"What terrible luck these two must have. What an unhappy series of coincidences it is that every piece of evidence points to their guilt." Pausing, Mauriani looked into Candace Bender's eyes. "If all that's not enough," he said with muted anger, "remember the man Payton asked to murder Eddie Fleet."
Candace Bender glanced at the defendants, sitting mutely with their lawyer, and Mauriani chose this moment to stop and then nod toward Yancey James. "Mr. James," he continued, "is deeply experienced in capital cases. If a lawyer of his skills had any decent evidence casting doubt on his clients' guilt, don't you think you would have heard it? But all he had to offer was a misguided young woman who chose to tell a lie. As if," Mauriani added with quiet scorn, "the lies of a single witness would expunge the shocking and disgusting acts which took this child's life."
With this tacit reminder that neither brother had testified on his own behalf, Mauriani paused to survey the courtroom. Meng Sen was still and pale; across the gulf which separated them, Chou Sen covered her face to hide the tears Eula Price did not bother to conceal. But Payton looked defiant, and Rennell's face had become an emotionless mask. Mauriani could not have offered a more chilling depiction of their indifference to the torment of Thuy Sen.
"You see her murderers before you," he told the jury. "In the name of an innocent, find them guilty."
* * *
James's final argument took seven minutes. Mauriani had offered no witness to the death, he reminded the jurors, no physical evidence to prove that his clients caused it. All the prosecutor had was an old lady who despised them, a crack dealer who admitted disposing of the body, and a jailhouse snitch trying to get in good with the police.
He never mentioned Tasha Bramwell. Less than two hours after receiving Judge Rotelli's instructions, the jurors convicted Payton and Rennell Price of the felony murder of Thuy Sen. All that remained for them was to choose between life and death.
TWENTY
BY THE TIME TERRI AND CARLO BEGAN THE FINAL VOLUME OF the trial transcript, it was past eight o'clock, and dusk was gathering outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the conference room. Lights glimmered from the city, from the distant hills of Sausalito, and from the cars which crept like illuminated soldier ants across the shadowy bridge which linked them. They had been here since dawn; Terri's eyes felt scratchy, and the cheese had begun to congeal on the two remaining slices of pizza in the open box between them.
"In 1987," Terri explained to Carlo, "the sentencing phase of a death penalty case worked pretty much the way it does now. The prosecutor presents the so-called aggravating factors, like the callousness or brutality of the crime itself, which support a sentence of death. Then the defense offers the 'mitigating factors' which cut against it—like character or mental state of the defendant, or his miserable personal history, or that he acted under the influence of someone else, or maybe drugs or alcohol. In theory, the jury finds for death only if the factors in its favor outweigh those against. Whether to impose death then lies with the judge."
Terri began flipping through the transcript. "According to Mauriani," she continued, "Payton and Rennell were forced to wear prison clothes at the sentencing phase. The idea was to remind the jurors that Payton and Rennell were different from the rest of humanity. Psychologically, it might make them a little easier to kill." Finding the first page she had marked with a paper clip, Terri passed the transcript to Carlo. "But here's where you'll find the one truly special touch. It'll help you appreciate how ruthless Mauriani could be."
* * *
On the witness stand, Thuy Sen's twelve-year-old sister, Kim, looked even smaller than she was, and her thin legs in a schoolgirl's red knee socks dangled without touching the floor. Dressed in bright orange jumpsuits, the brothers watched her; Payton closely, Rennell without expression. Anna Velez, Mauriani noted, dabbed away tears of sympathy; from her mother's testimony, the jury already knew that Kim still could barely eat or sleep. But Mauriani wanted the more clinical jurors, like Henry Feldt, to see this child for themselves.
"When you think of Thuy Sen," Mauriani softly asked her, "what do you remember?"
Kim seemed to choke on the words. When at last they emerged, it was in a light, whispery voice which her perfect diction only made more affecting. "That I didn't wait for her, like I should have." She swallowed, staring at the floor. "Because of me my sister's dead . . ."
Abruptly, the child covered her face. The only other sign that she was crying was the uncontrollable trembling of frail shoulders.
Chou Sen stood, face twisted in anguish.
Struck by regret, Mauriani nodded to her. But as she came forward for her surviving daughter, leading her from the courtroom, Mauriani saw the grim set of Henry Feldt's face.
* * *
"Jesus," Carlo murmured.
"Yeah." Terri discarded the last, half-eaten slice of pizza. "Kim Sen's twenty-seven now. But wherever she is, it's a fair bet she's wearing out some psychologist."
"How did James respond?"
"Start reading where I put the second clip," Terri answered, "and prepare to be amazed."
* * *
James paused to dab at his nose. "From your verdict," he told the jury, "you've cleared the legal hurdle called reasonable doubt. But that does not mean there is no doubt—with no witnesses to the death, there must be at least some lingering doubt." Theatrically, James flung his arms open wide. "In the presence of doubt, why condemn these men to death?
"They will die in prison, ladies and gentlemen, a threat to no one. You do not need to accelerate their demise."
In disbelief, Mauriani glanced at Henry Feldt. Frowning, Feldt had turned from James to his clients, studying them with the same lack of sympathy they had shown throughout the trial for Thuy Sen.
* * *
At the close of James's argument, Mauriani stood at once. "Your Honor, I ask the Court to meet in chambers with prosecution and defense counsel."
The keenness of Rotelli's glance confirmed his instant comprehension. "Very well," he said and motioned his courtroom deputy to open the door to his chambers.
They gathered inside, Mauriani and James seated in front of Angelo Rotelli's walnut desk, the court reporter set up to the side, surrounded by the trappings of a trial judge—tomes on evidence, treatises on trial practice, bound jury instructions, and green leather chairs suitable to the inner sanctum of a men's club.
Rotelli steepled his hands. "Mr. Mauriani?"
"The defense has concluded its argument for mitigation," the prosecutor began. "By my calculation, in eleven minutes. Mr. James has called no witnesses, or attempted to introduce any mitigating factors—for example, regarding the defendants' background." Pausing, Mauriani added pointedly, "On behalf of either client.
"In light of this, I believe it's appropriate for the Court to inquire as to the nature of counsel's preparations for the sentencing phase, and the options he considered on behalf of Rennell and Payton Price—as individuals. Including his investigation with respect to their personal histories."
James drew himself up. "Your Honor," he said in a defensive tone, "I can assure you that defense counsel has been nothing less than diligent. Mr. Mauriani is seeking privileged information—an unwarranted peek beneath the veil of my strategy. At whatever prejudice to both of my clients."
Turning to Mauriani, the judge raised his eyebrows. James's implication was clear—that any material he had uncovered was so damning it would grease the skids toward execution. That it was also, Mauriani suspected, a cover for James's sloth could not be helped. Mauriani had done what he could—raised the issue, and forced James to put his excuses on the record. With luck, Angelo Rotelli had helped him bury a potential claim that the brothers had ineffective assistance of counsel—at least during the sentencing phase.