Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  They lay silent in the dark. The moonlight came through his window; its frame was cracked open, the crisp winter air reminding Paget of college winters in New England, so that even the murmur of cars passing by, muted by distance, began to sound like wind or waves. When he touched her face, Terri seemed far away.

  All at once, he had the desire to tell her what truths he could. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured, ‘if this is anything like the fear of dying.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘To drift back and forth between wanting to take each moment and imprint it in your mind, so as not to lose it, and remembering what you once took for granted as precious.’

  She touched his hair. ‘Is that what you’re doing, Chris?’

  ‘That, and wishing for what I’ve never had.’ He kissed her forehead, adding in a tone of irony, ‘Perhaps if I do face something really profound – like truly dying – I’ll manage to rise above self-pity.’

  Terri did not answer. After a time, she said, ‘Caroline was terrific, you know. Perhaps, someday, I’ll learn to be that good.’

  Paget found that he wanted to know what Terri thought, at least to talk again as professionals if they could not go deeper. ‘How were final arguments?’ he asked. ‘From your perspective, that is.’

  Terri seemed to search for words he might believe, yet that skirted what could not be said. ‘They both did what they had to do, I think. Salinas handled his evidence well.’ Terri paused; she did not need to tell Paget what she meant. ‘Caroline was far different, and more emotional than usual. Where she was strongest was making them distrust Brooks and despise Richie. It’s easier for a jury to think about reasonable doubt if they hate the victim.’

  The last comment, flat and dispassionate, gave Paget a sudden frisson; they were lying in bed, talking about her dead husband, the man Paget was accused of murdering. Silent, he touched her skin.

  Wind rattled the window. After a time, Terri said quietly, ‘If you want me to, I can stay.’

  Part of him, Paget realized, desperately wanted her close; part of him was suddenly haunted by her presence. ‘What about Elena?’

  He felt Terri watching him in the dark, face on the pillow next to him. ‘My mother’s with her. She said she’d stay the night.’

  ‘Then be with me. Please.’

  She moved closer to him; it seemed less spontaneous than hopeful, as if by doing this they could feel closer. But what Paget felt was all that had come between them.

  ‘I haven’t said this enough,’ he said quietly. ‘But I hate this for Elena.’

  It was strange, Paget thought; Terri felt more distant. It was not that her body had moved; it was just that she seemed very still now, within herself.

  ‘I know you do,’ she said.

  It was the last they spoke.

  At some point, sleep into the night, her quiet became sleep. Paget never slept. When he looked at the clock at last, hoping it was near dawn, the time was just past three.

  In six more hours, the jury would begin again.

  At ten-forty the next morning, Caroline called him at home.

  ‘You’d better meet me down there,’ she said. ‘Lerner’s deputy just called. The foreman sent Lerner a note – the jury wants to see him.’

  ‘They’re hung,’ Paget said automatically. His nerve ends tingled.

  ‘Maybe they just want more instruction,’ Caroline answered. ‘But hurry.’

  By the time he arrived, pushing through a crowd of reporters, the word had spread; the courtroom was filled with media people, and Salinas was there. Almost as soon as Paget arrived, the deputy led the jurors back to the box. The jurors looked strained and silent; Marian Celler and Joseph Duarte, who often chatted during breaks, did not look at each other. Luisa Marin, next to Celler, whispered something in her ear.

  ‘All rise,’ the deputy intoned, and then Lerner took the bench.

  He looked from Salinas to Caroline and then to the jury. ‘I have a note,’ he said, ‘indicating that you have been unable to reach a verdict.’ He found Joseph Duarte, asking, ‘Is that correct, Mr Foreman?’

  Duarte stood, gazing straight ahead. ‘Yes, Your Honor. We’re evenly divided.’

  Paget tensed. ‘Good,’ he heard Caroline murmur.

  Turning, Paget saw that Victor Salinas was openly disappointed. His own palms felt clammy.

  ‘I’m going to ask you a series of questions,’ Lerner said to Duarte. ‘I want you to listen carefully and answer each question without explanation or elaboration. Is that clear?’

