Conviction

FIFTEEN

FIVE DAYS BEFORE TRIAL, MAURIANI RECEIVED A LETTER FROM Yancey James.

He read it with rising irritation. Then he placed a call to James. "What's this with the supplemental witness list?" he asked. "We're five days away from trial."

"The amenities," James rejoined in a parody of a preacher, "must give way to the in-ter-ests of justice. Tasha Bramwell's just now come forward—despite, Louis, the potential opprobrium she could face on account of your prejudicial and perverse public relations efforts to paint my clients as guilty before they're even tried. Are you now suggesting that you'll try to bar the courtroom doors to truth?"

Mauriani could imagine James lounging back in his chair, expansive with self-admiration and, perhaps, a cocaine-fueled grandiosity. "Cut the bullshit," the prosecutor said coldly. "Who the hell is Tasha Bramwell, and what 'truth' does she have to offer?"

Mauriani's annoyance elicited a soft chuckle from Yancey James. "Time will tell, Louis. Truth will out . . ."

The repeated use of his given name was beginning to irk Lou Mauriani. "Damned straight it will," he shot back. "Right now. Either you give proper notice of what this mystery woman has to say, or she'll never see the inside of Judge Rotelli's courtroom."

This proposition—so plausible that even James could not dispute it—provided Mauriani with a moment's welcome silence. When James spoke again, his tone was sober and more tentative. "This young woman is close to Payton Price. She's way too concerned for his welfare to live in silence with what she knows—that she was with him and Rennell for several hours on the very afternoon that Thuy Sen disappeared."

"You must be joking."

"No, indeed, Louis—no, indeed. You can try to exclude her. But if you do that, you'd be condemning two innocent young men, perhaps to death."

Mauriani put down the phone and then called Charles Monk.

* * *

At eight-thirty the next morning, Monk and Ainsworth arrived at Mauriani's office, its tile floor littered with the building blocks of an impending trial—witness statements, crime lab results, mug shots, Liz Shelton's report, and autopsy photographs of Thuy Sen. For an instant, Monk glanced at the photographs, shaking his head, and then said briskly, "Tasha Bramwell."

"Yeah." Mauriani poured himself a third cup of coffee. "Tell me all about her."

* * *

Like Eddie Fleet's girlfriend, Betty Sims, Tasha Bramwell lived in public housing in the Bayview. But the impression she made on Monk was different: more that of an office worker who aspired to be a professional—straight, processed hair; a neatly pressed skirt; clean white cotton blouse—and her apartment was as meticulous as her trimmed and painted nails. She was tall and slender, with a thin, fox-pretty face; Monk knew at once from her wary eyes that their presence made her nervous.

They sat at her kitchen table, with a vase of flowers between the two detectives and the woman. "I was with them both," Tasha insisted. "Right here. From maybe noon to almost eight o'clock."

"Was anyone else here?" Ainsworth asked.

"No. Just the three of us."

"Anyone visit—someone who might corroborate what you're telling us?"

Tasha screwed up her face in what, to Monk, seemed a pantomime of someone straining to remember. "Don't recall," she said finally. "Didn't seem important then."

"What did the three of you do?" Monk inquired. "All that time."

"Stuff. Listened to music, watched some TV—soap operas, mostly. Rennell likes those."

"That's all?"

Tasha's eyes froze and then refocused on the flowers instead of on Monk. In a wan, embarrassed voice, she answered, "Payton and me made love."

If Tasha was acting, Monk thought, she had a certain gift. Though perhaps it was lying, not sex, which discomfited her most. Evenly, he asked, "With Rennell in the room?"

"No." Her tone was sharper, defensive. "Alone, in my bedroom."

"How long were you alone?"

Tasha's eyes lowered. "I don't know. Maybe an hour or so."

"For that hour or so, where was Rennell?"

"Sitting here, I guess." She hesitated, then added, "Rennell sleeps a lot. I think maybe he was asleep on the couch when we came out."

"But you don't know Rennell was here."

Tasha gave a minimal shrug, as though she found the question inconsequential. "I guess not, no. But he doesn't go too many places without Payton."

Curious, Monk considered asking why. Then Ainsworth interjected, "You say they were here till eight or so. How do you remember that?"

" 'Cause I work weeknights over at the Double Rock Bar. Shift always starts at eight."

"That your only job?"

"Yeah." Tasha nodded toward a small shelf of what appeared to be textbooks. "Days I go to City College," she amplified with a touch of pride. "I'm studying to be an accountant."

Considering her, Monk felt the habitual melancholy he experienced on returning to the Bayview, this time at the depressing fact that, even while reaching for something better, Tasha Bramwell remained entangled with a man like Payton Price. "Thuy Sen disappeared on a Tuesday," he said. "Got classes on Tuesday?"

"This semester I got three. But last semester—the Tuesday we're talking about—I only had but one. Bookkeeping."

Tasha, Monk thought, either had an excellent memory or had reviewed her prior schedule. "What time on Tuesday, Tasha?"

She smoothed her skirt, as though erasing an imagined crease. "Three o'clock."

"So you cut class?"

"Just that once." Looking up at Monk, she finished in a prideful tone. "I'm a good student—got an A in that course. Professor didn't grade us on attendance."

Monk tried to imagine this ambitious girl cutting class to hang out watching soap operas with Payton and his sluggish, sullen brother. But there was no way, for the moment, to get at this. "Do you know Eddie Fleet?" he asked abruptly.

