Degree of Guilt (30 page)

‘It was true that Jack spied on Chris for the President.

‘It was true that Lasko had Chris’s witness killed because Jack told Lasko that Chris was meeting him in Boston.

‘It was true that Jack helped cover up the reason for the murder.

‘It was true that Jack tried to stop Chris before he found out that Lasko had funneled money to the President.

‘And it was also true that, because of Jack, Chris was nearly killed.

‘All in all, I told the truth a good deal of the time.’ Mary paused. ‘What I didn’t tell Talmadge is that
I
had helped Jack do every one of those things.’

Paget felt the silence on the tape merge with the silent stares of Brooks and Sharpe, directed at him. He tried to focus on the tape recorder.

‘You wanted to protect yourself?’ Steinhardt ventured.

Mary sounded almost amused. ‘I wanted to stay out of prison. Even without that, the life I had worked so hard for would have ended if I had told the truth.’ She paused, voice softer. ‘And of course, I was pregnant.’

Sharpe, Paget realized, was wearing a strange smile.

‘Did Chris know about you?’ Steinhardt asked.

‘Know what?’ Mary answered, and then the tape clicked off.

Sharpe leaned forward. ‘
My
question exactly.’ Her voice mimicked Steinhardt’s: ‘“Did Chris know about you?” For example, when
you
testified before the Senate.’

Paget looked at her coldly. ‘I take it there’s a second tape. Why don’t you just listen and find out?’

‘Don’t bullshit me. You
know
there’s a second tape, and you know that
we
don’t have it.’

Paget paused, feeling a moment’s respite from his sense of vertigo, of things spinning out of control. ‘I don’t have a second tape,’ he said. ‘And if I did, the only person I’d give it to is Mary Carelli. Who’s the only person entitled to it.’ Paget looked from Sharpe to Brooks. ‘As for
this
tape, it will never become public – at least in a court of law – and both of you damn well know it.’

Sharpe shook her head. ‘Only if Mary Carelli doesn’t screw up on the stand, and only if her lawyer makes absolutely no mistakes. And, you surely agree, that lawyer can’t be you.’

Paget looked quizzical. ‘So that’s what you’re after – me out of the case.’

Sharpe frowned. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. We’re not talking about my personal preference in defense lawyers; we’re talking ethics. This case isn’t about Mary Carelli – it’s about
you
and Mary Carelli, and perhaps even your son, as I think you knew all along. I can’t even begin to count your ethical problems.’

Paget turned to Brooks. ‘Mary’s conduct is at issue here, not mine. I’m not charged with anything, nor am I a witness to anything. Whether I continue to represent her is
my
decision, not yours.’

Brooks shook his head. ‘You’re walking a
very
fine line here. For two weeks now, you’ve told us that Mary Carelli had no motive for killing Ransom but self-defense. Now we’ve got a motive: Ransom had a tape that could ruin her for the rest of time, as she herself admits.’ He nodded to Sharpe. ‘And
I’ve
got the M.E. and the head of my rape team telling me this case has zip to do with rape, except the one your client tried to fabricate as cover. Which, if proven, may help us get to murder one.’

‘As far as the jury goes,’ Paget retorted, ‘you’ve still got no motive. That tape is subject to doctor-patient privilege. No judge in his or her right mind can listen to Steinhardt promise Mary that the tape is confidential and then let you put it before the jury.’

‘We’ve considered that,’ Sharpe put in. ‘Now you consider
our
case. There’s no question Carelli killed him – the only question is why. So first we put on the tape recording of her interrogation by Monk. Then we bring on Liz Shelton to show how Ransom couldn’t have died the way she said and how the physical evidence suggests a cover-up that includes defacing a very dead body. The room service waiter and the guest who saw her give us a couple more lies. And just as Carelli really begins to smell, we rest.’ Sharpe paused for emphasis. ‘Without ever saying a word about Steinhardt.’

‘Also without,’ Paget answered, ‘ever making it past reasonable doubt. I file a motion, the judge throws your case out, and we all go home.’

Sharpe shook her head. ‘You file the motion, and you lose. We also keep out Rappaport, because she
consented
to whatever Ransom wanted. That leaves you with only two alternatives.

‘The first is to argue reasonable doubt, keep Carelli off the stand, and let the jury wonder why your feminist heroine has chosen to hide behind her lawyer. You will no doubt conclude, as I would, that choice one involves a very big risk.

