Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  ‘Latins,’ Paget said. ‘For two reasons. One living, one dead.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘Salinas and Richie. Too much chance of identification.’

  ‘No argument there,’ Moore put in. ‘I wouldn’t take a Latin male. Period.’

  Caroline shrugged. ‘There are no absolutes,’ she said, ‘in jury selection. But let’s move on. The prosecution case is a law enforcement package: Salinas is going to give them the M.E.’s take on Richie’s body, then Monk’s investigation, and ask the jury to trust that it was murder. Part of my story is going to be that the D.A. played dirty and that this is a prosecution and police vendetta. So we have to be wary of blue collar folks who dislike the rich and identify with cops.’

  Moore glanced sideways at Paget. ‘Or,’ he said slowly, ‘people who are uncomfortable with incomplete stories.’

  Caroline smiled with one side of her mouth. ‘Yes,’ she said with irony. ‘Chris and I have discussed that.’

  There was an awkward quiet. Caroline did not look at Paget; her gaze settled somewhere above his head, as if fixed on a thought. ‘I’d add lawyer-haters,’ Paget said to fill the silence.

  ‘Of course.’ Caroline folded her arms. ‘So who do we want?’

  Paget thought for a moment. ‘As a gross generalization, the old civil rights coalition – Jews and blacks. Jews because of a humanist bent that goes with a certain sympathy for the accused, blacks because the black community knows that cops are not always free from bias.’

  Caroline looked dubious. ‘Monk complicates that, don’t you think? They’ll listen to him and respect him. What I need, frankly, is anyone who doesn’t trust authority.’

  Moore frowned. ‘That’s why education is so important here, as long as it’s combined with imagination. Chris’s case depends on finding a jury that is capable of abstract thinking – imagining alternative scenarios you may never be able to prove. If we were lucky, we’d get a jury of white Yale-educated poets who vote the liberal line and come from East Coast cities.’

  Caroline shook her head. ‘Even if we could find them, Salinas would mow them down.’ The smile she gave Moore was somewhat grim. ‘Maybe you can find us an artichoke or two.’

  Moore looked puzzled. An artichoke, Paget knew, was defense lawyer’s argot for any juror who looked weird enough to hang a jury for no discernible reason, and picking one was the greatest art of all: Paget had once hung a jury in a case he should have lost by sneaking in a juror who – once the case was over – asked him with a bug-eyed stare if the world would survive the twentieth century. ‘An artichoke,’ he explained to Moore, ‘is a juror who knows I’m innocent because his dead mom tells him so.’

  Moore smiled at this but said nothing.

  ‘Artichokes come in all forms,’ Caroline put in helpfully. ‘You might want to comb the jury pool for women with an obsessive attraction to blond, silent males.’

  The comment, delivered in a tone of mock innocence, carried a pointed barb: it reminded Paget uncomfortably that his lawyer was headed for a trial earlier than she wanted, for reasons Paget refused to explain, and in which he would say nothing. ‘Some of our premises may be debatable,’ Paget said evenly. ‘But a few aren’t. We can’t have people poisoned by pretrial publicity. And, whoever else is on the jury, we can’t risk anyone with an emotional connection to suicide or custody fights.’ He paused, adding softly, ‘Or, for that matter, child molestation.’

  Caroline’s face changed; she gave him a brief look of sympathy, and then her voice turned crisp. ‘This is all very well,’ she said at last. ‘But everything we’ve said, Salinas knows too. He’ll bump our theoretical dream jurors as fast as they pop up. And in the end, we’ll wind up in a lottery, compromising and picking jurors on feel.’ She paused for emphasis. ‘At some point – perhaps more than once – Victor and I will both gamble on the same juror. And one of us will be wrong.’

  Paget felt unsettled. ‘What’s your point, Caroline?’

  She looked at him directly. ‘That when it comes right down to it, I’d trust my instincts over Victor Salinas’s. Or even yours.’ She paused, then finished quietly: ‘If we’re down to the last juror, Chris, and there’s any question about what to do, I want to make the call. Because I’m the only one of us who’ll be telling that juror that you are not a murderer.’

  Victor Salinas, Paget had begun to perceive with apprehension, could project a certain charm.

