Degree of Guilt

by Unknown

  He shrugged. ‘You’re kind to say so. But all I did was nibble at the edge. It’s not nearly enough.’

  He sounded tired, Terri thought, and it was only the first day. ‘A lot of it’s up to Mary,’ she answered. ‘You can’t kill this case on cross-examination. No one could.’

  ‘Let us start,’ Sharpe was saying in the background, ‘with the only things about which Ms Carelli appears to have told the truth to anyone.’

  Terri watched her for a moment. Quietly, she said, ‘What is the truth, I wonder.’

  Paget leaned back on the couch, staring into the empty fireplace. Except for the lamps and the spotlit palm in the window, the room was dark; in profile, Terri could not read Paget’s face. Finally, he answered, ‘I try never to ask myself that.’

  ‘Because you don’t want to know?’

  ‘Partly that.’ He turned to her. ‘It feels almost like superstition – that there’s some reason that I shouldn’t know.’

  ‘And the other part?’

  ‘The other part is that knowing is impractical.’ He smiled faintly. ‘The truth might inhibit my imagination in constructing a defense.’

  ‘About the dead,’ Sharpe was noting quietly, ‘one can say just about anything.’

  ‘It’s a funny game we play,’ Terri said at length. ‘It’s not about the truth. It’s about burdens of proof and rules of evidence – what the prosecution knows, whether they can prove it, whether we can keep things out or cast doubt on what comes in.’

  Paget nodded. ‘That may be morally unsatisfying, on a human level. It’s what I think civilians find so disenchanting the feeling that a trial is Kabuki theater and not a search for truth.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, they forget that the system is freighted with other values, one of which is that a civilized society is not about retribution at any cost. If it were, we’d just skip trials and start tearing Mary’s fingernails out until she told “the truth.” Whatever that is.’

  ‘Specifically,’ Sharpe was saying, ‘Dr Shelton believes that Mr Ransom had been dead for a good half hour when Ms Carelli chose to scratch the buttocks of a corpse.’

  Paget looked up at the screen. ‘If I can’t do something with that,’ he said softly, ‘Mary’s close to finished.’

  In Terri’s mind, she heard Monk testifying again, tracing Mary’s fingerprints as she drifted about the room at will, touching lamps, tables, drawers in a stranger’s hotel suite. Doing what? Terri wondered. And was Ransom still alive, or dead on the floor?

  ‘Do you think she’s still lying?’ Terry asked Paget.

  Paget stared at her. ‘Yes,’ he said in a reluctant voice. ‘At least in part. But I don’t know which part. Nor do I want to.’

  Terri considered him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she answered softly. ‘But I think I’d like to know.’

  ‘Then do me a favor, Terri. Just don’t tell me.’ He hesitated, then added softly, ‘I think it’s enough to know the truth about our own lives.’

  Terri fell quiet for a time. ‘I keep wondering,’ she ventured, ‘what happened to the second tape. And, for that matter, to the Lindsay Caldwell tape.’

  For a moment, Paget looked upstairs, as if afraid that Carlo might hear them. ‘I have no idea,’ he finally said. ‘But seeing as how you’ve asked, I don’t think the tape got lost by accident.’

  Terri stared at him. ‘Mary?’ she asked.

  Paget nodded. ‘I think so. But I really don’t know how. And if that’s so, I don’t care to know. For my own sake.’

  On the television, Sharpe’s opening statement drew to a close.

  ‘What I care to know,’ Terri said finally, ‘is what happened in that room between Mary Carelli and Mark Ransom. Perhaps for my own sake.’

  Paget considered her. ‘But we never will know,’ he answered. ‘I just hope we never learn what’s on that tape.’

  On the screen, Carlo’s face appeared. Paget looked up.

  Carlo gazed into the camera. ‘Christopher Paget is my father,’ he said simply, ‘and Mary Carelli is my mother. And all I really have to say to anyone is that I’m very proud of them both.’

  Paget shook his head. ‘God,’ he murmured. ‘I never wanted this.’

  The newsman’s face returned. ‘The only comment from Mr Paget or Ms Carelli was a press release from Mr Paget’s office, which said only: “Carlo Carelli Paget is our son. And all we really have to say to anyone is that both of us are proud of him.”’