Her lips compressed. "I know Eddie."

"What you know about him?"

"He pretended to be Payton's friend." Her voice held quiet fury. "But he's a stone liar, out for himself."

"Know why he'd lie about Payton?" Ainsworth asked.

"Jealousy. The way he used to look at me like to made my skin crawl."

"He ever hit on you?"

Her eyes flashed anger and disdain. "He knew better. He knew not to get on Payton's bad side, that I'd tell him if Eddie tried a thing. Eddie likes his women too scared to come back at him."

Monk considered her. "I guess you've been talking to him," he said more pointedly. "Payton, I mean. Records say you've been visiting County Jail."

Tasha sat straighter. "Why wouldn't I? He's my boyfriend, and he's in bad trouble for something he didn't do."

"So why didn't you just come to us, say where Payton was the day that little girl disappeared?"

For an instant, Tasha averted her head, and then she looked Monk straight in the eyes. "I hadn't put two and two together—not till Payton finally remembered where we'd been. Then it all came back to me."

"How?"

"About cutting my accounting class—'cause that's unusual for me—then seeing that girl's picture the next night on TV, working at the Double Rock." Her voice filled with defiance. "Payton would never do that with a child. I know him—he's gotten in trouble maybe, living down here, having to become a man before his time. But that's all. The rest is Eddie Fleet, using you to push my man aside for him."

Silent, Monk regarded her, his expression conveying muted sorrow. "You're a classy-looking young woman," he said in measured tones. "More important, you're sharp, and you've got plans. You could be someone in this world. Don't mess it up."

A spark of fear surfaced in her eyes. "How would I be doing that?"

Monk erased the sympathy from his face. "Perjury," he said flatly. "This is an important matter—to us, to the city, and to that girl's family. We're going to find the truth about it."

Tasha bit her lip, although her eyes, with an apparent effort, still met her interrogator's. "I'm telling the truth, Mr. Policeman. You just don't like hearing it."

* * *

"She's lying," Monk told Mauriani. "Payton put her up to it."

"Sure he did. But as it stands, her story gives the brothers at least a shot at acquittal, if the jury's squirrelly enough." Mauriani cocked his head. "Though I suppose there's always the chance," he added dryly, "however small, that Yancey James may not have thoroughly vetted her story. Maybe you should check her out."

"Right now," Monk answered with a smile. "Nothin' better to do."

* * *

Four days later, in the courtroom of the judge who would try People of California v. Price, the Honorable Angelo J. Rotelli, Mauriani moved to exclude from evidence the testimony of Tasha Bramwell.

Angie Rotelli, another former colleague, regarded Mauriani sternly. "On what grounds?"

"Surprise. Miss Bramwell was hardly unknown to the defense. And yet Mr. James disclosed her existence five days before trial. Aside from the dubious credibility this suggests, it's trial by ambush—"

"Okay, counsel," Rotelli cut in with an unimpressed manner. "I get it. Mr. James."

Slowly, James rose. "If there was any untoward delay, Your Honor, Ms. Bramwell here can account for that to this Court and the jury." His voice became solemn. "Mr. Mauriani is seeking the ultimate penalty—death. Now he wants to exclude vital evidence on a technicality. Any prejudice to the prosecutor pales in comparison to death by lethal injection."

Briskly, Rotelli nodded. "I have to concur," he told Mauriani. "Where two lives are in the balance, justice requires us to hear Ms. Bramwell out. Motion denied."

Mauriani was very careful to look somber.

* * *

Fifteen years later, he walked Teresa Peralta Paget to her car.

They had emptied the second bottle of cabernet, with Terri finally accepting a glass. The man simply wanted company, she thought, and she owed him the courtesy of not feeling set apart.

And Mauriani reacted with a courtesy of his own; dignified and solicitous, he walked her to the car, carefully repeating the directions he had already given her. When she drove away, he remained at the head of the driveway, watching.

She arrived home late, around ten-thirty, and encountered Carlo sitting in the kitchen, waiting for her as she had asked.

"Did Mrs. Price recall anything about Tasha?" she inquired.

Sitting on the stool at the kitchen counter, Carlo sipped from a steaming cup of coffee. "Some," he answered. "But more about Yancey James."

* * *

It was the last time, Eula Price remembered, that she spoke with the lawyer alone.

They sat in Eula's living room on the night before the trial began. "Tasha Bramwell," James said in forceful tones, "could become the cornerstone of our defense. But taken by herself, I can assure you, Mrs. Price, that she just won't be enough to save your boys. A death penalty case is complicated, and the prosecutor's office is bringing their full might down upon us."

"What can we do?"

"More investigation—to find all the evidence we can, from whatever source, that this terrible crime is contrary to your grandsons' basic natures." He paused, as though reluctant, then added firmly, "We're going to need more money, Mrs. James. To fund our further investigation before it's too late."

Eula felt panic, a swift palpitation of her heart. "What about the money from the house?"

"Gone," he said flatly. "Investigation fees. The last dollars went into checking out Tasha Bramwell."

Tears came to Eula's eyes. "Lawyer James, I got no more money. This trouble's taken it all."

James lowered his gaze in sorrow. "Not even savings?" he asked.

Beneath the words, Eula could feel his desperation. "Just pension money," she answered, feeling her voice become husky. "We already used up all Joe left me."

Shaking his head, James reached for the familiar white handkerchief. "Then all we can do," he said mournfully, "is whatever we can. Can't do any more than that."