Degree of Guilt (66 page)

‘It was the same occasion that
he
blamed for his impotence.’ Pausing, he turned to Masters. ‘The rape of the young woman you saw yesterday – Marcy Linton. After that, Mark Ransom became impotent.’

The courtroom was silent. Softly, Sharpe said, ‘No further questions.’

Rising from the defense table, Paget saw Mary’s sudden look of defeat. Behind her, Carlo stared at his shoes. Paget felt their reactions as his own; with her final question, to his utter disbelief, Sharpe had pointed Marcy Linton’s testimony back at Mary Carelli.

Slowly, he walked toward Bass.

‘You mentioned Siobhan Ransom as an archetype,’ Paget began. ‘Did Ransom develop a counterarchetype? That is, was there a particular woman who he imagined represented his
needs?
’

Bass watched him for a moment. ‘Yes. The actress Laura Chase.’

Paget felt a spark of hope. ‘So he mentioned her in analysis?’

‘Frequently.’

‘And what role did Ms Chase play in Mr Ransom’s psychic landscape?’

Idly, Bass tapped his glasses, ‘in shorthand, she represented security and sexual fulfillment. The Laura Chase he invented in his mind would have done anything to please him. She not only would have catered to his sexual desires but, equally important, she would have
admired
him.’

Paget gave him a curious look. ‘Did he specifically associate Laura Chase with sexual performance?’

‘Yes.’ Bass sounded rueful. ‘He came to believe that with Laura Chase, he would have been the sexual man he wished to be. He saw her as someone mysterious, yet available; a woman who wanted to maintain a distinct and exotic role that was not in competition with him.’

‘Is it fair to call this preoccupation with Laura Chase a fetish?’

Bass nodded. ‘In a sense. It’s not at all uncommon, Mr Paget, for men with doubts about their sexuality to seek arousal through fetishes or rituals. I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but the incident with Ms Linton traumatized him. He was deeply afraid of failure.’

Paget felt himself slown down. ‘Did Mr Ransom also have a preoccupation with rape?’ he asked.

‘Yes. It was part of his desire to subjugate women.’

‘Is it fair to say that rape is a crime of violence rather than of passion? As evidenced by the blow to the face he inflicted on Ms Linton?’

‘I would agree, yes.’

‘And it’s true that Mr Ransom derived sexual stimulation from physically abusing women? Also as evidenced by Ms Linton?’

‘That is possible. At least it is consistent with his psychology.’

Paget moved closer, glancing up at Caroline Masters. ‘It is even possible, is it not, that he might view slapping a woman’s face as a way of achieving and/or maintaining an erection?’

‘Yes. That also would be consistent.’

‘So that we have now identified two factors which helped Mr Ransom achieve erection: striking a woman, and his fetish for Laura Chase. Is that correct?’

Bass gave him a thoughtful gaze. ‘Those could be factors.’

It was time, Paget thought, to take a chance. ‘Did you ever become aware that Mr Ransom had obtained tapes of Laura Chase’s sessions with her psychiatrist, Dr Steinhardt?’

‘Yes.’ Bass looked defensive. ‘I don’t approve, incidentally. I’m here because my patient was killed, and because Ms ‘Sharpe was quite insistent. In fact, I find it quite ironic to be here discussing Mr Ransom’s confidences.’

‘I understand,’ Paget said. ‘But fairness to Ms Carelli requires that I pursue this. Specifically, did Mr Ransom tell you that he had obtained the tape described by Ms Carelli – one in which Laura Chase described having sex with two men?’

Bass nodded unhappily. ‘He did. Yes. He was quite excited about it.’

‘Did Mr Ransom believe that this tape might restore him sexually?’

‘Objection,’ Sharpe called out. ‘The question asks Dr Bass to speculate.’

Caroline Masters gave her a droll look. ‘People who live in glass houses, Ms Sharpe, are likely to get glass in their eye. Carry on, Mr Paget.’

‘That would be speculation.’ Bass paused. ‘But yes, I think so. I do know that once Mr Ransom got that tape, he stopped seeing me.’

All at once, Paget understood the doctor’s rueful tone: Mark Ransom had chosen Laura Chase as a substitute for therapy, gone down what Bass believed to be a sad and fruitless path. ‘But after that, Doctor, he
did
see Ms Carelli. So let’s briefly reprise your testimony. Slapping women helped Mr Ransom stay erect, true?’

