Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  As Caroline turned to the witness, Paget saw that the jury was on edge. ‘How,’ she said to Slocum, ‘did you come to know the source who gave you Mr Arias’s papers?’

  Slocum considered his answer. ‘I knew him before. From previous campaigns.’

  ‘And what is this person’s occupation?’

  ‘Political consultant.’ Slocum paused, then added quickly, ‘Self-employed.’

  ‘And how did he get these papers into your hands?’

  Slocum glanced at Salinas. ‘My source called and asked to meet me confidentially. At my home.’

  ‘When you met him, what did he tell you?’

  Slocum cleared this throat. ‘That they were papers concerning. Mr Paget. And that I could judge for myself whether they were newsworthy.’

  ‘Yes,’ Caroline said dryly. ‘I’m sure that he didn’t want to compromise your journalistic intregrity. Did he happen to mention what his interest was in seeing that this material got published?’

  ‘No. He wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Did you at least form an impression?’

  Slocum appeared torn between the desire not to answer and the fear of sounding disingenuous. ‘What I assumed,’ he said at length, ‘was that my source represented someone hostile to Mr Paget’s candidacy.’

  ‘Didn’t it bother you, Mr Slocum, that you were being used by a politician to help torpedo a candidate he disliked?’

  Slocum tried to summon a superior smile. ‘In my business, like yours, you learn useful things from a lot of people whose motives may not be the best but whose information serves the public interest. My only interest was the quality of the information itself.’

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought, you didn’t care whether the information was true or not.’

  ‘Objection,’ Salinas said. ‘Badgering the witness, mischaracterizing prior testimony.’

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ Caroline said carelessly. ‘So to summarize your testimony, you received this information from a political consultant who refused to reveal his interest, after you agreed not to reveal his identity or his motives. Is that it?’

  Slocum stared past her. ‘Essentially, yes.’

  ‘And after that, you decided to print the information this person fed you – which you concede would damage Mr Paget – without knowing the credibility of that information?’

  ‘Yes.’ Slocum’s voice rose. ‘I decided the story had value as it was.’

  ‘So much for journalistic integrity. Now let me call on your expertise on another area – political disaster. Would you say that it would be damaging to whatever politican had your “source” leak this information if the politician’s identity was known?’

  Slocum hesitated. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Potentially fatal, even.’

  Slocum’s voice had become a monotone. ‘I can’t really say.’

  ‘Oh, you really can, Mr Slocum.’ Caroline’s New England voice carried an undertone of contempt. ‘You were certainly less bashful when Mr Salinas asked you if the information itself would ruin Mr Paget’s campaign. So why don’t you give me your best assessment.’ She paused again. ‘In the public interest, of course.’

  Slocum still did not face her. ‘It might be damaging, I suppose.’

  Caroline paused for a moment. ‘Did Mr Arias appreciate that fact?’

  Slocum looked startled, and then his face closed. ‘He was dead. Just like you point out.’

  Caroline smiled. ‘He wasn’t dead, was he, when you first talked to him?’

  Slocum glanced toward Salinas. ‘Did you,’ Caroline snapped, ‘ever talk to Mr Arias?’

  Slowly, Slocum turned back to Caroline. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘After I saw the article in the Inquisitor. When I was planning to write about it.’

  ‘So Mr Arias didn’t point out the article himself?’

  Slocum’s eyes flickered. ‘No.’

  ‘Who did?’

  Another glance at Salinas. ‘My source.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘Your friend the ‘consultant.’ I rather thought so. And during this first conversation, what did your ‘source’ say?’

  ‘Just sent me the article. To see if I was interested.’

  ‘And when you subsequently called Mr Arias, he didn’t happen to ask you for money, did he?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Slocum looked down. ‘He did ask if we paid for interviews.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘That I didn’t think I could.’

  ‘And how did Mr Arias respond to that?’

  Slocum paused. ‘He wanted to know who else might be interested and whether I’d talked to anyone like that.’

  Paget felt a surge of contempt; glancing at the jury box, he saw Joseph Duarte’s mouth thin in distaste. ‘And what did you tell him?’ Caroline said.