  The careful admonition seemed to increase the tension. Duarte merely nodded, as if reluctant to make a sound; in twenty-four hours, his air of confidence had frayed.

  ‘They’re pissed at each other,’ Caroline whispered.

  ‘Mr Foreman,’ asked Lerner, ‘how many ballots have you taken?’

  Duarte stood straighter. ‘Three.’

  ‘Without indicating whether the votes were “guilty” or “not guilty,” what was the division after the first ballot?’

  Duarte paused a moment. ‘Seven to five, Your Honor.’

  ‘And when did you take your last ballot?’

  ‘At about nine-thirty this morning.’

  Lerner frowned. ‘Is there anything the court can do, by providing a rereading of testimony or further instruction on the law, to assist your deliberations?’

  Slowly, Duarte shook his head. ‘That’s not the problem, Your Honor.’

  Lerner folded his hands. ‘Is it your impression, Mr Foreman, that you cannot reach a verdict?’

  ‘Say “yes,”’ Caroline whispered under her breath. ‘Please.’

  ‘It is,’ Duarte answered.

  Lerner looked from juror to juror, as if seeking confirmation. ‘I’m going to poll each of you,’ he said at last.

  Slowly, one by one, Lerner asked the jurors whether they believed they were deadlocked. The first five answered yes; the sixth, Marian Celler, hesitated before agreeing.

  Lerner faced Luisa Marin. ‘Do you,’ he asked, ‘believe that this jury cannot reach a verdict?’

  Marin hesitated; watching, Paget was quite certain that she had never been the focus of this much attention, except perhaps in the hours after finding her policeman father dead. Through his anxiety, Paget felt for her.

  ‘No,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘It’s only been two days. I think we should talk more.’

  Paget tensed; did this mean, he wondered, that she was preparing to change her vote? ‘Let them go,’ Caroline whispered to Lerner.

  Lerner raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you believe,’ he said to Marin, ‘that there is a reasonable likelihood that further deliberation will lead to a verdict?’

  Marin nodded with an air of stubbornness. ‘We need to talk,’ she repeated.

  Duarte had turned, staring at Marin. Marian Celler frowned at him.

  ‘Duarte’s voting against us,’ Paget said under his breath.

  ‘I think so too. But what about Marin?’

  On the bench, Lerner folded his hands. ‘Members of the jury,’ he said. ‘This trial took two weeks. However difficult your discussions may have been, your deliberations have lasted less than two days. . . .’

  ‘No,’ Caroline whispered. At the prosecution table, Victor Salinas sat up, alert with hope. Lerner did not have to push them, Paget knew, but Luisa Marin had given him a reason.

  ‘Under these circumstances,’ Lerner continued, ‘you may not have considered all of the evidence. I would like you to return to the jury room, deliberate with mutual courtesy and respect, and see whether you can reach a verdict.’

  Slowly, Duarte nodded. Marin folded her arms, looking at no one. Paget felt his eyes close.

  By the end of the second day, the jury had not returned.

  Chapter 2

  At eleven-fifteen the following day, Caroline called Paget at his office.

  ‘They’re in,’ she said.

  Paget felt his chest constrict. ‘I’ll be right
down.’

  Replacing the receiver, he looked around his office. Part of him, he suddenly knew, did not wish to leave; only as long as he stayed here was he allowed to hope. In a kind of stupor, he put on his coat, fumbling with the buttons.

  At his insistence, Carlo was in school. Paget had promised to call the principal’s office directly after the verdict, so that Carlo would not hear it from schoolmates or reporters before Paget picked him up. No matter what, he resolved, he would keep his promise.

  He pushed open the door – it seemed like an act of will – and hurried to Terri’s office.

  It was empty.

  Her secretary, May, sat outside, a pleasant Chinese woman with framed pictures of her children arranged across her desk. ‘I thought Terri was here,’ he said tersely.

  May glanced at the calendar on her desk. ‘She will be, except for the next hour. She has a doctor’s appointment.’

  Paget felt suddenly alone. ‘With Dr Harris?’

  May nodded. She started to say something and then gave him the oblique watchful look Paget had come to associate with his wait for the jury. In a tentative voice, May asked, ‘Shall I tell her to come find you?’

