by Unknown
Where, for that matter, was the Lindsay Caldwell tape? If Ransom had failed to bring that as well as Mary’s second tape, despite his promise to both women, why had Sharpe not found the missing tapes in his home with Mary’s first tape?
Terri stood, eyes moving across the furnishings.
Why, in the moments after Mark Ransom died, had Mary gone from the end tables to the bookshelves to the desk? Leaving fingerprints on each.
Because she was looking for the tape, Marine Sharpe had suggested. That was wrong, Mary answered; she was in shock, wandering aimlessly. Not sure of where she was and what she was doing.
Terri opened the drawers of one end table, then another. A telephone directory. A Gideon Bible. Nothing else.
The bookshelf was no different. One drawer, empty. A few volumes of coffee table literature. Banal and impersonal, suited to a room where people came and went.
She found herself gazing at the bloodstain.
What had happened here between Mark Ransom and Mary Carelli, in the moments after Paul Aguilar had brought them champagne? Was Mary the naked woman standing in a distant window? What was Mary Carelli doing in the hallway when Edward Tench had seen her? While, inside the suite, Mark Ransom was lying dead.
Turning, Terri walked slowly to the desk.
On top were a pen, blank paper. She opened the drawer.
Empty, except for stationery and envelopes, imprinted with the address and logo of the Hotel Flood. A shield with a script F.
Closing the drawer, Terri gazed out at Berkeley, as Paul Aguilar claimed to have done.
Elena was there. Having dinner with her father while Terri worked again.
He was the care provider, Richie would tell the judge.
The unfairness of it seized Terri by the throat. She should raise Elena. At least she saw Elena as someone outside herself. As a person to be nurtured.
She turned away, standing over the stain Mark Ransom’s death had left, lost in her own thoughts.
Finally, she looked at her watch.
Six-fifty. It was time to go; Mary’s defense depended on Marcy Linton now, and there was much to do.
Terri picked up her purse and left the suite.
In the hallway, a uniformed policeman waited at the elevator Edward Tench had used. Terri turned toward it and then stopped, glancing at the mail slot.
She had stood here with Chris and Johnny Moore on the morning they first saw the suite.
What was Sharpe’s point, Terri had asked, about Mary being in the hallway?
No idea, Chris had answered. And then he had made a bitter joke: ‘Probably figures Mary found herself with a half hour to kill, scribbled a few postcards on Ransom’s rear end, and then mailed them to all her friends.’
Terri turned and reentered the suite.
She walked to the desk. Opening the drawer, she took out an envelope, studied it, pensive. Then, without quite knowing why, she slid it in her purse.
She stood still for another moment. Then she hurried from the suite toward the elevator, to meet Marcy Linton.
‘I can’t find the tape,’ Johnny Moore said. ‘And neither can Marnie Sharpe.’
He sat with Paget in the stern of Paget’s sailboat. It was night, and the boat was docked; this time it was Paget who had felt too confined to meet inside. The lights of San Francisco climbed the hills behind them; more distant, the towers of the financial district glowed against the black. The night was quiet, still except for the muffled sounds of the city, the lapping of water against the hull. Moore and Paget drank beer.
‘Mary had to have gotten rid of it,’ Paget answered. ‘Somehow.’
Moore shrugged. ‘So Sharpe thinks, my sources tell me. And so I think. But the police combed every scrap of garbage at the Flood, and everywhere the garbage went. They even tore Ransom’s toilet apart. Although, as Mary points out, there’s not one bit of evidence that she even entered Ransom’s bathroom.’
‘Yes,’ Paget mumured. ‘She was too busy touring the hallway.’
Moore sipped his beer. ‘I’ve thought of the mails, of course. As has Sharpe. But with all its considerable advantages, the D.A.’s office hasn’t found it. There’s just no evidence that Mary sent it anywhere. Even assuming she could have.’
‘Not even care of ABC?’
‘Not to ABC. Not to herself. Not to anyone.’ Moore paused. ‘Which leaves us with the notion that Ransom hid it somewhere and that Mary’s telling the truth. As hard as that may be for you to believe.’
‘I haven’t had much practice.’ Paget gazed out at the city. ‘They’ve checked Ransom’s homes, of course.’
