Degree of Guilt

by Unknown

  Terri nodded. ‘All right.’

  Mary raised an eyebrow. ‘You sound a litde dubious.’

  ‘It seems artificial, that’s all. Now that I’m here, it’s difficult for me to imagine talking some other woman out of her home, long distance, and into a courtroom to describe herself being raped. Assuming that Mark Ransom ever did that.’

  Mary shrugged. ‘That’s why I’m here. When it comes to television, or Mark Ransom, I can imagine almost anything.’

  They sat on an empty soundstage that CNN had borrowed from ABC’s San Francisco affiliate, waiting for the interview. In nine days, Johnny Moore had found nothing that would tie Mark Ransom to a sexual assault – no reported incidents or even rumors. The preliminary hearing was five days away.

  It was that which had pushed Christopher Paget into letting Terri go on television. Even then he had seemed reluctant; only when she insisted was the interview set.

  Involving Mary had been Paget’s idea. ‘You’re the lawyer,’ he said, ‘but Mary’s the supposed victim. Besides, she’s famous and does this all the time. For Mary, a touching plea for help will be just another star turn.’ His voice turned cynical and a little weary. ‘Just keep her off the “facts,” for lack of a better name.’

  ‘But aren’t we assuming,’ Terri asked, ‘that her story is basically right? Isn’t that the point of looking for another victim?’

  Paget had shrugged. ‘All that I’m assuming is that Ransom was a pig. The only question is whether he was this particular kind of pig.’

  ‘And whether,’ Terri answered, ‘anyone will say so.’

  Now, sitting next to Mary Carelli, Terri wondered who might watch. She envisioned a lonely woman who had hidden an assault from friends and family, perhaps buried it so deep that it seemed a vague memory she no longer quite believed in, real only in the fear she felt when she walked alone at night, or when she experienced that first unwanted glance from someone she’d misjudged. The woman that Terri imagined would not talk to anyone.

  ‘You look pensive,’ Mary told her.

  Once more, Terri had the sense that Mary was examining her, and with little liking. It put Terri even more on edge. ‘I was just imagining our audience,’ she answered. ‘I mean, would you come forward?’

  Mary smiled. ‘I did come forward.’

  Terri turned to her. ‘You had no choice,’ she said simply. ‘Ransom was dead. If he’d lived, and simply raped you, then you’d have had a choice.’

  Mary glanced around the soundstage – its blank partitions behind them, three chairs, two cameras pointing at them like armed guards. ‘You don’t believe me,’ she said.

  Terri examined her. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she said at last. ‘So I don’t know whether I believe or disbelieve you.’ She paused, adding softly, ‘All I know is that it doesn’t really matter.’

  Mary gave a sardonic smile. ‘Because you’re a lawyer? Or because of Chris?’

  ‘Because I’m a lawyer. That’s part of who I am.’ Terri paused, adding pointedly, ‘Just like being a wife and mother is part of who I am.’

  ‘You make it sound like you’ve signed on for life.’

  ‘I signed on for life,’ Terri answered, ‘the day I had Elena. In that way, I’m a pretty simple person.’

  Mary’s smile turned skeptical. ‘How many people have underestimated you, I wonder.’

  ‘It depends on the person.’ Discussing herself, Terri felt an odd detachment. ‘For some, there was nothing to understand. They had me pegged just right.’

  Mary looked at her curiously. ‘If I’ve touched some nerve,’ she finally said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You didn’t touch anything. I just want to get this over with.’

  ‘You seem as tight as a spring.’ Mary smiled. ‘Look at it this way – it’s like going to court, but the questions aren’t as intelligent. It should be no problem at all for anyone as smart as Chris thinks you are.’

  Chris again, Terri thought, and then wondered if this cool, detached woman had so distanced herself from her own emotions that she no longer knew what they were. Any sense of Mary Carelli seemed to slip from her grasp; beneath the self-preserved veneer, Terri saw only glimpses – pride, solitude, and, most elusive of all, a hint of wounded puzzlement, as if Mary could not understand why no one understood her. As for Mary’s true feelings for Christopher Paget, or for their son, they were hidden from view; Terri felt them only in the sense that they were connected to Mary’s resentment of her.

