Degree of Guilt

by Unknown

  ‘What are your intentions,’ Masters asked Paget, ‘now that Ms Carelli has so neatly summoned Laura from the dead?’

  ‘To describe the contents generally,’ Paget said, ‘without mentioning James Colt.’ His voice quickened. ‘Laura Chase is dead; it’s Ms Carelli who has a claim on our compassion. And as Your Honor knows, the Laura Chase obsession goes to the heart of Mr Ransom’s sexuality. It’s a central part of what Ms Carelli says happened here –’

  ‘The sexual acts described are quite different, Mr Paget.’

  ‘True. But the obsession is all of a piece. And that’s what triggered Mr Ransom’s abuse of Ms Carelli.’

  ‘According to Ms Carelli,’ Sharpe put in, ‘that unimpeachable source of truth.’

  ‘Save it for cross,’ Paget retorted, ‘where Mary can answer you.’

  Masters raised her hand. ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘I’ll allow a very general description. As Mr Paget points out, there’s no privilege here. And Mr Ransom’s sexual proclivities are clearly relevant to the defense. Let’s get back on the record.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Paget said. Briefly, he nodded to Terri, and then faced Mary again. ‘Ms Carelli, could you generally describe the contents of the tape?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mary’s voice was soft. ‘It involves a weekend Laura Chase spent with three men in Palm Springs. The men involved her in a series of sexual activities – exhibitionism, at first.’ Mary paused. ‘And then two had sex with her while the third watched.’

  Watching Mary, Paget felt and heard the crowd reaction – bodies stirring, exclamations. The judge cracked her gavel, and there was silence again. ‘Why did Mr Ransom bring that tape?’ Paget asked.

  ‘What he said was that he wanted to discuss his new book on Laura Chase. Of which that supposedly was an integral part.’ Again, Mary hesitated. ‘He intimated that if I interviewed him on Deadline, it might help him forget my tape.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That he’d misled me. That he’d held back the tape to continue his blackmail.’ Her voice grew faint. ‘His answer was that we should listen to the Laura Chase tape and then talk about it.’

  ‘And did you listen to Laura’s tape?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mary looked away. ‘He made me.’

  Paget cocked his head. ‘Was that after Mr Aguilar appeared with the champagne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you ask Mr Aguilar to hang the Do Not Disturb sign when he left the room?’

  ‘I did. Yes.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  Mary turned to Caroline Masters. ‘I was there against my will,’ she said softly. ‘Because Mark Ransom knew things I didn’t want anyone to know. The fact that Mr Aguilar saw us was upsetting enough; I didn’t want to have a cleaning person come in and see us talking.’ She paused. ‘And when Mark Ransom described the Laura Chase tape and then told me I had to listen, I knew I didn’t want anyone walking in on that. I was far too ashamed of what was happening.’

  ‘You didn’t make that request of Mr Aguilar just to be alone with Mark Ransom?’

  ‘Not in the sense that he interpreted it.’ Mary’s voice hardened. ‘I don’t want to disappoint Mr Aguilar, but I consider Mark Ransom to have been the most twisted and distasteful man I have ever known.’

  Paget was silent for a moment, letting Masters absorb that. ‘Could you tell us,’ he asked, ‘What this “twisted and distasteful man” tried to do once Mr Aguilar left?’

  ‘He tried to rape me.’ As if to answer some unspoken doubt, Mary turned to Caroline Masters, repeating softly, ‘Mark Ransom tried to rape me.’

  ‘Could you explain what happened?’ Paget asked.

  Turning again, Mary stared into some middle distance. ‘It began when he played the tape.’ Her voice became quiet now, almost frightened. ‘It was awful. As Laura Chase danced for these men, and then started touching herself, Mark Ransom grew more excited. When the sex acts began, it pushed him over the edge.’

  ‘Could you describe that?’

  Mary’s look of fixity lingered: it was as if she were replaying a tape of her own, searching for precision. ‘He began to drink quickly,’ she finally answered. ‘Glass after glass. I had the odd feeling that I was watching a perverted Alice in Wonderland – that if Mark Ransom could step through the looking glass and find himself with Laura Chase and those three men, he would have given up his soul.’

  There was another murmur from the spectators. Sharpe stood again. ‘The same objection, Your Honor. If anything, Ms Carelli is taking more liberties than before.’