‘And his banks. And with any friend who claimed him.’ Moore paused. ‘Of course, unlike Mary, Ransom was at liberty. There’s all sorts of places a clever man can hide something the size of a tape. Which, although I don’t mean to press it on you, also enhances Mary’s claim.’
‘You think it’s destroyed?’
Moore shook his head. ‘No way that Mary could do it. And no way that Ransom wanted to. It’s out there, somewhere.’
Paget was silent.
‘I’m sorry,’ Moore said softly. ‘I wish I could give you some peace of mind. At least while you’re trying this case.’ He paused. ‘Better yet, I wish I could tell you I’d destroyed it.’
‘I’d never ask you to do that, Johnny.’
‘You wouldn’t have to.’
Paget was quiet for a time. ‘It’s enough,’ he said finally, ‘that you’ve been looking after Carlo.’
‘No trouble. It’s the nearest I’ll ever come to having a son.’ Moore paused. ‘It’s mostly rides to basketball, and he plays a good game.’
‘I’m sorry to be missing it.’
Moore was silent. Finally, he asked, ‘Did he tell you about the other day?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Someone from US ambushed him after the basketball game, with two TV reporters right behind him, cameras and all. Wanting to talk about his childhood.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Just stared at them. I chased them off.’
Paget felt a surge of anger, then of shame. ‘He never told me.’
‘He doesn’t want to bother you. What with the hearing.’
‘Bother me? He’s my son.’
Moore gazed at him. ‘That’s why he didn’t say anything.’
Paget fell quiet again.
‘About Ransom and women,’ Moore said finally. ‘Still nothing. I begin to think there’s nothing to find.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘No idea, and such a loss to womankind.’ Moore tilted his glass to Paget. ‘Here’s to Mark Ransom’s undying potency. Now that he’s dead, that is.’
Chapter 4
Softly, Marcy Linton said, ‘Mark Ransom raped me.’
The courtroom was still, tense, as crowded as for Mary herself; present for the first time, McKinley Brooks sat behind Marnie Sharpe. Moving closer to the witness stand, Teresa Peralta asked, ‘Could you tell the court how it happened?’
‘Yes.’ Dressed in a simple skirt and a high-collared blouse, Linton was pale but composed. He quiet voice had the edge of repressed emotion. ‘We were in the living room of my uncles’ cabin. Drinking wine while Mark Ransom took apart my writing.’
‘He was critical?’
The word made Linton pause. ‘Brutal. His clear intention was to strip me of every scrap of self-respect.’
Terri saw Sharpe rise to object to the answer, then hesitate. Quickly, Terri asked, ‘Did he succeed?’
Linton seemed to reflect, as if examining the extent of the damage. ‘He humiliated me. When he offered me wine, I wanted it.’ She gazed past Terri, as if explaining herself to the gallery. ‘I was twenty-four, and I’d been so proud. Had so looked forward to having Mark Ransom read my writing. And then he made me feel like nothing. Like I, and what I cared about, were contemptible to him.’
Terri waited for a moment. ‘Who provided the wine,’ she asked, ‘you or
Ransom?’
‘Ransom. I didn’t really like to drink.’
‘But you wanted to on this occasion?’
Linton nodded. ‘As he tore me apart, Ransom kept pouring, and I kept drinking.’
‘How did you feel?’
‘Numb.’ Her voice grew quieter. ‘But that was better, really.’
Terri nodded. She had prepared Linton carefully: despite an inability to sleep, and the burdens of carrying Mary Carelli’s defense, Marcy Linton was facing her ordeal with composure. But that did not seem to diminish her ethereal quality; with her pale skin and slender frame, the sense of devastation Linton conveyed did not seem self-pitying but merely factual. Marnie Sharpe watched her without taking notes.
‘Did any of Ransom’s comments,’ Terri asked, ‘concern the subject of sex?’
‘Yes,’ Linton answered. ‘At the end, after he had torn apart everything else, he ridiculed the “bloodless” way I wrote about sex.’
On the bench, Caroline Masters’s gaze never moved from Marcy Linton. That was good, Terri thought. Her own role was merely to help Linton trace the parallels to what Mary Carelli had said: when Linton’s testimony was finished, neither Caroline Masters nor anyone else should doubt who Mark Ransom was. If Terri did her job, by evening there would be no pickets seeking justice for Mark Ransom’s memory, and Brooks and Sharpe would know how much this case could cost them.