  He was questioning the twenty-third of the first twenty-four initial panelists, a process that had yielded three jurors: a white male public school teacher; a black bank officer; and a middle-aged Filipina stenographer. These were compromises. None fit the jury profile for Christopher Paget or, with the possible exception of the Filipina, whom Caroline thought persuadable, for the prosecution; it was Caroline’s assessment that they were the best the defense could do and that Salinas was likely to keep them as well. As for the remaining twenty, Jared Lerner had struck three who looked bad for the defense, Victor Salinas had used seven of his peremptories in a pattern that would have seemed random had his targets not all been well educated, and Caroline had already expended ten – five Latin males, punctuated by two Asian immigrants, a Japanese doctor who had lost a bitter custody fight, the nephew of a New York cop, and a retired black army sergeant, who, in Caroline’s murmured aside, seemed more military than militant.

  The problem was the jury pool. Except for the Filipina stenographer, Caroline had stuck to the script. But she was using up peremptories too quickly, both she and Paget agreed, and she was unhappy for yet another reason. ‘We’re striking too many minorities,’ she whispered to Paget. ‘The jury panel may begin to think we’re prejudiced.’

  Paget had nodded. But the ten panelists Caroline had stricken had seemed ripe for Victor Salinas. Now, helpless, they watched Salinas question the juror Paget most wanted: an attractive sixty-year-old Jewish woman named Marian Celler, whose husband was a cardiologist; whose daughters were a professor of Romance languages and a graduate student in anthropology; and who had helped administer several significant charities. When Johnny Moore leaned forward to say that they take her, both Caroline and Paget had agreed.

  Standing near the jury box, Salinas smiled at Celler. ‘Your family has distinguished itself,’ he said pleasantly, ‘by not having sent a single member to law school. Is this an accident, or is it another reflection of good parenting?’

  The prospective jurors laughed at the mild joke, seemingly a throwaway. But Paget knew the joke had been planned for days. Salinas intended to disassociate himself from his own profession: he was not one of those lawyers, his manner suggested, but someone who protected his fellow citizens from the worst of lawyers’ tricks.

  Celler gave Salinas a perfunctory smile. ‘It’s an accident,’ she said. ‘Neither of our daughters wanted to be a doctor, either. And I married one.’

  Salinas jammed his hands in his pockets. ‘Have you had any experience with members of the legal profession?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Salinas. My husband and I have had the same lawyer for twenty-five years.’

  ‘And have you been satisfied?’

  Celler gave a vigorous nod. ‘Oh, very. Harold helped my husband set up his professional corporation, and he has our estate in good order. He’s not only our adviser but our friend.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Paget whispered to Caroline.

  As if to confirm this, Salinas said, ‘That’s all I have, Mrs Celler,’ and sat down.

  Caroline rose. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Celler.’

  Celler smiled. ‘Good afternoon.’

  Caroline walked toward the jury box. ‘I’m sure you’re aware, as Mr Salinas’s questions suggested, that Mr Paget is himself a lawyer.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Caroline glanced briefly at Salinas, then back at Celler. ‘Based on your experience, Mrs Celler, what is your opinion of the integrity of the legal profession?’

  Celler leaned forward. ‘Oh, it’s quite high. Our lawyer, for one, is a man
of great integrity. And I’m aware from my charitable work of how much lawyers give back to the community, both in money and in services.’

  This time, facing Salinas with raised eyebrows, Caroline gave him a one-sided smile that lingered until the jury panel saw it. Only then did she turn back to Celler. ‘It’s been nice to know you,’ Caroline said dryly. ‘However briefly.’

  There was coughing from the press contingent, the sound of suppressed laughter. As Caroline sat down, Salinas gave her a look of anger: with one subversive comment, Caroline had made it clear to the panelists that Salinas was trying to cash in on antilawyer bias. Now he had the choice of confirming it or letting on a juror that he plainly did not want.

  A certain amusement flickered in Judge Lerner’s eyes. ‘Mr Salinas?’ he asked.

  Victor could wait, Paget knew, deciding later whether to strike Marian Celler. But it was his practice to decide right away, relying on his initial instincts. He composed himself, standing straighter for the jury, pride and indecision crossing his face. A little too loudly, he said, ‘The people pass Mrs Celler.’