  ‘No,’ Paget answered. ‘I won’t be here.’

  When Terri entered Harris’s office, the psychologist looked like someone who could no longer hide bad news.

  ‘What is it?’ Terri demanded. ‘You were so strange on the telephone.’

  ‘Sit down, Terri. Please.’

  It was only then that Terri realized she was standing. She took a chair across from Harris.

  ‘I’ve been keeping this for over a week,’ Harris said without preface. ‘Because of Chris’s trial. I’m sorry, but in good conscience I can’t wait anymore.’

  Terri felt herself inhale. ‘All right.’

  Harris leaned forward ‘I now believe,’ the psychologist said slowly, ‘that Elena has been sexually molested. And that it may be at the heart of her problem.’

  Tears came to Terri’s eyes, as if from a sudden sting. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Play therapy, in part. Do you know the motif of the abandoned girl? Last week, when I asked what the doll was afraid of, she pulled up its dress and began tickling the doll’s stomach. And then Elena turned her face from me and stroked the doll between her legs.’ Harris paused for a moment. ‘The things she said about it, that it scared the doll and yet sometimes felt good, were very real. As if she knew exactly how that was.’

  Terri could not speak. All that she could see was Elena with her face turned to the wall, refusing to answer when Terri asked if Carlo had touched her. ‘Tickling,’ Harris went on, ‘can be a metaphor for molestation. And quite often, that’s how it starts – the molester makes it like a game and then slowly crosses the line. Just as Elena did with the doll.’

  Terri found her voice again. ‘Are there other things?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Harris’s own voice was firmer now, as if she was relieved to talk. ‘Her prior behaviour – the withdrawal, the pseudomaturity, the disinterest in other children – is consistent with sexual abuse. So is the playground incident that her teacher reported to you and Richie.’ Harris folded her hands. ‘But what struck me, even before last week, is that Elena always portrays the doll as helpless and in danger – like some trust has been abused, Elena’s sense of boundaries violated. Add to that my belief that she feels guilty because she was part of something wrong and yet remembers that, as terrified as she was, she also experienced some pleasure. Just as any child discovers when first touching herself.’

  Terri felt a faint nausea. ‘Has she told you how it happened?’

  Harris shook her head. ‘Elena,’ she said finally, ‘has never told me anything. But I’m morally certain she’s been abused. And that it’s probably why she seemed to feel at fault for Richie’s death: she thinks she’s a bad person. Once children feel that, they make themselves responsible for every bad thing that happens.’

  In the eyes of a child, Terri remembered Chris saying, everything that happens is about herself. But it was no use remembering what a fool she herself had been. ‘How can I help her?’ she asked.

  ‘By being patient.’ Harris spoke more softly. ‘Whoever did this, I think, told Elena that awful things would happen if she ever told anyone. Secrecy, and shame, are terrible burdens for a child to carry. That may be the meaning of why the little girl is afraid to talk to the alligator.’

  ‘Will she ever talk to you? Or me? Or tell us who it was?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Harris was still quiet. ‘After she touched the doll, I asked Elena if what happened to the little girl had ever happened to her. She turned away and wouldn’t talk. Just as she did when you asked her whether Carlo had ever touched her.’

  Terri found that she felt both anger and despair. ‘She’s my daughter, damn it. Isn’t there something I can do?’

  ‘Spend whatever time you can with her. The fact that she acted out her trauma through the doll is progress. Next week, or next year, she may talk to me or to you.’ Harris gave her a look of deep compassion. ‘I know that’s all you’ve been doing lately – waiting. But it’s all that I can tell you to do.’

  Terri stood without answering. For an instant, she flashed on Carlo, walking to the park with Elena. And then all she wanted was to see her daughter.

  Murmuring something to Harris, she walked quickly from the room.

  ‘All rise,’ the courtroom deputy called out, and for the last time, in People v. Paget, Jared Lerner ascended the bench.

  His face was grim. He took in the scene before him – the reporters quiet and waiting, Victor Salinas standing with his hands in front of him, seeming to fidget without moving. Next to Paget, Caroline seemed to draw a breath and hold it. Paget’s stomach felt hollow; the jury, silent and staring at the judge, would not look at him or at each other.