  Masters turned to Mary. ‘I agree with Ms Sharpe, and I’m striking the last sentence of your answer. Just tell us what happened.’

  Mary shifted, folding her arms so that she seemed to hug her own shoulders. ‘For a moment, it was as if I weren’t there anymore. He sat there listening, an odd smile on his face, just sat looking at me. Like he was hearing music from very far away – something beautiful, which he might never hear clearly. And then he put his hand on my knee.

  ‘I pushed his hand away, looked up at him in surprise.’ She paused. ‘When my eyes met his, his gaze moved to his lap. Slowly, to make sure that I followed him.

  ‘There was a bulge in his pants.

  ‘It was as if we’d both stepped through the looking glass.’ She turned to Masters, speaking in an embarrassed tone. ‘I’m sorry, Your Honor. But what he said then, very soft and very low, was, “I like fucking women I’ve seen on television. It’s like I’ve made them real.”’

  Masters gazed down at her. ‘It was so hostile,’ Mary told her. ‘They say that for some men sex is an act of violence, not of love. What I felt then was that Mark Ransom wanted to commit an act of violence – against me, and against who and what I was: a successful woman whom other women might actually admire.’ Her voice grew harder. ‘Mark Ransom hated women unless they were subservient. That’s why forcing me to listen to Laura Chase’s degradation excited him. That was why he wanted to break my will.’

  Paget saw Sharpe begin to rise once more, then think better of it. ‘What did you say to him?’ he asked Mary.

  ‘No.’ Mary still faced Caroline Masters. ‘I said no.’

  ‘And Mr Ransom’s response?’

  ‘That if I had intercourse with him, the tape was mine.’ She turned back to Paget, finishing softly. ‘But if I didn’t, my secrets belonged to the world.’

  ‘And you still refused.’

  Mary paused. ‘Not at first. I was too scared.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  She looked down. ‘That I’d help him promote the Laura Chase book.’

  ‘But he didn’t accept that?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘He told me that was the other thing I’d do for him.’ Mary’s voice fell. ‘After I undressed for him, like Laura.’

  ‘And you refused?’

  ‘Not really.’ Her voice became puzzled. ‘It was more like an instinct. I knew I couldn’t let him make me be Laura Chase.’ She turned to Masters, her words coming in a rush. ‘It wasn’t a rational thing. It was a felt thing. I remember thinking that it would never end – that if I gave in now, he could force me anytime he wanted me, until my life wasn’t worth living. I thought of all I’d done to become who I am, to stand for something. And then for a split second I thought of all the women who’ve given in to men like Ransom – whether for a job, or for their children, or for money to get by on, or just because they were too frightened to resist.’ Her tone hardened. ‘Some deep instinct made me want to fight back, no matter what. It was as though if I gave in, I’d lose myself. Forever.’

  In that moment, Paget imagined the people watching on television, imagined McKinley Brooks calculating the political cost of prosecuting this woman as he felt her intensity, saw her impassioned profile gazing up at Masters.

  ‘What did you do?’ Paget asked.

  ‘I grabbed my purse. I wanted to leave before I thought more than I felt. To leave while it was still me.’ Mary seem
ed to swallow. ‘And then Ransom spun me around.’

  Paget stepped forward. More quietly, he asked, ‘What happened then?’

  Mary straightened her skirt, the reflex of a woman imposing order on her own emotions. To the side, Paget saw Carlo again, face tight and miserable. The courtroom was silent.

  ‘I was still holding my purse.’ Mary’s voice was quiet but clear. ‘Suddenly he was on top of me, pulling down my panty hose, as Laura Chase described two men having sex with her while the third one watched.’

  There was a nervous cough in the courtroom.

  ‘It was almost unreal,’ Mary went on. ‘Some part of my senses registered Laura Chase’s voice, Ransom’s face, the champagne on his breath. I still remember those things clearly.’ She touched her forehead, as if searching for some lost detail. ‘Another part fought him by instinct. But it’s as if that woman lost her memory to shock. All that I can retrieve are fragments.’

  Paget nodded. ‘Was your memory keener when you talked to Inspector Monk?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘No. It’s not a matter of memory, but of trauma. If anything, the trauma was more debilitating when I was with Inspector Monk.’

