Flora Lewis pointed a long finger toward the glass. "That's him," she said decisively, "The third man from the left, Rennell Price."
As if he had heard her, the big man in the black sweatshirt shifted his weight. Then he resumed his menacing stare toward the woman he could not see.
"You're sure?" Monk prodded.
"Absolutely."
"And that's also the man you saw forcing Thuy Sen inside the house."
"That's right."
"Okay," Monk continued. "Now I want you to look at the man standing next to him, the one in the red windbreaker. Ever seen that man before?"
As the woman regarded Eddie Fleet, one corner of his mouth moved fractionally, as though his presence were a macabre joke.
"Take your time, Mrs. Lewis."
Lewis squinted through her glasses. "Maybe," she allowed. "It seems like maybe I have. But so many people come to that house—all the time, at all hours."
Her tone was puzzled, as though she were disappointed in her gifts of recall. "But the one thing I do know," she added firmly. "I know Rennell Price when I see him. And that man in the black sweatshirt is Rennell, the man I saw with Payton and the Asian girl those two murdered. You always see them together."
Still impassive, Rennell Price stared through the glass. "Thank you," his lawyer said politely, dabbing at his nose again.
TWELVE
"MAYBE PROSECUTORS PICK THE DEFENDANTS," LOU MAURIANI remarked to Terri. "But we don't get to pick their lawyers."
Sun bathed the deck of Mauriani's retirement home, a modest A-frame in the foothills of the Sierra. His vista of rolling hillocks and pine trees and twisting roads was, Mauriani acknowledged, as different from the cramped urban neighborhood of his youth as he could afford. The crisp fall air was scented with pine needles.
"Lawyer," Terri amended. "Singular. You were clearly conscious of that problem."
Mauriani sipped his lunchtime glass of cabernet, blue eyes glinting with good humor. "And you, Ms. Paget, have clearly read the transcript of the prelim."
* * *
As Mauriani saw it, his biggest problem was Yancey James.
Otherwise, the prosecutor knew, the preliminary hearing should be simple. The sole obvious pitfall concerned a possible defense motion for a change of venue; in this courtroom, the brothers' only friend was Eula Price.
She sat to one corner, overwhelmed by the reporters crammed into the wooden benches or standing at the rear. On the other side, at Mauriani's gentle urging, Chou Sen waited with her husband, Meng, a silent portrait of suffering and incomprehension, reminding the media and the Court of the terrible reason for this hearing. And presiding was Mauriani's ex-colleague from the D.A.'s office, Municipal Court Judge John Francis Warner, a man not about to make headlines by setting these defendants loose—even if their grandmother could scrape up enough security to satisfy a bail bondsman.
Certainly there was no risk of their escape: handcuffed and dressed in the orange jumpsuits of county prisoners, Payton and Rennell sat with their ankles bound by the shackles which had hobbled their entry into Johnny Warner's domain. The sole danger to Mauriani and the judge sat between the two brothers in a three-piece suit, silently ticking like a bomb.
As soon as Yancey James entered his appearance, Mauriani stood. "Am I correct," he inquired with calculated bemusement, "that Mr. James is representing both defendants? If so, I suggest some inquiry is in order."
Nodding, Warner turned toward James. "The District Attorney is correct, Mr. James. Payton and Rennell may well have conflicting interests. Should they choose to testify, their accounts of critical events may differ. Or one—indeed both—may claim to be less culpable than the other.
"This creates the risk that you won't be able to adequately represent either. Or that one will suffer from your zealous defense of the other."
Not to mention, Mauriani thought, the risk that the appellate court will reverse both convictions based on your conflict of interest, leaving me the problem of trying them all over again with the evidence grown cold. But Judge Warner was doing all he could to head this off, and the anorexic-looking court reporter was taking down each precious word.
James stood with his hands clasped tightly in front of him, appearing as tense as the two brothers. But perhaps that was appropriate for a lawyer with six clients already waiting on death row. "I've considered that," he answered, a shade too assertively. "I'm confident Payton and Rennell will have the representation they deserve."
You've got that right, Mauriani thought. He could only hope that this glib response would not placate Johnny Warner. "The Court's obligation," Warner persisted, "is to ensure both defendants the fairest possible trial. As well as to make certain that a conviction of one or the other, should that occur, is not reversed."