  ‘The phone was ringing off the hook,’ Paget said. ‘Mary and I decided quickly: no interviews on the subject of Carlo, or with Carlo. It’s the first thing we’ve agreed upon in years.’

  Terri reflected. ‘I think she really loves him, in her way. It’s just not a way I recognize.’

  Paget became pensive. ‘You know what I did when she first told me she was pregnant? I asked whose kid he was.’

  Terri looked at him. ‘That was a long time ago, Chris. Whatever you said doesn’t matter now.’

  After a time, Paget turned to her. ‘I really am sorry to be keeping you from Elena.’

  ‘I miss her. But this will be over, without Elena thinking much about it.’ Terri paused for a moment, realized again that she was no longer quite sure where Elena’s life was going. But there was nothing she could say to Paget, except to add, ‘It’s Carlo I’m most worried about.’

  He gazed at her, as if to ask her something. Then he said simply, ‘I’m afraid of this hearing. For Mary, for me, but most of all for him. I’ve taken such a chance, it seems.’

  That was right, Terri knew; the Court TV legal experts were already second-guessing him, and there was more risk than they knew.

  ‘Let’s keep going,’ Terri said. ‘I’ve got some thoughts about Shelton.’

  Chapter 2

  Watching Elizabeth Shelton on the stand, Paget recalled that he had liked her instinctively.

  Some of it, he decided, was her look of clear-eyed intelligence; she gave the impression of an inner balance in which no hidden angers or ambitions prevented her from being fair. The other part was the subtle sense that – as good a professional as she was – Shelton found her role in life the source of a certain amusement: her tailored suit and bright orange scarf signaled her awareness that she did not have to play medical examiner for a jury, and thus could reach into the closet for something she liked. It made Paget sorry that he did not know her in some other context and that his role was to try to discredit her.

  But for now, he could only watch her help Marnie Sharpe build the bricks and mortar of a prosecution case.

  In a few questions, Sharpe qualified Shelton as an expert in forensic medicine and criminology, with an extensive background in both, and then got to the heart of things.

  ‘Did you examine the medical evidence,’ Sharpe asked, ‘with an eye toward corroborating Mary Carelli’s initial story?’

  Shelton folded her hands. ‘Yes. I did.’

  ‘And was there such corroborating evidence?’

  From the bench, Caroline Masters watched intently. ‘With the exception of the bruise on her face,’ Shelton responded, ‘I found none.’

  ‘None,’ Sharpe repeated for emphasis.

  Briefly, Shelton nodded; the reluctance of the gesture signaled her dislike for bombast. ‘That’s correct,’ she answered.

  ‘In a moment,’ Sharpe said, ‘I’ll ask you to elaborate on that. But Mr Paget’s questions of Inspector Monk bring something else to mind. When you performed your various tests, Dr Shelton, Ms Carelli was present, was she not?’

  Shelton nodded again. ‘For a time,’ she answered. ‘When I first arrived at Mr Ransom’s room, some of my work involved inspecting Ms Carelli for signs of violence and other physical evidence.’

  ‘And that was when?’

  ‘Perhaps one-fifty. A short time after Ms Carelli first called 911.’

  ‘And did you speak with Ms Carelli?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could you describe that conversation?’

  Shelton p
aused, looking gravely at Mary Carelli. ‘Among other things,’ she said quietly, ‘I asked her whether Mr Ransom had penetrated her and whether she wished to receive medical attention.’

  ‘And what did she answer?’

  ‘No. To both.’

  Sharpe nodded. ‘Could you describe her manner?’

  Shelton seemed to reflect. ‘I would say that she seemed in some distress – still frightened a little. But quite sensible.’

  ‘In your opinion, did she exhibit signs of shock?’

  ‘No.’ Shelton looked at Mary again. ‘We had a conversation, and the conversation tracked. She seemed appropriately concerned for her own situation.’

  Sharpe tilted her head. ‘Did she mention Mr Ransom’s situation?’

  Shelton seemed to hesitate. ‘Her only mention of Mr Ransom,’ she said, ‘was with regard to certain marks on her body – scratches, the bruise. Ms Carelli attributed them to him.’

  ‘And do you attribute those to him?’

