Conviction

TEN

THE PRICE CASE WAS ARGUED ON A TUESDAY, THE VOTE AMONG the justices scheduled for Friday. But in ways small and large, the uncertainty of its outcome reverberated within the Court.

On Tuesday afternoon, Adam Wendt—finding Elizabeth Burke unresponsive—called another of Justice Glynn's clerks, Conor Farrell, and suggested they shoot some hoops on the "Highest Court in the Land," the top-floor gym reserved for those who worked in the building. Amidst the blare of rap music from a boom box which accompanied a spirited half-court game among the marshals, Adam and Conor played a leisurely game of Horse at the opposite end of the court.

Ever the competitor, Conor grinned at Adam. "Why don't we ratchet up the pressure?" he proposed. "Winner takes the loser to a Wizards game. Or are you wilting under the spotlight?"

"The disciples of Justice Fini," Adam said gravely, "never wilt—"

"Or experience doubt."

The sardonic remark brought a tighter smile to Adam's lips. "Why not this—two Wizards tickets against your justice's vote in the Price case. Think you can swing that, Conor?"

Conor regarded him with a more serious expression. "Doubt is sometimes better than confidence. And I'd never stake anyone's life on my jump shot."

"What about our legal system?" Adam retorted. "How many of these cases can this Court take? How many should it take?"

Absentmindedly, Conor began dribbling the basketball. "Two good questions," he answered. "I think that's what Justice Glynn's asking himself. What he's not looking for, I'm guessing, is a chance to make grand statements. I don't believe that's how your justice will get my justice to sign on."

Which, after graciously losing to Conor, Adam reported to Justice Fini.

* * *

"The Supreme Court," Rennell asked Terri. "What that be like?"

Terri considered this, wondering how to describe the Court to a retarded man in a plastic cubicle. "Grand," she said, "like a church, or a cathedral." Then she realized that Eula Price's modest church in the Bayview was so little like her own that the reference had no meaning. "It has high ceilings," she continued, "with marble statues and pillars everywhere, and drawings of great lawgivers. And there's a long bench for the justices, because there's nine of them."

Rennell strained to imagine this. Softly, he asked, "Those men all be wearin' them black robes?"

The question, Terri perceived, carried echoes of his trial—fifteen years ago, the last man in a black robe, Angelo Rotelli, had sentenced Payton and Rennell to death. And now only Rennell survived, his life hanging on the votes of nine other judges in robes.

"Two of them are women," Terri said. "They really listened hard to everything Chris told them about you."

But saying this revived Terri's sense of deep disquiet. As if he could hear her thoughts, Rennell stared at the table.

She covered his hand. "I've got good news, Rennell. We found you a home—living with a minister a few blocks from our house."

Rennell closed his eyes. "When those judges gonna tell us?"

"June. That's when they'll announce it."

"How long that be?"

An eternity. "Not long. Two months from now, that's all."

"Long," Rennell said wearily. "You tell that minister to wait for me, okay?"

* * *

The next morning, Terri, as was her custom, awoke at 6:00 A.M., before the others, to sip black coffee and read The New York Times.

As always, the Times had appeared on her doorstep, delivered in the hours before dawn. The only difference—which at first Terri barely registered—was that it lay flat on the front porch, unrolled from the tight blue cellophane wrapping, which today lay beside it.

Pausing, Terri looked up and down the tree-lined street. It was silent, save for the dull, thudding tread of a single jogger, running up the slope of Pacific Avenue in the thin glow of dawn. Pensive, Terri closed the door behind her, and went to the kitchen to pour her first cup of coffee and start reading at the breakfast table.

Lifting the front section from the others, she froze.

A loose photograph lay across Section B, inserted in the paper. Its image, though grainy, was clear enough—an adolescent girl on her knees, performing oral sex on a dark man with an oversize penis, his torso visible only from the waist down. The girl's hair was black like Elena's, her skin as pale.

Fighting back nausea, Terri heard her own brief cry.