‘How did you learn all that?’
‘About the accident? My aunt told me. She wanted to make sure I didn’t turn into another inebriate.’ Paget’s voice turned cold. ‘And if she hadn’t been such a malicious fool, she would have realized that drinking was the one way I would never be like them. Emotionally distant, self-protective, and afraid of intimacy – sure, I might become all of those. But a drunk? Never.’ Catching himself, Paget shrugged again. ‘Sorry. I generally don’t think about them. But parent-child stuff dies hard, I guess.’
Carlo looked into his face. ‘You’ve been a good dad, you know. The best.’
Paget was touched. ‘That’s because you were the best thing that ever happened to me. At the risk of being sentimental, I got a great kid to care about and to take me out of myself. You’ve paid me back a thousand times. . . .’
Abruptly, Paget stopped; this was so true he could feel it in his throat. He had told Terri he wanted a family. But Carlo had been his family, a better one than most men had, and he was throwing it away.
All at once, Paget wanted to hug his son as tightly as he could.
‘Are you okay, Dad?’
The telephone rang on Carlo’s desk. Carlo still watched his father, concerned.
‘I’m fine. Carlo. But maybe you could get that.’
Reluctantly, Carlo answered the telephone. He listened briefly, then held it out to his father. ‘Your lawyer,’ he said in a flat voice.
Taking the telephone, Paget covered the mouthpiece. ‘Ted Williams,’ he told Carlo. ‘That’s where all this started. If you don’t want to impress your English teacher by being Louis Pasteur, try Ted Williams in 1941. He hit .406 that year.’
His son tried smiling. ‘Four-oh-six,’ he repeated. ‘Adjusted for inflation, that’s seven million a season.’
Paget laughed, enjoying one last instant of this, a pantomime of their normal life. He took his hand off the mouthpiece. ‘Ted Williams,’ he said, ‘thought only of greatness.’ He held the phone to his face. ‘Isn’t that right, Caroline?’
‘My father,’ she said dryly, ‘lived and died with Williams. The Red Sox broke his heart.’
Somehow this snippet of biography sounded right; it reminded Paget of how little he knew about Caroline Masters.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘I talked with Brooks. He’s made us an offer.’
Casually, Paget strolled into the hall outside Carlo’s room; the boy became too still, pretending not to listen. ‘What is it?’ Paget murmured in the hall.
Quickly and clearly, Caroline explained the deal. ‘Choice one,’ she finished, ‘is to plead to manslaughter if Mrs Keller stands up under cross-examination. Choice two is to turn down the deal and go for an acquittal. If we decide to do that, we also have to decide whether to savage Brooks, implicate Colt, and try to paint this as a political vendetta. At the risk of making Richie seem like your worst nightmare.
‘Choice one caps your time in prison. As long as there’s no new evidence, if you’re convicted you’ll still be out in eight.’ Her voice turned cool. ‘In other words, you don’t die there. At least if you’re careful.’
‘What new evidence,’ Paget asked quietly, ‘does Brooks have in mind?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Paget thought for a moment. ‘This loophole about “new evidence” bothers me. Do you think you can get Brooks to drop that? It’s an excuse for him to gin something up and welsh.’
There was a long silence; Paget could imagine Caroline in her office, wondering why he had asked the question. ‘If you’re worried about new evidence,’ she said quietly, ‘you take the deal right now. Plead guilty, serve your eight years, and be done with it.’
Paget gazed in at Carlo. In the light of his desk lamp, Carlo was poised at the computer, pretending to write about Ted Williams. Eight years, Paget thought. He would be fifty-four, and Carlo twenty-four. They would still have time.
‘I’ll take my chances,’ he said at last. ‘I figure Victor will be through in four more days. Let’s see how we feel then.’
