Degree of Guilt

by Unknown

  Mary gave him a slight smile of appreciation; behind him, Carlo nodded. Then Paget turned again, fearful of losing Judge Masters altogether. ‘The film concerned the assassination of a President, and it was Carlo’s first exposure to the subject. And, like Ms Sharpe’s opening statement, it was gripping entertainment.’

  Masters seemed to sit back to see him more clearly, torn between curiosity and concern about Paget’s choice of subject. Paget saw Sharpe half rise, searching for an objection she could put into words.

  ‘The film’s director,’ Paget continued, ‘managed to slice and dice every stray fact regarding the assassination until he came up with a compelling case that a conspiracy of Cubans, gay men from New Orleans, right-wing fanatics, CIA operatives, missile manufacturers, and the Vice President of the United States had murdered the President and then covered it up for thirty years, all with the assistance of countless members of Congress and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.’ Paget paused. ‘It was absolutely riveting entertainment. And like Ms Sharpe’s opening statement, its origin is circumstantial evidence.’ His voice slowed. ‘Circumstantial evidence,’ he repeated. ‘A dangerous thing, when it is left to brew too long in the fever swamp of a prosecutor’s imaginings.’

  Paget gazed at Sharpe until her face was stiff with anger. ‘Movie theaters,’ he said coolly, ‘are the proper venue for fantasy and myth. Not courtrooms.’ He turned back to Masters. ‘Nor is any courtroom the proper place for the tissue of speculation Ms Sharpe has just presented.

  ‘I will not try the court’s patience with a story of my own. Nor will I offer previews for all those watching of the evidence we will offer the court in chambers. I will merely offer the court one statement of fact, and make of the court one simple request.

  ‘The statement is that Mark Ransom abused Mary Carelli. That is why she shot him, and that is what we will show.’ Paget turned to Sharpe again. ‘The request is that the court count how many times Ms Sharpe’s version of the facts turns gauzy under cross-examination.’ Paget paused, looking back at Masters. ‘And then,’ he finished softly, ‘I will ask the court to consider just whose credibility really stands at issue.

  ‘Thank you, Your Honor.’

  There was silence; Masters looked surprised that he was finished. Walking to his chair, Paget found that what he felt was not relief but depression.

  It was the spare approach: poke holes in the prosecutor’s story; offer no story of your own; promise only to stick to the facts as they unfold. Viewed charitably, it could be read as prickly integrity. It was also, Paget knew, the only thing that was safe to offer Caroline Masters; Mary had no story that Christopher Paget could believe.

  Taking the witness stand, Charles Monk sat with his head raised stiffly, turning to look about the courtroom. His face was devoid of all expression; to Mary, he had the unperturbed look of a snapping turtle that had stuck its head out and did not see anything of concern. According to Johnny Moore, he had testified in thirty-seven homicide prosecutions; thirty-six had ended in conviction. On the table next to him was the tape of Mary’s interview, edited to delete the identities of Laura Chase and James Colt.

  Quickly, Sharpe established that the tape was what Monk said it was; that it had been in their custody; that Mary had been advised of her rights – in short, that it was admissible. Stiffly, Mary watched the methodical grinding of a first-class prosecution team at work; when Monk began playing the tape, she felt helpless.

  Sharpe had two purposes, Mary knew. To prove that she shot Mark Ransom, for there were no eyewitnesses to the crime itself. And, more devastating, to show that Mary had tried to mislead Charles Monk.

  Snippet by snippet, Sharpe began to accomplish both. Mary listened to her own voice proving how foolish she had been.

  Relentlessly, Mary’s words began to support Sharpe’s case. She had purchased the Walther after Ransom called. She had told no one of her trip to San Francisco. She claimed that Ransom had attacked her after becoming aroused. She believed she had scratched his buttocks. The scratches on her body were Ransom’s. She had shot him at very close range, with his hands on her wrists. She had noticed that the blinds were already drawn. She had dialled 911 as soon as possible. Her words came to her as sometimes cool, sometimes weary or confused, even angry once or twice. But always she sounded lucid. Her voice did not suggest a woman in shock; Mary, listening to herself as if to a stranger, was afraid to look at Carlo.

