'No problem. But don't we need more on Eddie?'
'It would certainly be nice,' Chris agreed. 'Most of all, we need to preserve Payton's testimony.' Glancing at Terri, he asked, 'When's the last day we can go to court?'
'Two days from now. Wait any longer to find Eddie, and Payton's dead.'
'Clemency,' Carlo said, 'means mercy. Even if we don't have enough proof to satisfy AEDPA, if the governor has doubts—'
'This governor,' Chris cut in, 'has no doubts. Clemency is bad politics; executions are good politics. He'll call self-interest 'closure' for Thuy Sen's family.'
It was true, Terri thought: Thuy Sen's parents might hold the power of life and death over Rennell Price. 'For better or worse,' she said, 'I've got to try her parents again.'
* * *
Chou Sen stared at Terri through the iron bars which guarded the door of their home. She seemed to stand lightly, as if ready to take flight.
'Payton will die,' Terri concluded. 'But now that we know Rennell's retarded, and what happened in his childhood, should he die, too?'
Chou Sen seemed to stiffen. 'My little girl not die from a sickness,' she answered in a soft, clear voice. 'Not die from a ray-gime, like the Khmer Rouge, which killed so many in our family. Died because two men wanted sex.
'One named Rennell. For fifteen years my daughter dead, and he's still living. Breathing and eating and not feeling the pain of her parents.' She blinked, fighting to control her emotions. 'Not feeling the shame of her sister. Time for this to be over.'
For an instant, Terri desperately wanted to tell her of Payton's confession. But to do so, she was certain, would be to tell the Attorney General's Office.
'If Rennell dies,' Terri asked, 'do you really think things will be better?'
Briefly Chou's eyes shut. 'Maybe some man can do that to a child of yours, and then you can come back and tell me.'
Terri could find no words. In her silence, Chou Sen drew herself up. 'I ask you, no come back no more. You bring death to our house.'
The door closed between them.
* * *
Driving away, Terri remembered to check her cell phone for messages.
The fifth message, in Johnny Moore's voice, began conversationally. 'If you're Eddie Fleet, and a scammer with a prior record, your credit rating's no good. So you change your name to Howard Flood.'
Behind the wheel, Terri tensed, reminding herself to watch the traffic light hanging over Third Avenue. From the cell phone, Moore chuckled softly in her ear. 'Fucker's right here in Oakland, still up to no good. Want his phone number, or you want to just leave him be . . . ?'
'Quit screwing with me,' Terri said aloud, then began laughing at the note of triumph in his message, perhaps out of sheer relief.
'If you really do want his number,' Moore's voice continued, 'it's 510-555-6777. All those sevens make it lucky, I guess.'
Terri pulled over in front of a soul food restaurant, snatched a legal pad from her briefcase, and wrote the number down. For minutes, she idly watched the pedestrian traffic—a few men returning from work outside the neighborhood, a gaggle of girls smoking something and going nowhere fast. Then, at last, she punched out the numerals on her cell phone.
Phone pressed to her ear, she listened intently, as if she could force Fleet to answer by sheer effort of will.
'Go,' a man's cool voice answered.
Startled, Terri blurted. 'Eddie Fleet?'
There was a long silence. 'Eddie Fleet? He be dead. Who wants him?'
'Teresa Paget. I'm a lawyer for Rennell Price.' She paused, then added flatly, 'Rennell's about to be executed.'
'Yeah? Well this be Howard Flood.' The voice took on the lilt of quiet laughter. 'Rennell who, you say?'
'Rennell Price,' Terri answered. 'And you used to be Eddie Fleet.'
The man hesitated. 'What you want, lady?'
'To talk to who you used to be.' She amended her tone to be respectful, close to precatory. 'We're working on a clemency petition, trying to persuade the Governor that Rennell shouldn't die along with Payton. I was hoping you could help us.'
'Yeah?' The smooth voice took on an edge. 'And why might that be? Sucker killed a child.'
'Maybe so. But we think Rennell might be retarded. They don't execute those folks anymore.'
The voice laughed softly. 'Retarded? No way. Rennell Price was Alfred fucking Einstein.'
Keep him talking, Terri urged herself. 'Maybe you can tell me about him.'
'Like when he invented the nu-cu-lar bomb, and all?'
'Sure. Unless you'd like to share it with a judge.'
Fleet was silent. Beneath this, Terri imagined the calculations of a clever man—would it be better to talk with
