Degree of Guilt (50 page)

A vigorous nod. ‘That’s right.’

‘After all this, are you sure it isn’t possible that
Mark Ransom
asked you?’

‘Positive.’

Paget did not like the sound of that. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because it stuck with me – Mr Ransom winking, and then Miss Carelli
asking.
Like he
knew
it was going to happen, and she wanted that too.’

Paget felt himself losing ground, asking questions he was not sure of in an effort to recoup. ‘Knew
what
was going to happen?’

‘You know.’ Aguilar looked awkward. ‘Sexual intercourse. I mean, you couldn’t read it any other way.’

Paget tried to sound indignant. ‘Do you assume, Mr Aguilar, that every time a man and a woman want to talk in private, it involves sex?’

‘No,’ Aguilar protested. ‘I don’t think that at all. But you see a man and a woman in a hotel suite at noon, the man ordering champagne and the woman asking to be alone, and you’ve got to figure the odds have just gone up. That’s how
I
saw it, and
I’ve
got to figure that’s how
Mr Ransom
saw it. Which is why it stuck in my mind that Miss Carelli was the one that wanted privacy.’

Paget felt like a fool. ‘You’ve got the edge on me there,’ he snapped, ‘by ninety seconds. But there are certain things you don’t know, do you? Like whether Ms Carelli simply wanted privacy to talk.’

Aguilar eyed him. ‘No, I don’t know,’ he finally said. ‘One way or the other.’

‘A judicious answer,’ Paget said coldly. He turned to Masters. ‘I’m through with this witness, Your Honor.’

She nodded, giving Aguilar a speculative gaze. ‘Redirect, Ms Sharpe.’

‘No, thank you, Your Honor.’ Sharpe smiled faintly. ‘Since my last objection, I’ve been content with the job Mr Paget has done on our behalf.’

‘Which is it?’ Terri murmured. ‘Ransom never got it up, or Mary the seductress?’

‘Both,’ Paget whispered back. ‘Mamie’s idea must be that Mary lulled Ransom into being all alone, then shot him.’

Terri nodded. Together, they watched John Hassler take the stand.

He was a pleasant, open-faced man in his late forties, an insurance executive from Chicago with a twenty-year marriage and two teenage daughters. Sharpe added to this estimable life the fact that Hassler was a guest at the Flood on the day that Mark Ransom died, and then asked, ‘In fact, Mr Hassler, weren’t you on the same floor as Mr Ransom?’

‘That’s right. I met him in the elevator, coming up from breakfast when he was checking in.’

‘You recognized him?’

‘With that face and all the red hair? Couldn’t miss him. So I said hello.’ Hassler shook his head sadly. ‘He was a nice man – friendly. Polished but very engaging.’

‘How long did you speak to him?’

‘For five minutes or so. We were walking in the same direction, so he invited me into his room. I was curious about the suites, so we sort of checked it out together.’ He paused. ‘As I said, a nice man.’

‘What did you talk about?’

Hassler’s expression mixed pleasure with regret, as if reflecting that this was one of the last encounters Mark Ransom had with anyone. ‘He showed me the suite – which was quite spacious – and talked about some writers from Chicago whom he knew. He was very complimentary of them, and of the city. Then he looked at his watch and gave sort of an embarrassed smile. He said he wished that we could chat more but that he had to take a shower.’ Hassler shot a glance at Mary. ‘He told me that a woman was coming to his suite in an hour or so, and he didn’t want to smell like an airplane breakfast.’

‘Did he tell you why she was coming?’

‘No.’ Hassler paused. ‘But the way he looked and sounded, it wasn’t business. At least he didn’t give me any reason to believe it was.’

‘Did he say whom he was seeing?’

Hassler shook his head. ‘No. Just that I’d know her if I saw her. He sounded pretty pleased with himself – I must admit I was curious.’

Paget glanced at Mary; through the stoic mask, her eyes flashed anger and contempt. On the bench, Masters wore a slight frown, directed at no one.

‘What happened then?’ Sharpe asked Hassler.

‘Nothing. We just shook hands, and I went around the corner to my room.’

‘How long were you there?’

‘I had a business lunch at one, so it was maybe a couple of hours. I read some memos and worked the phones a little.’

‘Did you ever see Mr Ransom again?’

