Degree of Guilt

by Unknown

  Marnie Sharpe broke into her thoughts.

  She had walked briskly up to Paget, reaching him before the press did. ‘Never,’ she said, ‘have I seen someone cut their own throat with such aplomb. At least not since Peter Sellers stopped playing Inspector Clouseau.’

  ‘Peter Sellers is dead.’ Paget smiled. ‘That’s the wrong joke, Marnie, from the wrong woman, about the wrong movie. The film I had in mind was called Les Misérables. You know, the one where a maniacal policeman pursues the innocent for twenty years.’ He paused, adding lightly, ‘This film, at least, promises to be shorter.’

  When Sharpe turned and walked away, Terri knew that Paget’s nonchalance had only fed her anger. Which was, against Terri’s better judgment, precisely what Christopher Paget had set out to do.

  Christopher Paget’s sailboat knifed the water.

  Terri watched him. She knew nothing about sailing or the boat itself, a trim twenty-footer. But Paget knew what he was doing; slim and alert, he gazed intently at the water ahead, weight shifting easily with the waves. Johnny Moore, who had clearly done this before, helped with the sails. Terri leaned back against the inside of the boat; it sliced the bay at a forty-five-degree angle, tilting her forward. She looked out at Angel Island and the Golden Gate, breeze cool on her face.

  It was the morning after Mary’s arraignment, and unseasonably warm. The three of them needed to talk. Johnny Moore, who hated meetings and liked the outdoors, had told Paget that in this weather he preferred to meet in the middle of San Francisco Bay; when Paget had called to ask her about it, Terri volunteered to pack sandwiches. ‘That clinches it,’ Paget said, and asked what she wanted to drink. The only person who did not like Johnny’s plan was Richie.

  ‘What kind of job is this?’ he had demanded as she pulled out blue jeans and a sweater.

  ‘The kind that supports us,’ Terri had answered. Then she had dressed Elena and driven her to day care, Richie’s nameless irritation trailing after her.

  After an hour or so, they docked at Angel Island. Wooded and green in winter, the hilly island rose above them and curled around the waterfront. The only sound was the wind and the cries of gulls; behind them, more gulls walked stiffly down the dock, searching for scraps of food. They sat hunched inside the sailboat, looking out at the terraced hillsides of Sausalito and, beyond that and to their left, the distant skyline of the city, white and sparkling. Paget and Terri drank mineral water; Johnny sipped at a long-necked bottle of Beck’s beer, looking contented in the sun.

  ‘This is better,’ he said. ‘I feel mummified in offices. Especially yours.’

  Paget shrugged. ‘My view is nice.’

  ‘I suppose. The problem is that the building works me over. I step inside, start breathing air that’s been filtered by God knows how many machines, and then surrender to an elevator that’s run by remote control instead of by a person. By the time I’ve risen twenty floors, I’ve given up all control over my destiny, and the only reminder of normal life is when I look about a quarter mile down through your window and I can’t even open that. I feel like a fish in an aquarium.’

  Paget turned to Terri. ‘Remind me,’ he told her, ‘to look for space in a trailer park. Something human scale, for Johnny’s sake.’

  There was an unwonted edge in Paget’s voice; Terri decided the moment needed some lightness. ‘I like it this way,’ she answered. ‘You provide a decent office, and Johnny takes me sailing. Between the two of you, you’re almost satisfactory.’

  Moore smiled at her fondly. ‘That’s my most fervent endorsement,’ he said, ‘since my ex-wife passed up our anniversary dinner for an evening of group therapy. And to think that all I needed to make her happy was to bring Chris along.’

  They stopped talking for a moment, gazing out at the city, each with their own thoughts.

  ‘Would someone please tell me,’ Moore inquired at last, ‘why you two are challenging probable cause? That’s like standing in front of a bullet and asking it to stop.’

  As Paget leaned back, squinting slightly, Terri could read how uncertain he still was. He looked not at Moore but at the city.

  ‘This case,’ he said, ‘is going south. I want to try and end it before it crosses the border. The prelim is our best chance.’

  Moore regarded him. ‘You don’t want them to find the second tape.’

  ‘That’s very much part of it,’ Paget answered. ‘Do you have any idea where it could be?’

  ‘No. But even the police have had no luck – it’s like dear Mark mislaid it.’ Moore paused. ‘Am I correct in understanding that this tape is worse for you than her?’