  The courtroom was still.

  When the tape ended, Mary felt heads beginning to turn, as if to reexamine her. Judge Masters eyed her with a new wariness.

  They had not, Mary realized, played the 911 tape.

  But then Sharpe and Monk were onto other things. Crime scene procedures; the presence of her fingerprints in several spots in the living room – an end table, a desk filled with stationery – as if she had been moving around the room at will. Only to her, Mary thought, would the woman Sharpe described sound trapped and desperate.

  ‘In short,’ Sharpe’s relentless voice was asking, ‘Ms Carelli’s fingerprints seemed to be all over the living room, on numerous pieces of furniture?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Was any of this furniture toppled?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or damaged?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or seemingly displaced?’

  Monk shook his head. ‘No,’ he said slowly. His gold-rimmed glasses glistened in the light.

  ‘Was the champagne bottle tipped over?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or the glass?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or the tape recorder?’

  ‘No.’

  She placed her hands on her hips. ‘Put another way, was there anything in the room itself which suggested a struggle between Ms Carelli and Mark Ransom?’

  For a moment, Mary felt bewildered; she had not realized how the absence of evidence could be made to look.

  ‘No,’ Monk answered calmly.

  ‘Or anything which suggested other than that, prior to the shooting, Ms Carelli and Mr Ransom had simply been talking?’

  ‘Objection!’ Paget stood. ‘Calls for speculation. Lack of foundation.’

  ‘Overruled.’

  ‘No.’ Monk’s deep voice sounded resonant, satisfied. ‘Nothing whatsoever.’

  Paget gazed at Monk with an air of puzzlement.

  Watching, Terri felt as bemused as Paget looked; Monk was an experienced witness, whose testimony had consisted of Mary’s own words and a series of simple facts. She did not know how Paget could attack him.

  ‘Before you questioned Ms Carelli,’ he asked, ‘did you send her to the hospital?’

  For a split second, Monk seemed to hesitate; Terri guessed that the first question had surprised him. Very calmly, Monk answered, ‘No.’

  It was, Terri knew, the terse answer of an experienced witness; Monk did not wish to look defensive, or to temporize before he knew where Paget was going.

  ‘As I understood your testimony,’ Paget said, ‘you saw no sign of a struggle, is that correct?’

  Monk paused again. ‘Not in the room itself,’ he said. ‘No.’

  Turning, Paget glanced at Johnny Moore, now standing at the side of the courtroom. In less than a minute, Moore moved an easel to the center of the courtroom; suddenly the easel held a three-by-five foot photograph of Mary Carelli. There was stirring in the courtroom; the dark swelling on her cheek lent her eyes an air of shock. Judge Masters looked from Mary to the photograph as if at a double image; the well-groomed woman in the courtroom staring at herself as a battered victim. The contrast was striking.

  ‘Do you recognize this photograph?’ Paget asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Monk spoke in measured tones. ‘It’s a police photograph, from the crime scene. Blown, up, of course.’

  ‘And is that how Ms Carelli appeared when you first saw her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That is a bruise on her cheek, is it not?’

 
‘Yes.’

  ‘And her eye was swollen?’

  Monk nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Paget raised an eyebrow. ‘Yet according to your testimony, there was no sign of a struggle.’

  ‘In the room itself,’ Monk responded. ‘That was what I said.’

  Pausing, Paget gave him an incredulous look. ‘In the room itself,’ he repeated. ‘If the coffee table had been chipped, would Ms Carelli be on trial here? Or would you have charged her with vandalism as well as murder?’

  Terri tensed. ‘Objection,’ Sharpe snapped. ‘The only purpose of that question was harassment.’

  ‘Sustained.’ Masters turned to Paget. ‘Don’t even try to rationalize that one, Counselor. And don’t insult the witness or this court by doing it again.’

  ‘Forgive me, Your Honor. I’ll try to make the point in a less polemic fashion.’ Paget again faced Monk. ‘Could you please look at the photograph, Inspector.’

