Degree of Guilt

by Unknown

  ‘We’d better go in,’ he said. ‘I’m keeping you.’

  ‘It’s all right, Richie’s out, and I wanted to tell you about Rappaport.’

  Opening a beveled double door with a brass knob and door kick, Paget led her inside.

  The interior made Terri’s preconceptions seem foolish. She had vaguely imagined the movie-set trappings of inherited wealth – the oak paneling, brown leather, and oil paintings of dead ancestors more appropriate to some private men’s club. The actual decor was light: white walls and blond hardwood floors, with track lighting and bright splashes of color everywhere – a deep-red Persian rug, vases and silk flowers in various hues, an eclectic assortment of vivid prints and oils, which somehow enhanced each other rather than clashed. Passing the library, Terri saw a long marble fireplace and then a shelf full of games, which, like geologic periods, seemed to trace Carlo’s passage from seven to fifteen. Terri felt a moment’s envy, for Elena’s sake more than for her own: Christopher Paget’s house felt as if the same people had lived here for a while, adding pieces of themselves over time, secure in the knowledge that this was their home.

  ‘That’s a lovely fireplace,’ Terri said.

  Paget nodded. ‘Carlo always liked me to build a fire for him, read stories in front of it. When he was younger, the library was his favorite room.’

  ‘Your whole home is beautiful, really. Did you do all this yourself?’

  Paget nodded. ‘That’s what explains all the primary colors,’ he said. ‘Carlo and I have a complete lack of subtlety no decorator could match.’

  Smiling, Terri felt the seemingly light remark bring Paget into focus: he was clinging to a life that might now change irreparably, and for the wrong reasons. It lent an unsettling note of worry to this lightness about Carlo.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked. ‘I’ve never met him.’

  ‘Studying, I hope.’ Paget glanced up the staircase. ‘If you don’t mind, perhaps we can chat in the kitchen. I was just cleaning up.’

  Paget looked slightly uncomfortable, as if concerned that his manners had lapsed. Terri realized that he preferred that his son not walk into the middle of the kind of conversation this was likely to be; thinking about Mark Ransom and his mother, she was sure, had already been hard enough.

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘I like any kitchen that I don’t have to cook in.’

  The kitchen was what she now expected: high-tech, track-lit, spacious, light. On the other side of a bleached wooden counter were two white leather-covered barstools, where, she guessed, Paget and his son ate breakfast. Terri declined a glass of wine and sat with her hands folded in front of her. Paget leaned casually against the counter, as if to help her relax.

  ‘Just tell me about Rappaport as it happened,’ he said. ‘From beginning to end.’

  For forty minutes, Terri did that.

  At odd intervals Paget would interject a question, as often about how Rappaport looked or acted as about what she said. Terri sensed him piecing together this woman from whatever Terri gave him, adjusting the picture here and there, with the dispassion of an archaeologist reimaging a long-dead creature from a few scraps of bone. His face showed nothing save a slight narrowing of the eyes; Terri could not tell whether this reflected a reaction to what Rappaport had told her or to Terri herself.

  When she had finished, Paget walked to the refrigerator without a word, poured a glass of white wine, and held it out to her. ‘If you don’t want this,’ he said, ‘I’ll drink it.’

  Terri realized that she wanted it. When she had sipped awhile, Paget said, ‘A few more questions.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He leaned back on the counter, regarding her. ‘Did she say Ransom had other women?’

  ‘I assumed that.’ It sounded foolish, Terri felt, and was. ‘She didn’t say so.’

  Paget nodded. ‘When she said Ransom had lost interest, did she mean that literally, or was she talking about some failure of performance?’

  Terri hesitated. The question had not occurred to her. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Did she know anything about Ransom’s sex life outside her own experience – from Ransom himself, or anyone else?’

  ‘I didn’t ask her that.’ Terri stared at her wine. ‘I should have.’

  Paget smiled faintly, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps at a deposition. Not when you’re watching a self-possessed woman unravel because she’s telling you things you want to know but wish had never happened to her, until you’re no longer sure you even want her to keep talking.’

  Terri felt surprised, and then something like relief. ‘I felt ashamed,’ she said. ‘Like I was taking something from her.’