‘Did you answer him?’ she asked Linton.
‘I defended my writing, yes.’ Linton paused, distractedly touching her hair, more auburn than red in the fluorescent lights. ‘The scenes he mocked were about me and someone I loved. I told Ransom those scenes meant a lot to me.’
The phrase had a valedictory note of sadness, Terri thought, that no lawyer could teach and even Mary Carelli could not replicate. ‘What,’ Terri asked, ‘did Ransom say after that?’
‘“It’s like they’re negotiating a contract,” he said. “Sex isn’t an insurance policy.” For a minute he seemed angry, and then he looked up and down my body. “What sex is,” he almost whispered, “is spontaneity, and danger.”’ Linton paused. ‘Before I could answer, he put his arm around me.’
Caroline Masters’s posture was stiff, unnatural.
‘What did you do?’ Terri asked.
Linton stared past her. ‘I couldn’t move, felt sick.’ She shook her head. ‘It was like being drugged. I knew what was about to happen, but I couldn’t seem to stop it.’
‘In what way,’ Terri asked quietly, ‘did Ransom first touch you? Sexually, that is.’
Linton looked down. ‘He reached inside my blouse,’ she said quietly, ‘and touched my nipple.’ Her eyes shut, as if to protect herself from those who watched and listened. ‘Then he took my face in his other hand and asked me, “Do you ever watch Laura Chase?”’
There was a release of sound, a low collective gasp. Caroline Masters made no move to silence it. She looked stunned; even Terri, who was prepared for the answer, felt shaken by it.
‘What did you do?’ Terri asked.
‘I shivered.’ There was a first tremor in Linton’s voice. ‘It was as I told you – the fire, the darkness, the elk on the wall. When he said the name Laura Chase, it was as if I’d been trapped in some primitive ritual, by a man who was insane.’
The courtroom was silent again. ‘What did you do?’ Terri asked.
‘I pulled away.’
‘And then?’
Pausing, Linton shook her head. ‘His eyes got so angry,’ she said softly. ‘But he smiled, as if I’d pleased him. Then he raised his hand, very slowly, and slapped me across the face.’ Linton began rocking. ‘My neck snapped back. As I fell back on the couch, I saw yellow flashes. There was blood in my mouth.’
Slowly, Terri turned to Sharpe, and then to Caroline Masters. Sharpe’s gaze seemed inward, reflective; Masters’s mingled compassion and deep thought.
‘What happened next?’ Terri asked.
‘He rose to his knees, waiting for my eyes to open. And then he ripped open my blouse.’ Linton’s voice echoed with disbelief. ‘He told me to watch him do it.
‘“Do you want me to hit you again?” he asked.
‘I couldn’t talk or move. So I shook my head.’ Linton’s voice trembled now. ‘Then he told me to show him my breasts. And to keep my eyes open.’
‘Did you?’
Linton nodded, mute.
‘I’m sorry,’ Terri said softly. ‘We need an audible answer for the record.’
‘I showed him my breasts,’ Linton said tonelessly. ‘And I kept my eyes open.’
Terri ached with sympathy. She remembered that Linton had tried to smile at him, hoping that he would stop, but that her bruised mouth had hurt too much to move.
‘What did he do then?’ Terri asked.
‘He made me unzip my jeans. Then take them off.’ Once more, Linton’s eyes shut. ‘Then he told me to hold his penis while he pulled my panties down. So that I could keep him hard.’
Terri felt drained. For the first time that day, she glanced at Christopher Paget. He watched her for a moment, and slowly nodded.
She turned back to Linton. ‘What happened then?’ she asked.
‘He hurt me.’ Opening her eyes, Linton seemed bewildered. ‘The way he did it was meant to hurt me. For days I hurt inside.’
‘Physically, you mean.’
‘Yes.’ Linton paused. ‘Emotionally, the hurt has never stopped.’
Terri watched for a moment. ‘While he was raping you, Marcy, what did you do?’
‘I lay there, staring up at the elk.’ She shook her head. ‘I was afraid that if I closed my eyes, he’d hit me again.’
