pleading look upward—first at Sims, then at Laura Finney. In a near whisper, Sims said, 'We got nothin' to say.'
Finney steeled herself to persist. 'Is Eddie here?'
The girl's lips parted, as though to speak. Then Sims jerked her back and, with stricken eyes, closed the door in Finney's face.
* * *
Listening, Terri felt a frisson, the shadow of her own childhood passing through her mind. Softly, she asked Finney, 'What did you make of it?'
Finney's expression was a curious mix of rueful and resigned. 'That Fleet was there—or some guy—and whoever it was beat her. But I never set eyes on Eddie Fleet.' Finney's gaze expanded to take in Carlo, sitting beside Terri with a notebook in his hand. 'Whatever Fleet's peculiarities, we never found a reason to challenge Mauriani's case—Lewis, Fleet, and the forensics. The absence of DNA evidence was the clincher.'
Though she had several disturbing thoughts of her own, Terri did not question this. 'About the little girl with Sims,' she asked. 'Do you know who she was?'
'Her niece, the neighbors said—actually her cousin's daughter by some guy named Demetrius, who was serving life for murder. His name stuck in my mind.'
Cordelia and Demetrius, Terri remembered from Monk's narrative, almost like Shakespeare. It was not hard to imagine the chain of events, beginning with Monk's and Larry Minnehan's appearance in her living room, that had delivered this child to Betty Sims and whatever fate they both might suffer. But she kept this melancholy reflection to herself and turned to another subject. 'What about James's failure to seek a change of venue? How did that pan out?'
'We interviewed whatever jurors we could find. They said what you'd expect—that they decided on the evidence, not on pretrial publicity. More than plausible given the trial transcript.' Finney paused to gather her thoughts. 'In the end, we fell back on mitigation—the absence of any prior record of violence by Rennell, or of his involvement in any sex crimes. Plus the patent misery of his childhood.'
Carlo looked up from his notes. 'What about that in particular?'
'The misery part was obvious. Payton and Rennell saw their mother stab their father to death, and I guess it took him a while to die. Before that, the police records make pretty clear, Dad beat Mom—at least from time to time. Some of the neighbors thought he hit the brothers as well. They tended to stay away from him—they thought he was unpredictable, or maybe a little crazy.'
'What did Rennell say about him?' Terri inquired.
'Not a lot—just that 'sometimes he took a belt to us.' Even that was like pulling teeth.' Finney's voice held the edge of frustration. 'See Rennell once, and you've pretty well experienced his full emotional range—from sullen to merely uncommunicative, with minor variations in between.'
'How often did you see him?'
'Two or three times a year. There wasn't a lot to tell him, and he sure didn't have a lot to say to us, on any subject. Let alone the tribulations of childhood.'
Two or three times a year, Terri thought, was not enough to gain any trust Rennell Price might have to offer. 'Still,' she said, 'he did have an abusive home. How did you frame the argument?'
'The theory, more or less, was that trauma, combined with drug use, diminished his capacity to make moral judgments.' Finney adjusted her glasses at the bridge. 'The principal proponent of that theory was the state public defender, on behalf of Payton. We more or less piggybacked on that for Rennell—given the lack of investigative money, there was no point in duplicating their work.'
At this, Carlo caught Terri's eye: she could imagine him thinking, as she did, that Kenyon and Walker, like Yancey James, had never tried to separate Rennell's defense from that of his older brother. 'Did you uncover any evidence that James had looked into Rennell's background? Or, for that matter, Payton's?'
'None. As near as we could tell, James's assertion to Judge Rotelli that he offered no mitigation evidence for tactical reasons—the insinuation being that background evidence would have hurt both brothers—was a cover-up for laziness. In fact, we argued in our habeas papers that there was no indication whatsoever that he'd done any work on behalf of Rennell, whether in the guilt or in the mitigation phase.' Finney paused to grimace. 'As with our direct appeal,' she continued, 'the California Supreme Court made short work of that without a hearing—a one- page order, the gist of which was that Rennell had knowingly waived any conflict arising from James's joint representation of Payton and him. And that even if James should have offered evidence of Rennell's first eighteen years of life, nothing we offered outweighed the heinous nature of Thuy Sen's death. As you can guess, that pretty much doomed our federal habeas petition.'
