Degree of Guilt

by Unknown

  ‘You’re not a doctor,’ Paget shot back, ‘and that answer won’t do. Why didn’t you call for help?’

  ‘I suppose I was in shock.’

  Paget watched her. ‘Were you? Or are you trying shock on for size?’

  Mary looked back up at him. ‘We’re all different,’ she said coldly. ‘That night in Washington, when you nearly killed Jack Woods, your first reaction was to call the Washington Post. But I don’t recall you phoning 911.’

  Paget looked at her. ‘You had it right about one thing,’ he said in clipped tones. ‘I didn’t give a damn whether your good friend Jack was dead or simply had a dental problem. Any more than he, among other people, ever cared about whether I lived or died.’

  Mary stiffened. ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘I am so sorry. Tell me, was there some reason you preferred Ransom dead, as opposed to merely disheartened?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice rose. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then let’s return to the question you so neatly avoided by turning the spotlight on me: why so much time passed before you called 911.’

  Mary stood, eyes averted, gazing out at the palm. ‘This may not sound attractive,’ she finally said, ‘but I was frightened for myself.’

  ‘Why, exactly?’

  ‘Because I felt as if it were my fault. That I could have avoided it.’ Mary paused, remembering her own fear, then finished quietly, ‘And that people wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  She shook her head. ‘My brain felt sluggish – it was like trying to run when you’re waist deep in water. I couldn’t think – you can’t believe it’s real. It takes time to accept –’

  ‘What did you do?’ Paget repeated.

  Mary closed her eyes. ‘I really don’t remember.’

  She heard Paget get up, walk close behind her until she felt him through her nerve ends in the back of her neck.

  Softly, he said, ‘Someone saw you outside the room.’

  It startled her. ‘Is he sure?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. The only reason is why.’

  Mary realized that her eyes were still shut, her arms folded again. ‘I can’t answer that,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t, or won’t?’

  Make him stop, she told herself. Turning, she looked straight at him. ‘I was confused. You’re going to have to accept that, and make the district attorney accept that.’

  Paget’s face was inches from hers. ‘Four days ago,’ he said quietly, ‘you didn’t tell Inspector Monk that you left the room.’

  ‘That was four hours,’ she retorted, ‘after Mark Ransom’s death. I was a mess. I mean, can you think of any rational reason for me to be out in the hall?’

  ‘Not unless you knocked on doors, trying to get help.’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Mary paused. ‘As I said, I was confused.’

  ‘Were you also confused about the blinds?’

  Mary stepped away from him, sat down. After a moment, she repeated, ‘The blinds.’

  ‘They were open when you got there – despite what you told Monk.’ Paget still stood, looking down at her. ‘Who closed them, Mary, and why?’

  ‘Why?’ She hesitated, feeling helpless, unable to explain. Finally, she said, ‘Because I felt ashamed.’

  Paget sat beside her. ‘Ashamed?’

  ‘Yes,’ She turned to him. ‘I didn’t want anyone to see.’

  ‘To see what? Ransom?’

  ‘Everything.’ She turned to him. ‘After I shot him, I thought about running, hoping no one had seen me – crazy things. I couldn’t say that to Monk.’

  ‘So you lied about the blinds.’

  Mary leaned back from him. ‘The term is “confused,”’ she said coolly. ‘I was confused.’

  ‘Too confused,’ Paget asked, ‘to kill Ransom from a safe distance, pull his pants down, leave scratch marks on his buttocks, scratch your own neck and thigh, and then dream up a rape attempt detailed enough to fly?’

  Mary felt numb, and then the terrible knowledge of how alone she was came over her. ‘They can’t believe that.’

  ‘Why? Because you’re so eager to help them out?’

  ‘No,’ she said dully. ‘Maybe some of what I said was a mistake. But they can’t believe I’m a murderer.’

  ‘They believe that you defaced a corpse a good half hour after his death. That makes murder a bit less of a stretch.’

  As if by reflex, Mary touched the bruise beneath her eye, now blue-green. ‘Do they think he was dead,’ she asked, ‘when he did this?’

  Paget did not answer. ‘Tell me,’ he finally said. ‘Did you already know Mark Ransom?’

