Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  Caroline had never doubted that she would. Beneath the careful exterior, Terri had combined compassion with an almost unnerving directness; life had taught her to strip things to the bone yet given her the intuition to look into someone’s heart. Except – and here Caroline thought of Richie – when that someone was very close to her, and a man. It was something Caroline understood.

  Without preface, Terri sat at Caroline’s desk. ‘I’m sorry to come like this,’ she said. ‘But if I’d called first, you might have told Chris. And that’s what I don’t want.’

  Over the last two years, Caroline had not seen Terri much: she seemed older now, though still polite, much less deferential. Caroline wondered which part of that, and for what reason, came from being with Christopher Paget.

  ‘Chris is my client, you know. I can’t promise confidentiality.’

  Terri gave a dismissive smile. ‘Of course not. But at least this way, once you’ve heard me out, you can decide for yourself without having told Chris that I was coming.’

  Terri was so cool in manner that it seemed she hardly knew Caroline at all. Quietly, Caroline asked, ‘Are you all right, Teresa?’

  The question seemed to startle Terri; Caroline realized that she had come here with business on her mind and was trying to hang on to that. But Terri’s face – strong and delicate and beautiful – suddenly conveyed such worry that Caroline remembered how young she still was. ‘No,’ Terri said tersely. ‘Nothing’s all right. But the reason I’m here is that unless something changes, Chris is going down.’

  Somehow the words hit Caroline hard. ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘Because I knew Richie.’ Terri was almost too still: now she could not look at Caroline. ‘Once I leave here, Caroline, we never had this conversation. You don’t have to worry about what I’ll say’ – here Terri paused – ‘anywhere else or to anyone else. But there’s no way that Richie killed himself. I don’t believe it, and I don’t think you believe it, either.’

  Caroline felt the blessed nervelessness kick in, twenty years of becoming a lawyer, fighting the unruliness of her emotions. Calmly, she answered, ‘Let’s stick to what you don’t believe. And why.’

  Terri faced her again. ‘Part of it’s the way that note is written.’

  ‘Why? It’s only a fragment – a few words.’

  ‘It’s enough.’ Terri leaned forward. ‘Richie would never admit to being “selfish and pathetic” to anyone, even if it would be read when he was dead. His whole life was spent trying to hide the truth – not “facing” it, like the note says. There’s this tone of moral disapproval that just isn’t Richie. He didn’t hold himself to normal standards.’

  A strain in Tern’s voice, an uneasy combination of stress and remembered anger, lent her words conviction. Caroline asked, ‘What about the picture on the desk?’

  Terri’s eyelids fell. ‘That seems more right,’ she said finally. ‘Except that it’s the kind of thing Richie would do to touch someone’s heart, for money. Not to make someone feel sad when it wouldn’t do him any good.’

  To Caroline, this had the uneasy ring of truth. ‘Is there anything else,’ she asked softly, ‘about Richie? Or about Chris?’

  Terri seemed to pause; for a moment, Caroline thought that she might blurt something out. Instead Terri chose her words with care. ‘Ever since my mother called me in Portofino,’ she said finally, ‘I’ve been sure that Richie would be the last person on earth to hurt himself. Other people, yes. But to kill yourself you have to despise yourself, I think, or to feel such shame that you can’t stand it. The man I married wasn’t capable of either emotion.’

  Caroline leaned back in her chair. ‘Why are you telling me this, Terri?’

  Terri’s gaze was steady now. ‘Because I don’t want Chris to spend his life in prison. He’s already suffered for Richie, far too much.’

  Caroline gave her a curious smile. ‘And you somehow think that this stuff helps him?’

  ‘No. I’m making a point.’

  ‘Which is . . . ?’

  ‘That if you’re trying to get Chris off on suicide, he’s in serious trouble.’ Terri’s voice fell. ‘Is there any chance that Chris will change his mind about testifying?’

  Terri’s real question was unspoken; she hoped that Caroline would give her hope that Chris was innocent. But they were both professionals: Terri could not ask, and Caroline would never answer. ‘I don’t know,’ Caroline said.

