'What do you think?' she asked Mattox.
'Something a little different.' Tammy's voice held suppressed anger. 'Yesterday, I reviewed the prison doctor's records from when Rennell came onto death row. Turns out the burn marks were still there. They were permanent—and symmetrical.'
'Which means . . . ?'
'That Rennell Price had been tortured.' Now Mattox spoke slowly, and very softly. 'Someone in this child's family made him sit naked on a space heater while he screamed in pain. Keeping him there must have been the fun part.'
EIGHT
FOUR DAYS LATER, WITH TWO MORE VISITS FROM TERRI INTERVENING, Rennell Price met for the first time with Dr. Anthony Lane.
Lane and Terri sat with Rennell at a bare table in the psychiatric conference room of San Quentin Prison, a windowless, ten-by-fifteen cubicle with a chair for the inmate bolted to the floor. As a prisoner under an execution warrant, Rennell was handcuffed, his legs shackled. A burly guard with a baton stood outside.
Lane was dressed in khakis, a work shirt, and tennis shoes. He had greeted Rennell with a power shake and introduced himself in the vernacular; it was his plan, Terri knew, that a black man with a casual air would at some point put Rennell more at ease. But Rennell greeted the doctor as Lane had predicted—with wariness and near- total silence. 'If he's retarded,' Lane had told Terri, 'he'll try to place people into categories, hoping to figure out what their deal is so he can respond appropriately.' The role of intermediary fell to Terri.
Rennell slumped in a chair, his eyes fixed exclusively on her. 'Tony's an expert,' Terri told him. 'He can help the judge understand you better.'
Rennell hesitated, then slowly nodded, his face devoid of comprehension. 'He's just going to talk with us,' she continued easily. 'Later—not today—he'll help me give you tests.'
Rennell's face clouded. 'They already give me tests in school.'
Terri nodded in acknowledgment. 'What kind of tests do you remember?'
'All kinds. Made my head hurt from too many fucking questions.'
Lane chuckled appreciatively. 'I hear you. We won't pile on quite as many, and we'll break it up a little.'
Rennell tilted his head back, eyes fixed on the wall, as though struggling to retrieve a memory. 'Mrs. Brooks said I did good,' he reported in tones of doubt.
'Mrs. Brooks liked you,' Terri assured Rennell. 'Still does.'
Slowly, his gaze returned to Terri. 'You're like Mrs. Brooks,' he said. 'Sometimes I have dreams about you.'
Startled, Terri managed a smile, trying to sort out her own confusion—it was at once the most unguarded thing Rennell had said to her and the most sexually ambiguous. 'That's a nice thing to tell me,' she answered. 'I know Mrs. Brooks was important to you.'
Rennell stared at her now, oblivious to Lane. 'She was beautiful. She said she missed me every night at home. Like I miss you in my cell.'
'Tell me about that,' Lane said with amiable curiosity. 'Your cell.'
The inquiry seemed to startle Rennell from his contemplation of Terri or, perhaps, his memories. In a recalcitrant, near-sullen tone, he asked Lane, 'What about?'
Lane gave a casual shrug. 'I don't know. Maybe just what it looks like.'
Rennell glanced at Terri, who smiled, tilting her head in inquiry. 'I try to make it like my home,' he told her, 'best I can. But I always keep the light on.' His face darkened. 'Least till the bulb blows out.'
The first part of the answer Terri understood: the mentally challenged, as Lane had told her, are more likely to accept the limits of a cell, whereas Payton might rage at his confinement. But Rennell's last comment bespoke a fear that she could not define.
'What do you do during the day?' Lane inquired.
Rennell turned to him at last, considering his answer. 'The same stuff. Boring.'
Lane nodded in commiseration. 'You've been here for a long time, Rennell. How do you think you're different than when you came?'
It was the kind of abstract question, Terri thought, which most Americans in the age of therapy—or daytime talk shows—could answer by rote. But Rennell looked wary and distrustful. Grudgingly, he answered, 'I'm the same.'
'Sure,' Lane agreed. 'But maybe you've learned different things.'
Rennell seemed to grope for some response. 'I know about law—the DNA stuff.'
'Yeah. Tell me about that.'
Rennell regarded his hands. 'DNA makes you innocent,' he said at length. 'It's like a test.'
'So sometimes tests can help you. Like the tests Terri and I want to give you.'
Rennell glanced at the guard on the other side of the glass. 'That's what I'm scared of. That's the problem I'm in with you—I don't know things about this test. I just try to do the best I can.'
'Man can't do no more than that.' Reaching into his briefcase, Lane placed Rennell's third-grade report card on the table. 'Remember this? It's your report card from Mrs. Brooks.'
A disaster carefully recorded in black ink, Terri thought. Gazing down at it, Rennell touched its edge with his
