Degree of Guilt

by Unknown

  ‘No doubt,’ he softly echoed her. ‘And don’t ever doubt I’ll do it.’

  ‘Oh, I believe you.’ Her voice was thin, remote. ‘You have the papers with you, I imagine.’

  Nodding, Paget reached into the briefcase, placed the papers on the table. Mary read them carefully, like the lawyer she once had been.

  ‘What do you intend to call him?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think “Carlo” should change.’

  ‘“Carlo Paget,” I thought.’

  She looked at him. ‘Carlo Carelli Paget.’

  Paget nodded. ‘All right.’

  Quickly, almost carelessly, she scrawled her name wherever it was needed.

  ‘Did you know,’ she asked, ‘that Carlo likes blueberry waffles?’

  Paget shook his head; it was surprising, he thought, how painful this felt, and how enormous.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m sure he’ll tell you.’

  Abruptly, Mary stood. Paget saw a change come over her face, a shocked, wounded look – pain, anger, disbelief at what he had done. She seized her untouched wineglass, staring down at him; for an instant, Paget was sure that she would throw the wine in his face.

  Turning, she drank until the glass was empty, and placed it down before him.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘You’re Carlo’s father now.’

  She turned, never looking back, and walked quickly away.

  Chapter 10

  When Paget appeared in Brooks’s office, there was a tape recorder on the desk, and Marnie Sharpe was with him. No one shook hands.

  ‘You’ll want to hear this,’ Brooks said.

  The drizzle streaking the windows seemed to pervade the room. The D.A. did not smile; there were none of the usual graces. To Paget, Sharpe had the gaunt, angry look of a bitter saint.

  ‘Where did you find it?’ Paget asked.

  Sharpe leaned forward. ‘At Ransom’s home in Key West,’ she snapped. ‘Just how stupid do you think we are?’

  ‘Not stupid, Marnie. Paranoid, perhaps.’

  Her mouth compressed. ‘It’s hard to believe that you didn’t know about this. And once they hear what’s on the tape, no judge will believe it, either.’

  Paget tried to control his temper, and his nerves. ‘Why on earth would I conceal something so easy for you to find?’

  ‘That’s simple. You knew Carelli was Steinhardt’s patient. You just weren’t sure that Ransom had the tape. So you tried to shut us down, quick, before we figured things out.’ Sharpe paused. ‘The only other possibility is that your client lied to you. As to that, I do believe that Mary Carelli is a congenital liar. But it now appears that you’re the perfect couple.’

  Paget stared at her. ‘Grow up,’ he snapped. ‘No one asked if Mary was a patient, so no one lied about it. This isn’t kindergarten – the job of a defense lawyer isn’t to tattle to the principal. Nor is this case a personal thing between you and me.’

  Brooks raised his hand for silence. Quietly, he said, ‘We should play the tape.’

  Paget nodded. ‘I thought that was why you asked me here. Because if your purpose was to permit your staff to instruct me on my character, or that of Mary Carelli, you should know that the only person I answer to is me.’

  ‘Consider us instructed.’ Brooks placed his finger on a button. ‘I’ve fast-forwarded over the preliminaries, like who she is and what she does, so you can get right to the meat.’

  Brooks pressed the button.

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Paget heard the voice of a man, emotionless and disembodied in the gloomy room.

  ‘Was there something in particular,’ he asked, ‘that made you come here?’

  More silence.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Three years later, I still can’t leave it behind. I keep having this dream.’ There was a pause. ‘It’s as if I shut it off by day, but at night I lose control.’

  Paget could identify the speaker – not the woman he had first known, but the more polished woman he had met in Paris. But without her face and gestures, there was something naked, almost haunting, in her voice. Some part of him, much deeper than the lawyer, did not wish to hear more.

  ‘Can you describe the dream?’ Steinhardt asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Mary’s voice sounded parched. ‘It’s the same every time.’

  Paget became aware of Sharpe’s stare, angry and intent.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Steinhardt prodded.

  ‘I’m in Paris,’ she said, ‘at the church of St Germain-des-Prés. In life, I’ve never seen it, except from across the street. But in my imagination, the inside is as gloomy as I remember the outside being on the one day I was there – dark and vast, so that the inner walls as they rise above me disappear in shadows. Behind the altar is a sculpture of Jesus, crucified and suffering, like the one my parents had.’ The voice became sardonic. ‘Except, of course, much larger.’

