Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  ‘But lying to Monk . . .’

  ‘Stupid, I know. But I didn’t remember leaving prints and didn’t know that Mrs Keller had seen me. So I made the split-second calculation that Monk wouldn’t have a case unless I told the truth.’ Paget’s voice took on an ironic inflection. ‘The truth being that I’d been knocking around the blackmailer who’d smeared my son – on the very night someone killed him – but had taken care to leave him still alive.

  ‘You can also see now why I wouldn’t take the stand. I refused to lie to the jury – to say I wasn’t there – and admitting that I was there would be to admit lying to Monk. Which, with Brooks and Colt after me and no other suspect except Terri, might well have been fatal.’

  Caroline considered him. ‘Not to mention that you would have had to tell the jury about Rosa – and Terri. So you decided to take the chance that your disgruntled but gifted lawyer could walk you on reasonable doubt.’

  ‘Just so.’ Paget gazed out the window. ‘But when the Goodwill lady did show up, I was stuck – your entire cross-examination had been based on suggesting that I wasn’t there. If I’d taken the stand after that and said I was there, they’d have convicted me for sure.’

  ‘Probably.’ Caroline gave him a quizzical smile. ‘Is that why you kept the diary? Because you thought it was Rosa’s motive?’

  ‘One reason. Of course, I wasn’t at all sure that Rosa had killed Richie. But if I’d been convicted, she and I were going to have a little chat.’ His eyes went cold. ‘Even then, I put myself ahead of her. Not to mention Carlo. I wasn’t leaving him behind if I could help it.’

  ‘And Terri?’ Caroline said.

  ‘Was, to me, an implausible murderer. But it had to be Rosa or Terri. Never for a minute did I believe that stuff you dreamed up about drug dealers and homicidal politicians, and I assume you didn’t, either.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Caroline said. ‘To the extent I considered it, I thought it was either you or Terri. After Terri’s testimony, I even considered a possible conspiracy. Both of you, with Terri providing extremely clever testimony you’d auditioned in advance.’

  Even now, the remark hit Paget hard. ‘Jesus,’ he said.

  Caroline gave him a look of compassion. ‘So perhaps you can forgive Teresa for suspecting what I suspected rather frequently.’ Another brief smile. ‘That I was representing a murderer I liked rather more than I should.’

  Paget did not smile. ‘You’re forgiven, Caroline. Terri I’m still working out.’

  Caroline tented her fingers, as if considering whether to speak. ‘Is there any hope for that?’ she asked finally.

  ‘Aside from the fact that Terri went for months believing that I was a killer? Consider Carlo, then, or Elena. We’d be asking her to live in a family with a stepbrother accused of molesting her, and a stepfather who some people will always believe killed her real father. How could we make a child do all that? Or, for that matter, Carlo.’

  Caroline considered him. ‘Because Terri’s who you want?’

  Paget was quiet for a time. ‘It would have to be right for our kids,’ he said. ‘And that’s pretty hard to imagine.’

  For a moment Caroline looked reflective, almost sad. ‘There, regrettably, I’m out of my depth. Although I had a goldfish once.’

  Paget smiled. ‘Mine always died.’

  ‘Mine too.’ Caroline stood abruptly. ‘I hate to run, Chris, but I have a partners meeting – something about what we’re paying all of us next fiscal year. Prudence suggests that I should show an interest.’

  ‘I imagine so.’ Standing, Paget thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘Somehow, I don’t think I’ve quite managed to thank you. At least adequately.’

  ‘Oh, I should thank you.’ Caroline took him by the arm, steering him to the door. But when he turned to say goodbye, she slid her hand behind his neck and kissed him, slowly and sweetly, on the cheek. And then she leaned back, eyes bright again. ‘That,’ she said, ‘was for being innocent. Now go and get some good out of it.’

  A few weeks later, when Terri found that she and Chris were still together, she asked Carlo to dinner.

  They went for sushi in Chris’s neighborhood; the restaurant was bright and quiet and had sushi that met Carlo’s standards. Eating his way through the menu, Carlo was equable and somewhat distant, as he so often seemed with Chris these days. Terri had the sense of someone who had begun living his own life and keeping his own counsel, becoming more like his father than Chris had ever wanted for him. Next to Elena, the relationship between Chris and Carlo struck her as the biggest casualty of Richie’s death.

