Degree of Guilt

by Unknown

  ‘Someone’s been shot?’

  ‘Yes.’ The voice quavered. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  ‘Where are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘The Hotel Flood.’ There was a long pause. Then, in a tone of mystified apology, Mary said, ‘I can’t remember the room.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Wait,’ Mary interjected. ‘It’s registered to Mark Ransom. A suite.’

  The last words held an odd note of relief, as if Mary had been frightened by a loss of memory.

  ‘Who is this?’ the voice demanded.

  ‘Just come,’ Mary answered shrilly, and hung up.

  When Paget gazed at Mary again, she had turned to Shelton with tears in her eyes. Shelton had lost color.

  The audience was silent. A few shifted in their seats, some looked away. Paget was reminded of the eerie feeling he had once had, listening to the taped words of a flight crew in the moments before their airplane crashed.

  Softly, he asked Shelton, ‘Does that sound like the woman you remember?’

  Shelton gazed up. There was no good answer to the question; Mary’s voice on the tape sounded shaky enough that to answer ‘yes’ would make Shelton seem unfeeling. ‘No,’ Shelton said at last. ‘In person, she sounded somewhat different.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘When I saw her, she seemed to think slowly but to be in control.’ She paused. ‘The voice on the tape sounds more distant, I suppose. More overwhelmed.’

  ‘And the woman on the tape,’ Paget said, ‘was also much closer to the events the prosecution faults her for not remembering quite as well as it would like.’

  ‘Objection,’ Sharpe called out. ‘This time I don’t hear a question.’

  ‘There was none,’ Caroline Masters said. ‘Do find a question, Mr Paget. A proper one.’

  ‘Surely.’ Paget turned to Shelton again. ‘So you would concede,’ he pursued, ‘that her tone of voice in speaking to you does not mean that trauma didn’t affect her behavior that evening – either alone with Mr Ransom’s body or answering questions from Inspector Monk?’

  ‘I would concede that, for what it is worth.’ She gave Mary a cool, quiet gaze. ‘As Ms Sharpe pointed out, I’m not a mentalist.’

  ‘Then we’ll return to the physical evidence – which, I believe you testified, contained “anomalies.”’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And one of these anomalies was that, unlike Ms Carelli, your test turned up no skin samples under Mr Ransom’s fingernails?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Paget looked puzzled. ‘Did Mr Ransom have long fingernails?’

  Shelton paused. ‘No. Not at all.’

  ‘But Ms Carelli did.’

  ‘Yes. In fact, she’d broken one.’

  Page paused. ‘Isn’t it easier to retrieve skin samples from someone with long fingernails?’

  Shelton nodded. ‘Easier, yes. But it’s common to do so with fingernails of ordinary length, from a man.’

  ‘Were Mr Ransom’s nails of “ordinary length”?’

  Shelton hesitated. ‘They were a bit shorter, I think. It appeared that he’d just clipped them.’

  ‘Might that affect the test?’

  ‘It might, Mr Paget. But if you take this line too far, one is left to wonder how Mr Ransom managed to scratch Ms Carelli.’

  There was a murmur in the courtroom; with one thrust, Shelton had stopped Paget’s momentum and refocused attention on the prosecution’s case. Stunned, Paget tried to summon a weary look, as if he had expected this. ‘It is nonetheless true,’ he said, ‘that your test doesn’t always work.’

  ‘Yes. That’s true.’

  ‘So that Mark Ransom could have scratched Mary Carelli and yet not collected enough skin beneath his nails to show up on his test.’

  ‘That’s possible, yes.’ Shelton paused for emphasis. ‘But in the majority of cases, that test works. At least for scratches as deep as Ms Carelli’s.’

  Shelton had begun to fight him, Paget realized: partly out of professional pride and partly, he suspected, because whatever Shelton’s doubt about the evidence, her experience told her that too much was wrong with Mary’s story. He tried to search for a lower key. ‘One of the areas I found most troublesome,’ he said, ‘was that regarding Ms Carelli’s panty hose. I’d like to ask a few questions and see whether there might not be some other way to look at it.’

  Shelton gave a small shrug. ‘All right.’

