Paget turned to Sharpe. ‘My only purpose,’ he said, ‘was to clarify any misunderstanding. In the course of which I thought it appropriate to distinguish between
Dr Shelton’s
professional competence and
your
case.’
Masters leaned forward. ‘That’s quite enough, Mr Paget. Press on.’
‘Thank you, Your Honor.’ Paget turned back to Shelton. ‘Am I correct in understanding, Dr Shelton, that a significant part of the prosecution hypothesis regarding fabricated evidence are the scratches on Mark Ransom’s buttocks?’
Shelton considered him. ‘It’s a part, yes. I wouldn’t care to characterize its significance.’
‘But you concede, do you not, that you could be mistaken – that the scratches could have occurred
before
Mark Ransom died.’
‘Again, it’s possible. But based on the lack of bleeding, the absence of damaged capillaries, I believe that the scratches occurred
after
Mr Ransom died.’
Paget looked at her. ‘Are you familiar, Dr Shelton, with the procedures employed by paramedics in answering a call to 911?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘And is there a uniform procedure in San Francisco County when they first attend the victim?’
‘Yes. Unless the condition of the body makes it obvious that the person is dead, the paramedics
must
try to revive him or her. That means attempt to get a heartbeat, putting on pads.’
‘And did they do that to Mark Ransom?’
‘I understand they did.’ Shelton paused. ‘Mark Ransom had a single wound; under the guidelines, they could
not
conclude that he was dead.’
‘And that would involve checking Mark Ransom’s heartbeat?’
‘Among other things, yes.’
Paget summoned a puzzled expression. ‘But at the time you examined Mr Ransom, wasn’t he lying facedown on the carpet?’
‘Yes.’ Shelton hesitated. ‘My understanding is that they rolled him over. But once they determined that Mr Ransom was dead, they restored his body to the position in which they found it.’
Paget nodded. ‘In other words, they found him on his stomach, flipped him on his back, and flipped him on his stomach again. Is that correct?’
‘That is my understanding, yes. Less elegantly put.’
‘And in doing so, they had to handle Mr Ransom’s body.’
Shelton’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes.’
‘The body of a man who, according to your report, weighed roughly two hundred and twenty-five pounds.’
‘That was his weight, yes.’
‘And they do all this quite rapidly, correct?’
‘They
should
. On the assumption that the victim may still be alive.’
Paget paused for a moment, looking from Caroline Masters, intent and quite still, back to Elizabeth Shelton. ‘Isn’t it possible,’ he asked softly, ‘that the
paramedics
inflicted those scratches on Mr Ransom’s buttocks?’
Shelton stared at him a moment. There was silence; then, at length, she nodded. It seemed less an answer to Paget’s question than a gesture of admiration. ‘Yes,’ she answered finally. ‘I don’t know how likely it is, but that’s possible.’
‘And, it is fair to say, the existence of that possibility undermines the hypothesis Ms Sharpe posed to you?’
‘To a point.’ When Shelton spoke again, her words were softer, directed at Paget alone. ‘But if Mark Ransom scratched Mary Carelli, and the paramedics scratched Mark Ransom, whose skin was under Mary Carelli’s nails?’
The thrust was so perfect, its delivery so sincere, that Paget felt the entire painstaking cross-examination slide slowly out from under him. He did not need the courtroom murmur to know how badly she had wounded him. Was grateful, even, that it gave him time to think.
Masters’s gavel landed. ‘Mr Paget,’ she inquired. ‘Do you have anything more?’
‘Just a couple of questions,’ he said casually. ‘You’ve named two possibilities for the origin of the skin beneath Ms Carelli’s nails. The first is that she scratched Mr Ransom, which, although you posit it happened after his death, could have happened before. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘You also posit that Ms Carelli may have scratched herself in an effort to manufacture evidence.’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t there a third possibility?’
Shelton gave him a guarded look. ‘Such as?’
Paget moved forward. ‘That in the struggle to keep her panty hose on – in her struggle to prevent this man from raping her – Ms Carelli scratched her own thigh.’
Shelton frowned a moment, staring at her lap; Paget felt her reviewing the evidence, less for this specific question than to ask herself what was fair. Then she looked up at him again.
‘Yes,’ she answered softly. ‘That’s possible.’