  ‘Somehow,’ Terri admitted finally, ‘I was hoping to help make things better between you and your dad, if not between you and me. Even I miss how things were.’

  Carlo gave her the same look she had seen from Chris: a disconcerting mixture of directness, detachment, and a certain lack of sentiment. But they’re not the same, the look said, so wishing for that is pointless. Aloud, Carlo answered, ‘Things happen, that’s all. For years, I depended on my dad. But you can’t stay a kid forever.’

  Weaned affections, Chris once had said sardonically, referring to his feelings about his own parents. But Chris deserved better. ‘Do you think you’ll stay this angry?’ Terri asked.

  Carlo shrugged. ‘Who said I’m angry?’

  ‘No one. And Chris has never said he’s angry at me. So I guess that he must not be.’

  Carlo raised his eyebrows. ‘Dad?’ he said with irony. ‘He’s too cool to be angry?’

  ‘Are you too cool?’

  Carlo gave her a long look of scrutiny, as if deciding whether to be candid. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I’m not.’

  Please, Terri thought, talk to me as you did before your father and I became lovers. ‘Is it more Elena? Or what your dad chose not to tell you?’

  Carlo contemplated a piece of California roll and then put it down. ‘Elena,’ he said finally, ‘I’m learning to live with. I’ve sort of figured out that if you show up somewhere and you know you’re okay, people will accept that.’ He paused, and then shrugged. ‘Anyhow, Katie always knew I didn’t do it.’

  The last remark, quiet but pointed, struck Terri on several levels: that Katie had believed in Carlo more than Terri had believed in Chris; that Terri had also wondered about Carlo; and that Carlo, at sixteen, had emotional connections to his peers as real and immediate as to his own parent. ‘Has it been hard,’ she asked, ‘not telling Katie what really happened?’

  Carlo considered her. ‘I never felt like I needed to,’ he answered.

  Terri watched him. ‘But your father did need to, didn’t he. So when he felt he could, he told you everything.’

  Carlo’s eyes hardened. ‘He left me out there for a long time.’

  Terri nodded. ‘I understand how you feel, Carlo – it was exactly what he did to me. But you were a witness. If Chris had told you the truth, you would have had to choose between lying about what you knew or possibly convicting him.’ Terri paused, adding quietly, ‘Besides, do you think he should have told you about me? Or do you tell him everything about Katie.’

  Carlo inspected her. ‘No. But this involved me.’

  ‘And me.’ Terri softened her voice. ‘I’m not saying your dad was right, and I know he put a lot on you. I also know that he feels like he did you, and his relationship to you, permanent harm. Which is the thing that means more to him than anything. Or anyone.’ She touched his arm. ‘You do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Basically, yes.’

  ‘Basically? Chris adores you.’ Terri looked at him intently. ‘Part of growing up is being your own person. I think you’re getting that much pretty well down. I’m not so sure about the other part.’

  Carlo gave her the remote gaze that, in Chris, Terri recognized as a kind of challenge. ‘Which is?’

  ‘Accepting Chris as he is – a flawed person who loves you and who’s done pretty well by you without a road map from his own parents, or help from a pa
rtner.’ She looked at him intently. ‘You were upset about nearly losing him, and I don’t blame you. Instead you still have him. Does that make him less worth loving?’

  Carlo reached for the California roll, chewing it with a narrow-eyed look and then washing it down with a sip of Terri’s beer. ‘Nope,’ he finally said.

  There was the first trace of a smile around Carlo’s eyes. Emboldened, Terri added, ‘But try not to be too much like your dad, okay? Not everyone can pick up the signals.’

  To her surprise, Carlo grinned. ‘Mr Warm and Fuzzy, you mean? Yeah, I wish he weren’t so emotional all the time. It’s embarrassing.’

  In her relief, Terri laughed aloud. ‘I know. Especially in front of company.’

  The moment reminded Terri of their first common bond – a gentle mockery of Chris, based on shared affection. But then Carlo asked, as he would not have a year before, ‘What about your mother?’

  It startled Terri into quiet. ‘It’s not the same,’ she finally said.

  Carlo had stopped smiling. ‘You’ve got that right,’ he said coolly. ‘How are you dealing with it all?’