  ‘Did you know,’ Terri asked, ‘that Carlo wants to go with you to court?’

  Mary’s face changed utterly. ‘Surely Chris won’t let him.’

  ‘I think he may, and hope he does. Carlo very much wants to. Particularly for your sake.’

  ‘He can’t.’ Mary’s voice turned hard. ‘He simply can’t. Really, I don’t want him to hear this.’

  Terri paused again. ‘What would be worse for him,’ she answered, ‘is for his mother and father to treat him like a child.’

  ‘That’s not for you to decide.’ Mary’s voice was tight with urgency and anger. ‘You have no idea what this is all about. You have no idea what Carlo is all about. None at all.’

  Terri stared, startled at the visceral intensity she saw on Mary’s face. And then, like a cold finger on her spine, she felt for an instant that Mary Carelli was capable of murder if something pierced to the core of her. But what that core was, Terri could not know.

  ‘At this point,’ Terri answered softly, ‘it’s really for Chris to decide, isn’t it? Whatever you won’t or can’t say to me, perhaps you should say to him. Assuming, of course, that there’s something else Chris doesn’t know.’

  Mary hesitated, as if surprised, and then gave Terri a long glance of appraisal. ‘You’re a very perceptive woman, Terri, and a bright lawyer. But this isn’t a lawyer’s problem, and I’m the only woman who owns it. Don’t tamper with this, please, I’m asking you not to.’

  Tamper with what? Terri wondered, and then the interviewer came onstage.

  A brisk, slender man in his forties, Greg Cook looked like someone who burned calories just by standing around. In quick succession, he reacquainted himself with Mary, was introduced to Terri, and had ushered them back into their chairs, with microphones clipped to their blouses. Terri drifted through it all like an automaton, still suspended in her conversation with Mary.

  ‘We’re running this on the nightly news,’ Cook explained. ‘You can watch yourselves at seven this evening.’

  The filming started. After a few preliminaries – introductions, Terri’s office telephone number – Cook demanded of Mary, ‘Why are you here?’

  Mary leaned forward, focused on the camera. ‘Because we believe that what Mark Ransom tried to do to me, he may have done to someone else. If so, I ask them to come forward now, to testify on my behalf.’

  ‘How would that help you?’

  Mary looked grave. ‘Because it’s a sad fact of life that any woman claiming to be the victim of a sexual assault faces a high threshold of disbelief.’ She paused, her expression open, candid. ‘That’s all the more true when the woman is charged with murder, and attempted rape is her sole defense.’

  Cook nodded. ‘But this, you would agree, is an extraordinary step.’

  ‘I would. But what is truly extraordinary is that four out of every five rapes go unreported.’ Mary’s voice quickened, became more urgent. ‘We believe that hidden behind these statistics – this collective fear that society has too long fostered in all women – at least one woman may be watching whose life Mark Ransom changed.’

  To Terri, she seemed too crisp, more political than personal. Behind tortoiseshell glasses, Cook raised his eyebrows. ‘But – and I speak as a matter of psychology, not morality – why should a woman who is too traumatized to help herself relive that trauma by helping you?’

  Exactly, Terri thought. She turned to Mary, as if she were the nameless woman in the audience, fearful and waiting for an answer.
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  ‘Because,’ Mary said calmly, ‘the issue transcends what happened to me. True, my life and freedom are at stake, as is the public reputation I am fighting to maintain: I’m either a victim and exonerated, or guilty of some degree of murder.’ Mary paused, as if daunted by her personal abyss. ‘But the ultimate issue is whether victims everywhere will speak out against rape and thus diminish the number of victims to come. True, I ask for help, and I need it. But it is also true that anyone who helps me offers hope to countless others.’

  ‘All surface and calculation,’ Melissa Rappaport had said of Mary. Perhaps this cut too deep for objectivity, but to Terri, Mary’s answers were the slogans of a movement, not simple words of pain.

  On impulse, Terri asked, ‘May I say something?’

  Cook and Mary turned, as did the cameras. Cook looked curious, Mary perplexed. Then Cook said, ‘Surely, Ms Peralta.’