‘The second, of course, is to have Mary testify in her own defense and let me cross-examine her.

‘Maybe, although I doubt it, she can survive all the inconsistencies arising from the Monk interview, Liz Shelton’s analyses, and the two witnesses. But there is nothing in the doctor-patient privilege that prevents me from asking
whether
she saw Steinhardt as a patient,
why
she didn’t tell Monk that, and
if
Ransom had a tape that would end her career.

‘If she says “yes” to that last question, she’s merely hurting. If she says “no,” she’s history. Because the judge already knows she’s lying and, I’m pretty damn sure, would let me find a way to get the tape in.’

It was strange, Paget thought, how this relentless woman could make him think of the pain of Mary’s dream and not the coldness of her lies. ‘Assuming,’ he said quietly, ‘that the tape hasn’t already found its way into the morning papers.’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘I’m not responsible for what they print.’

‘Why not?’ Paget snapped. ‘You were the last time.’ His voice grew cold. ‘And if you play games with this tape, any games at all, it won’t be Mary who’s history. Because first I’ll get a mistrial, and then I’ll nail you to the wall.’

Sharpe flushed. ‘I can certainly understand,’ she said, ‘why
you
want those tapes concealed.’

‘Do you? Then you should have no trouble believing me.’ Paget turned back to Brooks. ‘Are you enjoying this?’

‘No.’ For the first time, Brooks looked uncomfortable, as if he wished he were somewhere else. ‘Under the circumstances, no.’

Paget paused. ‘Under
what
circumstances?’

‘We’re charging her with murder.’ Brooks shook his head, as if hearing bad news for the first time. ‘We’ve got no choice.’

Beside him, Sharpe looked triumphant. Paget felt stunned. ‘That’s a real mistake,’ he said.

‘The only mistake,’ Sharpe put in, ‘would be turning down our deal.’

‘Deal?’

Sharpe nodded. ‘Your client pleads to voluntary manslaughter, and we recommend the minimum sentence. A few years’ prison, and this tape never comes out.’

Brooks leaned forward. ‘Think about it, Chris. It protects Ms Carelli from far worse.’

Keep your head, Paget told himself. ‘And, with all respect, protects you from the political consequences of a backlash in Mary’s favor. Not to mention the considerable distress of the Colt family.’

Brooks summoned an equable expression. ‘I prefer to think the ends of justice will have been satisfied. And on a less ethereal note, I’m not as worried about “backlash” as I used to be. Such an ugly word anyhow, I think we would all agree. As for the ire of James Colt’s family, I would argue strenuously that the Laura Chase tape isn’t relevant anymore and should never see the light of day.’ He spread his arms. ‘Besides, I can’t imagine that a trial could be good for anyone – for Ms Carelli, for you, or for your son. So talk to her, Chris, and get back to me. We won’t indict until I hear from you, and if she signs on, we’ll handle this with all the civility we can manage.’

The D.A. was massaging him, Paget thought, as he would any defense lawyer with a guilty client in a mildly troublesome case. He stood, numb with disbelief. ‘This isn’t a month’s stay in a Best Western,’ he said. ‘It’s the end of Mary’s life, and she’ll surely understand that.’

‘A conviction for murder one,’ Sharpe answered, ‘is the end of Mary’s life. Compared to that, this is a sabbatical. Tell her that.’

Paget turned to her. ‘Could you write that down for me? I don’t want to miss a word.’

Silent, Sharpe got up and opened the door for him. It was, Paget thought, the ultimate gesture of dismissal.

‘Good luck,’ he said to Brooks, and walked through the door.

When Sharpe and Paget were on the other side, she shut the door behind them, as if to say something she wished Brooks not to hear. ‘When you first came here,’ she said in a flat voice, ‘I had some sympathy for you, believe it or not. Now I know you’re just another user. So I want
you
to know that you’re using the wrong issue, for the wrong woman, in the wrong case. That’s what I’m going to prove.’

She turned and stalked back to her office, the brisk click of her heels sounding on the tile floor.

‘Did Chris know?’ Steinhardt had asked.

Alone in his office, Paget imagined the second tape.

He was certain that it began with the night in Washington, fifteen years before, when Mary helped him evade Lasko’s men at the airport. The night they had found Jack Woods rifling Paget’s desk, clutching the memo that would destroy Lasko and the President. The memo of a dead man. The witness Lasko had ordered killed, Alec Lehman.

