Carlo averted his eyes for a moment. But when he looked up, his gaze was steady. ‘Before, I was always able to count on you.’
‘I’m not a robot, Carlo. This involves my feelings as well as yours.’
‘But you were ready to desert her.’ Carlo paused, struggling to explain. ‘It wasn’t just about
her
; it was about
you
. If I can’t depend on you to be you, what can I depend on?’
‘Do you think you were fair?’
‘No. I was angry.’ Carlo hesitated. ‘Do you think
you
were fair?”
‘No. But I think I deserve a break from you.’ Paget leaned forward. ‘This case is a strain on me, for reasons you don’t understand. But never, ever have I wanted you not to have a mother. What I wanted was for you to be happy and secure.’
Carlo’s look became more open. ‘I always have been,’ he said quietly. ‘Until now. I don’t know what’s happening anymore. I don’t know what all this is about.’
The simple words threw Paget off track. He thought again of a seven-year-old boy with no certain future, nor any sense of being loved. Paget had tried as hard as he could to make the boy sitting in front of him different from the boy he had been; it shook him to think that this might be lost. ‘It’s about your mother and me,’ Paget answered. ‘There’s too much in the past. At some point, you’ll have to accept that I don’t feel about her as you do, and that she doesn’t feel for
me
what she feels for you.’ Paget paused. ‘Just as it’s all right with me that
you
love
her
.’
‘Because any mother is better than no mother?’
‘No. Because you and Mary can have something, and I think she wants that very much. If I don’t put myself in the way.’
Carlo raised his head. ‘I won’t let you.’
‘Then neither will she.’ Paged paused. ‘But I can’t be her lawyer, Carlo. If she loses tomorrow, I’ll help her find someone else.’
After a moment, Carlo nodded his acceptance. Quietly, he asked, ‘Do you think she
will
lose?’
‘Yes. I do.’
Carlo took that in. ‘If she does,’ he finally said, ‘it won’t be your fault. I had no idea how good you are.’
‘I never told you?’
‘No.’ Carlo’s face remained serious. ‘After today, I don’t think anyone could have done better. It’ll help me accept whatever happens.’
Paget was quiet a moment. In some small measure, he realized, Carlo had lightened the burden he felt.
‘I’m sorry I missed your season,’ he said at length.
Carlo shrugged. ‘You can’t help that. It’s fine.’
The last words triggered a memory. They had been watching Mary on television, Paget recalled, emerging from the Hall of Justice on the night Ransom died. How was the game? Paget had finally asked. Fine, Carlo had answered simply. And for the days and weeks since then, Carlo Paget had tried to make things fine.
‘You played hard,’ Paget said. ‘I was proud of you today.’
Carlo looked across at him, as if he had much to say, much more to ask. But all that he said was, ‘Thanks, Dad.’
Two words. Paget did not know why they filled his eyes with tears. ‘I really do love you, Carlo. Quite a lot.’
Carlo gave him a puzzled smile. ‘It was only a game, Dad. I’ll get over it.’
Paget managed a smile of his own. ‘Sometimes parents lack perspective,’ he said.
It was past ten when they got home, close to eleven when the telephone rang in Paget’s bedroom.
It was McKinley Brooks. ‘We’ve asked to see Judge Masters tomorrow morning,’ Brooks said without preface. ‘Ten o’clock. She requested that I give you notice.’
Brooks’s voice was somber. ‘In chambers?’ Paget asked.
‘No. In open court. We’ve invited the press.’
Paget glanced at the drawer where the tapes were hidden. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Can’t tell you. You’ll have to hear it with everyone else. Assuming you don’t know already.’
It was Terri; they had traced the tapes, Paget guessed, found her signature. Terri was in trouble, and Brooks intended to make the most of it. ‘It’s too late for games, Mac. If you intend to introduce new evidence, or do anything that would embarrass anyone, you should audition in private.’
‘It’s too late for
that
, Chris. Open court it is, by order of the Honorable Caroline Clark Masters. See you there.’
Brooks rang off.
Paget sat on the end of the bed. They would accuse Terri of obstruction, he supposed. And, of course, Paget. For the district attorney, it was a no-lose situation: righteous indignation if Paget had destroyed the tapes, public clamor for their disclosure if he had not. Either would put pressure on Caroline Masters to rule against Mary Carelli. All that it required was indifference to Teresa Peralta – Paget himself, he was sure, had long since ceased to matter.
What Brooks did not know was what the second tapes would do to Carlo.
For an instant, Paget wanted to call Terri. But he knew what she would say – destroy the tape for Carlo’s sake – and that he would refuse. It was best to spare her a sleepless night.
Paget opened the drawer. Slowly, he took the tapes out, staring at them for a moment. Then he put them in his briefcase.
There was one thing he could do. If Brooks started in on Terri, he could ask for a recess, and give the tapes to Caroline Masters.
He picked up the telephone and called Mary Carelli.
Chapter 7
To Paget, the courtroom seemed bleak.
It was packed; McKinley Brooks had alerted the press to his last-minute appearance. Brooks sat next to Sharpe at the prosecution table, hands folded across his stomach, wearing the serene expression of someone schooled in self-control. Sharpe seemed less taut than usual; Paget guessed that, this morning, she had no role to play. But there was a gravity to her expression, as if she were about to witness something of moment. Neither looked at Paget or Mary.
Carlo sat behind his mother; Paget had thought of no way to keep him from coming. The boy looked openly worried. Paget had not told him of his suspicions, but the absence of explanation told Carlo enough.