  Glancing up, Paget saw Masters’s unblinking gaze at Mary, as if by sheer intensity she might divine the truth. The hearing seemed to weigh on her now; she seemed less inclined to arid wit, more troubled by judgments yet to be made.

  ‘Do you recall,’ Paget asked Mary, ‘how you received the various injuries described by Dr Shelton?’

  ‘Some. Not all.’ As Mary turned to Sharpe, her voice became cold and precise. ‘The only thing that I can say with certainty is that I did not inflict them after Mark Ransom died. Any of them.’

  The last phrase rang with anger and conviction; so far, Paget thought, Mary’s demeanour was close to perfect. ‘Is there any injury you recall more clearly than others?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mary touched her cheekbone. ‘The first blow to my face. I recall that very clearly.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because it was slow, deliberate, and brutal.’ She paused. ‘And because Ransom seemed to take such pleasure in it.’

  Paget saw Caroline Masters lean forward. He could almost trace her line of thought; this was the injury Elizabeth Shelton could not explain, inflicted by a man with a taste for bondage and simulated rape.

  ‘Could you describe the blow?’ he asked Mary.

  ‘Yes. I was on my back. He had one hand on my chest, pinning me to the floor, staring at me with a hatred so intense that, for a moment, I stopped struggling.’ Mary’s tone grew quiet. ‘That moment – and the look he gave me – has stayed in my mind like a freezeframe. And then he hit me.’ She stopped, as if at the shock of memory, and then, slowly and pointedly, added, ‘Just as I told Inspector Monk.’

  To his left, Paget saw Marnie Sharpe frown; Mary was doing well, he knew, and this was the one piece of evidence for which Sharpe had no ready answer.

  ‘How did Mark Ransom’s blow to the face affect you?’

  Mary’s voice became toneless. ‘My neck snapped back, my head hit the floor. A jolt of pain went through my skull and eyes. It got dark – I think perhaps he’d started choking me.’ She stopped as if still puzzled. ‘It was like I’d blacked out. The next thing that I remember is my legs spread apart, and Ransom kneeling between them. His pants were down.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  Mary gazed at the back of the room. ‘He’d stopped,’ she said quietly. ‘His head was cocked to one side. And then, in the background, I heard Laura Chase’s voice again.’ Mary’s own voice filled with wonderment. ‘He was listening to her. As if he were listening for a cue.’ Masters gave Mary a pensive look; as Paget had intended, Mary’s comment resonated with Rappaport’s last encounter with Mark Ransom. And then Mary added, ‘As I also told Inspector Monk.’

  That was good, Paget thought; Mary’s testimony had begun to highlight the points where her statements to the police were congruent with the physical evidence or the account of other witnesses. With each moment, the misstatements stressed by Sharpe began to seem more petty and unfair.

  ‘Did he have an erection?’ Paget asked.

  ‘Yes.’ For a moment, Mary closed her eyes. ‘As he listened to Laura, he held it in his hand.’

  ‘Did he seem ready to penetrate you?’

  Mary’s eyes opened. ‘Yes.’

  Masters leaned forward. ‘Could you describe,’ Masters asked quietly, ‘how it happened that Mark Ransom was shot? In the most factual terms you can manage.’

  Mary turned to her, as if startled by her intervention. ‘Mark Ransom was shot,’ she finally answered, ‘because he stopped to listen to Laura Chase.’

  Masters’s brow knit. ‘Could you explain that?’

  Mary nodded. ‘As he listened, it was like a respite. I had a moment of clarity – heightened awareness, almost. I felt the strap of my purse in my hand. All at once, I remembered what was inside it.’ Pausing, Mary sounded bemused. ‘A gun. The gun I had bought.’

  She made it sound, Paget thought, like an object of wonder and horror. ‘How did you get it out?’ Masters asked her.

  Paget was helpless now; he had not expected Masters to interrupt the flow of their questions, rehearsed until it seemed natural. ‘I heard Laura’s voice,’ Mary answered. ‘She was saying something like, “He wanted them to have me every way.” And then it came to me.

  ‘“You can take me,” I told him. “I’ll let you do it, any way you want.”’ Mary’s voice became bitter. ‘He looked so pleased – my consent to being degraded was what he’d wanted most. And then I said, “But only if you use a rubber.”’

