Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  ‘And who defended Ms Carelli?’

  Monk folded his arms. ‘Mr Paget. And Ms Peralta.’

  Caroline smiled. ‘And just for the sake of posterity, who was the judge in the case?’

  ‘You were.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘In this initial conversation with the D.A., did Mr Brooks mention the Carelli case?’

  Monk nodded in turn. ‘He did.’

  In the jury box, Marian Cellar gave Salinas a look of wariness and interest. ‘And what,’ Caroline asked Monk, ‘was the context?’

  ‘That anything involving Mr Paget was sensitive – that people might be watching us for bias.’

  ‘Did Mr Brooks tell you that, as a result, he was keeping hands off?’

  ‘No.’ Monk inhaled visibly. ‘What he told me, Counselor, was that he wanted me to report to him directly – on everything. Even though Mr Salinas was being assigned to the case.’

  ‘Was this unusual?’

  Monk seemed to consider the word. ‘It wasn’t usual.’

  ‘Did Mr Brooks give you any other reason that the case was sensitive?’

  Monk took a sip of water. ‘What he mentioned was that Mr Paget might be running for the United States Senate.’

  ‘Did he state a position on Mr Paget’s candidacy?’

  Monk gave a half smile. ‘The D.A. and I don’t have those kinds of conversations.’

  ‘Did he mention anyone outside the office who had a potential interest in the Arias murder?’

  Monk considered her. ‘No one specific.’

  ‘In that first conversation, did you discuss the specifics of the case?’

  ‘To some extent. I reviewed what we had found in Mr Arias’s apartment.’

  ‘Did Mr Brooks comment?’

  ‘Yes.’ Monk sat back, as if preparing for a long stay, and then said quietly, ‘He was interested in the ten thousand dollars in cash we found in Mr Arias’s closet.’

  Suddenly Paget saw where this was going; it was hard to suppress a smile. ‘What did you tell the D.A.?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘That I wanted to know where the money came from.’

  Caroline, Paget saw, had a faint smile of her own. ‘And how did Mr Brooks respond?’

  Monk webbed his fingers. ‘He told me to check Mr Paget’s and Ms Peralta’s bank records and then get back to him.’

  ‘And did you check?’

  ‘Yes.’ Monk’s voice was flat now. ‘We couldn’t trace the cash to either one of them.’

  Joseph Duarte looked up from his notes. ‘Did you so inform District Attorney Brooks?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how did he respond?’

  ‘That he didn’t think the cash was relevant.’

  ‘Did he give you any specific instructions?’

  Monk’s eyes met Caroline’s. ‘To drop trying to trace the money.’

  At the defense table, Paget turned to Salinas and slowly shook his head. Salinas spread his hands a fraction, as if to disclaim involvement, then turned away.

  ‘Tell me,’ Caroline was asking, ‘did Mr Brooks give you any instructions regarding your treatment of Mr Paget?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Monk folded his arms. ‘No favoritism.’

  ‘Was that a real risk?’

  Monk gave her a long expressionless look. ‘What the D.A. said,’ he answered with a trace of irony, ‘was that it shouldn’t seem like we were favoring Mr Paget because of politics.’

  ‘No worry on that score, was there? Did you ever have a more specific conversation about what “no favoritism” meant?’

  ‘Yes.’ For the first time in a while, Monk looked at Paget. ‘After the eyewitness and the matching prints, the D.A. submitted the case to the grand jury, and an arrest warrant was issued. I asked him if we should contact you, as Mr Paget’s lawyer, and ask if he’d submit himself for arraignment voluntarily.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘No. Unless the defendant’s a flight risk.’ Monk looked at Paget again. ‘Mr Paget has a son. Didn’t seem to be any point in putting the boy through all that.’

  ‘Indeed. And what was the D.A.’s response?’

  ‘He repeated that he didn’t want to be showing Mr Paget any favoritism.’ Monk paused, then added with sardonic casualness, ‘You know, just because Mr Paget was in politics.’

  A corner of Caroline’s mouth twitched upward. ‘I see. Tell me, did you consider the ten thousand dollars you’d found in Mr Arias’s closet to be a suspicious circumstance?’

  ‘Yes. I did.’

  Caroline donned an almost innocent expression. ‘In your experience, Inspector, are large amounts of money in actual cash often associated with criminal activities?’

