Caroline felt awkward. And then she felt the reflex of her adulthood: the withdrawal of feeling in exchange for thought. “You want to offer me manslaughter,” she said.
Jackson smiled without humor. “How did you ever guess?”
“Is there a recommended sentence that goes with it?”
“Ten years.” His smile vanished. “It’s open for one day only, Caroline. Let me know before court tomorrow.”
Caroline felt herself go cold. “I thought this wasn’t about your star witness. And whatever I may have in store for her.”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “And I thought you had no conflict.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t know what you’ve got for Megan. But it can’t change the case we’ve built already, and Fred Towle isn’t going to bounce me. Because your questions have been about reasonable doubt, not probable cause. And you’ll have to offer a New Hampshire jury more than some song and dance about a right-handed drug dealer in gloves who paddled in by canoe while Brett was swimming, cut James’s throat, and paddled out again. In the end, it just won’t wash.”
This, Caroline feared, might be true. “Then why the offer?”
“Because between intoxication and jealousy, I expect you can entice a jury to believe that Brett acted without thought. That might even be a just result. But what you can’t guarantee her is ten years.” Jackson’s voice became soft again. “Out by age thirty-two, Caroline, with the rest of her life back. Not much of a price for what we saw in those pictures.”
“Those pictures,” Caroline retorted, “may never get into evidence—at least not the ones of Brett. Because most of what you have is a direct result of her first statement to Mann, which I’ll suppress for sure. That makes a whole lot else—the pictures, the search of Brett’s person and property, her second statement—the proverbial fruit of the poisonous tree.”
Jackson rested his arms on his knees, regarding her quite calmly. “I can tell you what’ll happen. You’ll get Brett’s first statement tossed and, if you’re, very lucky, the second. But all the physical evidence resulting from finding the body comes in because we would have found him without her help. And at trial, Brett will have to tell her story, anyhow, and give me or my successor a shot at cross-examination. Because no reasonable jury will forgive her for not explaining herself in the face of all the evidence.”
Caroline stared at him. “Or your successor?” she repeated.
“That’s right. I find that I’m not enjoying this case quite the way I should.”
Caroline sat back. Was this distaste or prudence? she wondered; the deeper stress she sensed in him could be dislike of what he was doing, fear of losing a judgeship, or the ascendancy of doubt over zeal that comes with middle age. From her own experience, it was probably all of these.
“Back in high school,” she said at last, “could you have imagined this conversation?”
Jackson gave the small, lopsided smile that had hardly changed since then. “Even if I could have, Caroline, I couldn’t have guessed how it would feel.”
Caroline became quiet, without quite knowing why. Then it came to her: this was likely the last civil conversation she would have with Jackson Watts.
Turning, she gazed at the lawn, the trees, the deepening shadows.
“I’ll talk to Brett,” she said. “But if you’re still calling Megan, I’d have her ready to go.”
Tonight, everything about Brett—the vivid green eyes, the coils of brown hair, the quick movement of her hands—seemed to quiver with suppressed anxiety. She looked far more real than Caroline felt, standing on the precipice of doubt. So that Brett’s long silence startled her.
“I must not be explaining this well,” Caroline said.
“You explained it fine.” Brett’s gaze was steady and penetrating. “Ten years and out. I’m just trying to read what you’re not saying.”
Caroline felt one thought intersecting with another. And then she remembered the moment in a famous murder case, in which a celebrity was accused of cruelly butchering his wife, when Caroline had known that he was guilty—the day two months after the killing that the accused, prompted by his public relations expert, had offered a reward for the “real” murderer of the beloved mother of his two young children. “I was wondering,” Caroline said at last, “what you would say if I asked who you think murdered James. A drug dealer?”
“No. I don’t believe that now.” Brett’s eyes did not waver. “Any more than you do.”
Surprised, Caroline hesitated. “Then who?”
