Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  He had seconds to decide. Paget felt himself draw breath. Softly, he answered, ‘This is no time for pride, Caroline. Yours or mine.’

  Caroline studied him until she understood what he was telling her. Then she nodded, her expression grave and troubled. But when she turned, facing Joseph Duarte, the look she gave him was one of triumph and complicity. ‘The defense,’ she said, ‘passes Mr Duarte.’

  Duarte gave her a short nod, as if his honor had been satisfied. Watching, Paget saw Victor Salinas smile to himself.

  ‘Then we have a jury,’ Judge Lerner said. ‘Thank you, Counsel and, of course, the ladies and gentlemen of the panel. The trial will commence tomorrow at nine, with opening statements. The clerk will now swear the jury.’

  Lerner’s clerk stepped forward facing the jury and instructed them to raise their right hands. ‘Do you solemnly swear,’ he intoned, ‘that you will well and truly try this case, based on the law and facts, and render a true verdict, so help you God?’

  In ragged chorus, the jurors affirmed the oath. Lerner’s gavel cracked. ‘All rise,’ the stubby bailiff called out, and Jared Lerner left the bench.

  There was noise again, jurors stirring, reporters talking amongst themselves or leaving to file stories. Victor Salinas made his way across the courtroom with a look of undistinguished pleasure. Ignoring Paget, he said to Caroline, ‘The district attorney would like to see you. I think it’s time, don’t you?’

  Still sitting, Paget looked up at him. ‘Sure,’ he said before Caroline could speak. ‘I haven’t seen Mac in months.’

  Salinas turned to him with a neutral expression. ‘I don’t think he was asking you.’

  ‘And I didn’t ask to be here. If Brooks wants to talk, he can damned well talk to both of us.’

  In mute appeal, Salinas looked at Caroline. Paget was sure that she did not want him there. But Caroline simply said, ‘Where I go, Chris goes.’

  ‘I hear the jury’s for shit,’ McKinley Brooks said in matter-of-fact tones. ‘Unless you’re Victor.’

  Caroline gave a generous smile, which took in both Brooks and Salinas. ‘Victor’s very excitable. He also has a sporadic hearing problem.’

  Salinas moved his mouth in a perfunctory smile of his own. ‘Don’t kid a kidder,’ Brooks responded. ‘We basically got the folks we wanted, and your risk of losing just shot up. Even,’ he added pointedly, ‘if you got the judge you wanted, however you pulled that off.’ He leaned back. ‘Jared Lerner lets in everything, and damn the rules of evidence. You think you can win by attacking Arias, and maybe this office. But Victor’s more than ready for a fistfight, if that’s what you want. This is our last chance to work things out before the free-for-all begins.’

  It was past six o’clock; the windows were dark, and the room was the sickly yellow of artificial light. Although Caroline and Paget sat across Brooks’s desk, with Salinas next to Brooks, they spoke as if Paget were not there. He sensed that this was more than aversion to talking in front of a defendant; Brooks and Paget had once been nominal friends, and the handling of the inquiry seemed to have made Brooks uncomfortable. ‘What do you have in mind?’ Caroline asked him.

  Brooks leaned back, folding his hands across his stomach. ‘We might consider,’ he said carefully, ‘dropping this to murder two.’

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you intend to do that? Say that Richie composed his own suicide note and then Chris decided to help him in a spontaneous fit of rage?’

  It was eerie, Paget thought, to listen to himself being bargained over. But he was glad that Caroline seemed unimpressed; it was what he would have done. ‘Come on,’ Brooks was saying. ‘Have you ever seen a judge turn down a deal that lawyers recommended, no matter how bogus? Our problem is politics – persuading the public we haven’t sold poor dead Richie down the river.’

  ‘Oh, you can fix that part,’ Caroline rejoined. ‘So, bottom line . . .’

  ‘Fifteen to life, plus three for using a gun, which means Chris is eligible for parole after twelve. We’ll tell the court we think that he acted under emotional stress, due to all the problems with Richie, and remind Lerner of what we have to prove for first-degree murder: “calm and careful reflection,” the “considered decision to kill,” evidence of planning in advance – all that stuff.’

  ‘Which,’ Salinas interjected, ‘is more than you can argue, isn’t it, Caroline?’