For an instant, Paget remembered, Woods’s face had frozen in surprise. Then it had settled into closed-off pride, looking from Paget to Mary and back again. His broken nose lent a hint of violence.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Paget had demanded.

Woods had remained silent, giving the room a searching glance. Only the desk was between them. The overhead light cast a sickly yellow tint on the bare walls.

The desk touched the wall to Paget’s right. But between the desk and the left wall was a four-foot space. Woods gauged it, then turned back to Paget.

Paget felt a sudden wave of anger. ‘Give me the memo.’

Woods shook his head. Paget’s anger began turning to disbelief. ‘It was you all along,’ Paget said.

Woods stared at Paget with contempt. ‘Nothing justifies the fuck-up you’ve made. You’re a fool, with no sense of proportion.’

‘And you’re a low-rent John Dean, Woods, with the ethics of a war criminal.’

Woods answered in a smooth, indifferent voice. ‘Lehman’s dead. I didn’t want that, but there it is There’s only you to say this memo ever existed. And there’s no one over me for you to say it to.’

They were both to the side of the desk now, three feet between them. Woods was framed by the darkened window, Capitol Hill spotlit behind him. The two men watched each other.

‘If you want to walk out of here,’ Paget answered, ‘you’ll have to kill me yourself. I know it all now. Most important, I know where the money was going.’

‘I’ll bite,’ Woods said negligently. ‘Where?’

‘The President.’

For five minutes, still tensed and watchful, Paget had spelled it out: a one-and-one-half-million-dollar ‘contribution’ to kill an antitrust case, the one witness who could prove that, Alec Lehman, whose memo Woods now held – whose death Woods had caused.

Woods’s response was unnaturally calm. ‘You’ve lost,’ he said simply. ‘Without this memo, no one will believe you.’

The words covered Woods’s careful slide toward the door. Paget slid back his right foot, to brace himself.

Woods suddenly dipped his shoulder and shot forward, knocking Paget against the desk. Paget bounced off and punched up from the rib cage. Woods’s teeth clicked.

Pain ripped through Paget’s forearm. Woods rocked, then caught himself against the wall.

Paget lunged for the memo. But Woods was too quick and too strong. He sidestepped as Paget stumbled past, off balance. A fist cracked into Paget’s cheekbone. He staggered, then sprawled facedown on his desk, seeing a sudden purple haze. The haze cleared. In front of him was an onyx bookend, a squat hunk of rock. He grabbed it left-handed and spun.

What Paget hit was teeth.

Woods’s hands jerked up to clamp his mouth, as if to hold it together. Paget cocked the bookend, then hacked at Woods’s forehead.

Paget heard Mary scream.

As Woods tottered on his heels, Paget hit him again.

Woods staggered, eyes glazed. Then he slid slowly down the wall. Paget gaped at him, breathing hard.

Mary stood in the doorway, staring. Woods was sprawled gracelessly on the floor, like the victim of a sudden stroke. His mouth was oozing blood.

Mary looked up from Woods, and then saw Paget’s face.

She froze, irresolute, turned to run. Paget caught her and threw her against the wall. She made a little sound, like a hurt cat. Her fingers covered her mouth.

Paget moved toward her.

She shook her head like a mechanical doll. ‘No. No, Chris. You can’t believe . . .’

Paget shook her hard.

‘Lehman,’ he demanded. ‘It was you and Woods.’

Mary stared at Paget.

‘Tell me, damn you, before I mash your fucking face into the wall.’

Her words escaped in twos and threes. ‘That night . . . the first time we went out . . . you said you were going to Boston. To meet a key witness.’ She caught her breath. ‘I called Jack, after I got in. Jack called Lasko.’

Paget clamped her shoulders. ‘Goddamn you.’

Her voice jumped. ‘No one knew Lasko would kill Lehman. I could hardly sleep.’

Paget shook her. ‘I was there, remember?’

The personal thing was close to the surface, passing unspoken from Mary’s eyes to his. ‘Please, Chris,’ she pleaded, ‘let me talk.’

Paget slowly eased his grip. Her mouth worked soundlessly, then started. ‘I never talked to Lasko or anyone at the White House. I never wanted you hurt. I didn’t know, really. I didn’t know what I was into. I just tried to help Jack control the case. I couldn’t expose him after the Lehman thing. He said we were both in trouble, because I’d known what he was doing. That’s the only reason I kept helping him.’