  ‘I think not, in the end: it’s what Ransom did to her that’s awful, not the facing up to it. What strikes me is how much she seems to have taken out of you.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Do you always fool yourself when something’s bad?’

  Terri hesitated. ‘This shouldn’t be.’

  Paget shook his head. ‘What she told you is quite extraordinary, and it connected you to what she felt. That’s how you know you’re not a sociopath, or dead.’

  Terri kept gazing at the glass. ‘It was unbelievable,’ she finally said.

  ‘I really don’t know how you got her to say all that.’ Paget poured himself some wine. ‘But by doing it, you’ve given Mary far more credibility than she could ever have on her own.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll drop this now?’

  ‘Quite possibly. One problem with Mary’s story is that Ransom’s connection to her is so arbitrary – it’s like deciding to rape Barbara Walters because you saw her on 20/20. I can understand Brooks and Sharpe thinking that there must be something more.’ He paused, as if trying to imagine himself as Sharpe. ‘What the D.A. has to accept,’ he finished, ‘is that, like Melissa Rappaport, but for reasons only Mark Ransom could ever have explained, Mary Carelli became the object of his Laura Chase fetish.’

  Terri finished her wine. ‘There is one difference. Which got Mary where she is.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘She wouldn’t play the game.’

  Paget considered her. ‘Mary Carelli,’ he said, ‘has never played anyone’s game but her own.’

  His voice had a faint sardonic edge. Terri was still trying to decipher that when she discovered with surprise how very much Mary Carelli resembled their son.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’ Carlo asked them.

  How long, Paget wondered, had Carlo been standing there, and what had he heard?

  Carlo looked from his father, to the wineglasses, to Terri. With perfect composure, Terri slid off the barstool, extended her hand to Carlo and said, ‘I’m Terri Peralta, your father’s associate. So all you’re interrupting is your father attempting to make sense of things, and me attempting to listen with my usual respect. Unfortunately, I’m doing better than he is.’

  Carlo’s air of uncertainty eased a bit; through intuition or sheer luck, Paget saw, Terri knew that the surest way to disarm Carlo was to poke fun at his father.

  ‘That explains the wine,’ Carlo answered. As he turned to Paget, his expression was more equable. ‘You guys were talking about my mother.’

  Paget nodded. ‘Terri’s trying to help me prove that Mark Ransom was what your mother says he was.’

  Carlo looked at Terri again. ‘Do you think you can?’

  Paget watched Terri appraise Carlo’s face, react to the confusion she saw there. ‘Speaking strictly for myself,’ Terri said, ‘I think Mark Ransom did stuff like this long before he made the mistake of picking on your mother. If I’m right, then there are other women out there who didn’t have the wherewithal to protect themselves the way your mom did. We’ve been trying to figure out how to find them, and what made your mother more able to take care of herself.’

  Terri, Paget realized, had neatly covered their conversation, putting a benign spin on the ambiguous comment Carlo might have overheard. The boy began fidgeting, as if not wishing to talk
more but afraid of missing what else might be said.

  ‘I assume,’ Paget ventured, ‘that your original purpose was not to meet Ms Peralta, but to raid the refrigerator. Ice cream, or milk?’

  ‘Both, actually.’

  Terri glanced at her watch. ‘I should be going.’

  The comment sounded perfunctory, Paget thought; Terri had the relaxed posture of someone with nowhere to go. ‘Why don’t you have some ice cream,’ he suggested.

  Carlo nodded. ‘I can spare a little.’

  ‘What? And create another chubbette?’

  Paget looked at Terri’s small frame, slim wrists. ‘In which life?’

  ‘This life. I’m absolutely convinced that somewhere in Latin America, there’s another Hispanic woman named Teresa Peralta who’s wearing all the doughnuts I ate in High School.’ Terri turned to Carlo. ‘Because of me, she weighs at least three hundred pounds, and no one asked her to the winter prom.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Carlo. ‘Our winter prom was awful. No one danced.’

  ‘So have some ice cream,’ Paget said.

  Terri gave a theatrical sigh. ‘When I’m this tired,’ she said, ‘I’ve got no social conscience.’

  Carlo sat next to Terri, while Paget dished out two bowls of ice cream. ‘What about you?’ Terri asked Paget.