  Slocum looked away. In an affectless tone, he said, ‘That I couldn’t reveal my sources.’

  Caroline stared at him in silence. ‘But you did pass on Mr Arias’s interest to your ‘source,’ correct?’

  A long pause. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well,’ Caroline said with disdain, ‘then it looks like you helped set up a blind date, anyhow. And you’ve already agreed, I believe, that anyone who knew about your “source”’s role – or the politician he worked for – might be in a position to damage that politician seriously, correct?’

  ‘I suppose, yes.’

  Caroline waited a moment, then, quietly asked, ‘Including Mr Arias? A man with a proven gift for extortion?’

  ‘Objection,’ Salinas said. ‘The question calls for speculation.’

  ‘Sustained.’ Lerner turned to Caroline. ‘I think you’ve made your point, Counselor.’

  Smiling slightly, Caroline gave the judge a nod of respect. I’ll change subjects, Your Honor,’ she said, and turned to Slocum. ‘Beyond your appetite for such morsels as your “source” provided, you decided to print them at the risk of your life, correct?’

  Slocum faced her again. ‘I don’t quite follow you.’

  ‘I mean, given how scary Mr Paget can be on the telephone, weren’t you concerned for your personal safety?’

  Slocum folded his arms. ‘I didn’t say that. I said he was angry.’

  ‘You didn’t worry that Mr Paget was going to do away with you?’ Caroline said in tones of mock admiration. ‘Very brave, Mr Slocum. Tell me, do you have any reason to believe Christopher Paget to be a violent man?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes or no,’ Caroline snapped.

  Slocum paused. ‘No. Not specifically.’

  ‘And do you happen to know Mr Paget’s position on violence in our society? Including gun control?’

  Another pause. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you also happen to attend Mr Paget’s speech to the California Society of Newspaper Editors, given shortly after a deranged father with an assault rifle slaughtered seven children in a recreation center?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Caroline turned to Judge Lerner. ‘Your Honor, I would like to show the witness a videotape of that speech – it’s only about ten minutes – and then ask a few brief questions.’

  Salinas stood. ‘I object, Your Honor. This is a murder trial, not a political rally. And Mr Paget’s self-serving speech has no probative value for either purpose.’

  ‘Nonsense, Your Honor. The speech was given well before Mr Arias’s death. I believe that Mr Paget’s distaste for guns, and for violence, is more than a little relevant to whether he shot Mr Arias with a handgun.’ She turned to Slocum. ‘As is whether this witness – who has been so willing to inflate his response to Mr Pagest’s understandable indignation into an act of heroic journalism – knows of anything in Mr Paget’s life inconsistent with these stated beliefs.’

  Lerner touched one finger to his lips. ‘It’s been an unusual day,’ he said with an air of bemusement. ‘Roll ’em, Ms Masters.’

  Within moments, the courtroom was dark, and Caro
line was sitting next to Paget, watching the introduction to his speech. In the darkness, the television screen flickered in black and white; the jury seemed as focused as patrons in a movie theater.

  ‘Any thoughts so far?’ Caroline whispered.

  ‘A couple,’ Paget whispered back. ‘You’ve not only decimated this guy, but you turned his ‘source’ into a real problem for the prosecution. I can’t believe Victor couldn’t see it coming.’

  Caroline turned to him. ‘I think he did, Chris. There’s a very deep game going on here. My guess is that Victor set McKinley up, for reasons which have nothing to do with you. Or this case.’

  Suddenly, to his surprise, Paget found himself fixated by his own image on the screen – a man in black and white, speaking with passion on a day when children had died.

  ‘I don’t own a gun,’ he heard himself say. ‘Outside the army, I’ve never fired one. Perhaps that makes it easier for me to notice that the chief use of handguns in America is domestic violence and robbing the corner store. . . .’

  His voice had been soft with anger, Paget still remembered the feeling. But now, listening, he felt less angry than sad. Sad once more for the children who had died. Sad that he could no longer speak out. Sad that, now, the only use for these words was to defend him against a charge of murder.