  ‘Oh, Victor,’ Caroline murmured under her breath, ‘that really wasn’t very smart.’

  Just after five-thirty, they adjourned.

  Marian Celler had been Caroline’s finest moment. She had used fourteen peremptories, with only six left; had Jared Lerner not stricken two propolice jurors for cause, matters would have been even worse. Among the eight jurors passed, Caroline had been forced to accept the first two Asians, a Chinese medical technician whose parents came from Hong Kong and a twenty-year-old Vietnamese immigrant. Most of her peremptories had been used on Latins: Caroline did not like the message this might send, and tomorrow’s panel was even heavier on Asians, Latins, and the less well educated than today’s had been. When Paget had suggested that they spend the evening reviewing their approach to the jury pool, Caroline had readily agreed.

  They drove from the underground garage in Caroline’s black Mercedes-Benz. Paget was surprised to see that the sky was dark; the onset of the trial had broken his connection to the outside world. Tonight, he knew, they would sit in an interior conference room, sandwiches and jury questionnaires spread out on the table; he would briefly call Carlo, then Terri, and then spend the next several hours trying to enter the minds of strangers who lived only on paper.

  Caroline turned down Mission Street, the towers of the financial district looming to the left, dark forms with squares of light. ‘Mind if I open the sunroof?’ Paget asked. ‘I’m feeling stale, like we’ve spent all day on an airplane.’

  Caroline smiled. ‘Whatever helps.’

  Paget pushed the button and leaned back, trying to pick a star or two out of the city sky, which was dulled by the reflection of artificial light. Lately, he had tried to experience life as a series of moments, small and still and as perfect as he could make them. With the breeze on his face, Paget, finding what he thought was a star, remembered the night sky the last time he and Terri had gone sailing.

  It was perhaps five weeks before. Paget could not stand being inside, and there was no place they could go where heads would not turn. When he had proposed to sail at night, Terri had not questioned him.

  The sail had been quiet and cool. Terri sat in the stern of Paget’s boat, wearing an oversize leather jacket Paget had bought in Venice. After a time, the wind almost died, and they drifted in the middle of San Francisco Bay. The water was black; the lights of the city climbed the hills; the beams of cars crept like soldier ants across the Golden Gate Bridge. Above them, the sky seemed to break away from the lights of the city, becoming deeper and darker as it moved north toward Marin County, filling with stars. Paget gazed at the sky and then at Terri; her hair was black and glossy in the moonlight, and her face seemed more beautiful than Paget could remember. All he wanted was to look at her.

  Her eyes were still and serious. After a time, she asked, ‘Why won’t you testify?’

  ‘I was hoping to get away from all that, Terri,’ he answered. ‘At least for tonight.’

  He felt her gaze. ‘Do you and Carlo go through this too?’

  ‘All the time. There’s nothing I can say to him that Salinas couldn’t ask about.’

  Terri shook her head. ‘But not to testify . . .’ She let the sentence drop there; she did not need to finish it.

  Paget did not answer. In the silence, Terri shook her head again; this time, the gesture had an absent quality, a sense of numb amazement. ‘Warner Books called me this morning. They want to do a book and then package it as a miniseries.’

  Paget gave a short laugh. ‘Who plays you?’

  Terri did not smile. ‘Rosie Perez is hot, the guy told me. I guess all Latinas must look alike.’

  Paget gazed up at the sky. ‘In this version,’ he asked finally, ‘am I innocent or guilty?’

  Terri folded her arms. ‘We never got that far.’

  Her voice was cool with remembered anger. Paget turned to her; in that moment, her profile reminded him of the cover of a glossy magazine, perhaps two weeks ago, with Terri taking Elena from school beneath the caption: ‘Did Christopher Paget Kill for Her?’ Inside, there was an account of Paget’s life and Richie’s charges; beside the part that discussed the claim of child molestation was a picture of Carlo and yet another of Elena. Near the end of the article was a quote from Sonia Arias, saying that Terri’s role in her late son’s ‘murder’ had not been probed to Sonia’s satisfaction.

