Degree of Guilt Read online

  He shook his head, smiling as if to say that his insistence was well intended, that he knew what was best for them. ‘It’s early yet,’ he answered lightly. ‘And I have to reclaim my territory.’

  ‘Really, I don’t think that I could even come.’

  Persisting, his smile seemed to become an act of aggression. ‘Then we’ll do the short version, rather than the deluxe.’

  What, Terri wondered, was the difference?

  She turned out the light, slid inside the bed on her stomach. Passive resistance, she thought; maybe he’ll give up. She felt his hand lightly stroke her thighs; his touch was idle, aimless, as if he had nothing on his mind. Then it came to rest between her legs.

  ‘Come on, Ter,’ he murmured. ‘Just for a little while.’

  His hand began to move again, small strokes where it had rested. Mentally, Terri shuddered.

  As he touched her, Terri moved on her stomach, calculating the value of sleep. If she resisted, a quarrel would ensue. Richie could be relentless in his anger; the fulcrum of their marriage, Terrie realized, was his uncanny sense of when her resistance would become fatigue. She could not afford to be tired; she owed Christopher Paget and Carlo, owed herself, the best she could offer as a lawyer.

  How many times, Terri wondered, had Richie been inside her? How much would this time matter?

  How long had she been dead this way?

  Silent, Terri rolled over on her back. Richie’s murmur of satisfaction seemed to come from some great distance. He would enter her without words, she knew; like many things, the act of sex was something that took Richie deep within himself, until Terri felt a bystander. She no longer thought of what they did as making love.

  Sliding across her, Richie put his hands beneath her bottom, to move her as he wanted. She felt him push inside her. As he went as deep as he could, moaning his pleasure, she draped her arms across his back and wished that he were someone else.

  The next morning, Teresa Peralta found herself with Christopher Paget on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice, Mary Carelli between them, pushing through a lobby jammed with reporters.

  Three broad-shouldered police ahead of them parted the crowd – reporters with microphones or notepads; photographers with flash-bulbs; cameramen with minicams mounted on their shoulders, backpedaling to film the progress toward the courtroom. Terri glanced sideways. Mary Carelli looked composed and determined; Paget’s expression was abstracted, removed from his surroundings, as if focused on the hearing ahead. In the last days, Paget’s face or Mary’s had been on the cover of four weekly magazines and on every network newscast; inside the courtroom waited the cameras of Court TV. Terri had hardly slept last night; she wondered if Paget had slept at all.

  At the end of the green hallway she saw the double doors of the courtroom. From the side, reporters shouted questions, flashbulbs hissed, footsteps echoed off bare walls. In another minute or so, they would be inside, and it would begin.

  Instinctively, she looked at the boy walking next to her: Carlo Carelli Paget, awkward but handsome in a coat and tie, looking so much like his mother that Terri thought some reporter would surely notice. Carlo turned to her, flashed the crooked, uncertain smile she had come to recognize; once again, Terri hoped that her advice to Christopher Paget would not damage a boy she had come to care about.

  A flashbulb exploded in their faces.

  She touched Carlo’s arm, too quickly for anyone to see. Then she forced herself to look straight ahead, the dots of light from the flash still blurring her line of vision.

  Thirty feet from the doors of the courtroom, Terri saw Paget turn at the sound of a question.

  The noise had grown louder; the media people were backed against the doorways as if they had hit a wall. It was a red-haired woman reporter whose question had pierced the din: she slid behind the police and stood looking from Mary to Carlo.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked Carlo again.

  Carlo gazed down at her with a pained expression, as if trapped in an awkward social situation by a drunken and rude adult. ‘I’m Carlo Paget,’ he murmured.

  Turning, Terri saw that Mary Carelli was stiff with alarm; Paget began pushing in front of her to get to the reporter. ‘He’s my son,’ he snapped in a preemptive tone.

  Carlo looked at him, as if startled. Then a slight smile of amusement crossed his face, relieving his look of tension. ‘I can’t deny it,’ he said to the reporter.

  The crowd kept moving toward the door. ‘What are you doing here?’ the reporter asked. ‘Learning about the law?’