  Terri shook her head. ‘Badly. I don’t have nightmares anymore. Just flashbacks from my childhood, and terrible guilt.’ She looked into Carlo’s face. ‘It isolates me, in a way. There’s this horrible thing, the biggest thing in my life, and I can’t talk about it to anyone but Chris. Who’s the person everyone blamed for it. Including me.’

  Carlo considered her. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘About that, I know what you mean.’

  It was several months before Paget encountered Victor Salinas, and then Salinas came to his office unannounced.

  ‘I didn’t know if you’d see me,’ Salinas said without preface, ‘and I think we need to talk.’

  ‘Who did I murder now?’

  Salinas gave him an edgy, delayed smile. ‘McKinley Brooks?’

  Paget stared at him. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Can we talk about this in confidence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sitting, Salinas looked around for a moment, taking in Paget’s paintings and the small sculpture on his desk. To Paget, he seemed more muted than in the bleak environs of the Hall of Justice, his home. ‘I’d like to run for district attorney,’ Salinas said.

  Paget nodded. ‘Let me see if I follow, Victor. After what Caroline did at my trial, McKinley’s anonymous friend became too gun-shy to find Mac some higher office. On the other hand, Mac is insufficiently wounded not to run for D.A. again. Which leaves him in your way.’ Paget paused, and then his voice became dry. ‘You’re not here to ask me for money,’ he went on, ‘because taking it would be so unseemly. So you’re wondering whether I want to screw Mac so badly that I’d help you become D.A. in some other way – say, for example, by digging up more dirt on how Mac tampered with the Ricardo Arias inquiry. You can’t use the cops to help you: you’re not the D.A., and Charles Monk won’t play ball with anyone. On the other hand, I could probably ask Johnny Moore to see what he could find – like the nameless “source” who no doubt contacted McKinley Brooks after the cops found Richie dead.’ Paget leaned back, his expression one of polite inquiry. ‘Is that about it? Or is there some subtlety I’ve missed?’

  Paget could not help but admire Salinas’s calm; his surprise had shown only for a second. But then Salinas was, as Paget knew, a capable trial lawyer. ‘You’re in the ballpark,’ he said.

  ‘In the ballpark?’ Paget gave him a deprecating smile. ‘That kind of information would ruin Mac politically. He might even get indicted. All you’d need is to feed the “source” to the U.S. Attorney, and a grand jury would have a field day, to use another sports metaphor. As would you, the last honest man.’

  Salinas’s eyes flashed at the hint of condescension; Paget had reminded him that he would not forget the trial, and that there was no point in coyness. ‘All right,’ Salinas said at length. ‘It’s what I need. So will you help me?’

  Slowly, Paget drew a manila file from a drawer and placed it on the desk between them. ‘It’s all here, in Johnny’s report to me. The “source” who called Brooks is the same man who funneled the information to Jack Slocum and, no doubt, the ten thousand dollars to our late friend Ricardo. It’s yours, if you want it. In the public interest, of course.’

  Salinas stared at the file. He began to reach for it, and then stopped, looking at Paget’s face. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘James Colt.’

  Salinas sat back, still watching Paget. ‘This “source” has ties to Colt?’

  ‘Yes. To a certainty, Colt is McKinley’s secret friend. The one who tampered with your case.’

  Eyeing the file, Salinas did not move or speak. After a moment, Paget nodded. ‘Your caution does you credit, Victor. Because once you let this particular genie out of the bottle, you lose control. Even if it were possible, Johnny and I will never let the damage stop with Brooks. The larger question, which the U.S. Attorney will be quick to see, is what politician the go-between Slocum and Brooks protected was working for.’ Paget paused for emphasis. ‘Never once did Caroline Masters remind me that she was making a powerful enemy, who might well be able to deny her a federal judgeship. But that result is unacceptable to me. So if you accept this information, you’re committing yourself to Colt’s political demise. Which will make him your enemy as well.’ Paget’s voice became flat. ‘You help get Colt, Victor, or he’ll get you.’

  Salinas remained silent. But Paget could make out his emotions – fear, ambition, prudence, and the sudden knowledge that this, which he had seen as his chance, might instead be his ruin. And then he looked into Paget’s face again.

  Softly, Paget said, ‘Yes or no?’