  ‘In the dream, why are you there?’

  Paget became aware of Sharpe and Brooks, gazing fixedly at the tape. As it turned, Paget could imagine Mary in the white room Terri Peralta had described to him, staring at a blank ceiling, with Steinhardt sitting behind her, an unseen voice.

  Mary answered softly. ‘To ask forgiveness for my sins.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘I’ve left my son, Carlo, across the street, sitting at an outdoor café. Even in the dream, I feel guilty about leaving Carlo by himself. But there is something I must do, and I never want Carlo to know my sins.’

  ‘Are they forgiven?’

  Mary’s voice became muted, subdued. ‘At first, I have no sign. There is no one else there. I hear nothing, feel nothing. For a moment, it’s as if the dream is telling me what I always told myself when I was young: that the Church is as empty as the Latin Mass became when I first heard it in English. That God either has left it or was never there.’ Her voice grew lower. ‘Then I go outside and receive His answer.

  ‘Carlo is gone.’

  Voice thickening, Mary paused. Paget folded his arms, staring at the floor. He no longer knew, or cared, whether Brooks or Sharpe was watching.

  ‘In his place are two empty glasses.’ She paused. ‘One for me, and one for Chris. And then I know.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘That Chris has taken Carlo, and that I must let him.’ Her voice became ashen. ‘That my sins are past redemption.’

  There was silence. ‘Who is Chris?’ Steinhardt asked. ‘And what are your sins – in the dream, that is?’

  More silence. ‘Do you know Christopher Paget?’

  ‘I know of him. The young man who testified at the Lasko hearings.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mary paused. ‘Chris has Carlo now.’

  Paget could imagine Steinhardt making choices, deciding whether to pursue reality or dream. His hands clenched.

  ‘And your sins?’ Steinhardt asked.

  ‘In the dream, or in real life?’ Her voice became cooler, almost defiant. ‘Because in real life, sin has little meaning to me.’

  ‘The dream, then.’

  ‘You can’t understand them,’ she said, ‘without some background. Did you actually watch the hearings?’

  Paget realized that his posture was as it had been in the witness room, as he watched Mary fifteen years before: taut, leaning forward, living from word to word.

  ‘Yes,’ Steinhardt said. ‘Like millions of others, I was fascinated.’

  Mary’s voice was bloodless now, that of a lawyer describing someone else’s case. ‘And did you watch my testimony?’

  ‘With great interest.’

  ‘Then we need to start with one essential fact.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Mary paused. Then, in a cold, flat voice, she said, ‘I lied.’

  There was a long silence. Brooks stared fixedly at the tape; Sharpe at Paget. ‘Concerning what?’ Steinhardt asked.

  ‘Several things.’ Mary paused again; Paget could only wait. ‘I’m sorry,’ Mary said, ‘but
that tape makes me nervous.’

  Abruptly, Paget, reoriented, became aware that Brooks and Sharpe were watching him.

  ‘Why is that?’ Steinhardt asked.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Mary sounded impatient. ‘If it got out, what I’m telling you could ruin me. Really, I don’t know if I should be here at all.’

  Paget touched the bridge of his nose; somehow, the reflexive gesture helped him shut out everything but Mary’s voice.

  ‘But you felt you needed to come,’ Steinhardt said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why, precisely?’

  ‘The dream.’ Mary’s voice was flat. ‘As I said, I don’t like losing control.’

  ‘Then let me reassure you. The tapes are for my use only, and only to assist me in your therapy. By state law, they are subject to the doctor-patient privilege, which I would ardently insist on even were there no such law. So whatever you tell me is as confidential as if there were no tapes.’

  There was a quiet vehemence to Steinhardt’s words that Paget found disturbing. Perhaps, he thought, what troubled him was Jeanne Steinhardt’s comment about ‘specimens’; more likely, it was listening to Steinhardt’s assurances to Mary, five years later, in the office of the district attorney. He looked first at Brooks, then at Sharpe, making the point without words.

  ‘All right,’ Mary told Steinhardt.