  ‘Objection.’ Salinas stood, angry now. ‘The question not only calls for speculation, but it’s completely irrelevant to the question of whether Mr Paget murdered Mr Arias.’

  ‘But not,’ Caroline shot back, ‘irrelevant to the question of whether someone murdered Mr Arias.’

  The jury, Paget saw, seemed utterly enthralled.

  ‘Ms Masters’ question,’ Lerner said to Salinas, ‘comports with my experience. And I’m anxious to hear Inspector Monk’s answer.’

  In the witness chair, Monk folded his hands on his stomach, a distant, almost dreamy look spreading across his face. It was all Paget could do not to laugh: the money was surely Colt’s; Salinas could say nothing; and Caroline was about to kill him with it. Salinas, Monk, Paget, and Caroline all knew that; only the jury was in the dark.

  ‘Yes,’ Monk said solemnly to Caroline. ‘In my experience, large amounts of cash are often associated with activities that people don’t want anyone else to discover.’

  ‘Is drug dealing among those activities?’

  ‘Not always.’ Monk’s expression remained deadpan. ‘But that’s maybe the most common.’

  At the prosecution table, Salinas stared at the wall, as if willing himself to stay calm.

  ‘And did you,’ Caroline asked, ‘happen to inquire into whether Mr Arias was dealing drugs?’

  It was, Paget thought, sublime.

  ‘No,’ Monk said evenly.

  ‘And in your experience,’ Caroline asked, ‘is drug dealing frequently associated with violence?’

  ‘That can happen. There’s a lot of distrust and double-crossing. And a lot of cash.’ With an almost professorial air, Monk adjusted his glasses. ‘Plus, you’re not dealing here with the finest elements of society.’

  ‘Again, in your experience, are drug dealers inclined to carry weapons?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Do these weapons tend to be registered?’

  ‘No. People who ignore drug laws don’t make a habit of obeying the gun laws. It might start a bad precedent.’

  Caroline paused. ‘Did you consider the possibility that Mr Arias was killed in a drug-related incident?’

  Monk frowned now; Paget sensed Brooks’s punishment was going too far for his liking. ‘I have to tell you, Counselor, that I had no reason to suspect that Arias was a drug dealer.’

  ‘Other than the cash?’

  Monk shifted in the witness chair. ‘I couldn’t explain it, that’s all.’

  ‘Because Mr Brooks stopped you.’

  Monk considered her; an experienced witness, he knew that she was trying to end her examination on a high note. In a’ level voice, he answered, ‘I don’t know what would have happened. Maybe we’d have never traced that money.’

  For a long moment, Caroline looked back at him. ‘But it bothers you, doesn’t it?’

  Monk seemed to look amused, as if knowing that the truth was a gift. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘It bothered me. But I don’t believe it would have changed anything for Mr Paget.’

  ‘Of course,’ Caroline put in smoothly, ‘Mr Brooks didn’t want to show Mr Paget any favouritsm. You didn’t happen to show your eyewitness – Mrs Keller – photos of any drug dealers, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you
show Mrs Keller any pictures at all – other than Mr Paget’s?’

  Monk fixed Caroline with a level gaze. ‘No.’

  ‘Is that your usual practice?’

  ‘It is not.’

  ‘Then why, Inspector, this exception for Mr Paget?’

  Monk leaned back. ‘Mr Brooks,’ he said, ‘wanted an ID immediately. To see if we could rule Mr Paget in or out, he said.’ Another pause. ‘We also had a lineup, Counselor.’

  ‘Indeed you did. And where, Inspector Monk, did you find the other five members of Mr Paget’s lineup?’

  ‘Mr Paget found them.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The county jail.’

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. ‘It is an unfortunate fact, is it not, that the great majority of the county jail prison population is nonwhite?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Besides Mr Paget, how many members of the lineup were Caucasian?’

  Monk scowled. ‘One.’

  Caroline put her hands on her hips. ‘And whose idea was it to have Mr Paget choose among prisoners?’

  Monk stared at her fixedly, a man who did not like giving excuses. ‘The district attorney,’ he said finally. ‘When I arrested Mr Paget, the D.A. told me to line him up the quickest way I could. That was the quickest way.’

  Caroline’s slow nod seemed a gesture of respect. She studied Monk in the silence. ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said at last. ‘I have no further questions. At least about your role.’

  She walked slowly back to the defense table.