  Caroline turned to him. ‘You’ll have to explain that.’

  ‘I think you’re going with suicide.’ Salinas gave her a derisive smile. ‘Once you do that, your choices narrow. You can’t just tell the jury, “We think Arias killed himself, but if Chris did kill him, it was because he was all excited.” I mean it just doesn’t work, does it? Especially’ – he shot his first quick glance at Paget – ‘because your client has the little problem about testifying. If he doesn’t testify, there’s no one to say it wasn’t murder one. And if he does, he has to say either that he didn’t do it or that he did, but only in a blind rage.’ He gave Caroline another smile. ‘Without a deal, your client’s choice is not guilty – probably by trying to sell this bullshit about suicide – or being convicted of murder one and going away for twenty-five to life. because no parole board will let him out any earlier.’

  It was, Paget thought miserably, a telling description of the box he was in. ‘There is another choice,’ he said. ‘Maybe Mac could testify.’

  These, his first words, brought a reluctant gaze from Brooks. In a tone that suggested he was humoring Paget, Brooks responded, ‘What about?’

  ‘All the conversations you had with people about this case.’ Paget paused, adding mildly, ‘Beyond the ones with people in law enforcement, that is.’

  Brooks examined his hands as if they were of real interest. ‘Why don’t you tell me what that means.’

  ‘Manslaughter,’ Caroline said in her most astringent voice. ‘Three years max. Assuming that Chris condescends to take it.’

  Salinas looked from Caroline to Brooks; Paget could see him wondering what the district attorney had not told him. ‘I’m not prepared to give you manslaughter,’ Brooks said slowly. ‘The papers would kill me for it.’

  Caroline shook her head. ‘Oh, McKinley,’ she said. ‘It really is a thankless business isn’t it? Carrying water for the mighty.’

  Brooks’s face grew hard. ‘There’s nothing there,’ he said tersely. ‘And I’d hate to see you play with matches. You could get burned.’

  ‘Someone might.’ Caroline’s eyes glinted. ‘As for me, I’m going home tonight, turn out the lights, and lie there in the dark wondering what I ever did to make you think I’d sell my soul for a politician I wouldn’t wipe my floor with.’

  Brooks seemed to sit back in his chair, and then he gave her a wintry smile. ‘You always were the cat who walks alone, Caroline.’

  She looked him in the face. ‘I still am.’

  They stared at each other for a moment, and then Brooks’s gaze broke, moving from Caroline to Paget and back again. ‘You’re going to lose,’ he said to Caroline. ‘Murder two is the best I can offer.’

  She turned to Paget. ‘Is this even worth discussing?’

  ‘No,’ Paget answered softly, then turned to Brooks. ‘And no. Because you fucked with me, Mac. You trashed my home, scared my kid, and hassled Terri and her six-year-old daughter. All so you could curry a little favor with Colt by running me out of politics.’ He paused. ‘And because, eyewitness or no, I didn’t do it.’

  Salinas was quick to ask, ‘Does that mean that you’re going to testify?’

  For another moment, Paget kept looking at Brooks. ‘I don’t know,’ he said to Salinas. ‘It depends on whether you catch my interest.’

  Salinas sat back studying him.

  ‘Is that all, McKinley?’ Caroline asked.

  Brooks slowly nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I guess that’s all.’

  Caroline and Paget stood. ‘See you tomorrow,’ Salinas said brusquely, and opened the door.r />
  Without another word, Caroline and Paget walked to the elevator.

  Alone with him in the elevator, Caroline expelled a deep breath. Somehow, Paget thought, she looked smaller.

  ‘You’re doing a great job,’ Paget said.

  Caroline gave him a half smile. She said nothing.

  They reached the underground garage. Caroline walked beside him to her car, still silent. She unlocked the door, and then stood there as if seized by a thought, turning back to Paget. ‘Buy me a drink, Chris, and tell me we did the right thing.’

  For a moment, he thought, Caroline Masters looked tired and a little lonely. Paget shook his head. ‘I have to get back to Carlo. You understand.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Paget looked at her. Impulsively, gently, he kissed her on the forehead, and then looked into her questioning eyes. ‘We did the right thing, Caroline. No matter what happens.’

  ‘Want to shoot some hoops?’ Paget asked.