  There was more silence, and then Steinhardt spoke again. ‘You mentioned lying to the committee, as you put it. Perhaps you could tell me what you meant.’

  Paget leaned forward. Then Mary said quietly, ‘Some of what I told Senator Talmadge was true – the parts about Jack Woods. The chairman. My boss.’ She paused, and then her voice became clipped and systematic, as if reciting a litany.

  ‘It was true that Jack spied on Chris for the President.

  ‘It was true that Lasko had Chris’s witness killed because Jack told Lasko that Chris was meeting him in Boston.

  ‘It was true that Jack helped cover up the reason for the murder.

  ‘It was true that Jack tried to stop Chris before he found out that Lasko had funneled money to the President.

  ‘And it was also true that, because of Jack, Chris was nearly killed.

  ‘All in all, I told the truth a good deal of the time.’ Mary paused. ‘What I didn’t tell Talmadge is that I had helped Jack do every one of those things.’

  Paget felt the silence on the tape merge with the silent stares of Brooks and Sharpe, directed at him. He tried to focus on the tape recorder.

  ‘You wanted to protect yourself?’ Steinhardt ventured.

  Mary sounded almost amused. ‘I wanted to stay out of prison. Even without that, the life I had worked so hard for would have ended if I had told the truth.’ She paused, voice softer. ‘And of course, I was pregnant.’

  Sharpe, Paget realized, was wearing a strange smile.

  ‘Did Chris know about you?’ Steinhardt asked.

  ‘Know what?’ Mary answered, and then the tape clicked off.

  Sharpe leaned forward. ‘My question exactly.’ Her voice mimicked Steinhardt’s: ‘“Did Chris know about you?” For example, when you testified before the Senate.’

  Paget looked at her coldly. ‘I take it there’s a second tape. Why don’t you just listen and find out?’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me. You know there’s a second tape, and you know that we don’t have it.’

  Paget paused, feeling a moment’s respite from his sense of vertigo, of things spinning out of control. ‘I don’t have a second tape,’ he said. ‘And if I did, the only person I’d give it to is Mary Carelli. Who’s the only person entitled to it.’ Paget looked from Sharpe to Brooks. ‘As for this tape, it will never become public – at least in a court of law – and both of you damn well know it.’

  Sharpe shook her head. ‘Only if Mary Carelli doesn’t screw up on the stand, and only if her lawyer makes absolutely no mistakes. And, you surely agree, that lawyer can’t be you.’

  Paget looked quizzical. ‘So that’s what you’re after – me out of the case.’

  Sharpe frowned. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. We’re not talking about my personal preference in defense lawyers; we’re talking ethics. This case isn’t about Mary Carelli – it’s about you and Mary Carelli, and perhaps even your son, as I think you knew all along. I can’t even begin to count your ethical problems.’

  Paget turned to Brooks. ‘Mary’s conduct is at issue here, not mine. I’m not charged with anything, nor am I a witness to anything. Whether I continue to represent her is my decision, not yours.’

  Brooks shook his head. ‘You’re walking a very fine line here. For two weeks now, you’ve told us that Mary Carelli had no motive for killing Ransom but self-defense. Now we’ve got a motive: Ransom had a tape that could ruin her for the rest of time, as she herself admits.’ He nodded to Sharpe. ‘And I’ve got the M.E. and the head of my rape team telling me this case has zip to do with rape, except the one your client tried to fabricate as cover. Which, if proven, may help us get to murder one.’

  ‘As far as the jury goes,’ Paget retorted, ‘you’ve still got no motive. That tape is subject to doctor-patient privilege. No judge in his or her right mind can listen to Steinhardt promise Mary that the tape is confidential and then let you put it before the jury.’

  ‘We’ve considered that,’ Sharpe put in. ‘Now you consider our case. There’s no question Carelli killed him – the only question is why. So first we put on the tape recording of her interrogation by Monk. Then we bring on Liz Shelton to show how Ransom couldn’t have died the way she said and how the physical evidence suggests a cover-up that includes defacing a very dead body. The room service waiter and the guest who saw her give us a couple more lies. And just as Carelli really begins to smell, we rest.’ Sharpe paused for emphasis. ‘Without ever saying a word about Steinhardt.’