‘So it seems.’

‘The Laura Chase fetish also helped Mark Ransom stay erect?’

Bass nodded. ‘It was a primary source of stimulus, yes.’

‘So isn’t it quite possible that stimulated by the Laura Chase tape and by slapping Ms Carelli, Mark Ransom could have tried to rape her?’

‘It’s possible, yes. But after Ms Linton, that would have put Mark Ransom at great risk of personal embarrassment.’ Pausing, Bass glanced at Mary. ‘It’s difficult to envision him taking that risk with a woman like Ms Carelli.’

‘But weren’t women “like Ms Carelli” – independent women of achievement – the very type of women Mark Ransom despised and wished to subjugate?’

‘True, on one level.’ Bass shifted on the witness stand. ‘But to me, the operative word is “fear.” The man I saw was far too mired in fear to attempt penetration with an unwilling woman.’

Paget’s voice went cold. ‘That’s called rape, Doctor. Which is the
third factor
we’ve identified as a sexual stimulus to Mr Ransom.’

‘Indeed,’ Bass said. ‘But I saw the man for almost four years, and what you describe is hard for me to imagine.’

It stopped Paget again. He stared at Bass, feigning incredulity, while he tried to think of a way to end on a better answer. ‘But isn’t it possible,’ he finally asked, ‘that Mark Ransom could have achieved an erection under circumstances that would convince Ms Carelli she was going to be raped, including the infliction of a blow to the face, whether or not he could actually do it?’

‘That’s possible, yes.’

‘Or whether or not, in the end, he intended to even
try
penetration?’

Bass looked at Sharpe, then turned again to Paget. Slowly, he answered, ‘I suppose that’s also possible.’

When Paget glanced up at Caroline Masters, her gaze was cool. But there was nothing more that he could do.

He turned back to Bass. ‘I have no further questions, Dr Bass. Thank you for your patience.’

Walking back to the defense table, Paget saw that Sharpe was already on her feet.

‘During the four-year period of Mr Ransom’s treatment,’ she asked Bass, ‘did he ever discuss raping anyone?’

Bass shook his head. ‘No. As I said, the consequences of his attack on Ms Linton tormented him. His fantasy concerning rape, when he acted it out, came at a great cost to
both
people involved.’

‘Did he indicate any predisposition to rape anyone again?’

Bass paused, looking at Mary Carelli. ‘No. None.’

Sharpe nodded. ‘In fact, did Mr Ransom talk of sexual contact with
anyone?
’

‘No one.’

Sharpe paused for a moment. ‘Did he ever mention Mary Carelli?’

Bass shook his head. ‘If he had a particular interest in Ms Carelli, I was not aware of it.’

‘Thank you, Dr Bass. No further questions.’

As Caroline Masters excused her last witness, Sharpe walked to the prosecution table with an air of satisfaction. Watching, Paget felt disheartened.

From the bench, Masters faced the lawyers again. ‘I’d like to compliment both prosecution and defense on an admirable presentation of the evidence. I’ll hear final argument at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

Abruptly, she banged her gavel.

‘All rise,’ the courtroom deputy called out, and Caroline Masters left the bench, the sudden tumult of the courtroom trailing after her, the legacy of Sharpe’s final witness.

FEBRUARY
19 –
FEBRUARY
22

Teresa Peralta pulled up in front of the post office.

She sat in her car for a moment, watching the pedestrian traffic on Van Ness. It was one o’clock; men and women on lunch breaks filed in and out of restaurants and shops and the stereo outlet across the street, in no particular hurry. The desultory rhythm of normal life seemed alien to Terri; the day was unseasonably warm, and the brightness of the sun surprised her.

The cloistered world of a trial was unnatural, she realized; a forced obsession which so consumed its protagonists that they thought of little else. For two weeks, the hearing had been her life; the witnesses her chief concern; Christopher Paget and Caroline Masters and Marnie Sharpe and Mary Carelli her human reference points. She had watched them stumble, grow, confront the relentless pressure of the courtroom and of life in the third person – watching their every act replayed on television – until, finally, it was almost finished.