Hassler looked down. ‘No. Later that night, after I heard, it was like someone walking over my grave.’

‘Did you ever see the woman who came to his room?’

Hassler hesitated. ‘Yes. I
think
so.’

‘Could you explain?’

Slowly, Hassler nodded. ‘It was about noon, and I’d gotten bored with the stuff I was reading. So I got up, yawning and stretching a little, staring out my window without anything much in mind.

‘It wasn’t a very good view. The Flood is shaped kind of like a block U, with two wings facing each other and surrounding an inner courtyard. I was on the end of one wing, so all I could see was the opposite wing and a few rooms on the right side of the U, where Mark Ransom was staying.’ Hassler paused. ‘I guess at some point it occurred to me to wonder which windows belonged to his suite. Seeing as how I’d been there.’

‘Did you do that?’

‘Uh-huh. I began sort of counting windows, trying to remember how far along the back of the U his suite was.’ He paused. ‘That was when I saw her.’

‘Her?’

‘Yes.’ Hassler glanced at Mary. ‘A woman, with long black hair. Standing in a window.’

‘What did she do?’

‘She seemed to look out for a minute, as if she was staring at the bay. Then she pulled down the blinds, and I couldn’t see her anymore.’ He averted his gaze from Mary. ‘But I figured it was the woman who’d come to see Mark Ransom.’

‘And why was that?’

‘The position of the windows, for one thing. It seemed right.’

Sharpe paused for a moment. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And what was that?’

Hassler looked down. In a quiet voice, he said, ‘She was undressed.’

There were whispers in the courtroom; quickly, Masters gaveled for silence, face grim. Paget’s mind seemed to have gone blank. The one thing he could think of was Carlo.

Pausing, Sharpe showed no emotion. ‘I want to be clear on this,’ she said. ‘You saw her through a full-length window, am I correct?’

‘Yes.’ Hassler glanced at Mary. ‘The woman I saw wasn’t wearing anything. Nothing at all.’

‘How did you know that?’

Hassler looked away again. ‘There was a patch of black between her legs.’

‘Pubic hair,’ Sharpe said flatly.

Hassler sighed. His voice sounded feeble. ‘It was a long way off, but yes. Pubic hair.’

Beneath the table, Paget realized, Mary’s fingers grabbed his suit jacket. Her face was flushed.

‘This window,’ Sharpe asked. ‘How many windows was it from the end?’

‘Three, I believe.’

Sharpe nodded. ‘And did we later show you Mark Ransom’s suite, and three suites on either side?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you count the windows?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did you discover?’

Now Hassler looked quite miserable. ‘What I discovered,’ he answered, ‘was that Mark Ransom’s sitting room contained the third window from the right.’

Paget rose. Quickly, he said, ‘The window you looked at was at least one hundred fifty feet from your own, was it not?’

Hassler nodded; the look he gave Paget was half ashamed, half apologetic. ‘I would think that’s fair.’

‘So you couldn’t see her face, correct?’

‘Not at all.’ He explained. ‘I
could
see height and coloring.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Only that the woman was slender.’

‘Let me show you something.’

Quickly, Johnny Moore had the easel out again; another picture appeared, this time the distant color image of a dark-haired woman, gazing out a window at the Flood. ‘Your Honor,’ Paget said, ‘we’re prepared to establish that Mr Moore took this photograph through the window of Mr Hassler’s hotel room and that the woman in the picture was standing in Mark Ransom’s suite.’

Judge Masters turned to Marnie Sharpe. ‘Any objection?’

‘Yes. I don’t know what this is.’

‘True, at the moment. But I’m going to allow it, subject to proof. And unless you doubt Mr Paget’s word, you may wish to reach some sort of stipulation.’

Sharpe frowned. ‘Very well, Your Honor.’

Paget stepped forward. ‘Mr Hassler, let me direct your attention to this photograph and then to the defense table.’

Hassler looked from one to the other. ‘I have, sir. To both.’

‘All right. You’ll note that
this
woman, although clothed, is standing in the full-length window, looking out as you described her. Does this approximate the view you had that day?’

‘Yes. As I recall it.’

‘And can you identify the person in the picture?’

‘No.’ Hassler looked embarrassed. ‘But like the woman I saw that day, her height and coloring resemble Ms Carelli’s.’