  Paget shrugged. ‘Aside from whatever it says about me, and whatever it might do to Carlo, I have the strange feeling that it would do Mary no good at all. In spite of what she says.’

  Terri watched Moore hesitate, take in how difficult Paget must find this conversation. ‘I wouldn’t think worse of you, Chris, if you were just looking out for yourself and Carlo. She’s put you in a terrible place, and long ago.’

  Paget’s eyes narrowed further. ‘But I’d feel worse. As I did then, lying to serve my own interests, as well as Mary’s. It surely has come back to haunt us all.’

  It’s haunted you, Terri thought, all along. A single lie, for better reasons than you can believe of yourself, changed the course of your life.

  ‘Ah, well,’ Paget said. ‘The problem now is to deal with it. Whatever I have at stake, our client is Mary Carelli.’

  Moore appraised him. Finally, he asked, ‘You still don’t believe her, do you?’

  ‘No. She’s hiding something from me. But I don’t know what, or why, and there’s no point in even asking. I just don’t want Sharpe to find whatever it is.’

  ‘But do you really think there’s any chance to beat Sharpe at the prelim?’

  ‘After the arraignment, yes. Some kind of chance.’

  Moore pulled on his beer, plainly skeptical. ‘Because you sucked Sharpe into an early prelim?’

  Paget nodded. ‘That, and Caroline Masters. I counted on her being intrigued enough, and ambitious enough, to handle the prelim herself. It was obvious that she’d prefer doing this to cases of sidewalk spitting. What was less obvious – but I think very much on her mind – was that two weeks on television could shoot her up the judicial ladder.’ Paget paused. ‘Which, although I was far too circumspect to even hint at it, was precisely what I offered her.’

  ‘But why would you want her?’ Moore asked. ‘In my observation, the woman’s a real piece of work. Piss her off, and what she’ll offer you is two weeks in the eighth circle of hell, and on television at that. I can see the promos now – “Watch Christopher Paget, turning on a spit.”’

  Inwardly, Terri winced; perhaps better than Moore, she could feel the pressure of a televised hearing bearing down on Paget. But Moore was too honest and professional to withhold his doubts for the sake of tact. Paget turned to Moore with an expression of weary patience. ‘Why did I want her? Because Terri told me I should. Does that make you feel better?’

  ‘That makes me feel a little better.’ Moore looked over at Terri. ‘Please, reassure me.’

  Terri hesitated; inadvertently, Moore and Paget had reminded her how much was riding on her judgment of Caroline Masters, and how much Paget had begun to trust her. ‘I used to work for her,’ Terri said at length. ‘The first thing you notice about Caroline is that she has immense self-confidence, and an overwhelming – and generally justified – belief in her own intelligence. She’s smart enough to see where Chris is going, and one of the few judges with guts enough to throw this out. Assuming that she buys where Chris is going. Which she’s more likely to than most.’

  Moore looked curious. ‘Why is that?’

  The wind shifted, rippling Terri’s hair. She leaned back, gazing at the sailboat that cut across her line of vision. ‘Because like any judge,’ she answered, ‘Caroline is a real person, with real opinions. Her personal life is an enigma, but her personal
beliefs aren’t: if you’d taken off her robe and introduced her to Mark Ransom, she’d have told him to go fuck himself. And she used to be a defense lawyer. You can make yourself a judge – and Caroline’s a good one – but you can’t make yourself a whole different person.’

  Moore nodded. ‘But you can,’ he ventured, ‘make yourself a Superior Court judge.’

  ‘Or, even better, an appellate judge.’ Terri paused. ‘Everyone at the P.D.’s office knew that was Caroline’s goal. At some point, the politics of letting Mary off are going to cross her mind. Depending, of course, on how Mary looks on the stand. And, Chris tells me, on the publicity Mary intends to generate.’

  Moore frowned again. ‘Before we leave Judge Masters’s more human qualities, there’s something else about her.’ Moore glanced over at Terri. ‘Perhaps it’s just that she’s so determined to be in charge, and therefore a sexist reaction on my part, but I’ve the funny sense that Judge Masters may not like men much. Of which variety our friend Christopher is undubitably one.’