  Paget turned to look at the jury. In the half-light, they appeared as a silvery frieze: Marian Celler seemed to nod at the screen; Luisa Marin looked more accessible than ever before. Next to Paget, Caroline Masters still watched.

  ‘In the end, you wouldn’t have made a politician,’ she murmured. ‘But it really is too bad.’

  Suddenly Paget felt grateful to Caroline; she had found a way for the jury to hear from him other than as a voice on Charles Monk’s tape. And he knew that, whatever else, this had become a bad day for the prosecution.

  When the tape ended and the lights came on, Caroline Masters stood facing Slocum.

  The jury seemed drawn to her stillness. ‘Well,’ she said to Slocum, ‘I’m sure we’re all relieved to know how hard you worked to spare us Mr Paget’s candidacy. And now, if you will, a few more questions.’

  Chapter 14

  ‘We’ve got to talk,’ Paget told Caroline.

  ‘Concerning what?’

  ‘About this eyewitness Victor’s putting on tomorrow. And, beyond that, about what kind of case we put on.’

  They were in the elevator on the way to the underground garage, evading reporters by arrangement with Judge Lerner. Caroline leaned back against the wall, briefcase in hand, giving Paget a curious look. ‘About our case,’ she said, ‘there are all sorts of choices. Starting with whether you testify.’

  Paget found himself smiling; Caroline had a subtle mind, and he was confident that she had worked out their options to the last permutation. And that, depending on Salinas’s final witness, she knew precisely where she wished to go. ‘I just want to keep you from getting confused,’ he said.

  Caroline gave a sigh of mock relief. ‘Christopher,’ she answered, ‘I would just be lost without you.’

  Her voice, a parody of admiring femininity, made Paget laugh out loud. ‘If only Mr Slocum could see you now,’ he said. ‘A vulnerable woman, tormented by the burdens of her job.’

  Caroline flashed a wicked grin. ‘I really didn’t like him much.’

  ‘It showed,’ Paget answered, and then the door opened.

  They walked to the car. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Where do we go?’

  ‘I’d like to check out Carlo for an hour. He’s not doing all that well.’ Paget got inside the car, adding as Caroline took the driver’s seat, ‘I’d ask you over to dinner, but I don’t want him to overhear our conversation. For several reasons.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘I’d like to shower, anyhow.’ She turned on the ignition. ‘Would you mind coming to my place? It would be a little easier, at least for me.’

  Paget turned to her, surprised; Caroline drew such a line between her professional and private lives that Paget had never imagined himself inside her home. ‘I don’t mind at all,’ he said. ‘Tell me where to find you.’

  Where to find Caroline Masters turned out to be the penthouse of a four-story building near the top of Telegraph Hill. Wearing gray wool slacks and a black cashmere sweater, Caroline let him in with a faint aura of self-consciousness, and then Paget found himself gazing through floor-to-ceiling glass at the bright outline of the Bay Bridge and the high-rises of the financial district, where Paget and Caroline had their offices – the brightly lit Transamerica Pyramid, the four towers of the Embarcadero Center, moving in a row of staggered heights to the sudden inky darkness of the bay. It struck Paget that he had not seen much daylight lately.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ he told her.

  ‘Thank you. Care for a glass of wine?’

  ‘If you have something open.’

  ‘A Montrachet. Do you mind?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Paget smiled to himself: a fine French wine sounded right for Caroline, stubbornly eccentric, as if drinking California wine would be too easy. He followed her through the living room, noting their surroundings as he went. The decor was tasteful but not ostentatious: Caroline’s furnishings combined the very modern with carefully placed antiques – a rocking chair, an oak rolltop desk – which Paget guessed were inherited rather than purchased. It reminded him that he knew nothing of Caroline’s background, except that she was a New Englander. But from Caroline’s flat he surmised that, like Paget himself, she must have family money: there was simply no way that she could have bought such a place based on twenty years as a public defender or a judge, or, for that matter, even on six months’ income from Kenyon and Walker.