  ‘You testified that you found nylon fibers, of the kind appearing in Ms Carelli’s panty hose, under her nails but not under Mr Ransom’s, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And in part, it was based on that conclusion that you agreed with Ms Sharpe that Ms Carelli might have fabricated evidence.’

  ‘In part, yes.’

  Paget paused. ‘I don’t know precisely how to broach this, Dr Shelton, but putting on panty hose involves considerable effort, does it not?’

  Shelton gave him a long, speculative gaze, which culminated in a slight change in her eyes. ‘It can,’ she said.

  Paget nodded. ‘And in the course of that effort, it’s a common thing for panty hose to rip.’

  Paget felt Masters’s expression hover between interest and amusement, and then decide on interest. Shelton’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Yes,’ she said with an expert’s gravity, ‘panty hose commonly rip.’ She paused. ‘At least in my observation.’

  ‘So that in the normal act of putting on panty hose, as Ms Carelli did that morning, it would be possible to rip them.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘And it would also be possible, in the normal course of putting on panty hose, for Ms Carelli to get fibers of nylon under her fingernails.’

  Shelton watched him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Common, even?’

  She hesitated. ‘I suppose not uncommon.’

  Turning, Paget nodded to Terri, whose questions these were. Then he looked out at the media people, crowding the benches between the cameras and behind the dock of the court. Perhaps half, as he already knew, were women; most wore skirts or dresses. ‘I wonder, Dr Shelton, if you could cast an eye with me on the representatives of the media.’

  ‘Objection.’ Sharpe stood. ‘I don’t know what diversion Mr Paget intends, but we’ve moved far afield from the evidence surrounding Ms Carelli’s shooting of Mark Ransom.’

  ‘You really don’t know what Mr Paget intends, Ms Sharpe?’ Masters paused, eyes sweeping the press. ‘I know, and I’m curious about the answer. If only because this is yet another indignity to which women are subjected.’

  Sharpe flushed. ‘I don’t find much amusement here, Your Honor.’

  ‘Nor do I, Counsel. And as I understand Mr Paget’s underlying point, it’s very serious indeed.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honor.’ Paget turned back to Shelton. ‘Taking a rough count of the press, I’d guess that around fifty or so are women. Would you agree?’

  ‘I haven’t counted. Sitting here, I see a number.’

  Paget nodded. ‘And what percentage of those women reporters,’ he asked softly, ‘would have nylon fibers under their nails if you subjected them to the same test that you administered to Ms Carelli?’

  Paget watched the faces in front of him focus on Elizabeth Shelton; beneath the particulars of the question, Paget sensed the press absorbing its subliminal impact – the instinctive fear of being falsely accused. ‘I have no idea what percentage,’ Shelton answered.

  ‘But certainly some.’

  ‘In all probability. At least a few.’

  ‘None of whom, we can assume, murdered anyone on the way to the courthouse.’

  Shelton looked out at the faces as if searching for suspects. Without smiling, she answered, ‘I assume not.’

  ‘Thank you. Having eliminated the media as suspects, I’d like to return to Ms Carelli. You’ve already agreed that she could have gotten nylon fibers under her nails simply by putting on her panty hose.’ His voice softened.
‘But it is also possible, is it not, that Ms Carelli could have grasped the panty hose in an effort to stop Mark Ransom from pulling them off.’

  For a long time, Shelton simply stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘That’s also possible.’

  ‘And these various possibilities tend to undercut Ms Sharpe’s hypothesis that Ms Carelli manufactured evidence.’

  Shelton looked pensive. ‘They cast doubt,’ she corrected, ‘on one element of that hypothesis. But in addition to the absence of skin under Mr Ransom’s nails, we do also have the absence of semen and the apparent infliction of postmortem scratches on Mr Ransom’s buttocks.’

  Paget nodded. ‘Let’s take the semen first. That test is hardly foolproof, is it?’

  ‘No test is. But in the vast majority of cases, erections cause secretions well before ejaculation.’

  ‘But not in all cases.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And even in cases where there may have been secretions, your test is not one hundred percent?’