  ‘No,’ Carlo answered calmly. ‘I’m thinking about medical school. In case I don’t make the NBA.’

  Paget had stopped to watch him; it was as if, Terri thought, he was seeing who Carlo Paget had become.

  ‘You don’t want to be a lawyer?’ the reporter asked.

  From the side, a minicam moved in on Carlo. He glanced over, taking that in, and then looked back at the reporter. ‘Not at all,’ he told her. ‘I just want to be a son.’ He turned to face Paget and Mary. ‘Christopher Paget is my father, and Mary Carelli is my mother. And all I really have to say to anyone is that I’m very proud of them both.’

  The reporter was momentarily speechless. Touching Terri’s arm, Carlo gave Mary a slight smile, shot a grin at Paget, and turned back toward the door. Then they opened, and Carlo Paget walked through.

  PART FOUR

  The Prosecution

  FEBRUARY 10 – FEBRUARY 12

  Chapter 1

  ‘All rise,’ the courtroom deputy called out. ‘The Municipal Court for the City and County of San Francisco, the Honorable Judge Caroline Clark Masters, is now in session.’

  A handsome woman on the worst of days, Caroline Masters looked close to regal as she surveyed a courtroom filled by media representatives from around the world, with a small section reserved for members of the public who had lined up outside for the privilege of attending in hour-long shifts. More reporters watched in adjacent rooms fed by closed-circuit television; two cameras in each corner of the courtroom broadcast the hearing nationwide. On the steps of the courthouse, a coalition of women’s groups carried signs and placards asking justice for Mary Carelli.

  Mary herself stood beside Paget; the awe of finding herself in the cockpit of a crowded courtroom, charged with premeditated murder, showed in the way she grasped the table reserved for the defense. On his other side, Terri looked tired and troubled. Carlo sat behind them in the first row; Johnny Moore had joined him and sat primed to feed Paget scraps of information for use in cross-examination.

  Turning, Paget glanced at Marnie Sharpe. She looked pale. But her alertness of expression said that she was ready. Paget was certain that she, like him, had committed every pertinent fact to memory; had designed and redesigned lines of questioning; and had prepared herself against surprise. The one edge he carried to the courtroom was how much he had at stake.

  From the bench, Caroline Masters appraised them both. The judicial frown she wore seemed the residue of pleasure and anticipation.

  ‘Ms Sharpe,’ she began, ‘Mr Paget. A few ground rules. I suggest you listen carefully.

  ‘First, the presence of television is a responsibility, not a chance to entertain. There will be only one “personality” in this courtroom – and you’re listening to her.’

  The judge paused, her voice becoming crisp and surgical. ‘Second,’ she continued, ‘we will be ruling on contested points of evidence – whether certain witnesses are relevant or other evidence should be made public – by holding private sessions in chambers. The transcript of those proceedings will be sealed, so as to avoid prejudice to all participants. If anyone alludes to the subject matter of those proceedings without my prior permission, this court will personally bring them before the disciplinary committee of the California State Bar.’

  This, Paget knew, was a warning not to mention the Laura Chase tapes; James Colt; Steinhardt’s recording of Mary; or the proposed testimony of any wit
nesses to Mark Ransom’s sexual character until Masters ruled on them in private. The pressure of those issues, Paget thought, made even Masters seem apprehensive.

  ‘Third,’ the judge went on, ‘I reserve the right to pull the plug on all or part of these proceedings. If either the People or the defense makes an argument, or even asks a question, which I believe is designed more to create bias than to advance their legitimate interests, they will be severely penalized.

  ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honor,’ Sharpe said.

  Paget nodded. ‘Quite clear, Your Honor.’

  ‘Good.’ Masters looked down at Paget. ‘Not to single you out, Mr Paget, but you singled yourself out by asking for this. I expect exemplary behavior.’

  ‘The court has every right to that,’ Paget answered mildly. ‘From everyone.’

  Masters raised her eyebrow. ‘I’m sure everyone,’ she said with the slightest edge, ‘is aware of that as you are.’ She turned to Sharpe. ‘I’ve suggested opening statements. Do you have one?’

  ‘We do,’ responded Sharpe. She stepped to the podium, looking up at Caroline Masters, and the hearing began.

