Degree of Guilt (57 page)

‘And now?’ Caroline asked. ‘The tape is missing. Unless and until it’s found, you’re the only one who knows what happened between you and Laura Chase.’

Caldwell gave her a level look. ‘That’s true,’ she said finally. ‘But I also know what happened between
Mark Ransom
and me. And knowing that, I know who Mark Ransom was.’

‘And that makes silence difficult.’

Caldwell nodded. ‘Until Steinhardt’s daughter sold Ransom those tapes,
I
was content to live with what had happened. Because the only living person it hurt was me. That’s not true anymore. Now Mary Carelli’s on trial for murder, and the tape may surface anyway.’ She paused again, looking at Caroline Masters with an air of fatalism. ‘If you decide that what I know is relevant, I’ll tell Roger and my son and daughter. And then I’ll testify for Ms Carelli.’

Caroline Masters bent forward, as if in private contemplation. Terri could almost read her thoughts: that the matter of Mark Ransom was far more complex than she had imagined; that she did not wish to harm Caldwell or Melissa Rappaport; that she no longer saw the trial in terms of her own role.

‘May I pose a few questions?’ Sharpe asked.

Almost unwillingly, Masters turned to her. ‘Of course.’

Sharpe pulled her chair closer, facing Caldwell.

‘Do you know where the tape is?’ she asked.

Caldwell shook her head. ‘No. I don’t.’

‘Do you have any idea what might have happened to it?’

‘No.’ Pausing, Caldwell looked puzzled. ‘I wish I did.’

Sharpe cocked her head, as if equally bemused. ‘Did Mr Ransom ever demand sex for the tape?’ she asked.

‘No. Not in so many words.’

‘Did he propose any kind of sexual activity between you and him?’

Caldwell stared at her. ‘Did he say, “I’ll trade the tape for sex”? No. Did he have to? You wouldn’t ask if you’d been on the other end of the telephone.’

‘I understand. But don’t you agree that, in the literal sense of his words, Mark Ransom could have been asking you for information – albeit of a very intimate kind?’ Sharpe paused. ‘Perhaps pushing you, as journalists sometimes will, but after nothing more than the most sensational book he could write?’

Caldwell flicked back her hair. ‘Only if you believe that when a man says to a woman, “I’d like to stay the night,” the literal sense of his words is that he admires your living room couch.’ She paused, adding in sardonic tones, ‘Perhaps pushing you, as men sometimes will, but only for a good night’s sleep.’

The sudden stinging irony startled Terri and seemed to snap Caroline out of her private reverie. Sharpe flushed, and then assumed a tone of exaggerated patience. ‘The literal sense of words
does
matter if you’re in a court of law. I’ve prosecuted any number of rape cases where the man claimed that “no” meant “yes.” If that kind of Orwellian twist were evidence of guilt or innocence, one of those men would no doubt be raping another woman even as we sit here.’

‘Don’t
you
twist this,’ Caldwell snapped. ‘The only reason Mark Ransom didn’t try to rape
me
is that Mary Carelli shot him first.’ Caldwell’s voice turned calm but very cold. ‘The curious thing about his call was how clear it was to me, whatever words he used, that part of Ransom’s very sick thrill was that I was a successful woman and a feminist. Like you, I assume.’ Caldwell paused. ‘I can’t help but wonder how
you
would have felt, Ms Sharpe, if Mark Ransom had placed that call to you.’

Sharpe pulled back, staring at Caldwell with an odd, hurt expression. ‘That’s completely unfair.’

‘Is it?’

Caroline leaned forward. ‘I understand your point, Marnie.
And
Ms Caldwell’s. Do you have anything more?’

It took a moment for Sharpe to turn from Caldwell. ‘Only an observation,’ she said quietly. ‘We have no explicit request for sex, no blackmail which can be proven. And certainly no rape. Quite literally, Mr Ransom did not come within four hundred miles of Ms Caldwell. So all we’re left with is a long-distance call that
Ms Caldwell
conducted in a deliberately obscure manner and that is evidence of nothing more than Ms Caldwell’s private pain. Which is how it should remain – private.’

Terri leaned forward. ‘That goes to the weight of the evidence,’ she replied. ‘
Not
its admissibility. The court should allow Ms Caldwell to testify fully and completely. Ms Sharpe can cross-examine. After that, the
court
can decide how it sees Mr Ransom’s call to Ms Caldwell – which, as she points out, bears as much resemblance to a request for information as rape does to a honeymoon.’