  ‘And so was Mark Ransom.’ Terri paused, intent on showing Johnny that at least they had thought this through. ‘Chris and I parsed this until, as he put it, we felt like a couple of soothsayers reading the entrails of a goat. Because she’s a woman who’s new on the bench, Caroline is very sensitive on the issue of bias, both other people’s and her own. She strives not only to be fair but to look fair. What I can’t tell you is how that cuts. Will she bend over backward not to show favoritism to the female defendant, or to the female prosecutor? It’s probably a wash.

  ‘Anyhow, I’m not sure that Chris and Caroline won’t have better chemistry than Caroline and Marnie Sharpe. Caroline likes to be on the cutting edge of the law, and she admires creativity almost as much as she does intellect.’ Terri smiled over at Paget. ‘For sheer creativity, what Chris did yesterday is hard to beat. In her own way, Caroline seemed almost grateful.’

  Moore pondered that. ‘You seem to have put Judge Masters through everything but a Rorschach test.’

  ‘It’s the trial lawyer’s favorite game,’ Paget observed. ‘Psychoanalyzing the judge. I’ve been wrong so many times that I figured it was Terri’s turn.’

  Moore studied him. ‘Now that you have Caroline Masters, you must also have a plan to impress her.’

  Annoyance crossed Paget’s face; it was a sign, Terri knew, of how worried he was. ‘Eat your sandwich,’ Paget answered, ‘while I try to figure out some way to keep your excitement under control.’

  For a while, they fell quiet. Terri sat between Paget and Johnny, eating her lunch, content. The water lapped at the boat. In the distance, the city looked like a dream.

  ‘It would be a lovely world,’ Moore observed at length, ‘if life were as gentle as this.’

  Paget nodded, silent. For an instant, Terri imagined she read his thoughts: I hope Carlo’s will be. Idly, he tore the crust of his sandwich into bread crumbs, lobbed a couple to the sea gulls. Finally, he said, ‘At least let’s try to make the world safe for Mary Carelli, shall we?’

  Moore turned to Paget, face troubled again. ‘Let’s hear it, then.’

  ‘To start, our defense is an evidentiary nightmare.’ Paget leaned back again. ‘We all know what rings true about Mary’s story – something between Mark Ransom and women was very badly wrong. That’s what this whole obsession with Laura Chase suggests and what, in their different ways, Melissa Rappaport and Lindsay Caldwell made clear to Terri. To me, they help make Mary’s version of Ransom credible. The problem is that – as the law now stands – Judge Masters isn’t likely to let them testify before the jury.’ Paget paused. ‘If that’s true, then what happened to Rappaport and Caldwell will be like the proverbial tree falling in the woods: in the jury room, Rappaport and Caldwell won’t exist.’

  Moore thought for a moment. ‘But they’ll exist for Caroline Masters.’

  ‘One hopes.’ Paget tossed another bread crumb, watched a gull scoop down to skim it off the water. ‘If Terri can persuade them, we ask Rappaport and Caldwell to tell their stories. Sharpe will insist that the judge hear them first in chambers, so that she can argue that their testimony should be excluded. Should Judge Masters decide against us, neither woman will have to face the ordeal of public testimony. But while the judge may erase them from the hearing, there’s no way that she can erase them from her mind. And it’s Masters who decides whether this case goes to trial.’

  Moore examined him. ‘You’re going to need more than that.’

  ‘I know, I know, but it’s at least a start.’ Paget paused again. ‘Even the smartest of judges likes to appear evenhanded. If Masters turns us down on Rappaport and Caldwell, we’ll ask her to split the baby. Specifically, to rule that Mary’s tape is inadmissible, and to order that any misuse of the information therein will result in the dismissal of the case. And if that doesn’t work, there’s the tape of Laura Chase. I don’t want to reveal it now, if for no other reason than because it would look so gratuitous. But in chambers I’ll insist that the Laura Chase tape is at least as relevant as Mary’s tape – given that it’s part of Mark Ransom’s sexual pathology – and ask that it be played in open court. The Colt family notwithstanding.’

  Moore gave a low whistle. ‘All that,’ he said, ‘would make Sharpe very angry.’

  ‘Yes. I’m counting on her.’

  A gull swooped, capturing a bread crumb without breaking the speed of its flight. Moore watched it rise again, as if toward the sun, and then turned to Terri. ‘I thought the idea was not to engage Sharpe’s pride.’

