Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  ‘In fact,’ Salinas said, ‘as far as you were concerned, no one was home.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Carlo’s voice rose in anger. ‘I told the police I thought I heard a sound. And now that I know my dad was home, I’m sure the sound was him.’

  Salinas gave a too agreeable nod. ‘You told Inspector Monk that you thought perhaps you’d heard footsteps, right?’

  ‘I’m sure I did.’

  ‘You’re sure now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Positive, in fact?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No,’ Paget said under his breath.

  Caroline had tensed. Salinas was leaning back a little, as if to look down at Carlo. ‘Tell me, Carlo, about how long after that night did you give your statement to the police?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe three weeks.’

  Salinas walked back to the prosecution table, picking up a piece of paper. ‘And at that time, according to the transcript of your interview with Inspector Monk, you said, quote, “All that I remember is thinking maybe I heard footsteps in the attic, above my room,” unquote. Remember that, Carlo?’

  Carlo shifted in his chair. ‘I guess so.

  ‘And now it’s about four months after that night, correct?’

  Next to Paget, Caroline seemed to have stopped breathing. ‘I guess that’s right,’ Carlo said, and then leaned forward, looking Salinas in the face. ‘That’s a long time, Mr Salinas, to think about you accusing my dad of murder. It makes remembering things more important. So I’ve replayed that night in my mind, over and over. I remember walking up the stairs, finding my wallet, and then hearing footsteps in the attic, where Dad and I keep our suitcases.’ He turned to the jury. ‘I’ve thought about it, and now I’m sure. I can hear the footseps in my mind.’

  Listening, Paget felt almost sick. And then, as if he could not help himself, Carlo looked to his father for approval.

  Paget tried to smile. But when their eyes met, Paget knew that Carlo saw there was something wrong.

  ‘Did you ever tell that to the police?’ Salinas asked.

  Carlo’s eyes flickered, and then he turned to Salinas. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The police never came back.’

  Salinas gave him a look of skeptical understanding. ‘Did you tell anyone?’

  Carlo met Salinas’s stare. Paget knew he would not look away now; it was the same trapped steadfast look Paget had first seen when Carlo was seven and he had caught him in a lie. ‘No,’ Carlo said.

  ‘Not even your dad?’

  Carlo shook his head. ‘He won’t talk to me about the case. Because I’m a witness.’

  ‘Then how about his lawyer, Carlo?’ Salinas pointed toward Caroline. ‘You know Ms Masters, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Carlo hesitated. ‘We didn’t talk about it, exactly. I knew I’d get a chance to say things here.’

  ‘In other words, you just decided to save it for the trial.’

  Carlo stared at him. ‘You asked me, and I just answered. It’s the truth.’

  Paget felt cold inside. ‘Then you must have considered calling the police,’ Salinas said smoothly.

  Carlo looked puzzled; it was the difference, Paget thought, between a normal person and a lawyer who could see the traps before they shut. ‘I don’t understand,’ Carlo said.

  ‘You thought your father was with Ms Peralta, right?’

  Carlo blinked. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘So weren’t you concerned about a prowler?’

  Carlo looked startled. ‘I don’t remember what I thought, exactly. I was in a hurry.’

  ‘Did you happen to mention it to your dad,’ Salinas asked in a pleasant voice, ‘the next time you did see him?’

  Carlo seemed confused now. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I don’t think so, either, Carlo. Because you made it up, didn’t you? To cover for your dad.’

  Joseph Duarte was giving Carlo a skeptical look. Carlo still met Salinas’s gaze. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not making it up.’

  ‘No?’ When you came home at twelve-thirty, did you happen to ask your dad how his night was?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Did he tell you he’d gotten sick and stayed home?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  Salinas shook his head. ‘Or did he simply tell you, Carlo, to come to court and lie for him?’

  ‘No.’ Carlo’s voice filled with anger now. ‘My dad would never ask me to lie.’

  Carlo, Paget felt, had just lost a piece of himself. A gift for his father.

  Salinas shook his head in disbelief, looking from Carlo to Paget. ‘No further questions.’

  Beneath the table, Paget touched Caroline’s knee. ‘Get him off of there. Now.’