  Terri shook her head impatiently. ‘And you don’t have anything else, do you? Except to say that the D.A.’s case isn’t enough and that they’re screwing Chris out of spite.’ Abruptly, Terri stood. ‘If I were still working for you, Caroline, you’d tell me to take the best deal I could.’

  Still sitting, Caroline gazed up at Terri. ‘Remember Richie’s note?’ she asked with some asperity. ‘Pretty hard to plead this down to a spontaneous crime of passion. Given that Victor’s theory is that Chris dictated the touching final words that you don’t believe were Richie’s own. It smacks a little too much of premeditation, don’t you think?’

  Terri stared at her momentarily and then sat down again, deflated.

  Suddenly Caroline felt ashamed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘As it happens Chris refuses to bargain for a lesser. But you didn’t come here to tell me things that you already know that I know.’

  Terri shook her head. ‘You need another suspect.’

  ‘I know that too. Any ideas?’

  ‘One.’ Terri drew a breath. ‘Me.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘Somehow I was expecting that. Just for fun, Teresa, tell me what your reasoning is.’

  Terri folded her arms. ‘The same reasoning the police followed until they landed on Chris. Like him, I’ve got no alibi. And my reason for killing Richie is even better – he took my daughter, ruined my reputation, destroyed my finances, and then threatened to drag Elena, Chris, Carlo, and me to court.’ Terri paused; it was somehow touching, Caroline thought, to hear her try to convict herself in the dispassionate summary of a trial lawyer. ‘My fingerprints were in his apartment. His rug fibers were on my shoes. And once I was in Italy, I told my mother not to call the police. At one point, my own daughter heard me threaten to kill Richie.’ A quick bitter smile. ‘I’ve even got a predilection for violence – look at the way I slapped Elena’s teacher. Except for the eyewitness, it’s a carbon copy of the case against Chris. And I’ve seen firsthand what you can do with eyewitnesses.’ Caroline appraised her. ‘You’ve thought it through, it seems.’

  Terri cocked her head. Quietly she asked, ‘Haven’t you?’

  Caroline laughed softly. ‘Of course. It’s clear, Teresa, that I taught you well.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘A question then. Have you considered what might happen to you if I did too good a job?’

  Terri nodded. ‘Nothing. Except for more damage to my reputation.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’

  ‘Is this a quiz?’ Terri’s eyes flashed impatience. ‘Because even if Chris is acquitted, the fact that they indicted him means that the police thought he murdered Richie. Which translates to an acquittal for anyone else, on the grounds of reasonable doubt. The D.A. would never even try me.’

  The curious pride Caroline felt in Terri’s clear-eyed toughness was followed by a much deeper regret: the Terri she felt she knew could not live with a man she thought a murderer, even if Chris was acquitted. Caroline wondered if she was watching the end of a relationship, Teresa Peralta discharging her debts to Christopher Paget as best she could.

  ‘I’ve considered it all,’ Caroline said finally. ‘I even ran it past another lawyer, whose judgment I deeply respect. He pointed out two problems. First, trying to make you a suspect brings it too close to home. You and Chris are lovers, and both of you might wind up looking guilty.

  ‘Second, as my friend suggests, trying to prove your girlfriend guilty of murder is not the act of a gentleman. The jury might just hate Chris for it. I’m for
ced to agree.’ Caroline made her tone more gentle. ‘All in all, Teresa, I’m going to have to win this case without skewering you. Trust me to do that, please. For Chris and for you.’

  Terri looked at her directly. ‘Chris is the client, Caroline. At least you should ask him yourself.’

  Caroline sat back, considering whether to say more. And then, out of kindness, she did. ‘I’ve already asked him, Teresa. The lawyer friend I mentioned was Christopher Paget.’ She smiled briefly. ‘Chris likes sounding practical. But, as usual, I doubt he gave me all his reasons.’

  Terri seemed startled. For a moment, it appeared as if she would lose her composure, and then she simply turned away. ‘Please, don’t tell Chris I came here.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘I won’t. For his sake.’ Her tone was quiet. ‘I’m sure that Chris would appreciate the sentiment, Terri. But I’m also sure that he’d grasp the implications of your visit. Every one of them.’