  Carlo pushed his chair back from the dining room table, stretching his legs and studying his father with veiled eyes. In the almost ten years they had lived together, Paget had recently calculated, they had eaten perhaps three thousand dinners in this same room – usually just the two of them, sitting under the eighteenth-century crystal chandelier at a walnut table that seated twelve – discussing the events of the day, or sports, or politics or Carlo’s school friends or whatever came to mind. Paget had reviewed Carlo’s second-grade math homework there; admired the watercolor that won the school art contest when Carlo was ten; helped him write his first term paper and fill out his applications to high school. Since his arrest, every moment with Carlo seemed to resonate with earlier moments; sitting here, it seemed to Paget that he had watched Carlo grow up at this table.

  Paget was not a nostalgic man; he enjoyed Carlo more at every age and looked forward to Carlo as an adult, the son who would also be his friend. This sudden tendency to remember Carlo as a younger boy, with tenderness and regret for the passage of years, was a trick of the mind, Paget knew, another symptom of the palpable desire to stop time that had begun with his arrest. On the eve of a trial that could end their life together, Paget felt such regret and self-blame that only clinging to the past provided relief.

  Now, with an almost desperate longing, Paget wished to shoot baskets. To remind himself of the weekend he had put up the hoop; the first day he had taught Carlo to shoot; the time that, watching Carlo fill with pride, he had raised the basket to its full ten feet. But Carlo could not know this: he was living in the present, Paget saw, where his father had been indicted for murder and might spend the rest of his life – and much of Carlo’s – in prison. It was the thought that Paget awoke to in the middle of the night; he did not wish to dwell on it. All he wanted was to play Horse.

  ‘One game,’ said Paget.

  Carlo frowned at him. ‘Would you mind just talking, Dad?’

  His son’s tone was so flat that it brought Paget up short; he had been expecting Carlo to fill his needs for escape, when what Carlo needed was the father he had always had. Suddenly Paget felt ashamed; he reserved his deepest contempt for parents who ignored their children’s needs or, worse, expected their children to take care of them.

  ‘Sure.’ At dinner, Paget realized now, he had been silent. ‘Sorry. I was just looking for distraction, I guess.’

  Carlo seemed to take a second look at him, and then his face grew softer. ‘We can talk while we shoot,’ he said. ‘The ball’s in my closet.’

  Carlo went upstairs; Paget took the stairs down through the basement to the driveway and flicked on the lights he had installed to illuminate the hoop at night. He stood there, gazing up at the hoop; Carlo, who had once been so tentative, should be all-league next year. Paget wondered if he would be free to watch him.

  He heard the screen door open behind him, close with a swish, and then the rubbery thump of his son bouncing the basketball. Paget smiled to himself; the sound had so many associations with Carlo that he could replay the memories for hours.

  A basketball flew over Paget’s head, arcing through the light and shadow, and hit the backboard of the hoop above the garage, barely grazing the rim.

  ‘Shit,’ Carlo said.

  Paget laughed. Carlo had all the tools except for a good outside jump shot: speed, dexterity, and reflexes Paget had never possessed at any age. But the one thing Paget had maintained from prep school was a soft jumper he could still hit about half the time. It was why his only means of challenging Carlo was to play Horse, alternating shots until a player sank one and the other had to make the shot or receive a letter. The first one to spell out ‘horse’ lost; in recent years, Paget could still win a game by camping outside and, with cheerful sadism, shooting jump shot after jump shot. ‘My object is to improve your game,’ he would explain straight-faced to Carlo, who would mumble in disgust and wait unti Paget missed, so that he could return to the repertoire of drives and hook shots his father could not match.

  Paget picked up the ball, dribbled to a point about twenty feet away, and fired. With a smooth arc, the ball rose in the dark and then suddenly seemed to fall, flashing through the net without touching metal. ‘True greatness,’ Paget said admiringly. ‘Vintage Christopher Paget.’

  ‘And the fans go wild,’ Carlo said with naked sarcasm. He retrieved the ball and went to the spot of Paget’s shot. He eyed the net carefully, bounced the ball twice, and then fired it in a flat trajectory that hit the rim, bouncing the ball toward Paget. Carlo seemed to study the net and then jumped as if he had the ball, flicking his wrists in a pantomine shot. ‘There,’ he murmured.

  ‘“H,”’ his father answered.