  She stared at him. ‘God, no . . .’

  ‘Because Sharpe’s next step will be to look for some connection between Ransom and you. If there is one, tell me now, or I really will leave you to twist in the wind.’

  Mary felt her anger turn to fear. ‘Before he called,’ she said, ‘I’d never met him. I swear it.’

  ‘That had better be right. It’s quite enough that Monk has on tape several answers that are either implausible or, as you now admit, inaccurate. Not to mention that you and Shelton’s autopsy are essentially at odds.’ Paget’s voice grew quiet. ‘I can’t say you’ve done very well this time around.’

  Mary’s face grew cold. ‘It’s hard to choose what’s more offensive – Mark Ransom or you, afterwards, grading my performance.’

  ‘So hire Melvin Belli, Mary, and restore your faith in men.’

  All at once, Mary felt drained. ‘You don’t believe me at all, do you?’

  ‘Not true. I believe about every other word. Assuming, of course, that you throw in the commas.’

  Mary stood again. ‘You know, I’ve had about enough of this.’

  Paget shrugged. ‘You should count your blessings, Mary. Your fifteen-year-old son believes in you. As for me, I believe in sparing Carlo needless pain, which is all the motivation I require.’

  ‘Fine.’ Mary reached for her purse. ‘Are we through here now?’

  ‘For the moment. But take my advice: no specific comments on TV – just heartfelt generalities about your ordeal and that of victims everywhere. I don’t want yet another “mistake” I have to clean up later.’

  Silent, Mary watched him. ‘I’ll say good night to Carlo,’ she said.

  The limousine was outside when she returned. Paget walked her to the door. Outside, she turned back to him, uncertain of what she was looking for.

  His face was without expression. ‘Enjoy 60 Minutes,’ he said. Then he softly shut the door, and Mary was alone.

  ‘It was a nightmare,’ Mary said softly. ‘I’ve heard women say that, but I never really knew.’

  In the library, Carlo and Paget watched her, their only light the glow from the television. The camera panned her hotel suite, framing Mary and her interviewer, then moved in until Mary’s face filled the screen. Her expression was troubled, inward, as if too caught in painful memory to remember the lens.

  The interviewer became only a voice. ‘Can you describe your feelings?’ he asked.

  Paget glanced at Carlo, tense and still, the Sunday paper on the couch beside him. The headline read: RANSOM DEATH UNRESOLVED.

  Sharpe, Paget knew, had preempted Mary’s interview.

  The article was plainly Sharpe’s idea. The reporter quoted her as being ‘concerned with discrepancies between Ms Carelli’s statement and the physical evidence’; ‘puzzled by Ms Carelli’s cessation of her interview’; ‘resolved that the concern with rape which has defined my own career not foreclose a neutral inquiry’; and ‘hopeful that the public will not forget that a gifted man died in this city.’ The sole photograph was of a younger, much more appealing, Mark Ransom.

  Paget had managed to insert a quote. ‘Puzzling over tests and slides,’ he said, ‘should not distract us from a central truth – Mary Carelli was forced into a tragic act for which there is no reason but attempted rape.’ But it could not change the pressure Sh
arpe had shrewdly put on Mary: to respond in detail and on television, or look evasive.

  On the screen, Mary gazed down. She seemed mute, battered. ‘It still seems unreal,’ she finally answered. ‘One minute, it’s as if it must have happened to someone else. Then I feel my own terror as a physical thing – his breath on my face, body pressing down on me, hands tearing at my clothes.’ She paused, touching her cheek, and then finished softly, ‘The shock when he hit me.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t repeat it. Not yet.’ She stopped, then murmured, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t even call him by his name.’

  ‘Would you like to stop?’

  ‘No.’ Slowly, she shook her head, seemingly less for emphasis than in confusion. ‘Perhaps I’m doing this too soon. But no.’ She looked up, eyes imploring. ‘It’s like that, you see. You’re all right, and then . . .’

  ‘Perhaps this isn’t timely,’ the interviewer said, ‘but I thought perhaps you might care to comment on certain questions that seem to puzzle the district attorney’s office.’