  By afternoon, both sides appeared to have agreed on three more jurors – a white physical therapist, a Japanese accountant, and a recently naturalized Irishman who was a dispatcher for a moving company. Neither Paget nor Caroline was sanguine about any of them. But two of her last peremptories had been used on an elderly Chinese woman with a language problem, who might lack the verbal skills or cultural inclination to hang a pro-prosecution jury, and on a white bookkeeper who believed that the root of the city’s social problems lay in a disrespect for the police. As time wore on, Paget felt the jury slipping away from them.

  Now, with the next two panelists blue-collar Asians, Paget watched Caroline question Joseph Duarte, an upwardly mobile Hispanic businessman in his early thirties, with the cocksure manner of a leader and an absolute lack of deference – to Caroline, in particular, which might be either a dislike for high-profile women or some unspoken social resentment.

  Even before the questioning, Paget had mentally stricken Duarte; Salina’s questions had been so perfunctory that Paget sensed him trying to conceal how much he wanted the man. For himself, Paget was beginning to regret his decision on James Rhee: if Caroline let Duarte go, he might well become the foreman. But if Caroline used a peremptory on Duarte, one of the two Asians following might become the twelfth juror.

  ‘Mr Duarte,’ Caroline said pleasantly, ‘you are aware, are you not, that Mr Paget is quite wealthy.’

  A brisk nod. ‘Sure.’

  ‘What experiences, if any, have you had with people who you would consider more than usually affluent?’

  A skeptical smile. ‘Do you mean “rich”?’

  To Paget’s surprise, Caroline grinned. ‘“Rich” will do just fine.’

  Duarte’s smile became broader, as if he had won a point. ‘I used to caddy at the Olympic Club, to make money toward college.’ His voice became flatter. ‘There were plenty of rich people there.’

  Caroline tilted her head. ‘You mean there were plenty of rich men there, all of them white.’ She pause, adding dryly, ‘And of course, their wives.’

  It was a shrewd probe: the Olympic Club had a long and distinguished history of restricting minorities and barring women altogether. Duarte’s smile flashed again. ‘I remember that,’ he said in a tone that suggested he had made it a point to remember. Watching, Paget sensed that it was ethnic and class resentment, and not a dislike for women, that underlay Duarte’s manner.

  It seemed that Caroline guessed so as well. ‘How,’ she asked, ‘would you characterize your experiences with the rich folks at the Olympic Club?’

  Duarte touched his mustache and gave her a guarded look, as if deciding how much of himself to reveal. ‘Some treated me all right,’ he said finally. ‘Others treated me like dirt. One way or the other, it was hard to forget that you were only welcome as a caddy.’

  Caroline gave a nod of understanding. ‘Do you think,’ she asked quietly, ‘that this unpleasant experience with wealthy people would affect your ability to judge this case?’

  Duarte sat straighter, as if she had insulted him. ‘No,’ he said tersely. ‘I can take people as individuals.’

  The unspoken comparison to the wealthy golfers of Duarte’s youth could not be missed. ‘I appreciate that,’ Caroline said respectfully. ‘And it may help you to know that Mr Paget can too. Which is why he abandoned his family’s membership at the Olympic Club and refuses to let his law firm entertain at clubs that discriminate against anyone.’

  Instantly, Salinas was on his feet. ‘Your Honor, could you instruct Ms Masters to skip the unsupported testimonials about her client. This isn’t the trial, and she can’t testify for him.’

  It was a clever thrust; while reining in Caroline, Salinas was tacitly leading the jury to expect Paget to take the stand. Caroline shot back, ‘What are you afraid of, Victor? That the jury won’t hang Chris for being wealthy?’

  It was a distraction, Paget knew, and seriously out of line. Judge Lerner leaned forward. ‘Enough Ms Masters. I won’t tolerate personal attacks among the lawyers. And Mr Salinas’s point is valid: your role is to question Mr Duarte on his qualifications, not to gild Mr Paget’s defense.’

  Caroline dropped her eyes for a moment; humility did not come easily to her, Paget knew, and her prior life as a master of her own courtroom made it harder yet. But when she looked up at Lerner, her mien was respectful and her voice soft. ‘I’m sorry, Your Honor, if my desire for fairness to Mr Paget caused me to cross the line.’ Then she turned to Victor Salinas and said with apparent contrition, ‘My apologies, Victor.’