  The jury seemed to follow her to her chair. Sitting, Caroline looked quite calm, except that her eyes were unusually bright.

  And then Salinas was up. In a quick series of questions, he established that Brooks had never told Monk to go after Paget and that the evidence against Paget was gathered by the police and the medical examiner without interference. But in the end, Paget thought, the jury would remember two conflicting strands: Paget’s fingerprints on the answering machine, and the suspicion that, for reasons of politics and spite, McKinley Brooks had kept the inquiry focused on Paget.

  After Salinas had finished, a weary Jared Lerner adjourned court for the day. With a final fathomless glance at Paget, Monk left the courtroom, a professional who had done his job.

  When Paget turned to Caroline, he saw her beckon to Victor Salinas.

  The courtroom was noisy and a little chaotic – reporters rushing to file stories, spectators talking, the jury filing out. Glancing over his shoulder, Salinas walked to the defense table.

  ‘Cute,’ he told Caroline under his breath.

  Caroline gave him a hard smile. ‘More than cute, Victor. I want McKinley’s ass in court, as a witness.’ She stared up at him. ‘Tell Mac that, as a courtesy, I won’t serve the subpoena on his wife and kids. We’re not afraid of playing favorites.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘You really are a miserable prick,’ Caroline said to McKinley Brooks.

  They were alone in Brooks’s office; the D.A. refused to have witnesses present. He stared back at her, as if waiting to choose his words with care. His voice was quite soft. ‘Sticks and stones, Caroline.’

  ‘Try “obstruction of justice.” And “cover-up” has a certain ring.’

  Brooks folded his hands. ‘You really don’t care, do you?’

  Caroline gave a humorless laugh. ‘This isn’t about me. Once I put you on the stand, you’re through in politics. Just when did Colt call you, Mac, to let you know that the stench from Richie’s apartment might be more than just a stinking corpse? A day or so after they found his body?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you know that Colt didn’t have him killed?’

  Brook’s face filled with anger. ‘That’s bullshit.’

  ‘Just watch me.’ Her voice grew cold. ‘When you sold your soul to James Colt, you lost something dearer than your integrity. You lost control.’

  Brooks managed a thin smile. ‘You can’t prove any of this.’

  ‘Because you’ll lie?’ Caroline gave him a look of mock amazement. ‘Oh, Mac, why didn’t I consider that? Now let’s see – you’ll need other people to lie too, won’t you? Such as a cop to say that he, not Colt, called you about Richie. Why do I keep remembering Richard Nixon?’ She spoke quietly now. ‘You are such a fool. Drop the dime on Colt, and all you are is finished. Try to lie about it, and you’ll do time.’ She smiled. ‘Our prisons really aren’t all they could be. How do you fancy becoming the special friend of someone named Bubba, a lonely guy with a yen for law enforcement.’

  Brooks’s eyes narrowed. ‘Paget will be right there with me. If you tie Richie to Colt, it’s like writing ‘motive’ in neon lights. Our good friend Victor will get your client on the way to getting my job.’

  That might be right, Caroline guessed. But somewhere behind Brooks’s opaque expression, a proposition was forming. ‘Assuming that the jury doesn’t view Richie’s demise as a public service,’ she retorted. ‘But your demise is a given.’

  Brooks sat back. ‘Spit it out, Caroline.’

  Caroline gave him a long, cool look. ‘I want this case dismissed.’

  Brooks’s laugh was a curt bark. ‘Send me the subpoena. Like Victor, I prefer murder to suicide.’

  ‘Fine.’ Caroline stood to leave. ‘I wish I could say this was interesting. But it hasn’t even been that.’

  Brooks shook his head in disbelief. ‘Quit the theatrics. You came here looking for a deal. Sit down and listen.’

  Caroline stared down at him. ‘Only out of respect for your office,’ she said, and sat again.

  Brooks waited until she was settled. ‘One offer, my first and last. Are you listening closely?’

  ‘Just speak slowly, Mac. So that I can keep up with you.’

  ‘You get your voluntary manslaughter. Sixteen years – in reality, Christ Paget will be out in eight.’ He paused. ‘I’ll keep the offer open until the end of our case. Take a run at our eyewitness if you want. Then you can decide whether you want to take it or go for broke.’

  ‘And if we take it?’