James glanced about the crowded courtroom, as though absorbing that his performance would receive far more scrutiny than normal. "I fully understand that," he answered with fresh bravado. "But Payton and Rennell Price are not guilty, Your Honor. Their interests are identical."
"Perhaps for now," Warner responded tartly. "Sometimes interests change."
As he listened, Mauriani scrutinized both brothers. While the older one followed the proceedings with keen interest, Rennell appeared as bored as a man forced to watch an Italian art film without subtitles. "Should that happen," James answered smoothly, "we can deal with it. For now, I must remind the Court of the strong bias against interfering with a defendant's freely made choice of counsel—even in the face of a potential conflict, as set forth by the Supreme Court of California in the Smith and Maxwell cases."
Where, Mauriani wondered, had James stumbled across the law books? "Your Honor," he swiftly interjected, "for everyone's sake this case should be tried but once. I direct Mr. James to the Supreme Court case Cuyler v. Sullivan, wherein Justice Marshall admonished that a trial court should not only warn multiple defendants of the potential conflict but determine whether joint representation is the informed choice of each."
As he finished, Mauriani glimpsed Payton's eyes darting from him to the judge, and then to Yancey James. "Mr. James," the Court admonished, "I must inquire of your clients whether each knowingly consents to your representation of the other."
Seemingly discomfited, James glanced at the two brothers. Firmly, Warner directed, "Will the defendants please rise."
Both did, Payton with a defiant air, Rennell only after prompting by Yancey James. The shackles made him stumble before he righted himself with palpable resentment.
"Defendant Payton Price," Warner intoned for the record, "do you understand that your interests in this case may conflict with those of your brother, Rennell Price?"
Payton stood straighter. It struck Mauriani how handsome he was, especially now that a crack-free stint in the county jail had left him sober and clear of eye. After one more glance at James, he tersely answered, "Yessir."
Turning to Rennell, Warner asked with equal solicitude, "Rennell Price, do you understand that your interests may conflict with those of your brother?"
Rennell turned—not to his lawyer but to Payton. Briefly, their eyes met, and then Rennell spoke in a monotone: "Yessir."
Such responses, Mauriani knew, were the foundation of the record he needed to make a conviction stick. But neither brother seemed to grasp the buried risks of employing Yancey James. Urgently, Mauriani glanced at Warner; the judge's eyes caught his, and then, as though prompted, Warner spoke to Payton.
"Payton Price, do you understand that, by employing Mr. James to represent you both, you assume the risk that he may not represent your individual interests as effectively as separate counsel?"
Payton hesitated, his demeanor less cool. "Yes, sir," he responded softly.
Facing Rennell, Judge Warner repeated the question. To Mauriani's surprise, the big man gazed past Warner as if he were not there.
In the silence, the prosecutor looked toward Eula Price and then Thuy Sen's mother and father. Though Mrs. Price appeared fearful, and the victim's parents stern, neither seemed to comprehend the minidrama unfolding as they watched.
"Mr. Price?" Warner prompted sharply.
Mauriani felt the sudden tension of those watching focus on Rennell. Then, leaning toward his brother, Payton murmured something. With the same grudging inexpressiveness, Rennell echoed, "Yessir," and the moment passed.
Swiftly, the judge faced Payton. "Understanding the potential for conflict, Payton, do you consent to Mr. James's representation of both Rennell and you?"
Once more, Payton glanced at Yancey James. "Yeah," the witness answered dubiously, and then corrected himself. "I mean, yessir."
Turning to Rennell, Warner repeated his inquiry, this time slowly and emphatically. Fingers poised over the stenotype machine, the court reporter waited for his answer. It's your last chance, Mauriani silently implored Rennell. Dump him.
"Yessir," Rennell repeated and resumed his look of boredom.
Frowning, the judge faced Mauriani. "That's all this Court can do, Mr. Mauriani. I can't infringe on the defendants' right to their chosen counsel."
No indeed, Mauriani thought. All you can do is what you've done: lock them into their own folly, and hope that the cold, black letters of the transcript will read better than this looked.
"Thank you, Your Honor," Mauriani said.
* * *