‘The problem,’ Caroline rejoined, ‘is that it doesn’t resemble rape, either. Which is Ms Carelli’s defense.’

Terri felt Caroline deciding against her, reached for a new argument. ‘Ms Carelli’s defense,’ she responded, ‘involves this man’s sexual character, and his sexual agenda in contacting Ms Carelli. Which, as Ms Carelli can attest, involves the same supposedly “ambiguous” approach Mark Ransom used with Ms Caldwell.’

‘But we’re looking for admissible evidence on which to decide whether Ms Carelli acted in self-defense and therefore can defeat probable cause. You’ll admit, Teresa, that we’re nowhere near what could be considered a “similar act” to rape.’

‘It depends on
which
act we’re talking about.’ Terri shifted ground again. ‘Let me suggest this: that the court wait until the entire defense case is in before ruling on whether Ms Rappaport, Ms Caldwell, and the tape of Laura Chase can be part of the record on which the court decides the issue of probable cause. That ought to assure the broadest information and perspective when the court
does
rule.’

Caroline gave a small smile. ‘Never face today,’ she said, ‘what you can put off till tomorrow. If you’re losing, that is.’

Terri smiled back. ‘Never rule today,’ she answered, ‘if your ruling may be better tomorrow.’

Caroline’s smile faded, and then she nodded slowly. ‘All right, Teresa. You’ve preserved your position for the moment. I’ll rule after your remaining witnesses.’ She turned to Caldwell. ‘I apologize for keeping you in limbo, Ms Caldwell. But from the court’s perspective, Ms Peralta’s request makes enough sense to honor it.’

Caldwell nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘I hope so.’ The judge turned to Sharpe. ‘In the meanwhile, Marnie, if any new tape involving Ms Carelli, Laura Chase,
or
Ms Caldwell comes into your possession, you are to notify me immediately.’ She paused for emphasis. ‘Immediately, and privately. Because if
any
of these tapes is made public, and it’s the doing of the prosecution, I’ll be inclined to see that as a deliberate denial of due process. The sanction will be to dismiss this case. And in dismissing it, I’d feel impelled to set forth why.’

Sharpe looked startled. ‘Is it really necessary,’ she asked, ‘for the court to assume responsibility for safeguarding so much evidence in such an extraordinary way?’

‘It’s necessary for my own sense of decency. For which
I
take responsibility.’ Caroline turned back to Caldwell. ‘If I decide to rule for Ms Peralta, I’ll give you reasonable notice. So that you can tell whomever you need to tell.’

‘Thank you,’ Caldwell said. ‘At some point, I may tell my family, regardless of what happens here. But whether and when is something I need to work out for myself.’

Caroline was quiet. ‘In the end,’ she answered, ‘I may force you to. That’s a decision that weighs heavily on me. But it’s part of being a judge. So perhaps you can indulge me while I give you the perspective of a judge.’

‘Of course.’

‘Sexuality
does
involved a wide spectrum. But you couldn’t have known that at the age of nineteen. And as simple as it seems, many people find facing that difficult at
any
age.’ Caroline’s voice slowed, as if to make sure Caldwell heard her. ‘For almost twenty years as a defense lawyer and now a judge, I’ve been mired in questions of guilt and innocence – moral as well as legal. Of all the people involved with Laura Chase’s death, your wounds seem by far the worst to me, and you have by far the least to answer for. Forgive yourself.’

Caldwell looked surprised. Abruptly Caroline stood, extending her hand. ‘Good luck, Ms Caldwell.’

Caldwell took Caroline’s hand. ‘And you,’ she said softly. ‘Thank you.’

Caroline called her deputy. Within a minute, Caldwell and Terri, accompanied by two bailiffs, were in a freight elevator, silently thinking their separate thoughts.

Finally, Caldwell turned to her. ‘You were good, Terri. She was going to rule against you, I think.’

‘I think so too.’

They got to the underground garage. Caldwell’s limousine, black with opaque windows, was parked by the elevator. The bailiffs stood back; Caldwell’s chauffeur waited on the other side of the car. ‘It seems,’ Caldwell said to Terri, ‘that I’ll leave as I came, anonymously. It’s a luxury I don’t often get.’

Terri was quiet, then she said, ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘You needn’t thank me, and you needn’t feel responsible. Really, I had no choice.’