Caroline swiveled her leather chair, staring out the office window at the skyline of the city at night – darkened towers, black glass, grids of light where someone worked late, high above the city. Only her desk lamp was on: at times like this she remembered growing up in New England – a girl who loved books and sailing and walks on the beach – and thought of how she had become who she was now, an ambitious yet prideful lawyer, the woman whom McKinley Brooks had called the cat who walks alone.
It might have been different, she knew. Less ambition, less solitude. But she had made her choice years ago: it was only at night, when the minutes slowed and a room grew quiet, that she wondered.
What untamed impulse, Caroline thought suddenly, had moved her to defend this case?
No good would come of what she had done, this treacherous game with Brooks, unless it was good for Chris Paget. Of course, that was what lawyers were supposed to do, protect their clients and not themselves. But how many really did that, let alone with the ruthlessness she had used on Brooks. Somewhere, James Colt had her name on a list; if Chris took Brooks’s deal and Colt survived, she would have an important enemy for life.
Perhaps she had done all this, Caroline decided finally, simply because Chris Paget, who seemed so much like her, had let people into his life. With a fierceness she did not quite understand, Caroline did not wish for him to lose that.
It was not that she believed him innocent; Caroline had wavered on that question and did not choose to dwell on it. When her thoughts escaped her vigilance, she could not believe that Chris would be so stupid as to try to fake a suicide and yet leave fingerprints behind, or so blinded by hate that he could not find a better way to destroy Ricardo Arias than to kill him. Everything she knew about Chris bespoke a mind that moved coolly toward whatever it was that he wanted: the fact that what he most wanted was a life with his son, and with Teresa Peralta, made murdering Richie seem unthinkable. . . .
What new evidence? Paget had asked her.
Replaying his question, Caroline felt certain that there was something else out there and that Chris knew what it was. That would explain why Chris had insisted on rushing to trial in the face of conventional wisdom. Which could make him a killer with an unusually clear head.
But she would expect such a man to take his coolness all the way and tesify. For although the law would not allow Salinas to say so, Chris’s refusal to testify was the act of a guilty man, and a guilty man wishing to seem innocent would find a way to speak on his own behalf. And Christopher Paget knew this.
For a moment, Caroline wondered again if Terri had murdered her husband and that this was what Chris knew.
Those damned fingerprints.
There was a knock on Caroline’s door. ‘Come in,’ she called.
Teresa Peralta stood in the doorway.
Softly, Terri closed the door behind her. In the light-and-shadow of Caroline’s office, she looked somehow remote. ‘Did you ask Monk those questions I gave you?’ Terri asked.
Caroline nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Terri walked closer to the light. ‘Because I have an answer for you. The one Monk didn’t have.’
Caroline looked up at her. Quietly, she asked, ‘Is it the truth?’
Chapter 10
When Terri took the witness stand, she turned to Christopher Paget and smiled.
It was a good smile, hopeful and loving and filled with confidence in the man she gazed at. But the smile was for the jury: like Caroline and Paget himself, his lover had become an actress.
‘They’re looking at you,’ Caroline whispered.
Paget contrived a smile of his own. The jury could not know how it felt to remember Terri grinning across the table and amid the gardens at the Splendido, just before the concierge appeared with Rosa’s message. And then Terri turned, hands folded and shoulders squared, to await Salinas’s questions.
She had taken car
e with her appearance. Gone was the crisp, almost severe look of the young professional woman; today Terri wore gold earrings, her makeup was applied with special care, and her black dress was simple but a little softer. The effect was to make her prettiness and youth more obvious, her poise a little less so. Paget was quite certain that she had discussed all this with Caroline; he was not sure what else they had discussed.
But only Paget, he was confident, knew that Tern’s folded hands were a sign of nerves.
She turned to him once more: for a fleeting moment, she looked serious and sad. And then she smiled again for the jury, fingers tightening a little more, and Paget silently wished her luck.
Quickly, Salinas cut to the core. ‘How long. Ms Peralta, did you know Ricardo Arias?’
Terri’s voice was quiet but clear. ‘Nine years.’