  ‘I’m unable to. With the sole exception of the bruise on her face, the medical evidence simply does not support Ms Carelli’s version of events.’

  Sharpe nodded her satisfaction. ‘Could you describe the procedures on which you base that conclusion?’

  ‘Certainly.’ As Shelton half turned to Caroline Masters, Sharpe moved to stand only a few feet from her. The result seemed an intimate conference among the three of them, two credible professionals advising the finder of fact. It made Paget acutely aware of his gender, and of Mary’s isolation.

  ‘We start,’ Dr Shelton went on, ‘with what I would call Ms Carelli’s basic account. That is, her explanation of the physical evidence – which, as I understand it, has remained constant throughout.’

  It was a shrewd introduction, Paget thought, and obviously rehearsed, for it carried the suggestion that Mary was a liar. Mary’s narrowed eyes, watching Shelton, hinted at a sense of betrayal. As he turned briefly to Carlo, he saw that his son looked pale.

  ‘She’s good,’ Terri whispered.

  ‘That basic account,’ Shelton continued, ‘is relatively simple: that Mr Ransom assaulted Ms Carelli; that in the process he slapped her and scratched her thigh and neck; that during a pause in this same struggle, she was able to produce a Walther .380 from her purse; and that, as they wrestled for it, the gun fired into Mr Ransom’s chest from a distance of two or three inches.’

  Shelton paused, briefly scanning the courtroom as if to ensure the attention of her audience. She had it, Paget knew; the room was still. ‘As to Mr Ransom himself,’ she went on, ‘he was found lying on his stomach, with his pants down to his knees. According to Ms Carelli, this was the result of his attempt to rape her, during which he achieved and maintained an erection.’ Turning to face Judge Masters directly Shelton spoke softly but clearly. ‘There were also scratches on his buttocks. Again according to Ms Carelli, she inflicted those scratches while fighting off the attempted rape.

  ‘With that understanding of Ms Carelli’s account, I employed certain procedures myself, and worked with the crime lab in employing others.’

  Sharpe turned to Paget. ‘Will you stipulate, Mr Paget, to Dr Shelton’s qualification to address work done by the crime lab? Or do we need another expert?’

  Paget hesitated. But a second expert might only make things worse; better to take a chance that Shelton would at least be fair. ‘So stipulated,’ he answered.

  Nodding, Sharpe paused a moment, further drawing in the courtroom and, more important, the judge. Unusual for her, Judge Masters had not spoken in some moments. Her expression was unselfconscious and utterly rapt.

  ‘Could you describe for us,’ Sharpe asked at length, ‘each of these procedures.’

  Shelton nodded. ‘Certainly,’ she answered crisply, and turned directly to the judge.

  ‘First, there are the scratches on Ms Carelli’s neck and thigh. Ms Carelli says that Mr Ransom made them. So we examined Mr Ransom’s fingernails for traces of skin.’

  ‘And what was the result?’

  ‘We found none.’

  Sharpe’s voice became more pointed. ‘And if Mr Ransom had scratched Ms Carelli, would you expect to find skin traces in his fingernails?’

  ‘It’s not a foolproof test. But yes, generally.’

  ‘Did you also perform that test on Ms Carelli’s nails?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did the test work then?’

  ‘Yes.’ Shelton spoke quietly, to Caroline Masters. ‘There were traces of skin beneath Ms Carelli’s fingernails.’

  Leaning forward, Masters asked her first question of the hearing. ‘Were you able to determine whose skin?’

  Shelton shook her head. ‘No. Unless there’s enough skin, we usually can’t.’

  ‘Thank you. Go on, Ms Sharpe.’

  Sharpe looked at Shelton with a faint, curious smile. ‘Did you find anything else under Ms Carelli’s nails?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  Shelton paused. ‘Microscopic fibers of nylon.’

  Paget stiffened. Sharpe had never told him this; her smile had anticipated his own surprise. ‘In your opinion,’ she asked, ‘what is the origin of the nylon fibers.’

  Shelton turned toward Mary. Softly, she said, ‘There’s no way to be certain. But they’re consistent with Ms Carelli’s panty hose.’

  ‘And were there any traces of nylon under Mr Ransom’s fingernails?’

  ‘None.’

  From behind him, Paget heard a low, tense buzz; the media people understood the wound that Shelton had just dealt Mary Carelli and now were poised for more.