“That’s what scares me.” For a moment, Brett was quiet. “All day I looked at those pictures. I’ve thought about them ever since.” Her words became low, intense. “There’s memory, and then there’s the things you just know. That’s nothing I could ever have done to him. I don’t know anyone who could.”
In the bare yellow room, Caroline studied her: the moment carried echoes of other talks in other rooms, risks being bartered for years. And yet it was so different.
“But what do you think, Caroline?” Brett’s voice became ironic. “I get so hung up on being innocent I forget that you’re my lawyer.”
Inwardly, Caroline winced. “Perhaps I’m not as detached as I should be.”
Torn from her own concerns, Brett gave her a brief, curious look, and then her voice grew softer. “The last three days have been horrible. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine how anyone else feels about it. Or to care much, either.”
“No reason to. But is my advice so important to you?”
“Yes.” Brett’s voice was quiet. “Now, it is.”
Caroline inhaled. “I wouldn’t take Jackson’s deal.”
Brett’s eyes probed hers. “Why?”
“Because any capable defense lawyer can get this deal later—even Jackson’s case screams manslaughter.” Pausing, Caroline felt the weight of her last words. “Of course, that’s easy for me to say. Take ten years now, and you’ll cap your risk forever. No more trial, or waiting, or fear. You just start serving your time, hoping that when you get out you’ll still have some sort of life—a career, kids, who knows. And maybe Jackson’s successor will be a real hardass, and you’ll never get this deal again.” Finishing, Caroline felt shaken. “But I can’t tell you to do this, Brett. Because—although it scares me to say so—I think that I can make things better for you.”
Brett looked at her in hope and doubt. After a time, she asked softly, “Because of Megan?”
For a long moment, Caroline was silent. “Yes,” she answered. “At least because of Megan.”
Eleven
There are days in the courtroom that have a deeper texture, Caroline thought. Sometimes this is felt only by the lawyers; at other times, those watching know it also. But Megan Race brought with her something more: the sense that, for her, this was a defining moment.
She seemed conscious of everything—the reporters, the Masters family, the import of her testimony—in the way that an actress, pretending to ignore her audience, shows her awareness through her bearing, the specificity of her gestures, the inflection of a word, a telling stillness. From the time that she walked to the stand, tall and straight and proud, Megan drew a particular quiet.
Caroline was quite certain that she alone felt the potential for the rarest of courtroom events, a psychic melt-down that would not be pleasant to watch. But this was merely the smallest reason, among several, that made her wish this morning had never come.
She had told Jackson privately, and briefly, in a corner of the lobby. “Brett can’t do it,” Caroline said. “Among other things, she insists she’s innocent.”
Jackson looked at her in silence; he seemed as subdued as Caroline felt. “Can I ask what you advised her?” he said at length.
“The same, I’m afraid.” Caroline shrugged. “So there we are.”
For another moment, Jackson watched her. “I keep trying to understand you,” he said. “You can’t seriously believe her, can you?”
“I’ve begun to acti
vely consider it, Jackson. As should you.” Caroline paused. “I really wish we could talk about Megan. But it’s not in Brett’s interests.”
Jackson smiled without humor. “Oh, well,” he said, and turned to enter court. To Caroline, watching, the moment was sadder than he imagined.
Now, sitting next to Brett, she knew why she had come.
Brett, of course, understood none of this. Her focus was on Megan: she watched her with a cool anger that, to Caroline, was bracing.
“What kind of person,” Brett murmured, “gets pleasure out of this?”
That was it, Caroline thought, and Brett had caught it: there was a narcissism about Megan, and the courtroom fed it. Worried about Caroline as she might be, Megan would not, in the end, be able to hold back.
“Prepare yourself for a long morning,” Caroline murmured to Brett. “But after that, things will get better.”
Head raised, eyes straight ahead, Megan swore to tell the truth.