  ‘This,’ Sharpe opened, ‘is a simple act of murder.’

  Her voice quavered slightly, Paget thought, as if her larynx had been squeezed. But it was a good first sentence, and he was certain that the words themselves were crafted to get better.

  ‘Mary Carelli admits shooting Mark Ransom to death. The one thing standing between the People and the “probable cause” is Ms Carelli’s story about why she killed him.’ Abruptly, Sharpe’s voice was etched with scorn. ‘Or, I should say, her stories.

  ‘Because if Ms Carelli presumes to testify before this court, she must tell the court a far different story than she told Inspector Charles Monk.’

  This was clever, Paget saw: make Mary’s credibility the focus of her argument; suggest that Mary will insult the court by lying; and then, in chambers, finish the job by asking to introduce a tape in which Mary admits perjury before the United States Senate. Next to him, Mary watched the prosecutor intently, as if preparing for cross-examination. Paget dared not look at Carlo.

  ‘Let us start with the only things about which Ms Carelli appears to have told the truth to anyone.

  ‘Mark Ransom did contact her.

  ‘Thereafter, Ms Carelli did purchase a gun.

  ‘She did come to San Francisco, at her own expense, without telling ABC or anyone else.

  ‘She did go to Mark Ransom’s suite with the Walther .380 hidden in her purse.

  ‘And then, at about noon, Mary Carelli shot Mark Ransom to death.

  ‘Right there, we have a probable cause for first degree murder.’ Sharpe paused for effect, and then her voice dropped. ‘And from there on,’ she added, ‘things get much worse for Ms Carelli.’

  Caroline Masters leaned forward, betraying her interest. Terri was utterly still. The courtroom was far too quiet for Paget’s liking.

  ‘Mary Carelli claims to have purchased the handgun because of anonymous phone calls, to her unlisted number, which she failed to report to anyone.

  ‘She says that Mr Ransom lured her to the hotel room with information regarding Laura Chase.’ Sharpe paused. ‘On that point,’ she said dryly, ‘I will say nothing for the moment. I simply ask the court to keep that claim in mind.

  ‘She says, even more fundamentally, that Mr Ransom tried to rape her.’ The contempt returned to her voice. ‘That while maintaining an erection, Mark Ransom scratched her throat and leg and threw her to the ground. And then, in the ensuing struggle, that she shot him from a distance of two to three inches.’

  Sharpe paused and then began speaking in staccato sound bites, perfect for television. ‘Here is what we will show.

  ‘There is no evidence of sexual arousal.

  ‘The only skin beneath anyone’s fingernails was found under Ms Carelli’s.

  ‘There is no extraneous sign of a struggle.

  ‘And as the medical examiner will tell us, Ms Carelli’s tale of shooting from two or three inches is off by at least two or three feet, rendering her entire story of the shooting implausible at best.’

  Sharpe stood upright, as if galvanized by sudden anger. ‘What Ms Carelli appears to have done,’ she said with scorn, ‘is to fashion a fashionable defense from an issue which is far too real to far too many women to be so cheaply used.’ She turned to gaze at Mary. ‘Indeed, it seems that the only reason Ms Carelli did not accuse Mark Ransom of child abuse is that she has reached the age of majority. For there is about as much evidence of child abuse as there is of rape.’ As she paused, the two women stared at each other. ‘Of course,’ Sharpe added quietly, ‘once one shoots someone to death, one can speak without fear of contradiction. About the dead, one can just say about anything. The only boundaries are this one woman’s sense of honor, and of truth.’

  Caroline Masters had begun to look impatient; her expression said that she did not require rhetoric. But Paget could imagine all too clearly the first few moments of the evening news.

  ‘Unfortunately for Ms Carelli, there is more.

  ‘At first blush, these discrepancies seem merely a grab bag of anomalies.

  ‘For example, Ms Carelli told Inspector Monk that when she arrived at Mr Ransom’s suite, the shades were drawn.

  ‘We will produce three witnesses. One saw Ms Carelli and Mr Ransom sitting in a sunlit room with the shades up. The second witness saw Ms Carelli draw the blinds herself.’ Sharpe’s voice rose, became relentless. ‘And the third saw Ms Carelli outside the room. After Mr Ransom died.