Paget felt his own relief. ‘Thank you, Dr Shelton,’ he said. ‘That’s all I have.’
She nodded, giving him a faint smile, and then Paget sat down.
Sharpe was quickly on her feet. ‘I was struck, Dr Shelton, by something you said. I believe it was – and I paraphrase – that Mr Paget’s questions presume an unusual confluence of test failures. What did you mean by that?’
Shelton thought for a moment. ‘What I meant to say was that for Ms Carelli’s account to be right would involve a sequence of botched tests and skewed judgments involving this office, as well as a high degree of coincidence.’
Sharpe nodded. ‘Specifically, it would require the tests to have missed skin under Mr Ransom’s fingernails.’
‘Yes.’ Shelton corrected herself. ‘Although it’s not uncommon that there is no skin to find.’
Sharpe frowned. ‘But it would also,’ she prodded, ‘assume that the tests missed evidence of sexual arousal.’
‘Yes.’
‘And for Mr Ransom to have no gunshot residue on his hands, despite Ms Carelli’s account of their struggle.’
‘Yes.’
‘And for him to be rearing back when she shot him.’
Shelton nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And for Ms Carelli to have ripped her own panty hose.’
‘That’s all true.’
‘And unless Mr Ransom’s scratches were caused by paramedics, it would also require for you to be wrong about
when
they were inflicted.’
‘Again, yes.’
Sharpe looked incredulous. ‘Have you
ever
been that wrong?’
Shelton tilted her head. ‘I certainly hope not.’
‘And in your opinion, what does all that render Ms Carelli’s story?’
For a long moment, Shelton looked across at Mary. ‘Medically implausible,’ she said quietly. ‘To my regret, I simply don’t believe her.’
Chapter 3
Mary Carelli searched Carlo’s face.
They sat at a corner table in the Café Majestic, an elegant Victorian room with ceiling fans and a pianist playing quietly in the background. As she had expected, the other diners shot them glances of recognition. But she had asked Carlo to dinner despite the possibility of this; the one thing that had disturbed her more than Elizabeth Shelton’s last words was the way that Carlo had tried to cheer her.
Mary wished he had not come to court. But she did not want him to feel that his presence was a burden; Chris had made the decision, and it was done. ‘I haven’t told you,’ she said finally, ‘how much it means to have you with me. The problem is that I’m not used to depending on anyone, so I end up feeling guilty.’ Smiling faintly, she finished: ‘Assuming that’s a phrase I should be using.’
She watched him attempt a smile of his own. As best he could, Carlo was trying to love someone he no longer knew; in the face of what Marnie Sharpe had placed before him, Mary found this touching and painful. ‘You’ll be all right,’ Carlo said finally. ‘Dad forced her to back off a lot.’
The comment carried wistful undertones, as if Carlo hoped that his father’s determination meant that
he
believed in Mary. But all that Mary could do was to tell Carlo that she believed in Christopher Paget. ‘He’s doing a wonderful job,’ she answered. ‘He has a hard case, you know.’
Carlo gave her a querying glance. ‘How do you mean?’
Mary steeled herself. Her job was to make him believe that she was unburdening herself, rather than trying to spare him something. ‘There are things I didn’t tell the police,’ she said softly. ‘For reasons of my own. Chris’s problem with me is that he’s guessed that.’
It hurt to see him struggling to be stoic and adult; once more, Mary questioned the delicate judgment involved in having Paget represent her. In a flat voice, Carlo asked, ‘Is it too late to tell him?’
‘For some things, far too late.’ Mary paused. ‘Whatever my reasons
then
, Carlo, I have very good ones
now.
Please just accept that.’
Carlo nodded slowly. ‘Okay.’
Mary watched him wonder. She had not known how hard it would be to forfeit her son’s trust, how deeply he had captured her. But she must leave Carlo with at least one parent to be proud of.
‘There is one thing,’ she said, ‘that I do need
you
to know about.’
It seemed to reach him. ‘You’re my mother,’ he answered. ‘Whatever you need to say to me, it’s all right.’
By instinct, Mary shrank from thinking of herself in terms of need. But it was better for Carlo to think she needed him than to understand that it was his needs that were driving her. She put her hand on his. ‘There’s a tape,’ she said, ‘of me talking to a psychiatrist. Mark Ransom had it.’