  ‘This is my call,’ Paget cut in. ‘Not Terri’s. For whatever reason, Marnie Sharpe disliked me on sight. Perhaps for my own sake, perhaps because she thinks I’m helping Mary rip off the rape issue for her own self-preservation. That means that charming her is hopeless, but it also means that she’s carrying around some psychic baggage. My guess is that if I’m careful about how I do it, I can goad her into a mistake.’ Paget turned to Moore. ‘The only advantage I have over Marnie is that, smart as she is, I’m some sort of symbol to her. Whereas to me, she’s simply a technical problem. Like quantum mechanics.’

  Moore hesitated. ‘If goading Sharpe is a positive benefit,’ he said finally, ‘then you’re off to a flying start. Or so it appeared from the peanut gallery.’

  Paget seemed to contemplate the whiteness of the city; in the distance, the afternoon sun made its buildings shimmer with light. ‘I understand that it’s risky,’ he answered. ‘But we don’t have many cards. At the least, we’ll find out before trial just how good Sharpe really is. And in a hearing like this, without a jury, my lack of recent practice in trying homicide cases should hurt a little less.’

  Moore gazed out to the city. ‘What happens,’ he asked finally, ‘if Judge Masters goes along with you? Suppose she rules “no probable cause.” Can’t the D.A. just dig up more evidence, satisfy probable cause, and take Mary to trial then?’

  ‘It depends. If the prosecutor fails for lack of evidence, they can refile if they come up with new facts. The tape, for example.’ Paget sipped his mineral water. ‘But until and unless they do that, Mary walks. Forever.’

  ‘You’re taking a pretty serious chance, it seems.’ Moore looked from Paget to Terri and back again. ‘If this strategy is so inspired, why don’t real defense lawyers use it?’

  Paget smiled faintly. ‘Because they know better.’

  ‘You make it sound good enough.’

  Paget turned to him. ‘What it is, Johnny, is a terrible risk; Caroline Masters saw right away how desperate we are, no matter what face I put on it. Masters hit the nail – probable cause is far too easy to make out, and if I lose, we’ll have previewed our case so thoroughly that Sharpe will crucify us when it comes to jury time. And on the evidence that now exists, I lose.’

  Moore seemed to squint. ‘Am I correct in assuming that the purpose of this little outing is to make me feel the heat?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘In other words,’
Moore said slowly, ‘you need a real live act of rape. Within the next two weeks, no facsimiles accepted.’

  Paget nodded. ‘Sometime, somewhere, Ransom has to have crossed the line. The problem is that women don’t report these things.’

  Moore turned to Terri. ‘Do you agree with that?’

  Terri gazed at her feet. ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘Then all I can do,’ Moore said, ‘is try.’

  For another moment, they were silent. ‘I’m sorry to be so bald about it,’ Paget offered in half apology, ‘but I need to give Judge Masters something to hang her psychic hat on when she’s thinking about Rappaport and Caldwell, whose testimony she may never acknowledge and whom the press may never see. If I can, maybe we win. If not, Mary loses.’

  And you, Terri thought. And, more important to you, Carlo. Once more, she admired Paget’s stoicism and felt his fear.

  Moore was looking at her. After a time, he asked, ‘Would you consider going on television?’

  Interrupted from thought, Terri felt confused. ‘To do what?’

  ‘To ask for witnesses.’ Moore hesitated. ‘Try as men may, I suppose something like this strikes a chord in women that we simply can’t replicate. You obviously feel it.’

  ‘I still don’t follow.’

  Moore shrugged. ‘Perhaps it’s a bad idea. I just wondered if some appeal for information about Mark Ransom, perhaps on CNN, might scare up a witness. A request for help from women, by a woman lawyer, on behalf of a woman defendant.’ He glanced over at Paget. ‘Is that insane?’

  Paget, Terri realized, had been looking at her for some moments. ‘I hadn’t thought of it,’ he said. ‘It’s hard enough to ask something so intimate of someone sitting right in front of you – which Terri’s done so well – let alone of an audience of women you can’t even see. We’d likely learn nothing, and look desperate in the bargain.’

  For a moment, both men were silent. Neither looked at Terri.

  ‘If you want me to,’ Terri finally told them, ‘I’ll do it. God knows we need a break.’