Terri watched her face. ‘At least Caroline Masters tried to make it easier,’ she said at length. ‘Much more than before, I’m really coming to admire her.’

‘You
should
admire her – she’s an admirable woman.’ Caldwell paused, and then added softly, ‘But I think there’s something else – a particular sensitivity. Something personal, perhaps.’

Before Terri could question her, Lindsay Caldwell touched her shoulder. ‘I wish you well,’ Caldwell said, ‘with everything.’

Caldwell disappeared into the limousine. Terri watched it drive up the exit ramp, a black car with an unseen passenger, and vanish.

Television flickering in the background, Christopher Paget poured Mary Carelli a glass of red wine.

‘You still like Chianti, I imagine.’

‘Since even before you knew me.’ Her voice was dry. ‘Of course, I’ve learned to like better Chianti since I lived in Rome.’

To Paget, the remark had a rueful undertone, which mingled pride in what she had accomplished with fear that it would soon be gone: to remember Rome was to acknowledge that she might never see it again.

Paget raised his wineglass. ‘To Rome.’

Half smiling, Mary touched her glass to his. ‘To Rome,’ she said. ‘And to getting through tomorrow.’

They sat in Paget’s library on Sunday evening, the end of four days spent rehearsing Mary’s testimony, while Terri handled Rappaport and Caldwell and then prepared for Marcy Linton. For the first two days, they had crafted Mary’s testimony, confessing error or doubt when necessary; carefully treading through her interview with Charles Monk; designing, editing, and discarding verbal formulas until they found the answers they wanted. And then Paget had devoted the weekend to tearing those answers apart.

Now it was dark outside, and they were finished.

‘You’ve worked hard,’ he said. ‘All you have to do is stay alert but calm.’

Mary’s smile became ironic. ‘“Alert but calm,”’ she repeated. ‘So easy to achieve. And such a perfect approach for a premeditated murderer.’

For Paget, the remark had a surreal quality: a mordant joke from a calculating woman from whom he could not demand the truth, and in whose truthfulness he could not believe. But the most eerie part was that he could hear the comment either as a veiled confession or as understated bitterness that Sharpe – and perhaps Paget – believed her capable of murder.

‘I think Caroline’s ready to listen now,’ he said finally. ‘Whether she lets them testify or not, Rappaport and Caldwell have made an impression. Which means that Judge Masters is thinking about who Ransom was, rather than just wondering who
you
are.’

Of course, Paget thought,
I
wonder who you are. But he did not say that: while their preparation was shot through with the fact of Mary’s lies, they had treated that as an intellectual problem, and each other with civility. After four days, the two things Paget knew for certain were how facile and self-disciplined Mary Carelli still was.

As if in counterpoint, her face now appeared on television: first as a young witness before the Senate, then as a woman charged with murder. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ the voice-over said, ‘Mary Carelli faces the most critical moment of the hearing and, perhaps, of her life. The moment when she takes the stand.’

Mary gazed at the screen, and then at Paget. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I won’t blow this. Whatever else you think, you should know me well enough to know that.’

The remark was matter-of-fact, but there was steel beneath it. ‘Just don’t underestimate Marnie Sharpe,’ Paget answered.

Mary stretched her legs. ‘I’ve been studying her, Chris. I know exactly how she’ll be.’

Paget nodded; he could too easily imagine Mary, removed from all emotion, dissecting Sharpe while she went about her business. That her business was to prove Mary a murderer would make Mary all the more determined.

‘I’m sure,’ he remarked, ‘that Mamie’s every quirk is coded on your brain.’

‘It is.’ Mary’s voice went cold. ‘I won’t let her nail me.’

‘I believe you.’

Her ironic look returned. ‘Yes? About that I suppose you do.’

Paget smiled. But all that he believed in was Mary’s resolve; he was far too skeptical of her innocence not to worry. He wished that he could fast-forward his life to the end of her testimony, find their defense still viable, their secrets safe from Carlo.

The seamed face of a prominent defense lawyer had appeared on Court TV.

‘It’s such a mistake,’ he said, ‘to put her on the stand. But then this whole strategy is a mistake. If Christopher Paget loses
here
, he’s got no surprises left for trial. To me, this defense looks like a play written by a gifted amateur – flashes of brilliance, but a plot that won’t fly. I think he’s far too close to the case to be objective.’