  Paget backed away from the net, took roughly the same shot, and missed.

  Carlo gathered up the ball. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how’s your jury?’

  ‘All right.’ Saying this, Paget wished that it were so. ‘A lot depends on how they respond to the lawyers. A friend of mine once said, “A trial is where you choose twelve people to decide which lawyer they like best.” It’s a little cynical, but there’s something in it.’

  Carlo walked to where his father had stood and gazed at the basket gauging his shot. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘How do you feel about that? I mean, Caroline’s smart and all. But she doesn’t seem that warm and fuzzy.’

  Without waiting for an answer, Carlo replicated Paget’s jump. This time it landed inside the rim, swirled once, and came out again.

  ‘Trying to beat me at my own game?’ Paget asked.

  Carlo shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

  Paget retrieved the ball. ‘About Caroline, I picked what I’m comfortable with, and I’m happier with cool and smart than some folksy gunslinger who thinks he’s Mr Populist.’ He paused for a moment; Carlo’s tenuous early life had made him a careful observer, and with his usual good instincts, he had hit upon Paget’s only real doubt about Caroline. ‘Jurors don’t like arrogance,’ Paget continued. ‘But they do admire style and intelligence, and a lot of people seem to have a secret longing for aristocracy – which is why admiring the Kennedys became a national exercise in self-improvement. Wit and style seem part of Caroline Masters’ birthright, and she can adapt her touch to the audience. She’ll do fine with these people.’

  Paget hoped that was right. He bounced the ball once and arched another jump shot, which fell through the hoop, ‘The pressure’s on,’ he said to Carlo.

  Carlo got the ball. ‘Is Caroline going to talk to me again? Before I testify?’

  ‘Sure.’ Paget turned to him. Inside, he ached for Carlo; not only would Salinas try to make him testify against his father, but he would drag him through Richie’s charges that he molested Elena. Paget wished that he could help his son prepare, and blamed himself that Carlo had to face this at all. But it would not help to say this now.

  ‘You couldn’t be in better hands,’ Paget added calmly. ‘Caroline will prepare you not only for everything she’ll ask you but for everything Victor Salinas will ask yo
u. That way, you’ll be as comfortable as possible.’

  Carlo turned to him. ‘I really am feeling the pressure,’ he said quietly. ‘But not from your stupid jump shot. I just want you around to shoot it, okay?’

  Paget smiled. ‘Okay.’

  Carlo shook his head. Even more softly, he said, ‘I wish I could talk to you about what to say.’

  Paget gazed at him across the half-lit driveway. ‘I know, son. But we can’t.’

  Carlo was staring at him now. ‘Dad,’ he said slowly, ‘I really don’t want to screw up.’

  ‘Then just tell the truth. That way you can’t screw up.’

  But Carlo only looked at him. Oh, God, Paget thought, you’re not really sure, are you? ‘Look,’ Paget went on, ‘we really can’t talk about this, okay? But I’ve never told a serious lie that I haven’t paid some price for, and there are some I’ve had to live with for a long time.’ He paused, finishing softly: ‘Don’t try to do that for me, Carlo. I’ll know you’re doing it, and it will hurt me. And if Salinas catches you at it, that could hurt me quite badly.’

  Carlo rested the ball on his hip, looking back at Paget as if to fathom his meaning. ‘All this evidence they say they have . . .’

  ‘Will be explained. Just be patient, for two more weeks.’ Paget tried to smile. ‘Meanwhile, shoot the ball, okay?’

  Inside, through the screen door, came the distant ringing of a telephone. With an anxious expression, Carlo turned, ‘It’s probably Terri,’ Paget said, ‘calling to wish me luck. I’ll call her in a while.’

  Carlo gave his father a questioning look. ‘It’s fine,’ Paget said. ‘We’ve got a game to play.’

  Carlo hesitated, then he turned to the basket, breathing in once, and sank the jump shot.

  ‘Grace under pressure,’ Paget remarked. As Carlo flipped him the ball, he heard the phone still ringing.

  Something in the conversation, Paget realized, made him remember the times when Carlo was much younger and Paget had cheated to help him win, missing easy shots or miscounting the letters of ‘horse.’ It was one thing that Paget did not miss; all at once, he wished that he could talk to his son, his friend.