  Salinas’s faint smile, mingling pride and calculation, lingered for a moment. And the he reached across Paget’s desk, and took the file.

  Paget lined up the cue ball, carefully aiming at the black ball numbered 8. With a smooth stroke of the cue, he propelled the cue ball; there was a soft crack, and the eight ball glided away at a right angle and fell into the corner pocket.

  ‘There,’ Paget said with satisfaction.

  Carlo stared at the spot where, a moment befoe, the last ball had resided. ‘Another game,’ he announced. It was not a request.

  They racked up the balls again. In the last nine years, they had shot countless games of pool in Paget’s basement; over time, Carlo had become Paget’s competitor and then his equal. But Paget was reminded less of that than of the way he and Carlo, when Carlo was too young to talk much, had communicated by throwing a red rubber ball – and, more sadly, that in their recent silences, Paget thought of all the men who could not communicate with each other except through sports and games.

  Paget put down his cue. ‘Look,’ he said abruptly, ‘I know I screwed things up.’

  Lining up the cue ball, Carlo did not look at him. His cue flashed; the white ball sped into the pack, sending them flying at all angles. Two balls at the corners disappeared into pockets.

  Paget felt his son’s rebuff. ‘Nice shot, Carlo.’

  His son scanned the table. ‘You didn’t screw things up,’ he said. ‘You screwed up. There’s a difference.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Carlo lined up his next shot. ‘You screwed up the Richie deal, all right? What made it worse is that, since I was a kid, I expected you to be perfect. When you weren’t, I was scared – and pissed.’ Carlo made the shot and glanced up from the table. ‘You’re really lucky, Dad. Of all the people in the world, you’re the one I have the hardest time being fair to. Because, for a long time, you were the only person I could expect much from. Just like I said at the trial.’

  Paget looked at him. He did not know what to say.

  Turning, Carlo eyed another shot. ‘Guess being a parent’s a shitty deal, huh?’

  The ball disappeared. ‘Only sometimes,’ Paget said. ‘Other times, it’s not so bad.’

  Carlo smiled, and made a bank shot. ‘I’m getting older, though. You can
’t make your whole life out of worrying about me. Or annoying me.’

  ‘I didn’t plan to, actually.’

  A moment’s silence. ‘So what’s happening with you and Terri?’ Carlo asked, and sank his fifth shot in a row.

  Paget raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know you cared,’ he gibed, not joking.

  ‘Terri and I had dinner again the other night. I’ve decided to declare amnesty.’ Carlo smiled again. ‘You know, before I push things so far you really get fed up with me.’

  Slowly, Paget shook his head. That Carlo had protected Elena made him sad and proud at once; from what Terri said, it might yet be the saving of her. ‘You’d get a lot of points for Elena,’ Paget said seriously. ‘Even if I didn’t love you so much. You’ve shown more character than Terri, or I, had any right to ask.’

  Carlo shrugged and then made his sixth shot running. ‘Terri’s a nice person,’ he said. ‘A lot better than her life.’

  Paget hesitated for a moment. ‘What made that occur to you?’

  ‘I remembered why I used to like her,’ Carlo answered, gauging still another shot. As it slid toward the pocket, he murmured, ‘Seven,’ even before it fell.

  ‘And why is that?’ Paget asked.

  ‘Two reasons.’ Carlo sank another ball and then smiled up at his father. ‘First, she can honestly talk about how she feels, sometimes in complete sentences. Second, she doesn’t talk to me like a parent. But then she’s closer to my age than yours.’ The grin widened. ‘That was eight, by the way. You lose.’

  ‘I want to go outside,’ Elena said.

  It was a crisp fall day, nine months or so after Chris’s acquittal. Leaning through the window, Elena stuck her face into the sun; in her interest in the world, more constant now, she was a shade closer to the extroverted child she once had been. When she mentioned her father, it was rarely about his abuse of her; for good or bad, Elena clung to memories of when they had all been together, a family, before Terri left him. In one way, Terri acknowledged grimly, Rosa’s solution to Richie had been perfect: Elena did not have to deal with her father, feeling guilty and ambivalent, trapped within whatever supervised regime of visitation the family court would have parceled out to him. As for Terri, who struggled with enough, she would never have to look at Ricardo Arias again.