Chris was shut in his office, trying to adjust his thoughts to the testimony of Dr Bass, refusing all calls from the press so that he could outline his final argument to Caroline Masters. Later, Terri would listen and offer advice. There was just one more thing she needed to do.

This would come to nothing, she believed. But if the tapes had not been destroyed – and while Mary had motive to destroy them, she lacked the means – Chris and Carlo were still at risk. If Terri could not find the tapes, at least she would know that.

Getting out of the car, Terri felt the breeze on her face, took in the vehicles that passed, the people in the crosswalk, the sound of engines and car horns, the random buildings – some tall, some low, their irregular height like the rooftops of a toy city, built by a child. After she saw Chris, perhaps she would pick up Elena early from day care, drive her to the beach. They both needed that.

Terri walked into the post office.

It was dim, musty-smelling. Ten or twelve people waited with sullen detachment for three postal clerks to process their mail or retrieve a package. The bearded man in front of her hummed tunelessly, passing time to his own inner voice.

The beach was a good idea, Terri thought. Once the hearing was over, she would be free to spend time with Elena and deal with Richie.

She checked her watch. One-fifteen.

What was Caroline doing now? she wondered. Calmly nibbling on her usual salad, having made up her mind? No, Terri thought: Caroline might already have decided how to rule, but she would not be serene about it. The hearing, and the people it touched, seemed to weigh on her now. She would be thinking of those people as much as her career or even Mary; she could cause the machinery of justice to release them by freeing Mary Carelli or, with Mary, send them all to trial.

Terri would not, she decided, wish to be Caroline Masters.

She shuffled forward, imagining the moment when Caroline announced her decision. The thought led her to another: even less would she like to be Christopher Paget.

They had lost, Terri believed. Lost with the final witness.

‘Next,’ a man’s voice called.

Terri looked up in surprise. There was no one in front of her; a pleasant-faced Japanese postal clerk looked at her expectantly.

She walked up to the window. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Absentminded.’

‘Sure.’ He was looking at Terri with an intelligent, curious expression; for the first time, it struck Terri that her face might be recognizable to strangers. ‘I’m looking for a lost package. Something with an incomplete address, or the address missing. It got mailed from Nob Hill, we think.’

Perhaps, Terri thought, she only
imagined
that he looked curious. ‘You didn’t mail it yourself?’ he asked.

Terri shook her head. ‘No, a friend. We think she stuck it in the mail by accident.’ Feeling awkward, Terri joked, ‘She’s absentminded too.’

The man seemed to study her face. Then he smiled. ‘You’d be amazed,’ he said. ‘What was in there?’

What had she told the woman in Dead Letters? ‘Cassette tapes,’ she answered. ‘Like for a stereo.’

He looked thoughtful. ‘I might have noticed that. We get some good stuff back there, and I play music all the time in my car. Offhand, I don’t remember tapes.’

Didn’t you already call about tapes, the woman had asked, a few weeks back?

‘Can I take a look?’ Terri asked.

He hesitated. ‘There’s no one back there now.’

Terri smiled. ‘I promise not to take anything that’s not mine. All I’m looking for are cassette tapes, really. Maybe in an envelope marked “Hotel Flood.”’

He thought for another moment, and then shrugged. ‘We have a lot of things. I might have missed it.’ He motioned her around the counter. ‘Come on back – you’ve got an honest face.’

Terri followed him down a hallway to an open room with metal shelves full of packages and a three-foot stepladder next to the door. ‘This is it,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If you find what you’re looking for, come get me.’

‘Thanks,’ Terri said. Somehow, being in the room made her quest seem real. Her skin tingled; she did not dare look around her until the clerk had left.

She should have told Chris she was coming.

It was all right, she told herself. Chris was distracted enough. He did not want the tapes found by anyone else; if they were anywhere Sharpe or the media could get them, he would choose to have them first. And if Mary lost, and went to trial, it was all the more important that Terri find them.

Look systematically, she told herself. Don’t become frenzied, glancing from shelf to shelf, and don’t leave anything to chance. Then you can forget this.

There were shelves on three walls.

The first row of shelves took a half hour. She spent the time bending, stretching, using the stepladder, until her back hurt. She found a baseball glove, foreign currency, several watches, a box full of religious tracts, a cookbook with handwritten recipes stuffed in several pages. The scraps of lives, but no tape.