  Terri found she could not speak; her few seconds of confusion seemed infinite. ‘For someone who’s been raped,’ she began at last, ‘rape is not a cause.’ Terri paused, searching for words; suddenly it was not hard to look into the camera. ‘It’s deeply personal, and it can make a woman feel cheap, and damaged. We’re not talking to “women” about “protecting” other women. We’re asking a lone woman to remember something she never reported to anyone, something she has tried very hard to stuff somewhere and never think about.’ Terri paused again, then spoke, her voice softer. ‘Because after it happened that was the only way she could think of to protect herself.’

  At the corner of Terri’s vision, Mary’s face was cold. Cook seemed surprised. ‘You seem to be arguing against the purpose of this interview.’

  Terri gazed down, feeling chastened and exposed. When she looked up again, it was at the camera. ‘I’m not arguing with anyone,’ she answered quietly. ‘I’m not even talking to anyone here. I’m talking to someone I don’t know, who may be watching by herself, or with a husband, or with children, or her friend. But no matter whom she’s with, she’s completely alone. Because she’s the only one who knows.’

  ‘Are you saying that she should not come forward?’

  ‘No.’ Terri inhaled, forcing herself to speak slowly and clearly. ‘I’m saying that if she does come forward, it should be to help herself. Because, as if she were partners with the man who raped her, she’s hidden the rape inside her until she’s become a different person.’

  Cook nodded. ‘You obviously have some empathy with the people you’re seeking out.’

  Turning from the camera, Terri felt cut off from the woman she had imagined. ‘I was a rape counselor,’ she told him. ‘In law school.’

  Cook gazed at her a moment. Then he said, ‘Teresa Peralta, Mary Carelli, thank you for appearing on CNN nightly news,’ and the interview was over.

  Mary looked startled, and then composed herself. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Terri said nothing.

  In the elevator down, Mary finally spoke. ‘No wonder you were nervous. You have no idea of television, or how to help me.’

  Terri turned to her. Very softly, she said, ‘But it didn’t happen to you, did it?’

  Mary stared at her, as if to respond. Then she said only, ‘I have a rally at two o’clock. I should change. Please drive me to the hotel.’

  Now, six hours later, Terri sat with Richie on the couch, watching the news. Elena played nearby with the blocks, which Carlo had given her.

  There was a clip of Mary Carelli, addressing a crowd on the steps of the Hall of Justice. Dressed in a simple blouse and skirt, she looked less militant and more a victim; with each applause line, Terri could feel the pressure on McKinley Brooks.

  ‘You are here,’ Mary said, ‘because you have chosen to believe in me. For that I feel deep gratitude and great humility. But in the larger sense, you have rallied for every woman who has ever felt the shame and tragedy of rape.’

  ‘That’s pretty good,’ Richie remarked. ‘Universalize it. Make it bigger than she is.’

  Terri nodded. ‘It’s fine for this. I just don’t think it works for soliciting witnesses.’

  ‘Earlier today,’ the voice-over said, ‘Ms Carelli and one of her lawyers, Teresa Peralta, made a last-ditch appeal for any woman to come forward who has suffered alleged abuse at the hands of Mark Ransom.’

  Making her appeal, Mary looked and sounded rational. Her expression was wounded, yet composed. ‘She’s good here too,’ Richie said.

  When the camera shifted to Terri, her own face startled her; she looked tentative, disconcerted, more like a victim than the victim’s lawyer. She felt herself flush. Then heard herself say, in a voice less firm than she remembered it, ‘as if she were partners with the man who raped her, she’s hidden the rape inside her until she’s become a different person.’

  When it was over, Terri sat on the couch with her hands folded, half listening to the sound of Elena’s play.

  ‘I don’t know, Terri,’ Richie said at last. ‘I’m not sure that came off like you wanted it to.’

  He said this in a tone of concern, as if to help her do better next time. Except that Richie knew, as she knew, that next time would never come.

  ‘I did the best I could.’

  ‘I know, Ter. I think it’s just the wrong pitch, that’s all. The woman you imagine sitting there with her husband and kid is going to look around her and decide not to reach for the phone.’ Richie gave a fatalistic shrug. ‘You can’t really blame her. I think a lot of women get themselves in situations they know they should have avoided. I mean, put yourself in their place.’