For a last moment, Caroline turned to watch her family. Her father had fixed Megan with a gelid stare, as if she were an insect. Somehow Caroline found this more chilling than anger; perhaps it was the memory of her first horrified awareness, the night that David had vanished, of the way Channing Masters could dismiss the claim of another human being to any shred of sympathy. For all that she was like him, Caroline thought, this was the difference that had made her a defense lawyer; that made her, in this way at least, Nicole Dessaliers’ daughter.
As if by reflex, Caroline glanced at her sister.
Betty, she thought grimly, lacked her father’s resources: her face was pale, distorted by fear and anger. The anger, Caroline knew, was far deeper yet no more complex than the outrage of a mother whose child is picked on by a bully. But it was the fear that never left her—that whatever Betty most valued would be taken from her, for reasons she could not comprehend. It was fortunate that she did not know that it was Larry, by violating her trust, who had helped place Brett at risk; not even Caroline could take pleasure in what this would do to Betty.
Next to her, Larry clasped Betty’s hand, unable to look at Megan. With a certain lack of charity, Caroline made sure that he saw her. It was not until his gaze broke that Caroline turned away.
Damn all of you, she thought.
Beneath the table, she touched Brett’s hand, and felt the girl’s fingertips close around hers. Softly, Caroline said, “Don’t worry.”
On the stand, Megan was a portrait of grief and dignity.
She wore a suit, blue and severe, such as one would wear to a job interview. Which was how Jackson treated her first moments in the public eye.
“And what, to this point, is your grade point average at Chase?”
Megan folded her hands. “Three point seven,” she said. “Straight A’s would be a four point.”
Her air, Caroline thought, was a touch supercilious. Quickly, Jackson moved to the most appealing part: that Megan, a high school honor student, was at Chase on partial scholarship; that her father had died when she was twelve; that she worked to help pay for school. With a certain fascination, Caroline watched Jackson gild Megan’s character, wondering if he suspected that the one detail of importance was the loss of Megan’s father.
“And you and your mother are close?” Jackson was asking.
“Very. Since Dad died, it was just the two of us. But his dream was that I go to college, and we’ve dedicated ourselves to that.” She paused, looking down. “Until now, going to Chase was his dream come true.”
“Here we go,” Caroline murmured.
Jackson paused, as if permitting Megan to regain her bearings. “Are you acquainted with the defendant, Brett Allen?”
For the first time, Megan turned to Brett; her quick glance at Caroline was both surreptitious and defiant. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”
Her answer was given with a catch in her throat. So far, Caroline acknowledged, Megan showed close to perfect pitch. “Don’t take your eyes off her,” Caroline whispered to Brett. “Make her feel you.”
“And do you know any other members of her family?” Jackson asked.
At the edge of Caroline’s view, Larry looked down. “Her father.” Megan folded her hands. “But only as a professor for one class, or to visit his office if I had a question.”
“And what grade did you receive?”
“An A.”
“Do you have any animosity toward any member of the Allen family?”
Megan raised her chin, displaying a long, elegant neck. Her blond hair, Caroline noted, had been carefully trimmed, so that it barely touched her shoulders. “Only one,” she said at last. “Brett Allen.”
It was a good answer, Caroline thought; whatever else, Megan had been carefully coached.
“Can you tell us, Ms. Race, the reason for this animosity?”
Her eyes seemed to widen in shock, suddenly recalled, at the loss she had suffered. In a quiet voice, she said, “Because James Case and I were in love.”
It was a demure answer, Caroline thought, reflecting Jackson’s advice. His own voice softened to match Megan’s. “And how long was that relationship?”
Megan raised her chin again. “It began in February. And continued until the day he died.”
“And your relationship was an intimate one?”
“Yes. It was very intense.” Megan’s voice took on an assertive pride. “Physically and emotionally.”
Brett’s jawline tightened. But what Caroline felt was a frisson of unease; what she heard was not Megan’s claim of intimacy but the need for it, the sad secret of the young woman whom Caroline had witnessed in a lonely, unguarded moment, touching herself in the mirror.