  Mary’s face froze for a moment, and then she looked bewildered. ‘I’m not sure I even know what they are. Or why they have them. He tried to rape me. . . .’

  Once more, her voice trailed off.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the interviewer prodded, ‘this will be an opportunity to put some of those things to rest.’

  Mary nodded.

  Carlo leaned forward. ‘What are they doing?’ he demanded.

  Paget felt his own tension. ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘For example,’ the voice went on, ‘the district attorney suggests that the bullet which killed Mark Ransom traveled from at least three feet, in contrast to your claim that the gun went off while he was on top of you.’

  For a moment, Mary looked surprised. To Carlo, Paget murmured, ‘The D.A.’s fed him questions.’

  On the screen, Mary had composed herself. ‘What they don’t seem to understand is how quickly things happen and how stunned you are.’ Her voice was calm again. ‘It was over in seconds. He had just slapped me. I was hurt, frightened for my life. At the instant the gun went off, he must have been falling back – from one split second to another, a bullet could have traveled a few inches, or more than that. Some nights, that’s all I think about – the moment he died – but it’s so hard to see it in terms of distance. It’s more – I don’t know – impressionistic than that, and far too shocking for clarity.’ She paused. ‘I don’t wish to offend anyone, but for someone to blame me for imprecision is really quite callous.’

  ‘Damn,’ Carlo said. ‘That’s good.’

  Paget did not answer; he could imagine too clearly Sharpe’s reaction as she watched.

  ‘The D.A. also suggests that you did not call 911 for a least thirty minutes.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I really have no sense of time about that day. As I told a friend, shock makes your brain sluggish, as if you’re trying to find your way through a darkened house that isn’t yours. The one thing I knew clearly was that this man was dead.’ Mary looked back at the camera. ‘If that weren’t true, I could never forgive myself, no matter what he’d done to me.’

  ‘Do you recall what happened during that time?’

  ‘No, only fragments.’ Her voice was soft, puzzled, as if explaining to herself. ‘I really think what happened is that I came out of shock and called 911.’

  Watching, Paget felt relief. ‘I think she’s gotten through that,’ he said.

  Carlo turned to him. ‘You sound as if she’s guilty.’

  Paget mentally cursed himself. ‘Not guilty,’ he said. ‘On trial. The D.A.’s put her there, and she’s doing well.’

  ‘Our sources indicate,’ the reporter was saying, ‘that you’ve refused to take a lie detector test.’

  Paget stood. ‘That bitch . . .’

  Carlo turned. ‘Who?’

  ‘Sharpe.’ Paget looked at him. ‘Sorry. Let’s just watch, okay?’

  Turning back to the screen, Paget saw Mary’s look of tired resolve. ‘As you know,’ she said, ‘I began my career as a lawyer. Lie detector tests are so notoriously inaccurate that no court, anywhere, will allow them to be used as evidence. Every district attorney in this country knows that, and every D.A. should know that anything which can’t be used in court shouldn’t be used to damage someone’s reputation.’ She paused. ‘You know, it’s hard to believe what’s happening here.’

  ‘I don’t mean to suggest that you did something wrong.’

  ‘Good,’ she said firmly, ‘because I’m not the one who’s done something wrong. I don’t blame you for asking questions. But I do suggest that you have to evaluate your sources, and their motives.’ Her voice turned cold. ‘Whoever they are.’

  ‘We always try to do that,’ the interviewer said. ‘One way is to get your response, as I’m doing now.’

  Mary nodded. ‘I understand. I’m just very disappointed in the use of selective truths, by anonymous sources, to create a false impression of something that was so simple and traumatic.’ She paused, as if belatedly astonished. ‘My God, does anyone think I wanted this to happen? Does anyone think I wanted this man to die? Does every woman who is raped have to endure snickers for being victimized and insinuations for fighting back?’

  ‘Don’t go too far,’ Paget murmured.

  ‘That certainly is not our intention,’ the interviewer responded. ‘By asking these questions so close to Mark Ransom’s death, we run the risk of offending you and countless others. But however uncomfortable this may be, for us as well as you, it’s unethical to sit on questions when they’re brought to our attention.’

  Mary frowned. ‘I’m a journalist, as you are. But I’ve also become the victim of an attempted rape. And I know, and you know, that our society is still unfair to women who are victims of rape.’