  ‘You drop the subpoena.’ Brooks paused for emphasis. ‘And you – and Chris – forget any thoughts you ever had about making my life hard.’

  Caroline pretended to think awhile. ‘Doesn’t that leave me with an unexplained loose end? The money.’

  For the first time, Brooks looked genuinely amused. ‘The drug money, you mean? Make all the mischief you want with that, and I’ll keep Victor out of your way. Which is what you’ve been planning on all along.’ Brooks leaned forward. ‘One stipulation. If we find new evidence against Christ Paget, our deal is off. I don’t want to get hung out to dry.’

  That was reasonable, Caroline knew. ‘As long as you’re not holding back some evidence yourself.’

  ‘We’re not. If we were, and Lerner found us out, he’d dismiss the case.’

  After a moment, Caroline nodded. ‘I’ll talk to Chris.’

  ‘“If you could occupy any place in history,”’ Carlo Paget read aloud, ‘“at any time, what would it be?”’ He put down the assignment sheet next to his computer, muted the Pink Floyd disc on his player, and turned back to his father. ‘Any ideas?’

  Paget thought. ‘How about: “I’d be President of the United States, with unlimited pardoning power.”’

  Carlo gave him a pinched smile. ‘Not funny, Dad.’

  By Paget’s estimate, Carlo would be on the stand in two more days. ‘No,’ Paget said. ‘I guess not. I gather that neither Marie Antoinette nor Ronald Reagan appeals to you much.’

  ‘Only as a couple.’

  Paget took a seat on the end of Carlo’s bed. The scene felt familiar. Carlo’s room, with its view of the bay at night; the plaques from his athletic teams; the framed picture of his mother, Mary Carelli. Carlo himself, baseball cap stuck backward on his curly black hair, scowling at the computer. And Paget, inveigled by his son to help with an assignment. But this time, Paget sensed that Carlo did not need his help; this was a safe w
ay of killing time together.

  It was fine with Paget. His alternative was thinking about Terri’s testimony, beginning tomorrow morning. Or, more painful, Carlo’s right after that. It was good to be with his son when the ostensible subject was not the trial.

  Their dinner had been too quiet. Paget had refused to watch the news. But Carlo, he knew, had sneaked upstairs to watch in his bedroom. Paget was equally certain that the shaken boy at his dinner table had heard about the fingerprints on Richie’s answering machine: when, once more, Carlo tried to open the forbideen subject of what his father would say as a witness, Paget sensed that he was hoping for an explanation of the prints. Calmly, Paget had repeated his reminder that Carlo was a witness, that his job was to state the facts, and that no conversation they had could be private. His son’s worry and frustration was a necessary price to pay for sparing him the greater devastation of the truth.

  ‘How about Ted Williams?’ Paget said now.

  Carlo turned from the computer. ‘For my essay?’

  ‘I’d do it. Williams was not only the best hitter in baseball history; he was the only subject my dad and I could really talk about.’ Paget put his hands behind his head. ‘My father loved Ted Williams. The one special thing he did with me was to take me back to Fenway Park in Boston, when I was nine, to see Williams play in a four-game series with the Yankees.’ He smiled. ‘He did it for himself, really – I was just an excuse. But by the time those games were over, I loved Williams too. Because he was a truly great player and because my dad spent time with me.’

  Carlo gave him a look of interest; for years, Paget had told him more about Ted Williams than about his own father. ‘So that’s how the Ted Williams thing got started.’ His brow knit. ‘Was that hard – not being close to your dad?’

  Paget shrugged. ‘He wasn’t really close to anyone. It’s just that I was his son, so maybe it hurt a little more. But after twelve, I was in boarding school. You develop a kind of prep school toughness: I tried to view my parents as a pair of socialites in San Francisco, who didn’t have much to do with me, until they became more of an absence than a presence.’

  Carlo studied him. ‘When they died in that car wreck, how did you feel?’

  ‘Angry. It was such a joke of a death. Or would have been, had my mother not suffered for days before she died.’ Paget’s tone mixed irony with regret. ‘My father was drunk as a lord. He’d found out my mother had taken a lover, and pulled her out of a party in some sort of rage. If he hadn’t been so drunk so often, he would have noticed her lovers when I did – ten years before, when I was twelve or so and asked to go to boarding school. And if she hadn’t been so drunk, she’d never have stayed with him. Or, for that matter, driven with him.’