  ‘No.’ Shelton sat straighter, a note of professional challenge entering her voice. ‘But you may have noticed, Mr Paget, that your questions presume an unusual confluence of test failures. I believe that our tests are better than that and, for that matter, that we are.’

  Paget paused. He was coming to the most delicate part of his examination; he could not afford to antagonize Dr Shelton. ‘I was not suggesting,’ he said easily, ‘that you and your office are not highly professional. Merely that your office handles the cases you are given and that this particular prosecution case is highly circumstantial.’

  Sharpe rose again. ‘Mr Paget complained about speeches. I’d like to register my own complaint. Particularly when Mr Paget’s only purpose is to attack the prosecution.’

  Paget turned to Sharpe. ‘My only purpose,’ he said, ‘was to clarify any misunderstanding. In the course of which I thought it appropriate to distinguish between Dr Shelton’s professional competence and your case.’

  Masters leaned forward. ‘That’s quite enough, Mr Paget. Press on.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honor.’ Paget turned back to Shelton. ‘Am I correct in understanding, Dr Shelton, that a significant part of the prosecution hypothesis regarding fabricated evidence are the scratches on Mark Ransom’s buttocks?’

  Shelton considered him. ‘It’s a part, yes. I wouldn’t care to characterize its significance.’

  ‘But you concede, do you not, that you could be mistaken – that the scratches could have occurred before Mark Ransom died.’

  ‘Again, it’s possible. But based on the lack of bleeding, the absence of damaged capillaries, I believe that the scratches occurred after Mr Ransom died.’

  Paget looked at her. ‘Are you familiar, Dr Shelton, with the procedures employed by paramedics in answering a call to 911?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And is there a uniform procedure in San Francisco County when they first attend the victim?’

  ‘Yes. Unless the condition of the body makes it obvious that the person is dead, the paramedics must try to revive him or her. That means attempt to get a heartbeat, putting on pads.’

  ‘And did they do that to Mark Ransom?’

  ‘I understand they did.’ Shelton paused. ‘Mark Ransom had a single wound; under the guidelines, they could not conclude that he was dead.’

  ‘And that would involve checking Mark Ransom’s heartbeat?’

  ‘Among other things, yes.’

  Paget summoned a puzzled expression. ‘But at the time you examined Mr Ransom, wasn’t he lying facedown on the carpet?’

  ‘Yes.’ Shelton hesitated. ‘My understanding is that they rolled him over. But once they determined that Mr Ransom was dead, they restored his body to the position in which they found it.’

  Paget nodded. ‘In other words, they found him on his stomach, flipped him on his back, and flipped him on his stomach again. Is that correct?’

  ‘That is my understanding, yes. Less elegantly put.’

  ‘And in doing so, they had to handle Mr Ransom’s body.’

  Shelton’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The body of a man who, according to your report, weighed roughly two hundred and twenty-five pounds.’

  ‘That was his weight, yes.’

  ‘And they do all this quite rapidly, correct?’

  ‘They should. On the assumption that the victim may still be alive.’

  Paget paused for a moment, looking from Caroline Masters, intent and quite still, back to Elizabeth Shelton. ‘Isn’t it possible,’ he asked softly, ‘that the paramedics inflicted those scratches on Mr Ransom’s buttocks?’

  Shelton stared at him a moment. There was silence; then, at length, she nodded. It seemed less an answer to Paget’s question than a gesture of admiration. ‘Yes,’ she answered finally. ‘I don’t know how likely it is, but that’s possible.’

  ‘And, it is fair to say, the existence of that possibility undermines the hypothesis Ms Sharpe posed to you?’

  ‘To a point.’ When Shelton spoke again, her words were softer, directed at Paget alone. ‘But if Mark Ransom scratched Mary Carelli, and the paramedics scratched Mark Ransom, whose skin was under Mary Carelli’s nails?’

  The thrust was so perfect, its delivery so sincere, that Paget felt the entire painstaking cross-examination slide slowly out from under him. He did not need the courtroom murmur to know how badly she had wounded him. Was grateful, even, that it gave him time to think.