  ‘Never touch the stuff. Especially now.’

  ‘Why not now?’

  ‘So I can recognize myself when they run old clips of the Lasko hearings. . . .’

  ‘The truth,’ Carlo interjected, ‘is that my father runs five miles every morning and weighs himself six times a day. He wants to make the cover of Seventeen.’

  ‘American Bride, Carlo. And every parent needs a hobby to help compensate for disrespectful children. I’ve selected vanity, and I’ll thank you to respect that.’

  Terri laughed. ‘Do you two always carry on like this?’

  ‘Only when Carlo gets gratuitous reinforcement.’ Paget looked from his son to Terri. ‘Unfortunately for me, he seems to have found his natural audience.’

  Terri grinned at Carlo. ‘I guess he’s right,’ she said, and then turned to Paget. ‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, but during the Lasko hearings I was an eighth-grade cheerleader.’

  Paget looked at her in mock horror. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘do you even remember Paul McCartney’s group before Wings?’

  Carlo pointed to Paget. ‘Do you remember him?’ Carlo asked.

  ‘Vaguely,’ Terri said. ‘But your mother has aged quite well.’

  Carlo burst out laughing. ‘Your move, Dad.’

  ‘I was just thinking, Carlo. Before I yank the barstool out from under her, you might want to ask Terri all the questions I’m too old to answer – stuff about dating, acne, things like that. You might even ask her why a superficially presentable fifteen-year-old, despite living in these modern times of which I am so dimly aware, can’t get a couple of mere parents to let their daughter go out with him. Although, on reflection, Terri may only be able to help you with the daughter.’

  ‘What is this?’ Terri asked Carlo.

  Carlo put down his spoon. ‘I’ve got this girlfriend, Jennifer, only she’s more like my girlfriend at school. Her parents won’t let her go out on weekends.’ He frowned. ‘It can’t be me – they don’t even know me.’

  ‘Then maybe that’s the problem.’

  Carlo turned to her. ‘What do you mean?’

  Terri finished her ice cream and put aside the bowl. ‘I had the world’s greatest mother, all right? She wasn’t the way these people sound – I could talk to her about anything, and she trusted me a lot.’ Terri propped her chin on her hand. ‘But it was an unwritten rule that nobody took me out until they spent a little time around the house.’

  Carlo looked curious. ‘Did she ever say why?’

  ‘I think mostly so my mom would get some handle on who they were.’ Terri paused, reflecting. ‘Also,’ she went on, ‘I think she wanted the boys who took me out to remember I had a family, someone who cared. Like Jennifer’s parents, she had a lot invested in me.’

  Terri, Paget thought, had a gift for talking to Carlo on equal ground.

  ‘True,’ Carlo said. ‘It’s just that being around those people doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.’

  Terri nodded. ‘Probably not. But what my mom said it told her was whether a boy thought I was worth the trouble.’ Terri’s expression turned questioning. ‘Do you think Jennifer’s worth the trouble?’

  Her tone held neither challenge nor reproof, as if the right answer was whatever Carlo felt. Watching Carlo reflect, Paget began to believe in Terri’s mother.

  ‘Yes,’ Carlo said. ‘I really think she is.’

  Terri smiled. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Really nice. Good sense of humor.’ Carlo paused. ‘She’s just really nice to be with.’

  ‘Carlo,’ Paget observed mildly, ‘can make Venus de Milo sound generic. Jennifer probably has an IQ around one fifty and looks something like Winona Ryder.’

  ‘No,’ Carlo answered. ‘She’s just nice.’

  ‘“Nice,”’ Terri said lightly, ‘is a hard concept for your dad to grasp.’

  ‘I get “nice,”’ Paget protested. ‘That’s like Santa Claus, isn’t it? Or Harvey the Rabbit?’

  Terri and Carlo smiled at each other. When she was truly amused, Paget saw, Terri’s grin cracked white and sharp. Carlo’s smile in return was more genuine than Paget had seen it lately; with foolish surprise, he realized that his fifteen-year-old son not only liked this woman but thought she was attractive.’

  ‘Hopeless,’ Carlo said.

  Turning, they both looked amiably at Paget. ‘Hopeless,’ Terri agreed.