‘How many years did you live together?’
‘Over seven. And married for six.’
‘And your daughter is how old?’
Terri gave him a level look. ‘Six.’
Salinas’s voice rose slightly. ‘During all those years, did Mr Arias ever discuss the possibility of suicide?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ever suggest to anyone, in words or substance, that Mr Arias might kill himself?’
Terri was still quiet. ‘No.’
She was making a good witness, Paget thought; not sparring with Salinas, her dignity a contrast to the way he used his voice to underscore a point.
‘Did you ever see or hear anything which, in your mind, raised the concern that Mr Arias might take his own life?’
Terri seemed to consider this. ‘That’s so hard to say, Mr Salinas. I came to believe that my former husband was emotionally unstable. I’m not sure I wanted to think about everywhere that might lead.’ She paused. ‘Do you remember the poem they made us read in high school, “Richard Cory”? It was about a wealthy man who seems to have everything and then shoots himself for reasons no one can explain. That poem came back to me when a law school classmate killed himself, and I realized that we can never really look into anyone else’s heart. Even when we tell ourselves we know everything about them.’
Paget could feel the simple beauty of the answer even before Luisa Marin leaned forward, turning her face to Terri. But Paget knew that Terri had rehearsed these words with Caroline; his only question was whether her last sentence was about Paget himself.
Salinas had stopped to look at her. ‘Did you speak to Ricardo Arias that night before you left for Italy?’
‘Yes.’
‘For what reason?’
‘To beg him to let me raise Elena – in person, if I could. I was scared for her, Mr Salinas.’
The answer, with its faint reproach, reminded the jury that Terri was a mother. Marian Celler gave her a look of sympathy: by exposing Richie’s inner life, Paget realized, Caroline had earned Terri a measure of compassion.
Salinas looked unruffled. ‘And how did he respond?’
‘That he had an “appointment” that night and couldn’t see me.’
‘Did he say with whom?’
Terri rearranged her hands. ‘No. But he made it sound like a date.’
‘Did he sound depressed or discouraged?’
‘No.’ Terri raised her head, looking directly at Salinas. ‘But as I understand you’ve developed in this trial, Richie hid things. From his mother, his psychologist, Elena’s teacher, from me – even, I think, from himself. As you’ve also developed, he was emotionally disturbed.’ She paused and then spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Really, there’s no fair answer to your question.’
Paget saw Salinas consider moving to strike Terri’s answer and then decide that she was still too sympathetic. ‘She’s doing well,’ Paget whispered. But Caroline, eyes narrow with thought, did not respond.
‘Did you believe,’ Salinas came back, ‘that Mr Arias was emotionally disturbed at the time you lived with him?’
Terri regarded him calmly. ‘Only at the end,’ she said, ‘when I knew I should try to get Elena away from him.’
It was another good answer, Paget thought, making the jury see Terri as a mother instead of Paget’s lover, eager to desert her husband.
‘In all of those years,’ Salinas asked crisply, ‘did you ever know him to write a letter in his own hand?’
Terri hesitated; Paget saw her deciding to concede the point. ‘No.’
‘Even a short note?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘You’re familiar with the contents of the note found with the body, correct?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Did you ever hear Richie describe himself as “selfish and pathetic”?
Terri shook her head. ‘No.’
‘And he certainly didn’t on the night you last spoke to him, correct?’
Quite deliberately, it seemed to Paget, Terri unclasped her fingers. ‘That’s correct.’
Salinas had a rhythm now. ‘You also had plans to dine with Mr Paget, true?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which he canceled.
‘Chris called me, to say that he was sick. He certainly sounded bad. So I decided not to make him feel guilty.’ Terri paused. ‘I’m sure I could have, Mr Salinas. And then he would have taken me to dinner, and none of us would be here.’
‘Move to strike,’ Salinas promptly said to Lerner. ‘Unresponsive. I understand Ms Peralta’s sympathies, Your Honor. But I begin to see a pattern of tacking speeches onto whatever truthful answers don’t help Mr Paget.’