  The kitchen was spacious and bright and neatly ordered, the cooking space of a single person who knew how she liked to keep things. Caroline passed him a glass of wine. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  She sipped her wine without answering, seemingly preoccupied. After a moment, she said, ‘Would you care to go up top? It’s a pleasant night, and we’ve been stuck inside.’

  She did not wait for an answer. Following her, Paget saw that one corner of the living room featured a spiral wrought-iron staircase, which climbed through an opening in the ceiling. At the top, Paget discovered, was a small enclosure that opened to a roof garden, with shrubs in wooden containers and a table and four chairs. The garden was walled in by glass, to break the wind; from here, Caroline could see for miles in any direction. It was as if she had arranged the semblance of a perfect world, a kind of retreat. Without Carlo, Paget thought suddenly, he might have lived this way.

  He walked to the edge of the garden. ‘Incredible,’ he said to Caroline.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  When he turned, she was standing on the patio, some distance away. ‘Very much,’ he said.

  She walked back to the entrance, flicking on an outdoor light. The effect was to cast light and shadow on the trees and shrubs surrounding them.

  As he sat across the table from Caroline, her face came into the light, aquiline and elegant and hard to read. ‘Could you tell me something?’ he asked.

  Caroline smiled. ‘It depends.’

  Paget leaned back on his chair. ‘Why in the world did you become a criminal lawyer?’

  Caroline gave him a look of tolerant understanding, as though the question were expected but a little superficial. ‘“What’s a nice girl like me . . . ,”’ she said dryly. ‘Perhaps I should have been a law professor, writing tomes on the antitrust laws. Or maybe a bond lawyer in a Wall Street firm. Like you should have been.’

  ‘Oh, that’s different. With the conspicuous exception of Mary Carelli, I’ve generally defended the kind of people who don’t use guns and have never met a street cop – investment bankers and the like. But for the better part of your career your clients were murderers, rapists, armed robbers, and car thieves.’

  Caroline sipped her wine. ‘There’s no doubt that you represented a more polite class of criminal. Wh
ich is why defending you has been such a treat.’

  Paget laughed in surprise. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you laugh,’ Caroline said. ‘Even if it’s only at some irony of mine, instead of at the joy of living.’

  Paget gave a wry smile. ‘That’s because, as you point out, you’re having all the fun. Incidentally, you never answered my question.’

  ‘About criminal law?’ Caroline turned from him, looking out at the night sky and the distant glow of lights from Marin. ‘There wasn’t any plan, really. At some point in my twenties, I understood that what I was doing was redefining myself, choosing things that weren’t predestined by who I was or the life I’d been given. So that, in the end, I’d have made my own way. Criminal defense seemed to fit that.’ Consciously, she seemed to pull back. ‘Anyhow, I’m pretty good at it.’

  The last dismissive phrase reminded Paget of what he had felt about Caroline at other times: the teasing sense that he was on the edge of it, but never would know her. And yet now this elusive woman held all his hopes – and Carlo’s – in her hands.

  ‘Not just “pretty good,”’ Paget said finally. ‘Among the best.’

  Caroline shrugged and smiled but did not argue with him. Between grown-ups, her silence suggested, there was no point in dissembling.

  Paget sipped his wine, dry and flavorful, lingering on the tongue.

  ‘How’s Teresa?’ Caroline asked.

  He studied his glass. ‘Do you mean how is she, or how are things?’

  Caroline considered that. ‘Both, I suppose.’

  Paget told himself that he had no obligation to be candid, and then found that he wished to be. ‘For Terri, things are hard. Part of it is Elena. The other part is what makes it hard for us.’ He paused, facing Caroline directly. ‘In her heart, she’s not sure I didn’t do it.’

  Caroline gave him an ambiguous glance; Paget sensed her wishing not to look at him. ‘Ambivalence in lawyers,’ Paget told her quietly, ‘is the norm. It’s not so good in lovers.’

  Caroline smiled with one corner of her mouth. ‘So I’m forgiven?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘And Terri?’

  The question took Paget deep within himself. ‘I don’t know,’ he heard himself murmur. ‘I really don’t know.’