  They’ve found me guilty, he thought.

  Joseph Duarte stood stiffly, appearing pale and a little smaller than before. ‘I understand,’ Lerner said to him, ‘that you’re reached a verdict.’

  ‘We have, Your Honor.’

  Lerner turned to his bailiff, a uniformed sheriff’s deputy with a broad chest and a bushy mustache. ‘Mr Bailiff, will you collect the forms of verdict.’

  Silent, Duarte handed the man four slips of paper: verdict forms, signed by the foreman, for each of the four counts against Paget – first- or second-degree murder, voluntary or involuntary man-slaughter. The bailiff walked across the courtroom and handed them to Lerner. Except for his footsteps on the wooden floor, there was no sound.

  One after another, Lerner read the four slips of paper. With the first slip, his eyebrows rose and stayed there. When he was finished reading, he handed the forms to the courtroom clerk, a round-faced Irishman to whom Paget had hardly given thought and who now held the jury’s verdict in his hands.

  Lerner faced them again. ‘Members of the jury,’ he said calmly, ‘my clerk will read each verdict aloud. Thereafter I will ask each one of you whether this is your true verdict.’

  Duarte nodded. Behind him, Paget saw Luisa Marin raise her head. Next to Marin, Marian Celler silently took her hand.

  Paget turned from them. For an instant the faces of witnesses flashed before him – Terri and Carlo, Charles Monk and Jack Slocum, Elizabeth Shelton and Georgina Keller. Anna Velez.

  The clerk began reading. ‘In the Superior Court for the City and County of San Francisco, Case Number 93 –5701, The people of California versus Christopher Kenyon Paget, on the charge of murder in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant, Christopher Paget . . .’

  In profile, Caroline shut her eyes. The deputy’s pause seemed endless.

  ‘. . . not guilty.’

  A stunned murmur. Numb, Paget braced himself for the second count. The clerk’s voice seemed to come from far away.

  ‘On the charge of murder in the second degree, we the jury find the defendant, Christopher Paget, not guilty.’

  Caroli
ne threw her head back, a first smile on her lips.

  ‘On the charge of manslaughter in the first degree . . . not guilty.

  ‘On the charge of manslaughter in the second degree . . . not guilty.’

  The courtroom exploded in sound.

  Caroline turned to Paget in triumph. Clasping her shoulders, he said in a shaky voice, ‘You’re wonderful.’

  Caroline grinned as if she would never stop. ‘Yes. I am.’

  Lerner banged for silence. ‘Members of the jury,’ he intoned, ‘I will now poll you individually.’

  Silence fell.

  The next few moments were only impressions: Duarte’s phlegmatic ‘yes’; Celler’s calm affirmation. It was only when Luisa Marin, smiling slightly, answered ‘yes’ in a firm voice that Paget guessed what had happened.

  ‘She turned Duarte,’ he murmured.

  Caroline nodded. ‘I think so. Wonders really do never cease.’

  As the polling ended, Victor Salinas stared down at the floor. And then he squared his shoulders, facing Lerner again. Paget began imagining Carlo and Terri when he told them.

  Lerner turned to his clerk again, saying, ‘The clerk will record the verdict.’

  The clerk took each form. He raised a metal stamp above the first form; the stamp descended with a thud. It fell three more times, resonating in the silent room, and the trial of Christopher Paget was over.

  ‘The defendant is discharged,’ Lerner intoned. Facing Paget, he smiled slightly. ‘Mr Paget, you are free to go.’

  For the final time, Lerner gazed out at the jury. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I would like to express the court’s thanks for your service in this difficult case.’ He stood, looking out at the courtroom for a moment, and then left the bench.

  ‘Jesus,’ Paget murmured. ‘Jesus.’

  Beneath the table, Caroline touched his hand. ‘Steady, boy,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve got things to do. Like figure out what movie to see this weekend.’

  Turning to the jury, Paget saw four sheriff’s deputies shepherding them out the door, to ward off reporters. Briefly, Joseph Duarte nodded to Caroline; Luisa Marin glanced at Paget and then turned, smiling, to Marian Celler.