  It was gracefully done, Paget thought: Caroline had acknowledged her error, which was wholly intentional, while reminding the jury that her client was entitled to justice. As if nothing had happened, Caroline faced Duarte again. ‘You made a reference to saving for college. You went to San Francisco State, did you not, and graduated with honors?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Caroline’s expression became admiring; the look was something that Salinas as a man, could not pull off. ‘And you also worked?’

  Duarte nodded. With a note of mingled pride and resentment, he said, ‘Summers and nights. Except for scholarships, I paid for the whole deal myself.’

  ‘Does any of that lead you to resent others who, as Mr Paget did, had it so much easier?’

  Duarte shrugged. ‘Resent? Let’s put it this way. I’d hire me before I’d hire them – it’s all about what I call ‘walking-around sense,’ ‘knowing how to cope. But I don’t want my kids to work like I did, and I’m not going to resent them when they don’t.’

  Caroline smiled. ‘Then they’re fortunate, because lots of parents do. But what about a stranger, like Mr Paget?’

  Duarte gave her a sardonic look. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I did notice he had a Latina girlfriend.’

  All at once Paget was on edge: it was impossible to tell whether this was a satiric gibe at Caroline for doubting the objectivity of a nonwhite; an expression of dislike for the rich man who became involved with Richie’s wife; or a grudging concession that, in at least one area of his life, Paget was himself not biased. Caroline put her hands on her hips, smiling at Duarte as if he had her complete interest. ‘Are you determined to be hard on me, Mr Duarte?’

  He spread his hands. ‘It’s like this,’ he said, in the tone of someone whose patience was being tested. ‘I didn’t like being judged on ethnicity, all right? So even if other people do it, I don’t. I came here to listen to the facts and make a judgment. Just like I do in my business.’

  To Paget, the response sounded grudging. Though Duarte might try to be fair, he would make no connection with Paget as a person – he had not ever mentioned Paget’s name. But Caroline was giving him a look which managed to suggest that Duarte had impressed her deeply. Paget surprised himself with the thought that his lawyer was a very attractive woman and, for all her air of certainty, a subtle one. Without a word, she was having an effect on Duarte: his face eased, and his gaze at Caroline became equable again.

  ‘Thank you,’ Caroline told him quietly. ‘I a
ppreciate your time, and your patience.’

  Her voice carried an undertone of respect; it suggested that she had met someone interesting and that he had won her over with his fairness. It was not until she turned away from Duarte, eyes narrowed in doubt, that Paget saw the extent of her artifice.

  ‘Mr Salinas?’ Lerner asked.

  Salinas stood. Firmly, he answered, ‘The people pass Mr. Duarte.’

  When Caroline reached the defense table, Moore leaned forward. ‘Take him,’ he whispered, ‘and you’re looking at the jury foreman.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘Beginning to miss Mr Rhee?’ she whispered to Paget.

  ‘You bet. This guy says he’ll judge me fairly. But class and race are like a little worm inside him.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Ms Masters?’ Judge Lerner said from the bench.

  She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Please, Your Honor, a moment.’

  Her tone was unintentionally curt, and she did not wait for an answer. As if sensing the strain of the decision, Lerner folded his hands and waited.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ Paget murmured to Caroline. ‘At least to a point, this guy could be Ricardo Arias – the disadvantaged Latin, struggling to make it. On some level, he may feel like it’s his wife I “stole.” Which is one way to decipher that little crack of his.’

  Caroline looked at him intently. ‘But he isn’t like Richie, and we can turn it around if he believes that Richie was a bum. And the race thing works both ways, Chris – we’ve bumped every Latin male on the panel.’

  ‘So why keep this one?’

  ‘Because we’ve got two Asians next, and based on Johnny’s data, both of them look bad to me. This guy believes he’s made a commitment to me, and – whatever else goes on inside him – he’ll try to honor it as a point of pride.’

  ‘Ms Masters?’ Lerner asked again.

  Ignoring him, she gazed at Paget. ‘Last juror, Chris, remember? It’s judgment time, and I want to make the call.’