Carlo had not yet learned Paget’s pose that surprise was beyond his emotional range; alarm and confusion crossed his face before he found composure. ‘Does the D.A. know?’ he asked.
‘Yes. They think that’s why I killed him.’ She paused. ‘There’ll be a recess tomorrow or the next day. For a conference in chambers, while your father tries to keep the tape out of evidence.’
‘So Dad already knew?’
‘
Now
he knows. But only because they found it.’ Mary kept her voice level; don’t show him how hard this is, she told herself, or how scared you are of what Marnie Sharpe could do. ‘It concerns my time as a lawyer,’ she finished. ‘Things I’m deeply ashamed of.’
‘But to
kill
over it? That’s what they think?’
‘The tape would ruin my career.’ Mary gave a thin smile. ‘I seem to have given some people the impression that would be enough.’
Carlo shook his head; Mary could not tell whether it was in disbelief that anyone would think that or at what she had just told him.
‘That
isn’t
enough,’ she said softly. ‘Not to murder someone.’
Carlo was silent for a time. ‘And the things Dad
doesn’t
know . . . ?’
‘Belong to me.’
Carlo was staring at her hand, still on his. Then he turned it, so that her hand rested in his palm, and closed his fingers around her.
His silent simple gesture brought Mary close to tears. ‘While Chris is trying to defend me,’ she said quietly, ‘there are certain things he doesn’t ask and things he doesn’t need to know. What I wanted
you
to know is that his problems as a lawyer are far worse than you can see. Worse, even, than he may know.’ Her voice grew softer yet. ‘For that you can blame me.’
Mary saw his perceptions shift again, a kind of relief running through him. Realized, with sadness and satisfaction, how much this boy’s sense of himself had come from Christopher Paget.
‘He’s been a good father,’ she said. ‘Hasn’t he?’
‘Yes. He has.’
To Mary, he seemed glad of the change of subject, and to know that he could speak well of Paget without offending her. As for her, she felt exhausted – anything was a better subject than the things she could not tell anyone, Carlo most of all.
‘Does Chris have any kind of social life?’ she asked. ‘I really have no idea.’
Carlo’s look mingled surprise with a certain amusement. ‘Do you mean a woman? Or just going to cocktail parties and stuff like that?’
‘Women, I suppose.’ Mary paused. ‘I just wonder what he’s been doing with himself all these years.’
‘He doesn’t tell
me
much. But there are always one or two women around, usually good-looking and smart and with great jobs. He just never seems to get attached to them.’ Carlo shrugged. ‘Maybe some of it is that he’s a parent, and a lot of the people he’s gone out with don’t have kids. But there’s a part of him I think they never really get to see.’
‘Like me, I’m told.’ Mary smiled. ‘If you asked either of us to get in touch with our feelings, we’d probably need a map.’
Carlo gave her a mischievous look. ‘Then for all either of you knows, you’re still in love.’
Mary laughed. ‘He’s not
that
out of touch,’ she said in a facetious tone. ‘And the part of me
I
know about can’t stand him.’ She paused again, voice softer. ‘It’s funny, though. When I first knew Chris, I thought he was the most arrogant man I’d ever met, as strong-willed as I was, and certain of his own rightness. He seems so much more human now, more aware of his own flaws – even when he’s being an absolute bastard.’ She smiled a little, shaking her head. ‘The strange thing is, instead of liking that, it makes me a little sad. Like we’ve both gotten older.’
Carlo reflected for a moment. ‘It’s hard to think of him as older. To me, he’s always looked the same. Ever since I first came here.’
His last phrase, outwardly careless, seemed to ask Mary why she had let him go. She searched for something else to say. ‘What was Andrea like – his wife?’
‘I don’t remember much, except that I thought she looked kind of like you.’ He considered a moment and then shrugged; it seemed a teenage gesture of incuriosity, dismissing things that had nothing to do with him. ‘I think they just kind of drifted apart.’
Mary nodded. Carlo had been young enough, and Paget sensitive enough, that the boy had never blamed himself. ‘Perhaps he’ll find someone else.’
‘I don’t know.’ Carlo seemed to reflect. ‘The one I think he really likes is Terri, and she only works for him. Besides,’ he added, as if this closed the subject, ‘she’s got a husband and a five-year-old kid.’