  ‘Ms Carelli told Inspector Monk that she called 911 as soon as possible.

  ‘The medical examiner, Dr Elizabeth Shelton, estimates that Mr Ransom had been dead for the better part of an hour when Ms Carelli placed that call.’

  Suddenly Sharpe’s voice grew quiet. ‘Ms Carelli claims to have scratched Mr Ransom’s naked buttocks in the struggle to defend herself.’

  She paused again, speaking each word slowly. ‘But Dr Shelton believes that when Mark Ransom received the scratches, he was well beyond struggling. Specifically,’ she finished softly, ‘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.’

  The audience emitted different sounds: shocked exclamations; murmured questions; the rustle of people turning to each other. Masters raised the gavel. The audience fell silent, waiting.

  ‘Dead for a half hour,’ Sharpe repeated. ‘The half hour, we will suggest, that Ms Carelli was casting about for a story to tell.’

  Sharpe focused her gaze on Masters. ‘And what will all this tell us? That Ms Carelli lied to the police, to cover her crime. Just as she must lie to the court.’

  Masters’s face was grim; Paget could not tell whether it was intended to foreclose the thought that Sharpe could prejudice her, or to express her determination that Mary Carelli could not lie with impunity.

  ‘And what of motive?’ Sharpe inquired mildly. ‘As a matter of law, we need not show one. Motive is not an element of the crime, and as to the elements themselves, we have more than enough for probable cause.’ Sharpe’s voice rose again. ‘But we do have motive. We will present that evidence to the court, in chambers, and ask the court to rule that it is admissible.’

  Paget began to rise. Sharpe was skirting Masters’s instructions, touting evidence the judge might not permit her to present in public. When he hesitated, fearful of drawing too much attention, Masters cut in. ‘On Mr Paget’s behalf,’ she snapped, ‘you’ve crossed the line. When I asked you not to talk about proceedings in chambers after the fact, I assumed that you would refrain from describing them before the fact. Or is there some distinction that eludes me?’

  Sharpe had frozen. ‘No, Your Honor,’ she said in chastened tones. ‘I apologize for any error.’

  Masters frowned. ‘If that’s what it was, Counselor. Move on.’

  But Sharpe had lo
st the force of her argument. She paused and then chose to wind up.

  ‘Your Honor,’ she started again, ‘only one more thing need be said.

  ‘Rape is a deep and serious societal problem. It should not be the issue de jour for a media-wise defendant, desperate to avoid the consequences of murder, eager to tell whatever story she thinks will work.’ Sharpe had recovered her confidence. ‘What Mary Carelli says is unworthy of belief. What Mary Carelli did is commit premeditated murder, and that is what the evidence will show.’ Sharpe stood straighter yet. ‘With respect, Your Honor, this court must find probable cause to hold Mary Carelli for the murder of Mark Ransom.’

  For a moment, she stood silent at the podium, gazing up at Caroline Masters. When she turned and walked back to her table, taking the room’s energy with her, Paget felt respect and apprehension. Mary Carelli looked away.

  ‘Listening to Ms Sharpe,’ Paget began, ‘my first thought was that speeches are not evidence, and sound bites are not facts.’

  There was silence in the courtroom; Paget knew he already had the attention of the media. But Masters’s narrow face registered displeasure, as if anticipating a personal attack on Sharpe.

  ‘My second thought,’ Paget continued evenly, ‘was that rape is far too serious a matter to be treated as casually as the People have treated it this morning.’ He turned to Sharpe. ‘As serious a matter as the beating of a woman – the kind that leaves her bruised and in shock. And that is far too serious a fact to slip the prosecution’s mind.

  ‘Yet, somehow, it did.’

  Paget paused. ‘Listening to the prosecution’s pastiche of circumstantial evidence, I was reminded of a somewhat troubling evening I spent a year or so ago.

  ‘It occurred, of all places, at the movies.’

  Masters’s shoulders moved, a small gesture of impatience. ‘I was with my son,’ Paget went on, and then turned to Carlo and Mary. ‘Ms Carelli’s son.’