  ‘Also without,’ Paget answered, ‘ever making it past reasonable doubt. I file a motion, the judge throws your case out, and we all go home.’

  Sharpe shook her head. ‘You file the motion, and you lose. We also keep out Rappaport, because she consented to whatever Ransom wanted. That leaves you with only two alternatives.

  ‘The first is to argue reasonable doubt, keep Carelli off the stand, and let the jury wonder why your feminist heroine has chosen to hide behind her lawyer. You will no doubt conclude, as I would, that choice one involves a very big risk.

  ‘The second, of course, is to have Mary testify in her own defense and let me cross-examine her.

  ‘Maybe, although I doubt it, she can survive all the inconsistencies arising from the Monk interview, Liz Shelton’s analyses, and the two witnesses. But there is nothing in the doctor-patient privilege that prevents me from asking whether she saw Steinhardt as a patient, why she didn’t tell Monk that, and if Ransom had a tape that would end her career.

  ‘If she says “yes” to that last question, she’s merely hurting. If she says “no,” she’s history. Because the judge already knows she’s lying and, I’m pretty damn sure, would let me find a way to get the tape in.’

  It was strange, Paget thought, how this relentless woman could make him think of the pain of Mary’s dream and not the coldness of her lies. ‘Assuming,’ he said quietly, ‘that the tape hasn’t already found its way into the morning papers.’

  Sharpe shrugged. ‘I’m not responsible for what they print.’

  ‘Why not?’ Paget snapped. ‘You were the last time.’ His voice grew cold. ‘And if you play games with this tape, any games at all, it won’t be Mary who’s history. Because first I’ll get a mistrial, and then I’ll nail you to the wall.’

  Sharpe flushed. ‘I can certainly understand,’ she said, ‘why you want those tapes concealed.’

  ‘Do you? Then you should have no trouble believing me.’ Paget turned back to Brooks. ‘Are you enjoying this?’

  ‘No.’ For the first time, Brooks looked uncomfortable, as if he wished he were somewhere else. ‘Under the circumsta
nces, no.’

  Paget paused. ‘Under what circumstances?’

  ‘We’re charging her with murder.’ Brooks shook his head, as if hearing bad news for the first time. ‘We’ve got no choice.’

  Beside him, Sharpe looked triumphant. Paget felt stunned. ‘That’s a real mistake,’ he said.

  ‘The only mistake,’ Sharpe put in, ‘would be turning down our deal.’

  ‘Deal?’

  Sharpe nodded. ‘Your client pleads to voluntary manslaughter, and we recommend the minimum sentence. A few years’ prison, and this tape never comes out.’

  Brooks leaned forward. ‘Think about it, Chris. It protects Ms Carelli from far worse.’

  Keep your head, Paget told himself. ‘And, with all respect, protects you from the political consequences of a backlash in Mary’s favor. Not to mention the considerable distress of the Colt family.’

  Brooks summoned an equable expression. ‘I prefer to think the ends of justice will have been satisfied. And on a less ethereal note, I’m not as worried about “backlash” as I used to be. Such an ugly word anyhow, I think we would all agree. As for the ire of James Colt’s family, I would argue strenuously that the Laura Chase tape isn’t relevant anymore and should never see the light of day.’ He spread his arms. ‘Besides, I can’t imagine that a trial could be good for anyone – for Ms Carelli, for you, or for your son. So talk to her, Chris, and get back to me. We won’t indict until I hear from you, and if she signs on, we’ll handle this with all the civility we can manage.’

  The D.A. was massaging him, Paget thought, as he would any defense lawyer with a guilty client in a mildly troublesome case. He stood, numb with disbelief. ‘This isn’t a month’s stay in a Best Western,’ he said. ‘It’s the end of Mary’s life, and she’ll surely understand that.’

  ‘A conviction for murder one,’ Sharpe answered, ‘is the end of Mary’s life. Compared to that, this is a sabbatical. Tell her that.’

  Paget turned to her. ‘Could you write that down for me? I don’t want to miss a word.’

  Silent, Sharpe got up and opened the door for him. It was, Paget thought, the ultimate gesture of dismissal.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said to Brooks, and walked through the door.