Paget nodded. ‘So in your view, the woman in this picture bears the same resemblance to Ms Carelli as the woman you saw?’

‘Yes. It’s hard to say, of course. But it could be the same woman.’

‘It could be, yes.’ For the first time, Paget smiled. ‘But actually it’s Ms Carelli’s virtual twin. My associate, Ms Peralta.’

Masters gave a thin smile of her own. Paget turned to the defense table. ‘Would both of you mind standing?’

They did, Mary looking grim, Terri expressionless. ‘As you can see,’ Paget said to Masters, ‘the principal differences are Ms Carelli’s considerable height advantage, Ms Peralta’s lighter hair, and, as Ms Carelli would be frank to admit, some fifteen years in age.’

Judge Masters looked from the picture to Terri. ‘I’ve seen better likenesses, Teresa. But I suppose that’s Mr Paget’s point. It’s nice to have you in my courtroom, incidentally. Even in a nonspeaking part.’

‘Ms Peralta will be speaking,’ Paget said, ‘when the defense puts on witnesses.’

‘Good, Mr Paget. Not to denigrate your skills, of course.’ Masters paused. ‘I assume that you have more.’

‘Just a little.’ Paget turned back to Hassler. ‘Take another look at the picture if you will. Given the distance between your window and those at the back of the U, can you even be certain that you’re looking at a window on the precise same floor?’

Hassler cocked his head. ‘Not from looking at this. No.’

‘Or from looking through your window on the day in question? We are, after all, talking about a view from at least half the distance of a football field.’

Hassler considered that. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I can’t be sure that I wasn’t looking at someone on a floor above, or a floor below.’

‘And in fact, didn’t you assume that the woman you saw was in Mr Ransom’s suite because of what he
led
you to assume about his activities?’

Hassler looked confused. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

‘Let me put it another way. Would you have associated this woman with Mr Ransom’s suite if he hadn’t implied to you he had some sort of date?’

Hassler’s eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe not,’ he said finally.

‘Indeed, sitting here today, are you certain that the window you saw was the third window from the right?’

‘I don’t know.’ Hassler shook his head. ‘After he was dead, these kinds of details become more important.’

‘In truth, isn’t what got your attention not the sequence of the windows, or whose window it was, but the unexpected sight of a woman without clothes?’

Hassler looked chastened. ‘It startled me, I’m sure.’

Paget paused. ‘And attracted you?’

Hassler raised his head. ‘I suppose so, Mr Paget. Whoever it was, she was attractive. I’ll admit to you that I didn’t turn away.’

‘Nor, after seeing her, did you count windows.’

‘No.’

‘So that you’re not at all certain that the woman you saw was standing in Mark Ransom’s suite.’

Hassler looked from Sharpe to Paget. ‘No,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘I can’t be sure.’

‘Or even confident?’

‘No.’ Hassler looked away. ‘Not even that. What I saw was a naked woman. It could have been Mark Ransom’s suite.’

‘Or not.’

Hassler nodded. ‘Or not.’

‘It is also true, is it not, that you saw no one else through the window.
Not
Mark Ransom, or any other man.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So that the faceless woman you saw could have been fresh from the shower, and quite alone.’

Hassler reflected. ‘Yes, you’re right. The woman I saw could have been alone.’

Paget paused for a moment. ‘Given all of these uncertainties,’ he asked, ‘and the potential prejudice to Ms Carelli, why did you come forward?’

‘I didn’t
want
to.’ Hassler gave a helpless shrug. ‘But I met the man, and now he’s dead. What could I do but tell the district attorney what I saw, and let them decide what to do with it?’

With a trace of weariness, as if his worst expectations had been confirmed, Paget slowly looked at Marnie Sharpe. Then he turned to the witness again. ‘Oh, you fulfilled
your
responsibilities,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mr Hassler. I have no further questions.’

Sharpe was quickly up, an edge in her voice. ‘Did anyone, from either the police or the district attorney, coach you as to what you saw through the window of your hotel room?’

‘Objection,’ Paget called out. ‘The scope of redirect is confined to matters addressed in cross-examination. Never once did my questions suggest that Ms Sharpe suborned perjury.’

Sharpe looked indignant. ‘Mr Paget is deliberately misunderstanding, and overstating, the thrust of my question.’