Carlo turned to Terri. "This is surreal. With Payton's testimony, no jury would find Rennell guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."
"But we don't have a jury," she reminded him. "Or the presumption of innocence. We've got AEDPA, which presumes the jury was right fifteen years ago, Yancey James or no. Now we have to prove Rennell's innocent. Payton's not enough."
"But do you believe him?" Carlo persisted.
Terri paused. "Yeah, I believe him. I guess you had to be there. But to me his story makes sense."
Tammy leaned forward, both elbows resting on the table. "We have to package innocence with retardation, folks—Rennell was convicted 'cause he didn't remember he was sleeping, couldn't figure out what was happening with Eddie Fleet, couldn't tell James was selling him down the river, and couldn't keep Payton from digging both their graves."
"The last also helps with mitigation," Carlo added. "The idea that Payton may have led him into the crime."
"Of course," Tammy answered tiredly. "But there's a conflict between 'only my brother did it,' and 'my brother made me do it.' The A.G. will exploit that—"
"No help for it," Terri said. "The problem's proving 'only my brother did it.' We can't make Lewis retract her testimony—she's dead. We can't DNA the semen—it's degraded. The pubic hair's Payton's, not Fleet's." Terri sat back. "We need to find Eddie Fleet, and then we need to nail him. Johnny's looking for every scrap of evidence that suggests it's Fleet who choked Thuy Sen—other acts of pedophilia, inconsistent statements to the cops. Everything beyond what's also obvious about Payton, only in reverse: that pointing the finger at Rennell kept Eddie Fleet off death row."
Restless, Carlo stood. "There's Laura Finney's story about Fleet's girlfriend and her child. It sounded like he scared them both."
"Johnny's looking for them," Terri told him. "On Rennell's behalf, we should hope that Finney sensed something more than Sims's fear of another beating. Though I wouldn't wish the other possibility on any child."
Carlo fell quiet, as did the rest. In their silence, Terri again felt how intensely she wanted Rennell Price to be innocent. It was a weakness, surely.
Quietly, Chris asked, "When are you telling Rennell about Payton?"
For Terri, the question was shadowed by another: Why can't you tell Elena? "Tomorrow morning," she answered.
EIGHTEEN
ALONE IN THE KITCHEN, TERRI SIPPED HER THIRD GLASS OF RED Bordeaux, contemplating the filigreed label of a half-empty bottle too expensive to be drunk as she was drinking it, to find escape.
Chris was upstairs, asleep, as were Kit and, she could only hope, Elena, for once lost in a dreamless slumber. But for Elena and, Terri knew, herself, escape was momentary and memory never far from the surface. And now, Terri's memories were roiled by Payton's confession, his wrenching evocation of the childhood which had formed Rennell, the man she had vowed to save.
Feeling the glow of wine, Terri slowly closed her eyes, and remembered.
* * *
She was fourteen; Terri could no longer hide beneath the covers or inside the closet. And now her mother's cries have drawn her from her bedroom.
Terri creeps down the stairs. Unsure of what will happen, afraid of what she will see. Knowing only that, this time, she must stop him.
The first thing she sees is her mother's face.
In the dim light of a single lamp, it is beautiful and ravaged, and drained of hope. Her mouth has begun to swell.
Her father, Ramon Peralta, steps into the light.
His hand is raised. Terri's mother, Rosa, backs to the wall. Her eyes glisten with tears. By now Terri knows that the tears will never fall; it is Rosa's pride that she endures this without crying. But she cannot stifle the sounds when he hits her, cries from deep within her soul.
"Whore," Ramon says softly.
Helpless, Rosa shakes her head. Her shoulders graze the wall behind her.
"I saw you look at him," Ramon prods. His accusation is sibilant, precise; Terri can imagine his whiskey breath in her mother's face. Ramon comes closer.
Watching, Terri freezes.
She stands there, trembling, ashamed of her own cowardice. No one sees her; there is still time to turn away.
Her father's hand flashes through the light.
Terri flinches. Hears the crack of his palm on Rosa's cheekbone, the short cry she seems to bite off, the heavy sound of his breathing. In the pit of her stomach, Terri understands; her mother's cries draw him on for more. Rosa's lip is bleeding now.
"No!" Terri cries out.
Tears have sprung to her eyes; she is not sure she has spoken aloud. And then, slowly, her father turns.
Seeing Terri, his face fills with astonishment and rage, but still she cannot look away.
"You like this," she tells her father. "You think it makes you strong. But we hate you—"
"Teresa, don't!"
Her mother steps from the wall. "This is our business—"
"We live here too." Without thinking, Terri steps between her parents. "Don't ever hit her," she tells her father. "Ever again. Or we'll hate you for the rest of your life."
Ramon's face darkens. "You little bitch. You're just like her."
Terri points at her chest. "I'm me. I'm saying this."
His hand flies back to hit her.
"No." Her mother has clutched Terri's shoulders, pulling her away from him. Her father reaches out and jerks Terri by the arm.
Blinding pain shoots through Terri's shoulder. She feels him twist her arm behind her back, push her facedown on the sofa. Terri wills herself to make no sound at all.
"What," her father asks softly, "would you like me to do now?"
Terri cannot be certain whether he asks this of Rosa or of Terri herself. Can sense only that her mother has draped both arms around her father's neck.
"Let her go, Ramon." Rosa's voice is gentle now. "You were right. I shouldn't have looked at him that way."
Terri twists her head to see. But she can only see her mother carefully watching Ramon as she whispers, "I'll make it up to you. Please, let her go."
In her anguish, Terri senses her father turning to Rosa, sees the look on her mother's face. The look of a woman who has met the man she was fated for. Lips parted, eyes resolute, accepting her destiny.
With a sharp jerk, Ramon Peralta releases his daughter's arm.
"Go," Rosa tells her. "Go to bed, Teresa."
Standing, Terri turns to her mother. Her legs are unsteady, but Rosa does not reach for her. She leans against her husband now, one arm around his waist. Two parents confronting their child.
"Go," Rosa repeats softly. "Please."
Terri turns, walking toward the stairs. Knowing that, in some strange way, her father has accepted Rosa as a substitute for Terri. Her arm aches, and her face burns with shame. She does not know for whom.
At the top of the darkened stairway, Terri stops. She cannot, somehow, return to her room.
She stands there. It is as if, from a distance, she is standing guard over Rosa.
From the living room below, a soft cry.
Terri cannot help herself. The second cry, a deeper moan, draws her back toward the living room.
At the foot of the stairs, Terri stops.
Two profiles in the yellow light, her mother and her father.
Her father wears only a shirt. Her mother is bent over the couch, facedown, as Terri was. Her dress is raised around her waist; her panties lie ripped on the floor. As Ramon Peralta drives himself into her from behind, again and again, she cries out for him with each thrust.
Terri cannot look away. Her mother's face, turned to the light, is an unfeeling mask. Only her lips move, to make the cries.
And then Rosa sees her.
Her eyes open wider, looking into her daughter's face with a depth of pain and anguish that Terri has never seen before. She stops making the sounds. Silently pleading with her daughter, her lips form the word "Go."
In Rosa's silence, Ramon Peralta thrusts harder.