Conviction

NINE

JOHNNY MOORE ARRIVED AT TERRI'S OFFICE WITHIN TEN MINUTES of her return. "Yancey James," he told her without preface, "got disbarred six years ago. I guess Kenyon and Walker forgot to get back to him."

"Amazing." She waved him to a chair in front of her desk. "Getting disbarred is a trick," she told him. "Anything in James's record relevant to us?"

"Twelve clients on death row by the time he lost his ticket—they just kept piling up. Eventually he earned the charming sobriquet Death's Co-Counsel." Moore's blue eyes held a cynical amusement. "His defenses were so cursory they give new meaning to the concept 'speedy trial.' "

"Any sins in particular?"

"One failure after another to investigate, all rationalized as 'tactical decisions'—which tended, unsurprisingly, to shaft his clients." Moore pulled a notebook from his briefcase and put on his half-glasses. "I've got notes on his five other capital cases in 1987, the year he represented the brothers Price.

"In the Curtis Smith case, he failed to present Smith's only meritorious defense. On behalf of Earl Prentice, he failed to challenge the eyewitness ID of his client, though he had a witness who could have. He defended Stevie Washburn by depending entirely on the investigation conducted by the lawyer for Stevie's codefendant and doing nothing on his own—"

"Like our case," Terri interjected, "except there was no codefendant to rely on. Yancey had them both."

"Indeed," Moore answered dryly. "But at least he gave them a two-day defense—a day for each client. In the Serge Dieterman case, James lost a one-day murder trial. Reason it was so short is that he didn't call the defendant and three other witnesses to testify that the defendant had withdrawn from a conspiracy to murder and, in fact, was leaving the scene when one of the others shot the victim . . ."

"It's almost comical," Terri observed. "Except for the lives at stake."

"I doubt you'll find the last one very amusing—the Calvin Coolman case." Moore glanced at his notes. "Try this, Terri. Calvin, James's client, was accused of shooting Roy Sylvester to death in the Double Rock section of the Bayview. The only person who claimed to have seen the killing was Stace Morgan, a convicted rapist and crack dealer. Stace did not hurry down to the police station with his story. But three weeks later the cops busted him for dealing, and he came up with his story about Calvin capping Sylvester in exchange for probation on the drug rap—"

"Eddie Fleet," Terri said flatly.

"That's what jumped out at me. But James never went after Stace Morgan—even though the cops had found a possible murder weapon in his apartment. Nor did James share with the jury that Morgan and poor old Calvin were rivals in the drug trade, or that the victim, Sylvester, worked for Calvin." Moore closed the notebook. "Inquiring minds might wonder why. But James refused to discuss his so-called strategy with the State Bar investigators—a matter of keeping client confidences, he said."

"Sounds familiar. In our case, James should have gone after Fleet like hell wouldn't have it. You find him yet?"

"Eddie? No. There's a trail of battered girlfriends from here to Oakland and beyond. But so far, no Eddie. If nothing else the sonofabitch is a survivor."

"Keep looking. And try Betty Sims, the girlfriend Laura Finney tried to interview. Something in Finney's story keeps tugging at me." Terri picked up her pen. "Out of the five cases you told me about, how many clients got the death penalty?"

"Four. Everyone but Calvin Coolman."

"And how many sentences were reversed because James was found constitutionally ineffective?"

"One—Calvin's. In the other four, the appellate courts said James was good enough to get his client executed."

"Why am I not surprised." Hastily Terri scribbled a note: "Carlo—read Coolman appellate case." "Eula Price," she continued, "wanted the best counsel she could buy, and got the worst. So what was James disbarred for?"

"You'd suppose incompetence. But you know your own fraternity—shafting your clients isn't enough to get disbarred. You have to steal from them."

"James misused client funds?"

"Yup—beginning in 1986. In extenuation, he pleaded his cocaine addiction. Money went up his nose." Moore's smile was jaded and a little weary. "You've got exactly what you guessed you had—a crappy lawyer who ripped off Grandma to keep himself in coke, then blew off Rennell's defense once he'd blown her money."

"Terrific," Terri remarked. "I just love being right."

* * *

"You know the problem," Terri said.

It was past eleven at night. Naked, she lay across their bed as Chris rubbed her back and shoulders, one of the conditions of their marriage. "Sure," he answered. "Either you get James's cooperation, or he may blow up in your face."

"Not just cooperation—I need his enthusiastic testimony that his incompetence sunk Rennell's defense. Suppose we're 'lucky' enough to get an evidentiary hearing in front of Gardner Bond, and I put James on without knowing what he'll say. To pave the way for new evidence under AEDPA, I've first got to prove James was constitutionally ineffective—"

"Which waives the attorney-client privilege, of course."

"Of course." Terri turned her head on the pillow. "Mind concentrating on my neck? I've got a headache going from there all the way through my temples to my eyes."

Chris's thumbs began pressing into the base of her skull. "Thanks," she murmured. "Maybe James's excuse in the Calvin Coolman case—about not disclosing client confidences—was bullshit. But maybe it wasn't. The risk in our case is that James will testify that Rennell confessed to murder—or that James learned something from Rennell, or maybe even Payton, which points to guilt. That not only would eviscerate any claim of innocence but suggests Rennell is at least smart enough to lie in a consistent way. Lousy atmospherics for claiming he's retarded."

She heard Chris laugh softly. "No wonder you've got a headache. Does James have any friends we can locate?"

"Not really. Johnny says his associates from back then seem to have dropped away—mostly sleazebags, anyhow. But there is an ex-wife, and ex-wives can be useful."

"You might start there. We need to feel out his frame of mind before we go stirring up old memories. And for all you know, he's descended from coke to crack."

"Maybe. But Johnny says he's working in a law library."

"Nice to know that James could find one." Chris's thumbs increased their pressure. "How's that?"

"Fine. Eyes still hurt though."

"I'll get you a damp cloth to put over them before you go to sleep. Unless there's some other service I can perform."

Terri smiled into the pillow. "Does it require my involvement?"

"It might—depends, I suppose. So what other of your problems can I resolve?"

"DNA." Terri closed her eyes, feeling the slow release of pain flowing through her neck. "Retesting the semen may be a long shot. But there's other evidence, too—like the hair caught in Thuy Sen's barrette."

"Sure. But if the hair's not Rennell's, it doesn't prove him innocent. And what if it is Rennell's?"

Terri's temples still throbbed: the last vestiges of the headache, she guessed, would stubbornly survive Chris's ministrations. "At least we'll know," she answered. "What if the Attorney General already does?"