  As Monk turned to Mary’s bruised image, Paget backed away from it until he stood next to the witness stand. Together, he and Monk gazed at the picture like two visitors to a gallery. ‘Would you say,’ Paget asked conversationally, ‘that Ms Carelli’s face showed “signs of a struggle”?’

  Monk nodded. ‘With a bruise like that, physical violence is one possibility.’

  ‘As a result of your investigation, are you aware of any other possibility?’

  ‘No,’ Monk answered carefully. ‘Not that we are aware of.’

  ‘And in fact, Ms Carelli told you that Mark Ransom had struck her as she tried to defend herself.’

  ‘Yes. She did.’

  ‘But you didn’t take her to the hospital.’

  Monk blinked; Terri saw that the change of subject had come so quickly that it seemed to undermine his confidence.

  ‘No.’ Monk paused. ‘She said she didn’t want to go.’

  Still gazing at the picture, Paget tilted his head. ‘Do you think that was a judgment that this woman should have made?’

  Monk turned to him. ‘I thought she could make it, yes.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’

  Monk looked annoyed. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know, for example, whether Ms Carelli had a concussion?’

  ‘No.’ For the first time, Monk showed some desire to explain. ‘When we got there, Ms Carelli was calm, well-spoken, and sensible. The bruise on her face was not near as ugly as that blowup makes it appear. If she didn’t want to go to the hospital, we didn’t want to force her.’

  ‘But you didn’t want to release her, either.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Monk frowned. ‘She’d not only killed Mark Ransom; she was the only person who knew what went on in that room.’

  ‘So forced with a choice between questioning Ms Carelli or taking her to the hospital first, you questioned her. Is that correct?’

  Monk hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How soon after arriving at the Flood did you begin to question her?’

  Monk stared at the ceiling. ‘Roughly three hours.’

  ‘And where did the questioning occur?’

  ‘The police station.’

  ‘What did you do with Ms Carelli in the meantime?’

  Monk hesitated. ‘For forty minutes or so, we kept her there. Mostly for the medical examiner.’

  Paget gave him a sideways look. ‘To take various tests?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘Like fingernail scrapings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And reexamining the scratches on the body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you had time to poke and prod Ms Carelli for your own purposes, but no time to take Ms Carelli to the hospital for the purpose of ensuring her well-being.’

  ‘Objection.’ Sharpe stood. ‘Misstates the prior testimony. Inspector Monk has already testified that Ms Carelli didn’t want to go to the hospital.’

  ‘Sustained.’ Once more, Masters frowned at Paget. ‘Stick to the facts, Mr Paget.’

  ‘Of course, Your Honor.’ Almost immediately, Paget asked Monk, ‘So there were roughly two hours that Ms Carelli spent waiting for you to question her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And these were spent at the homicide bureau?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes.’ Monk paused. ‘We tried to be sensitive to her rights, Mr Paget. I’m sure we’d have heard from you if I’d detailed another homicide inspector to chat with her without Miranda warnings.’

  Paget stared at him. ‘Speaking of sensitivity, Inspector, did you bring in a rape counselor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or a doctor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or bring her any food?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Monk paused. ‘I know we gave her some coffee.’

  ‘With cream and sugar, I hope.’ Quickly, Paget looked up at Caroline Masters. ‘My apologies, Your Honor.’

  Masters, Terri saw, wore a faint smile of amusement. ‘Respect, Mr Paget, is never having to say you’re sorry. Move on.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He turned back to Monk. ‘At this point,’ Paget asked, ‘did you know how long Ms Carelli had been without sleep?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or food?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You never asked?’

  Monk hesitated. ‘Not directly, no.’

  ‘But you did know she’d been beaten?’

  ‘She said she’d been hit. If that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I appreciate the fine distinction, Inspector. Let me put it another way.’ Pausing, Paget pointed at the picture. ‘You did see that bruise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Ms Carelli had already told you that Mark Ransom had tried to rape her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you knew that she had shot him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It also appeared from the room that she and Mr Ransom had been drinking champagne.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Paget looked from Mary to Judge Masters, then back to Charles Monk. ‘So at the time that you questioned her, at least as far as you knew, in the last eight or so hours, Ms Carelli’s only nutrients were champagne and coffee.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And during those eight hours, you had reason to believe, Ms Carelli had been struck, sexually assaulted, and forced to shoot someone.’