  Terri did not answer. Finally, she said, ‘I think I’ll just play with Elena for a while, check my messages on voice mail. Maybe someone will call.’

  ‘Sure.’ He paused. ‘What about dinner?’

  ‘I’m kind of tired. Think you could fix macaroni and cheese? Elena would probably help.’

  ‘How about ordering pizza? I’ve got some work to do on the computer.’

  Terri looked at him. ‘Just no pepperoni, okay? Elena peels it off.’

  When the pizza arrived, only Richie’s half was pepperoni. There had been no calls on voice mail. ‘Too bad,’ Richie said in sympathy. ‘But I think it really is like I said.’

  Four hours later, when Terri checked for the seventh time, there had been no messages at all, and Richie was asleep.

  Silently, Terri undressed, put on a long T-shirt. She lay next to Richie in their bed, watching the red numbers of the alarm clock mark the minutes she could not sleep.

  At one forty-five, she was still awake.

  The telephone rang.

  Terri started, and then tried to reach over the alarm clock to stop the ringing before Richie awoke.

  ‘Hello.’

  Terri heard a faint hum, but no voice. Beside her, Richie was stirring. ‘What the hell . . .’

  Terri placed one hand on his shoulder. ‘Hello,’ she tried again.

  For a moment more, Terri heard the hum, and then a woman asked, ‘Is this Teresa Peralta?’

  Terri felt herself tense. ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘I thought I recognized your voice.’ There was a moment’s pause. ‘I’m sorry to call like this. But I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘How did you get my home number?’

  ‘I started calling information everywhere in the Bay area.’ The woman gave a shaky laugh. ‘If I hadn’t gotten Berkeley on my third try, I might have stopped.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Terri hesitated. ‘Can you tell me who you are?’

  ‘Yes.’ Another pause. ‘My name’s Marcy Linton.’

  Terri thought for a moment. ‘The writer?’

  ‘You’ve read me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Terri felt delayed surprise. ‘In The New Yorker.’

  ‘That’s very nice.’ There was a genuine politeness in the voice, as if, in the middle of the night, Marcy Linton was glad that a stranger had read her stories. ‘And, of course, I watched you on television. It touched me.’

  ‘Yes?’
r />   ‘Yes.’ A final pause. ‘You were talking to me.’

  Chapter 4

  Three mornings before the preliminary hearing, Teresa Peralta found herself in a rented Ford Escort with snow tires, steering through a valley in the Rocky Mountains – jagged peaks of black and white, wooded hillsides so steep they seemed to tumble toward the dirt road. To her left, a sheer embankment dropped to a glistening stream, whose gray and silver eddies were broken by logs or branches that had run aground in shallow water and dammed more clumps of driftwood behind them, white with new-fallen snow. The road ahead was covered with ice; in the morning sun, the white terrain was close to blinding.

  Terri downshifted. She had not thought to bring sunglasses; she squinted at the road, steering gingerly, tense with the effort of driving for the first time on an ice-slick surface. A frightened deer skittered from the roadside at the sound of tires crunching, the hum of an engine. There was no one in sight.

  As she drove, the mountains at the valley’s end became higher and closer; it enhanced her sense of smallness and inadequacy. Her sole consolation was that she was learning to recognize those feelings and to fight her way through them. Marcy Linton, Terri was sure, must be even more apprehensive than Terri herself.

  Linton was writing a novel, she had explained, in a cabin ten miles west of Aspen, owned by her uncles. It was where she had brought Mark Ransom, she said, four years before. On the telephone, she had left it at that.

  Twenty minutes farther, with the valley’s end looming in her windshield, Terri found the gravel drive.

  It wound to the left, down a hill, over a narrow bridge of railroad ties that crossed the stream, and then through more pine trees, until it ended in a circle looping past a wooden shed that housed a new Jeep Cherokee. By the shed were more trappings of rural life in winter – a mini snowplow, a stack of cordwood covered by a tarpaulin. To the side of the circle, a freshly shoveled stone walkway climbed a gradual hill, to the cabin.

  It was two stories of wood and glass, with a stone chimney and an atelier, where, Terri assumed, Marcy Linton wrote. Through the glass front door, a slender woman peered out at Terri.