  Caroline did not move. ‘I can’t do that to him,’ she said under her breath. ‘He’ll know then. Do you want to destroy him?’

  ‘Ms Masters,’ Judge Lerner was asking.

  Caroline turned to Paget with a look of urgency. ‘There was something that Carlo wants to say. For his sake, let him say it.’

  Paget looked past her, into the face of his son, looking to his father for cues on how to feel. Smiling at Carlo, Paget whispered to Caroline, ‘Then make it fast.’

  Quickly, Caroline was on her feet, moving toward Carlo with an air of confidence. ‘What kind of father is your dad?’

  Carlo took a deep breath, as if to relax himself. ‘A great dad.’

  Salinas stood at once. ‘Your Honor, whether Mr Paget is, or is not, a good father has nothing to do with the murder of Ricardo Arias.’

  ‘But it does.’ Calmly, Caroline addressed Judge Lerner. ‘In Mr Salinas’s words, it’s perfectly all right to accuse Carlo Paget of child abuse without a shred of evidence and then to suggest that those charges drove his father to murder. The least the court can do is permit this boy a chance to say that his father is, in his considerable experience, a devoted father and is neither violent nor a liar. Under the rules both of evidence and of common decency.’

  Lerner nodded. ‘I quite agree. Proceed, Ms Masters.’

  Caroline turned to Carlo. ‘Why has Chris been a good father, Carlo?’

  ‘He’s always been there.’ Carlo’s voice grew husky and a little raw. ‘I always knew how important I was to him.’

  Caroline smiled. ‘By “been there,” what do you mean?’

  ‘For school, or my games, or to take me places or talk to.’ Carlo turned to Joseph Duarte. ‘It’s more than that. He’s my dad, that’s all. He never loses his temper, and he’s always straight with me. I don’t know where I’d be without him.’

  ‘When did you start living with your dad?’

  ‘When I was seven.’ Carlo’s voice held a trace of wonder. ‘I was living with my grandparents – my mom’s parents. One day Dad just came for me. Ever since, it’s been the two of us.’

  Paget could remember that final day in Boston, scooping Carlo up in the darkened living room of his grandfather Carelli’s wretched home, telling Carlo that he was his father, that everything would be all right. ‘What were things like for you before?’ Caroline asked.

  It was the wrong question, Paget thought, although only a parent could know that: children with neglectful parents tend to defend them, as a defense against the truth. But to Paget’s surprise, Carlo said, ‘I was pretty young then. But I know it wasn’t good.’

  ‘Why?’

  Carlo looked at Paget. ‘Because any happy memory I have, my dad is part of.’

  Salinas was on his feet again. ‘I realize, Ms Masters, that Carlo Paget loves his father. If nothing else, he’s certainly proven that. But we’re very far afield now.’

  Caroline turned to Lerner. ‘With your indulgence, Your Honor, I think I can show relevance.’

  Lerner nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

  Caroline waited for the jury’s full attention and then looked at Carlo gravely. ‘You say that your dad has always been there for you, Carlo. Based on all you’ve been through
together, can you imagine your dad doing anything to jeopardize that?’

  Only a father, Paget was certain, could notice the look of wounded doubt that moved through Carlo’s eyes. It was that which hurt Paget more than anything; he had last seem that look many years ago, on the face of an insecure boy.

  Carlo stared straight at Caroline. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine it.’

  Chapter 12

  Watching Elena Arias play with the cloth doll that had supplanted the small plastic figure as ‘Teresa,’ Denise Harris sat a few feet away, pondering the black dog of Elena’s nightmare.

  Elena had never described her dream. But she had wakened screaming the night before, telling Terri for the first time of a black dog that always frightened her. It squared with Harris’s best guess: that Elena’s repeated nightmare, like Terri’s own, was the key to some buried trauma. It was the first clear sense Elena had given that her thoughts were breaking closer to the surface.