  Masters’s look suggested surprise, perhaps unease at Mary’s presence of mind. ‘How did he respond?’

  ‘By laughing.’ Mary paused. ‘And then I said there was one in my purse.

  ‘It seemed to startle him. Before he could answer, I started to reach in my purse.’ Mary’s voice became tired. ‘When he pushed me back again, the gun was in my hand.’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘What happened then?’ Masters asked her.

  Mary stared at her hands. ‘His hands were on my wrists, grabbing. I kneed him.’ Mary’s lips parted, mute, and then she said softly, ‘The gun went off.’

  Masters watched her. In level tones, she asked, ‘How close were you?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know.’

  ‘But you told the police two to three inches.’

  Mary shrugged, as if helpless. ‘I did the best I could,’ she said wearily. ‘I was trying to answer what they asked. I didn’t know how they could make a wrong answer look.’ Her shoulders drew in. ‘I’d kneed him. He could have been falling back when the gun went off. I accept that what I thought was wrong. I wish I could tell you why. But I can’t.’

  Paget saw tears in Mary’s eyes. But her gaze at Caroline Masters was unblinking. In a soft voice, Masters asked, ‘His hands were never on the gun?’

  ‘Perhaps they were. But I never told the police that. Because what I remembered was his hands clamped on my wrists.’

  ‘Did you close the window shades?’

  Mary seemed not to notice the abrupt change of the subject. Her voice was leaden. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Before the gun went off, or after?’

  ‘I think after.’ Mary paused. ‘After, everything that happened is so vague. My only association with the window was that I was ashamed of what had happened. I know that doesn’t make any sense.’ She shook her head, as if at an afterthought. ‘I was wearing clothes, though. He never got my clothes off. So I don’t know what that man saw.’

  ‘Mr Hassler,’ Masters said. ‘Was it you that Mr Tench saw? Outside the room?’

  In Mary’s silence, Paget felt the slow dismantling of their preparations. It was as if the judge had required a closer sense of Mary than Paget could supply. ‘I think so,’ Mary said at last. ‘I think for a moment I was going to get help. But then I went back
to the room without doing anything.’ She sounded bewildered. ‘I seem to have an image of being outside the door, not believing what had happened. That if I went back inside, he would be fine and the nightmare would be over.’

  Caroline Masters remained silent, waiting for more. Mary, stripped of the careful framework she and Paget had constructed, seemed to have started free-associating. From the corner of his eye, he saw Marnie Sharpe, intently scribbling notes.

  ‘I felt I was sleepwalking,’ Mary went on. ‘I remember drifting around the room, moving from thing to thing. Touching each piece of furniture as if to find out what was real. I did everything but look at him.’ She paused, gazing up at Masters. ‘You see, it was so horrible the way he died. Staring down at me with the life slipping out of him, as if I had hurt his feelings. When I wake up at night, that’s what I remember. That, and pushing him off me, feeling from his weight that he must be dead.’

  ‘But if you had to push him off,’ Masters asked. ‘How was it you shot him from at least three feet away?’

  Mary shook her head; the movement had a dazed quality. ‘Perhaps he fell forward. But I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

  ‘Were your panty hose already torn?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was pain in Mary’s voice. ‘God, yes. Maybe I ripped them in the struggle, but yes. Afterwards, I wasn’t capable of anything. Even sensible things. When I called 911, it was like just enough fog had lifted to see the telephone.’

  ‘Did you scratch Mr Ransom’s buttocks?’

  ‘I must have – we were struggling.’ Her voice rose in sudden anger. ‘But not when he was dead. That’s ridiculous. It’s sick. The prosecutor’s whole case is sick.’ Sharpe looked up from her notes. ‘Sick,’ Mary repeated to Sharpe. ‘But then ambition is a sickness. I know.’

  As Sharpe stared at her, a murmur rose from the press. Paget sensed that Mary’s sudden challenge would become a defining moment in their memory of the hearing.

  ‘Ambition may be a sickness,’ Sharpe said to Masters. ‘But murder is a crime. I object to Ms Carelli’s efforts at distraction.’

  Masters turned to Mary. ‘Whatever your emotions, Ms Carelli, I will ask that you confine your answers to the questions asked.’