  ‘I agree.’ The interviewer paused. ‘May I ask you one more question – as a journalist.’

  Watching, Paget recognized her expression: to anyone else it might seem thoughtful, but Paget knew it as deep wariness. ‘Of course,’ she answered.

  ‘What we have been told,’ the interviewer said, ‘is that another guest at the hotel, looking through his window, saw you pulling down the blinds in Mark Ransom’s suite.’

  Paget felt Mary’s surprise like a contagion, knew that Sharpe had concealed this fact from him for just this moment. Duck this, Paget instructed Mary mentally, any way you can.

  ‘Let me ask you a question,’ Mary retorted. ‘Has the district attornet told you why I went to see Mark Ransom?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Mary nodded. ‘No. I didn’t think so. And I won’t tell you, although it would explain a great deal. Because it involves the reputation, and the feelings, of people other than myself.’ She paused, looking directly to the camera. ‘What you should demand of your sources is full disclosure: that they tell you exactly what was found in the room. And once they refuse to tell you, the one thing you will know is that you have been very badly used.’

  Despite himself, Paget laughed aloud: Sharpe had warned Mary, and now Mary was warning Sharpe.

  ‘What’s she talking about?’ Carlo asked.

  ‘The tape,’ Paget said. ‘As a good Democrat, McKinley Brooks does not want to answer to James Colt’s family. Your mother just took that tape and struck it in Marnie Sharpe’s ear.’ In two days, Paget thought but did not add, no one will remember that Mary used it to avoid a question.

  ‘I have more questions,’ Mary went on, ‘that people should ask themselves.’ Her gaze was steady, her voice crisp and clear. ‘Why is it,’ she asked, ‘that in the case of a sex crime, so many people remember the sex and not the crime?

  ‘Why are the vicitms of rape, already so devastated in their own hearts and minds, cheapened in the eyes of society?

  ‘Why does the justice system treat them as if they have committed a crime?

  ‘Why are these women so often made to feel like they asked for wha
t no sane person would want?

  ‘Why, tonight, is this happening to me?’

  Her voice had thickened. Carlo leaned forward, as if to help her finish.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said to the interviewer, ‘that you can ever know how it feels. But hundreds of thousands of women know, and now I know.’

  On the screen, her picture froze in close-up. Her eyes shone with tears.

  Chapter 6

  For Teresa Peralta, Beverly Hills was a mirage.

  It seemed far too lush for winter: the manicured sweep of lawns, the tropical mix of vegetation, the surprising bursts of pink and white, were like false spring. The sun was bright, the sky blue and crisp, the palm trees lining Santa Monica Boulevard seemed to float and vanish in the shimmering subtropic light. It made calling on Steinhardt’s daughter seem even more unreal.

  At the end of a winding driveway on Canyon Drive, tucked behind shrubbery and green trees, Steinhardt’s white stucco home was a collection of rectangles and jutting squares; almost as high as it was wide, it looked as if it had been constructed by an imaginative child with a sense of light. There were many windows and skylights; the trees had been pruned to admit sun from every angle. When a Hispanic maid led her to the living room, Terri found herself beneath twenty foot ceilings, surrounded by shafts of light.

  In Spanish, Terri said, ‘This is a beautiful room.’

  The maid seemed surprised. Then she answered in the same tongue: ‘It is just as Dr Steinhardt left it,’ and went to find his daughter.

  Terri looked around her. Something in the decor was too calculated, she decided: the prints were too carefully selected, the vases too perfectly placed, and the sculpture – African here, Asian there – seemed chosen to reflect their place of origin rather than a passion for the things themselves. It was more like visiting an art museum than a place where someone lived.

  ‘It always struck me as a room full of specimens,’ a husky voice behind her said. ‘Rather like a butterfly collection, but even less alive.’

  Turning, Terri saw a sharp-featured woman in her thirties, tall and slender in a coppery silk jumpsuit, with tinted ash-blond hair and long red fingernails. Her eyes were a vivid green; beneath this chic veneer, her carriage had the tensile alertness of a greyhound. Terri’s first impression was of a woman who trusted no one.