  Now Elena sat on the rug, playing in a patch of late afternoon sunlight filtering through Harris’s window. Her mother sat outside in the waiting area, reading summaries of trial testimony; Harris had thought that Terri looked drained. But on the telephone this morning, Theresa Peralta had sounded intense and determined to get at the meaning of Elena’s dream: if there was one thing Denise Harris believed about Terri, it was that she put Elena above everything else. There was nothing Terri would not do, Harris sensed, to give her daughter a normal life.

  ‘Teresa’s tired,’ Elena said of her doll. ‘She wants to lie down.’

  It was the kind of thing that a child, enacting normal domestic scenes, would say about a doll when assuming the role of parent. But Elena’s voice sounded thin and a little apprehensive; it was as if the scene had shadows that Harris could not see. And after she laid the doll on its back, Elena seemed to think for a moment and then turned it over, face buried in the rug. Almost to herself, she said, ‘The robbers are outside.’

  Leaning closer, Harris said, ‘Maybe she’d like the alligator to sleep in her room.’

  Elena was silent; it had taken another session for her to accept the presence of the alligator, and the concept of a protective figure still frightened her. Quietly, Harris placed the alligator close to the doll. ‘Teresa will be safe now,’ she told Elena. ‘She can sleep as long as she wants.’

  Elena’s brow furrowed. She reached for the doll; for an instant, Harris thought she felt threatened and would change the form of her play. But all that Elena did was to roll the doll on its back again and smooth its red cloth dress. Darting a glance at Harris, she said, ‘Teresa’s sleeping.’

  By instinct and experience, Harris did not move. She felt the signs of tension in Elena – the tight voice, her surreptitious look – as the tingling of her own nerves. For what seemed long moments, Elena did nothing at all.

  Harris sneaked a look at her wristwatch: in twenty minutes, she had another appointment. But all she could do was wait.

  Elena gave her a sideways look, barely seeming to breathe. She was still for a moment and then leaned over the doll, fingers touching the hem of its skirt.

  Slowly, Elena lifted the skirt up, above the doll’s waist. Her face seemed intent and a little scared.

  Silent, she stroked the doll’s cloth stomach with two fingers of her hand.

  Harris asked, softly, ‘What’s happening?’

  Elena seemed to swallow. In a small voice, she answered, ‘The robber is tickling Teresa’s tummy.’

  Harris waited, watching. Elena’s fingers moved imperceptibly downward.

  ‘How does Teresa feel?’ Harris asked.

  ‘It feels good.’ Elena’s voice became harder. ‘Sometimes she likes it. But sometimes she doesn’t.’

  Harris said nothing. Deliberately and methodically, Elena’s fingers moved across the stomach of the doll. Her hand did not go lower.

  Through the window, Harris’s senses registered the sounds of the world outside – cars in the street, a voice calling, the rattle of a gust of wind on glass. But Elena seemed removed from any place but the one she imagined, her eyes smaller, her expression focused. It was the dissociation Terri had described to her, when the Elena she had known since birth seemed almost to disappear.

  Harris remained where she was. ‘When doesn’t Teresa like it?’

  Elena did not answer. Her fingers stopped moving, resting on the stomach of the doll.

  ‘Is there something special the robber does that Teresa doesn’t like?’

  Elena stiffened. After a moment, she turned her head from Harris, and her fingers moved again.

  With an awful fascination, Harris watched Elena slide one finger between the cloth legs of the doll.

  Head averted, Elena stroked softly, rhythmically, ‘How does Teresa feel?’ Harris asked quietly.

  ‘She feels good,’ Elena said, and then her eyes filled with tears.

  Elena’s face squinted. Her finger seemed to move on its own.

  Gently, Harris picked up the alligator and placed it beside the doll.

  Elena’s hand stopped moving. ‘It’s all right,’ Harris said. ‘The alligator can help her. All Theresa has to do is call.’

  Elena shook her head. ‘She can’t.’

  Her face was tensed; her eyes were shut. Down one side of her face, Harris saw the tears begin to run.

  Harris knew better than to reach for her. She sat there, circumscribed by her profession, as she watched a little girl dissolve before her eyes. And then Elena Arias took the alligator and flung it across the room.

  Harris moved next to her. Softly, she asked, ‘Did someone touch you like that, Elena?’