  Masters’s gavel landed. ‘Mr Paget,’ she inquired. ‘Do you have anything more?’

  ‘Just a couple of questions,’ he said casually. ‘You’ve named two possibilities for the origin of the skin beneath Ms Carelli’s nails. The first is that she scratched Mr Ransom, which, although you posit it happened after his death, could have happened before. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You also posit that Ms Carelli may have scratched herself in an effort to manufacture evidence.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t there a third possibility?’

  Shelton gave him a guarded look. ‘Such as?’

  Paget moved forward. ‘That in the struggle to keep her panty hose on – in her struggle to prevent this man from raping her – Ms Carelli scratched her own thigh.’

  Shelton frowned a moment, staring at her lap; Paget felt her reviewing the evidence, less for this specific question than to ask herself what was fair. Then she looked up at him again.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered softly. ‘That’s possible.’

  Paget felt his own relief. ‘Thank you, Dr Shelton,’ he said. ‘That’s all I have.’

  She nodded, giving him a faint smile, and then Paget sat down.

  Sharpe was quickly on her feet. ‘I was struck, Dr Shelton, by something you said. I believe it was – and I paraphrase – that Mr Paget’s questions presume an unusual confluence of test failures. What did you mean by that?’

  Shelton thought for a moment. ‘What I meant to say was that for Ms Carelli’s account to be right would involve a sequence of botched tests and skewed judgments involving this office, as well as a high degree of coincidence.’

  Sharpe nodded. ‘Specifically, it would require the tests to have missed skin under Mr Ransom’s fingernails.’

  ‘Yes.’ Shelton corrected herself. ‘Although it’s not uncommon that there is no skin to find.’

  Sharpe frowned. ‘But it would also,’ she prodded, ‘assume that the tests missed evidence of sexual arousal.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And for Mr Ransom to have no gunshot residue on his hands, despite Ms Carelli’s account of their struggle.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And for him to be rearing back when she shot him.’

  Shelton nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And for Ms Carelli to have ripped her own panty hose.’

  ‘That’s all true.’

  ‘And unless Mr Ransom’s scratches were caused by paramedics, it would also r
equire for you to be wrong about when they were inflicted.’

  ‘Again, yes.’

  Sharpe looked incredulous. ‘Have you ever been that wrong?’

  Shelton tilted her head. ‘I certainly hope not.’

  ‘And in your opinion, what does all that render Ms Carelli’s story?’

  For a long moment, Shelton looked across at Mary. ‘Medically implausible,’ she said quietly. ‘To my regret, I simply don’t believe her.’

  Chapter 3

  Mary Carelli searched Carlo’s face.

  They sat at a corner table in the Café Majestic, an elegant Victorian room with ceiling fans and a pianist playing quietly in the background. As she had expected, the other diners shot them glances of recognition. But she had asked Carlo to dinner despite the possibility of this; the one thing that had disturbed her more than Elizabeth Shelton’s last words was the way that Carlo had tried to cheer her.

  Mary wished he had not come to court. But she did not want him to feel that his presence was a burden; Chris had made the decision, and it was done. ‘I haven’t told you,’ she said finally, ‘how much it means to have you with me. The problem is that I’m not used to depending on anyone, so I end up feeling guilty.’ Smiling faintly, she finished: ‘Assuming that’s a phrase I should be using.’

  She watched him attempt a smile of his own. As best he could, Carlo was trying to love someone he no longer knew; in the face of what Marnie Sharpe had placed before him, Mary found this touching and painful. ‘You’ll be all right,’ Carlo said finally. ‘Dad forced her to back off a lot.’

  The comment carried wistful undertones, as if Carlo hoped that his father’s determination meant that he believed in Mary. But all that Mary could do was to tell Carlo that she believed in Christopher Paget. ‘He’s doing a wonderful job,’ she answered. ‘He has a hard case, you know.’

  Carlo gave her a querying glance. ‘How do you mean?’

  Mary steeled herself. Her job was to make him believe that she was unburdening herself, rather than trying to spare him something. ‘There are things I didn’t tell the police,’ she said softly. ‘For reasons of my own. Chris’s problem with me is that he’s guessed that.’