As if she had read her thoughts, Megan turned to Caroline. Caroline smiled faintly. When Jackson spoke again, Megan seemed to flinch.
“How often did you see each other?” Jackson asked.
A hesitancy, distracted. “At least twice a week.”
“Why not more often?”
“I have to work at night, as well as study—my scholarship depends on maintaining a certain GPA, and it doesn’t cover everything.” Megan’s voice fell. “And James was trying to make up his mind.”
“About what?”
Megan touched her collarbone; to Caroline, the gesture had a certain widowed sensuality, the feel of a lover recalled. “Between Brett,” she answered softly, “and what he had found with me.”
Brett’s face showed anger and distaste; for all that she appeared volatile, Caroline sensed that she had the New Englander’s dislike for self-dramatization. But Caroline’s second thought went deeper than reason could justify—that Brett seemed too real for there to be a second Brett, waiting beneath the first to be summoned by drugs or wine.
“So, in your understanding, James was involved with Brett at the time you began dating?”
“Yes.” Megan’s voice became sententious and a little sad. “He was obviously looking for a way out. But like a lot of men, he had this misplaced sense of guilt.”
Caroline did not bother to stand. “I wonder, Your Honor, if we might stick to what Mr. Case did, as opposed to how Ms. Race cares to imagine him. Assuming that she knows the difference.”
Caroline’s tone, while mild, was so unsympathetic that Jackson—clearly expecting Caroline to tread more carefully—gave her a look of genuine surprise which was mirrored in Towle’s raised eyebrows. “Well,” Towle observed, “it’s probably best to let events speak for themselves.” He turned to Megan, adding courteously, “If you could, Ms. Race.”
But Megan was staring at Caroline, and the prideful look had become rigid. You can’t take it, Caroline thought, can you? “Thank you, Your Honor,” she said to Towle, but never took her eyes off Megan.
“In any event,” Jackson said promptly, “there came a time when James was seeing both you and Ms. Allen?”
Megan’s head snapped back toward Jackson. “Yes. There was.”
“And was Ms. Allen aware of this?”
“
Yes.”
“How did you know this?”
Briefly, Megan looked unsettled. “At first, I almost couldn’t believe it, what James said—that she was following us.”
It was nicely done, Caroline thought: a bizarre story that, in retrospect, had become horrifying because of James’s death. This time Caroline stood. “Move to strike,” she said. “Ms. Race’s account of James’s supposed knowledge is clearly hearsay.”
“Of course it is,” Jackson retorted. “But it’s admissible under a standard exception—that it is offered not for the truth of the assertion but to describe Mr. Case’s state of mind—”
“Then what good is it to you?” Caroline snapped.
“Because, among other things, it helps explain Mr. Case’s later conduct toward both Ms. Race and Ms. Allen.”
Towle nodded, and turned to Caroline. “I’m going to allow it, Ms. Masters.”
Caroline sat down. As she had expected, the smallest reinforcement lent Megan a sense of triumph; her eyes seemed to glint, and she looked briefly, imperiously, around the courtroom. And then, head bowed, Megan slipped back into her role.
“Did there come a time,” Jackson asked her, “that you gained personal knowledge that Brett Allen was following you?”
A slight, reluctant nod. “Yes.”
“And when was that?”
Megan looked into a middle distance; once more, there was the glaze of shock remembered. “She burst into James’s apartment and found us together.”
Next to her, Caroline saw Brett grip the edge of the table. “What were the circumstances?” Jackson asked.
Megan’s eyes half shut; her voice was a curious mix of reticence and pride. “We were making love. In James’s bed.”
“That’s a relief,” Caroline whispered. But Brett did not seem to hear her. She had the concerned look that Caroline had seen before—someone trapped in a courtroom, listening to a version of her life she could not challenge, reduced to wondering how her reaction appeared to others.
The Final Judgment Page 39