  The little girl crossed her arms, turning her back to Harris. Helpless, the psychologist watched her shoulders tremble. It was the reaction Terri had described her having, Harris recalled, when Terri first asked Elena about Carlo.

  ‘Was it Carlo?’ Harris asked.

  Elena flung herself on the rug, face pressed against it, and covered her ears.

  ‘The California roll was good,’ Carlo said.

  It was merely something to say, Paget knew; his son did not require an answer. They sat on the Persian rug in the library, with plates of sushi scattered across the marble coffee table. Returning from court, they had decided to order sushi in; somehow neither of them felt up to having other people watch them eat. Paget felt sadness take up residence inside him; the words of thanks he had given Carlo sounded hollow, even to him, and the half pitcher of martinis he had drained seemed like an act of cowardice.

  There were times, he had learned, when it fell to a father to lie to his son, or for him. But he had never imagined the moment when Carlo would lie for him. Without meaning to, he had taught his son moral compromise; the lesson sat there, a silence between them, in a relationship that could never quite be the same. The mistake of a loving heart.

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ Paget said.

  That was not quite a lie, Paget knew, it was an evasion – worse than saying nothing, because it was becoming part of the fabric of their conversations, replacing truths that could not be spoken.

  Quietly, Carlo asked, ‘Do you think they believed me?’

  Perhaps about Elena, Paget thought. Not about me. ‘Yes,’ he lied again.

  What else could he do, Paget thought bleakly: turn to his son and speak the truth? I know you lied, Carlo – it is for that reason, above all, that we can never talk about this trial. It is for that reason that I will never again be for you the person I seemed to be.

  But there was, perhaps, something to be salvaged. ‘You faced up to this thing about Elena, Carlo. You said what happened and backed Salinas down. No one watching could possibly believe you’d hurt a little girl like that.’ Paget placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Really, you were great.’

  Carlo’s gaze, it seemed, had lit on his father’s martini pitcher. ‘But what about you?’ he finally asked. ‘How was I for you?’

  You were terrible for me, Paget thought. And the
worst was not that you looked like you were trying to save me. The worst is that I know you were. ‘You helped me, son. Piece by piece, Caroline is chipping away at this case.’

  Never mind that, next to Paget, Caroline was the most surprised person in the courtroom when Carlo, stubborn in his love for a father, had acted on his own. Frowning, Carlo still did not look at him. ‘I couldn’t do that much for you,’ he said. ‘But once you testify, it’ll be fine.’

  It was time, Paget knew; he had no stomach for more evasions. ‘If I testify,’ he said casually. ‘It all depends on what Caroline and I decide. Once Salinas’s case comes in.’

  Carlo’s head snapped up; he looked his father in the face. ‘How can you not testify, Dad? How can you not tell them?’

  Two sentences, Paget thought, with so many layers. I testified for you, Dad. I lied for you, and now I want us to stand together. I want to know you didn’t do this. And even if you did, I want you to say you didn’t. No matter what, I want you free. The look on his son’s face, shocked and shaken, shriveled Paget’s soul.

  ‘It’s strategy,’ he said calmly. ‘If the prosecution hasn’t proven its case, you don’t give the jury a chance to hate you, or the prosecution a shot at making you look bad. Which Salinas can do with the innocent as well as the guilty.’

  ‘You need to tell people, Dad. This isn’t just about Salinas. It’s about everyone.’

  Most of all, Paget heard Carlo saying, it’s about me. Because I want to believe you. Watching Carlo’s eyes, he saw the boy’s sense of his father slipping away.

  ‘You need to tell them,’ Carlo repeated angrily.

  Slowly, Paget shook his head. ‘I have my own reasons,’ he answered. ‘I do things for you, or for me, or for Terri. Not because of what other people may think.’ He touched Carlo’s shoulder again. ‘I didn’t need you to testify to know you didn’t molest Elena. I knew before you even looked me in the face and told me so. Because I knew you.’

  Carlo stared at him, and then he turned away. ‘Within this family,’ Paget said quietly, ‘there are certain things we know. We know you’re not a child molester, and we know I’m not a murderer. And that’s what counts.’