  ‘How is Elena?’ Paget finally asked.

  ‘About the same, as far as I or Denise Harris can tell. Although I like her new school better.’ Terri’s voice grew tired. ‘She started to make her first real friend, and then the girl told her that her mommy’s boyfriend killed her father.’

  The weight of things felt so oppressive that to express regret, Paget realized, would sound banal. ‘And Rosa?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Is being very quiet. As she should.’ Terri’s voice softened. ‘I keep thinking about Carlo. When we first knew how we felt, it seemed like it could be so good for both our kids.’

  ‘It would have been, except for Richie.’ Paget leaned back, gazing at the outline of the Golden Gate Bridge, dark towers rising from the glow of car lights moving. ‘As for Carlo, his friends are standing by him. But he seems tougher somehow, less trusting. Which I suppose makes sense if the person you’ve depended on may disappear.’

  Terri looked away; Paget felt her exhale. ‘You’re really afraid they’ll find you guilty, aren’t you?’

  Paget made himself look into her face. In the dim light, he thought – or perhaps imagined – that there were tears in her eyes. ‘I know this has been terrible,’ he said. ‘Not only for Elena but for you.’ He took both her hands in his. ‘Six years ago you married Richie, thinking in the back of your mind that there was something wrong but telling yourself to believe in him, if only for the sake of the child you would have. Now it’s happening to you all over again, isn’t it?’

  Terri seemed startled. The tears, Paget saw, were real. ‘I’m afraid of losing you, Chris.’

  Slowly, Paget shook his head. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘You’re afraid I’m not me.’

  Chapter 2

  The second morning of jury selection, Christopher Paget went to court with the wired alertness that came from rigorous exercise and too little sleep. Since his arrest, his workout regime had gone from strenuous to harsh; he drank only wine; he went to bed at ten o’clock. The result was a rush of energy; he felt keen, alive, more fit than he had in years. But there was nothing he could do about broken sleep: the times that he awoke suddenly, wondering what else he could have done, and could not rest his mind any more than he could change the past.

  Now Paget studied the faces in the jury box, searching each stranger for some spark of shared humanity or, perhaps, charity. At Caroline’s request, Judge Lerner had just stricken for cause a fortyish graduate student whose demographic profile was good but who, Caroline’s questions uncovered, was amid bitte
r divorcee proceedings in which she had accused her estranged husband of child abuse, and who ultimately was forced to concede that she might not be fair. The current panelist, a Korean engineer named James Rhee, had seemed to please Salinas; as Caroline Masters rose to question him, he watched her with wary politeness. Moore had rated Rhee a prosecution juror: his notes included ‘inclined to defer to authority’ and ‘engineer – may not like loose ends.’

  Caroline herself was down to four peremptory challenges, and it appeared that four jurors still remained to be picked. ‘Prior to these proceedings,’ she aked, ‘were you aware of who Mr Paget was?’

  Rhee gave a cautious nod. ‘Sure. There was so many articles about this case – I especially remember the one in Newsweek with Mr Paget on the cover. And there was a program on 20/20.’

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. From tabloids to The New York Times, the publicity had been massive and unrelenting. It was time, she had told Paget this morning, to remind the jurors that he had done things much more favorable than to be charged with killing Ricardo Arias. ‘Was that the first time you’d ever heard of Mr Paget?’

  Rhee removed his wire-rimmed glasses, wiping them carefully. ‘Oh, no. I remember Mr Paget from when he was planning to run for the Senate.’

  His tone was decidedly neutral. ‘Did you have an impression of Mr Paget then?’ Caroline asked.

  For the first time, Rhee smiled. ‘Yes. That he was not of my political party.’

  With that, Paget was ready to strike him. But Caroline was not sitting down. Wryly, she said, ‘I take it you’re not a Democrat.’

  Watching Salinas, Paget saw him frown. Seventy-five percent of San Franciscans, and at least that much of the jury pool, were Democrats with a decidedly liberal bias; Paget recognized this as Caroline’s first chance to make that connection between Paget and the jury panel. Ruefully, Rhee shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘In San Francisco, it gets kind of lonely. Even my kids think Michael Dukakis got eleced President.’