  ‘As you understood Ms Carelli,’ Sharpe went on, ‘Mr Ransom was sexually aroused during the alleged attack. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you attempt to corroborate that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Shelton turned to Masters. ‘Prior to orgasm, and even intercourse, it’s usual for the erect penis to emit a small amount of semen, sometimes enough to cause pregnancy without ejaculation. To determine whether that has happened, we swab the penis for any residue of semen.’

  ‘And did you do that,’ Sharpe asked, ‘with Mr Ransom’s penis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what was the result?’

  ‘There was none.’ Shelton kept her eyes on Masters. ‘We found no secretion.’

  ‘Indeed, did you find any evidence, of any kind, that Mr Ransom was sexually aroused?’

  ‘No. None.’

  Sharpe stood straighter, moving back a couple of steps; both her tone and her posture bespoke a new command. ‘Let us move to the fatal gunshot wound. Originally, Ms Carelli told Inspector Monk that she and Mr Ransom had struggled with the gun and that it had fired into Mr Ransom’s chest from two to three inches. Was the crime lab able to form an opinion as to that?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not consistent with the evidence.’

  ‘When you say “it” . . .’

  ‘I mean that the gun was not fired from two to three inches or, in their opinion, from anywhere closer than at least two to three feet.’ Pausing, Shelton turned to the judge again. ‘As you know from your own experience at the P.D.’s office, near gunshot wounds leave distinct residue.’

  ‘I do know,’ Masters said dryly. ‘From my own experience in cross-examining you, I learned great respect for gunshot residue. As I did for your skills as a witness.’

  The remark, pleasant yet somewhat Delphic, caused Shelton to smile but made Sharpe freeze for a split second, appraising Caroline Masters. When Sharpe began again, Paget sensed a shade less confidence. ‘Could you tell us what the powder marks in this case showed?’

  ‘Yes. The weapon was a Walther .380, and the bullet was a Winchester Silver Tip – high-tech equipment, by the way. From two to three inches, that gun and that bullet would have left a distinct charcoal-gray circle of gunpowder on Mr Ransom’s chest, several inches in diameter.’ Shelton paused. ‘Here, there was no residue of powder. None.’r />
  ‘And what do you conclude from this?’

  ‘Start with this fact: the nearest that gun could have fired and left no gunshot residue is at least two feet and probably closer to three.’ Shelton turned to face Mary. ‘From which we conclude that Ms Carelli shot Mr Ransom not from two or three inches but from two or more feet.’

  Mary’s eyes met Shelton’s. Between them, Sharpe nodded slowly, as if silenced by the gravity of what she had just heard. Then she asked softly, ‘And what about Ms Carelli’s story of a struggle for the gun?’

  Shelton still gazed at Mary. ‘No sign of it,’ she answered with equal quiet. ‘No fingerprints. No powder marks on Mr Ransom’s hands. As you might expect had there been a struggle.’

  The courtroom was quite still. Paget knew why: the cumulative effect of Shelton’s crisp testimony and calm demeanor was devastating to Mary Carelli. It was hard for Paget to sit there as if nothing were amiss.

  ‘On the tape,’ Sharpe asked, ‘Ms Carelli said that she called 911 as soon as possible. Do you recall that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how long after that call did you arrive at the Flood?’

  ‘Not long. Perhaps fifteen minutes.’

  Sharpe paused. ‘And how long, in your opinion, had Mr Ransom been dead at the time you arrived.’

  ‘It’s hard to be precise. But some little time – close to an hour, at least.’

  ‘On what do you base that?’

  ‘His blood had begun collecting in his chest cavity. When the heart stops pumping, the blood flows to the lowest point in the body and stops there. It’s really just a matter of gravity. But it doesn’t happen all at once.’ Shelton paused. ‘In my opinion, the pallor of Mr Ransom’s skin suggested that the process had well begun.’

  ‘From which you conclude . . . ?’

  ‘That Mr Ransom had been dead at least one-half hour when Ms Carelli called 911. Perhaps more.’

  ‘Do you know what Ms Carelli did between the time that she shot Mark Ransom and the time that she called 911?’

  Shelton still looked at Mary. Softly, she said, ‘I can only surmise.’