  Paget smiled. ‘That’s what shock treatments are for.’ He turned to Carlo. ‘At the risk of introducing a grim note of realism, how is your English paper going?’

  Carlo gave a comic wince. ‘It’s going. And so am I.’ He turned to Terri, hesitated, and then said seriously, ‘Thanks for helping with my mother.’

  ‘I’m happy to. But it’s really your father.’ She touched Carlo’s shoulder. ‘All kidding aside, she can’t do any better.’

  Carlo seemed to consider that. ‘He certainly works hard enough.’ Carlo answered. Saying goodbye to Terri, he went back upstairs.

  Paget turned for a moment, as if listening to his footsteps, and then looked back at Terri.

  ‘I appreciate that,’ he said. ‘Things have been a little tough around here lately.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Her face was thoughtful again, and then she gave a small smile. ‘This much is true – ten years ago, I was a teenager.’

  Paget smiled back. ‘Now I do feel old. Perhaps I should be consulting your mother.’ He leaned back on the counter. ‘Do you still talk to her a lot?’

  ‘A fair amount.’ Terri hesitated. ‘There are a few things we find it hard to talk about.’

  ‘I guess that happens. You get married and develop a zone of privacy.’

  Terri looked away. ‘I suppose that’s it,’ she said, and glanced at her watch. ‘God, it’s nearly ten. I really should go.’

  ‘Sure.’ Paget felt embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you.’

  ‘You didn’t. This last was nice, after Melissa.’ Terri gazed at her wineglass. ‘Part of me,’ she added finally, ‘wishes I only knew about Mark Ransom through books.’

  Paget nodded. They walked together to the door.

  The night air was cool and crisp. ‘This may not be the time to mention it,’ Paget said, ‘but there’s Dr Steinhardt’s daughter. Specifically, whether she had any sense of how Ransom was using the tapes.’

  Terri looked up at him. ‘You’d like me to go see her?’

  ‘I’d like you to go see her.’ Paget paused. ‘Hard or not, you did well today.’

  Terri smiled faintly. ‘All right.’

  Turning, she stepped onto the porch, gazing down at the tree-lined street. At night, the three-story homes
were covered by darkness. In the streetlights some distance away, a woman with a large dog moved from light to shadow, shadow to light, reappearing and then vanishing again. Terri folded her arms, as if against the cold.

  ‘Where are you parked?’ Paget asked.

  She did not turn. ‘Just a little way. Maybe a block and a half.’

  Paget watched her. ‘Would you like me to walk you to your car?’

  Terri was silent, and then said simply, ‘Please.’

  Chapter 3

  Sharpe and Shelton were waiting with Brooks in his office. Feeble morning light came through two windows with a view. of several parking lots and a highway overpass. The room, Paget thought, had looked better at night.

  ‘I understand,’ Brooks said briskly, ‘that you have a little something to share with us.’

  Paget nodded. ‘My associate saw Mark Ransom’s ex-wife. It turns out that Ransom had some peculiarities that should sound quite familiar.’

  Brooks raised an eyebrow. ‘Then we’re all anxious to hear about them.’

  Their anxiety, Paget thought, registered in distinctly different ways: Brooks’s expression was one of calm neutrality; Shelton looked interested but somewhat uncomfortable; and Marnie Sharpe folded her arms and sat straighter, as if extending a courtesy for which she had little patience and little time to someone she had little inclination to trust.

  ‘The short is this: Ransom had rape fantasies and a sexual obsession with Laura Chase.’ Paget paused. ‘Mary Carelli got to see them converge.’

  Brook’s gaze came as close to a stare as he ever permitted. ‘The wife says all that?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘You’d better lay it out for us.’

  Paget kept it succinct, letting the story speak for itself. No one interrupted. At the end, Brooks whistled softly. ‘That, Christopher, is truly disturbing.’

  Shelton, Paget saw, was examining her hands. Sharpe’s unwelcoming look had become one of intense concentration. ‘I thought so,’ Paget said. ‘And it explains what Ransom did to Mary better than she ever could.’

  Sharpe gave a short shake of the head. ‘Not to my satisfaction,’ she said slowly. ‘Even assuming that Ms Rappaport wants to come forward, which you haven’t said, I doubt it’s admissible.’