‘Not speeches,’ Caroline retorted. ‘Explanations. The sense of Ms Peralta’s answer is that she let Mr Paget off the hook on dinner.’
Lerner nodded. ‘I’m going to deny the motion.’ He turned to Terri. ‘But please confine your answer to a fair response to Mr Salinas’s question.’
‘Of course, Your Honor.’ Terri’s expression was grave and puzzled; it suggested that it had never occurred to her to quarrel with Salinas. ‘Sometimes ‘yes’ or ‘no’ isn’t really the right answer, that’s all.’
The remark was delivered with such innocence that Lerner, who knew better, smiled before saying to Salinas, ‘You may continue, Counselor.’
‘How did Mr Paget seem the next morning?’ Salinas asked promptly.
‘Tired. But all right.’
Salinas put his hands on his hips. ‘And between seeing him that morning and his phone call the night before, you don’t really know where Mr Paget was, do you?’
For the first time, Terri looked nettled. ‘I know what he told me.’
‘But you have no firsthand knowledge, do you?’
‘No,’ Terri said softly. ‘But Chris is not a liar. Or a murderer. Which is what this is all about, isn’t it?’
The simple statement of faith seemed to throw Salinas off. But before he could move to strike, Terri added with equal quiet, ‘I apologize, Mr Salinas. I needed to say what I know in my heart.’
Suddenly there was nothing that Salinas could do. For the first time today, Joseph Duarte had looked up from his notes.
‘When you went to Italy,’ Salinas asked abruptly, ‘did you try to contact Richie?’
Terri folded her hands again. ‘Yes. No one answered.’
‘For how long?’
‘Two or three days.’ Terri glanced at the jury. ‘I thought he was avoiding me. It was the kind of thing he would do.’
‘Did you call the school?’
‘No. I called my mother and found out that Richie had never picked up Elena.’
‘Did you also tell your mother not to call the police?’
‘Yes.’ Terri’s voice was level. ‘Elena was happy with my mother, and Richie and I were in a custody fight. I didn’t want to make him seem more responsible than he was.’
For the first time, Salinas looked openly disbelieving. ‘Had Mr Arias ever failed to pick up Elena?’
‘No.’
Joseph Duarte made a note. Salinas’s tone sharpened. ‘Thi
s was also two weeks before the hearing on Mr Alias’s motion, correct?’
‘That’s true.’
‘To keep Elena from going near Mr Paget and his son.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because he had accused Carlo Paget of molesting your daughter.’
Salinas was firing his questions now. Paget saw Terri decide to slow him, taking her time to answer. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Richie said that about Carlo.’
‘And with all of that, Ms Peralta, did you have any concrete reason to believe that Ricardo Arias would start blowing off his custodial time?’
Terri’s gaze was steady. ‘He hadn’t in the past. Really, I didn’t know what to think.’
Salinas stared at her now. ‘Isn’t what happened that Mr Paget asked you not to find him?’
Yes, Paget answered silently. ‘I really don’t remember that,’ Terri said. ‘It was my decision.’
‘Your decision,’ Salinas repeated softly. ‘Because you were afraid that your lover had murdered your husband.’
Silence. ‘No,’ Terri said tightly. ‘I’ve never thought that.’ She clasped her fingers again. ‘No?’ Salinas asked. ‘Just how did Mr Paget feel about Mr Arias?’
‘At first? I don’t know. Later, Chris despised him. But not as much as I did.’
Abruptly, Salinas changed subjects. ‘How long have you known Mr Paget?’
For the first time in a while, Terri glanced at Paget; for Paget, the moment was shadowed with the untruths she had already told. ‘A year and a half,’ Terri said softly.
‘And when did you become romantically involved with Mr Paget?’
‘A year ago, almost.’ Turning back to Salinas, Terri added pointedly, ‘After I left Richie.’
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