The whispers in the courtroom were quiet, deferential. Sharpe was scribbling on a legal pad; it might have been notes, Terri thought, except that the penstrokes seemed aimless. Then Terri caught Mary Carelli’s split-second gaze, perhaps only imagined the smallest of smiles. If you get off, Terri thought coldly, you will owe a lot to Marcy Linton. And to me. She turned back to Linton.
‘When it was over,’ she asked, ‘what did Mark Ransom do?’
Linton looked down. ‘He told me to cook for him. Without clothes.’
‘And did you?’
‘I was afraid of him.’ Linton’s voice became a monotone. ‘And he wanted to watch me.’
The last sentence, with its silent weight of fear and humiliation, lingered there.
‘Are you still afraid of him?’ Terri asked.
Slowly, Linton nodded. ‘He didn’t just rape me,’ she finally said. ‘He changed me. What he left behind was instinctive fear – of life, and of him. I know I can never stop him, no matter how many times he wants to do it.’ Her voice fell. ‘I don’t believe he’s dead. Really, I can’t believe it. He’s been inside me far too long.’
Terri watched her. Softly, she asked, ‘Why didn’t you defend yourself?’
Linton gave a helpless shrug. ‘I just didn’t. I couldn’t. He was too strong, and I had no way to defend myself.’
‘Do you wish you could have?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Linton’s voice became stronger. ‘Much more now, even, than when it happened. Because I know what scars he left behind.’ She paused again. ‘It’s terrible to think about hurting someone else. But in the balance of a life, Mark Ransom lost his right to be safe from hurt when he decided to hurt me.’
Terri nodded. ‘Since then,’ she asked, ‘have you taken steps to protect yourself?’
‘Yes.’ Raising her head, Linton added quietly, ‘I bought a hand-gun.’
The courtroom was still. Terri waited before asking her last question. ‘Why,’ she asked, ‘did you come forward now?’
Linton seemed to hesitate. But when she answered, her voice was clear and firm. ‘Because the only way left to defend myself from Mark Ransom is to tell the world who and what he was. Because women should do that for other women.’ Marcy Linton turned to Mary. ‘And because what Mary Carelli did, I should have done.’
Rising
to cross-examine Marcy Linton, Marnie Sharpe looked tentative. It was as if she were gazing at the specter of doubt.
‘Good afternoon, Ms Linton.’
Linton nodded. ‘Good afternoon.’
Watching in the silent courtroom, Terri thought how strange Sharpe must find this. Sharpe had a visceral hatred of rape; she had spent her professional life protecting its victims. Cross-examining a victim seemed to slow her; when she spoke, her voice was gentler and faintly sad.
‘Let us agree,’ she said to Linton, ‘that Mark Ransom visited your home. And let us further agree that you and he had intercourse on the specific occasion that you just described. And that after that you cooked him dinner. All right?’
‘All right.’
‘When did he leave?’
Paget turned to Terri. ‘How did she know to ask that?’
Terri shook her head, watching Linton. Softly, Linton answered, ‘The next morning.’
‘The next morning? How did that come about?’
Linton looked away. ‘He wanted to stay. I was afraid to argue.’
‘And where did he sleep?’
‘With me.’ Linton hesitated. ‘At least some part of the night.’
Sharpe nodded. ‘Was there some reason,’ she asked, ‘that Mr Ransom did not spend the entire night in your bed?’
Linton flushed. ‘He went downstairs.’
It was uncanny, Terri thought with apprehension; Sharpe seemed to know what to ask, question after question. ‘Was there a particular reason,’ Sharpe asked, ‘that Ransom went downstairs?’
Linton’s shoulders drew in. ‘He tried to make love to me.’
‘Did you resist him?’
‘No.’ Linton shook her head. ‘I was afraid.’
Sharpe paused. ‘Fearful enough,’ she asked quietly, ‘to act like a lover?’
‘Objection,’ Terri called out. ‘Ms Sharpe is dragging the witness through needless pain, to no point. We’ve already established the act of rape and the fear that it caused. How long does the prosecution intend to spell out the forms that fear can take?’
Sharpe turned to Masters. ‘There is a point to this, Your Honor, which the People will make clear if necessary. Even on the record to date, the issue of consent justifies exploring whether Ms Linton’s subsequent actions are truly consistent with rape. But in fairness to this witness, I’ll confine myself to a few more questions.’