  Monk stared at him. ‘She wanted to answer questions.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you, Inspector? Wouldn’t any normal person who shot someone in self-defense want at least to say that?’

  ‘Objection,’ Sharpe cut in. ‘That question is argumentative.’

  ‘Sustained,’ Masters said. But her face and voice told Terri that Paget’s point was made.

  Paget still faced Monk. ‘Are you familiar with the medical definition of shock, Inspector?’

  ‘No.’ Monk was clearly nettled now. ‘But I have a layman’s experience of shock, gained in twenty years of dealing with violent crime. And in my experience, Ms Carelli had none of the loss of focus that I associate with shock.’

  Paget stared at him. ‘I guess we’ll have to take your word for it – seeing that there was no doctor on the scene. But are you really comfortable trying to nail Ms Carelli for discrepancies in what she told you, after eight hours of the trauma you’ve just acknowledged, without offering her so much as a Big Mac and fries?’

  ‘Objection,’ Sharpe called out. ‘This is a court of law, not a high school debate. Rhetorical questions have no place here.’

  ‘Mr Paget,’ Masters said, ‘please show the rules of evidence some respect. And for that matter, give the court at least modest credit for intelligence. I got the message five questions ago.’

  Paget smiled. ‘Then I’ll be happy to sit down,’ he said.

  Sharpe stood. ‘A few brief questions,’ she said.

  Masters nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

  Sharpe faced Monk. ‘Who terminated your interrogation?’ she asked.

  ‘Ms C
arelli.’

  It was a good opening question, Terri realized. Unable to attack the tape itself, Paget had undercut the basis for it – that Mary was equipped to talk at all. Now Sharpe would try to show that Mary was in full control.

  Sharpe went on. ‘So Ms Carelli felt free to decide not to answer any more questions.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘When she refused to continue, did Ms Carelli seem disoriented?’

  ‘Objection,’ Paget said. ‘We’ve already established the witness’s lack of medical expertise.’

  ‘I’m not asking for a medical opinion,’ Sharpe retorted. ‘I’m asking the kind of questions any layperson is entitled to answer: “Did Ms Carelli seem confused?”’

  ‘Overruled,’ Masters said. ‘The witness may answer.’

  ‘No.’ Monk paused. ‘I remember thinking that Ms Carelli was unusually poised and very smart – remarkably so for a woman who’d just shot someone to death.’ Monk paused again. ‘The thing that really struck me is that she turned off the tape herself.’

  Listening, Paget did not change his expression. But Terri knew how much these questions had to hurt; the woman Monk described more closely resembled the cool voice on the tape than the battered face on the easel.

  Sharpe moved closer. ‘Did Ms Carelli ever ask for food?’

  ‘No. As the tape indicated, she asked for water.’

  ‘Did she ever ask for a doctor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or for time to rest?’

  ‘No.’

  Sharpe nodded. ‘After the end of the tape,’ she said softly, ‘did she ask for anything at all?’

  ‘Yes.’ Monk looked from Mary to Paget. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘She asked for a lawyer.’

  ‘This,’ Marnie Sharpe said on the television, ‘is a simple act of murder.’

  Terri and Paget sat in the library, reviewing Terri’s notes to help prepare for Elizabeth Shelton. Reporters were clustered outside. They had shouted questions as Paget had driven Terri and Carlo into the garage: the questions were as much about Carlo’s acknowledgment of Mary as they were about the trial.

  Paget looked up at the screen; in dispassionate tones, he said of Sharpe, ‘She did well today.’

  Terri paused, sensing how the loneliness of the hearing must bear down on Paget when he had so much at risk. They had done little but work, avoided all personal subjects; now she wished that there was something she could do for him besides be a lawyer. ‘You did well too,’ she told him.