Nor had Paget told Terri. He had waited until this morning even to say they were going back to court; she had looked startled, as if she instantly saw what would happen. Now, sitting next to her, Paget saw the bruise of sleeplessness beneath her eyes: he rebuked himself for how much this case, and all that she had done for Paget and Carlo, already had stolen from her.
Only Mary looked calm.
That was odd, Paget thought. Mary alone knew Paget’s suspicions; last night, he had told her of his surmise that Brooks had traced the tapes and of his own desire to surrender them if asked. She had been silent for a time. ‘You have no choice,’ she said finally. ‘If Terri hadn’t found them, Brooks would have. You can’t very well hang her out to dry.’
That had been all. Her expression now was simply resigned; she was caught in a trap of her own making, and would not complain about it. Nor would she let anyone else see what Paget had seen: her feelings were private, and she would go down clinging to them. The rest was out of her hands.
All of them, and the press, waited for Judge Masters.
She was taking her time. That was peculiar; Caroline Masters ran a punctual courtroom. But it was ten minutes past ten. Perhaps, although Paget doubted it, she was relishing a last grand entrance before returning to the obscurity of traffic offenses and petty lawsuits.
‘All rise,’ the courtroom deputy called. ‘The Municipal Court for the City and County of San Francisco, Judge Caroline Clark Masters presiding, is now in session.’
Judge Masters walked to the bench, tented her hands in front of her, and looked directly at Brooks. Her aquiline features held no curiosity: what Paget imagined seeing was challenge and a dash of apprehension. ‘Well,’ she said to Brooks, ‘what is it?’
Brooks stepped forward. ‘I would like to be heard, Your Honor, on a matter of some importance. I believe it will be worth the court’s time.’
Masters’s expression went opaque. ‘Of course, Mr Brooks.’
Instinctively, Paget touched the briefcase at his feet, glancing at Terri. When she turned to him, Paget knew that she had guessed as he had.
‘I have the tapes,’ he whispered.
Her eyes widened. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s my responsibility.’
She stared at him. ‘But what about Carlo?’
‘I know. But there’s nothing for it.’
As Brooks stepped to the podium, Paget turned to watch.
‘Six weeks ago,’ Brooks began, ‘in this city, a prominent woman journalist shot and killed America’s most famous writer. His death raised the most fundamental questions: Why are the victims of crime so often forgotten? And how do we treat a woman whose defense – attempted rape – cannot be proven?’
Brooks’s voice became reflective. ‘These are difficult questions,’ he went on. ‘The result has been a difficult hearing. Inside the courtroom, it has required this court to make the most delicate judgments, demanded of Ms Sharpe an extraordinary degree of skill. And outside the courtroom, it has divided men and women of good will.
‘As district attorney, I have felt both the pressures of the courtroom and the ambivalence of the community. I have heard the people of this city debate the evidence, question Ms Carelli’s innocence, challenge the sensitivity of my office to the genuine mistreatment too many women face. To them, I have said, “We believe in women’s rights far too fervently to allow them to be abused. For we cannot believe Mary Carelli.”’
Brooks paused, his face becoming almost sad. ‘But no amount of professionalism in court, no amount of soulsearching at night, has stemmed the unease this case arouses. There are many who question whether the legal process can handle such a case – where the evidence is circumstantial, the issues so emotionally charged, the stakes so high, our belief in justice so fragile. But in the end, our office cannot be dissuaded by fear of the consequences.’ Brooks paused again. ‘Political, or legal.
‘Whatever passions some people may feel, if the evidence justifies a case, our office must bring it. We did so here. Many have castigated us for that. But now, having listened to the evidence before us, we have the opportunity to restore their faith in our judgment.’
Mary’s face had turned grim. ‘He’s going to offer up you and Terri,’ she murmured to Paget. ‘What better way to show I’m guilty than to point to guilty lawyers.’
But Paget had been watching Caroline Masters. ‘Wait,’ he whispered.
‘We have heard Marcy Linton,’ Brooks continued. ‘We have brought forward Dr Bass. And we have had time to reflect.
‘On the current evidence, we must concede that conviction is uncertain. Our only certainty is that far too many people will believe that
any
verdict – including the guilty verdict we seek – is unjust. Thus, even as we have pursued this case in court, we have searched for something that would prove our case and persuade the doubters of its justice.’ Brooks paused again, glancing at Paget.
‘The tapes,’ Mary whispered.
Paget did not answer. He could only watch, helpless, waiting for Brooks’s next words.
‘We have found nothing,’ Brooks said softly. ‘We now believe there is nothing to find.’
Paget stared in surprise. The media people seemed like faces in a frieze.
Only Brooks looked serene. ‘We therefore move to dismiss the case, and ask the court to discharge Mary Carelli.’
The courtroom burst into sound.
Paget could not comprehend. Mary turned to him, lips parted. Only Caroline Masters did not appear surprised.
She cracked the gavel, waiting for silence. Brooks waited calmly at the podium.
‘I must concur with you,’ she told him. ‘It seems likely that, however it occurred, Mark Ransom mistreated Ms Carelli. That may not defeat probable cause. But it suggests that a jury should not be asked to find her guilty of murder and, if asked, should not do so. Your decision does you credit.’ She turned to Sharpe. ‘As did Ms Sharpe’s performance before this court.’
Brooks nodded. ‘Thank you, Your Honor.’
Masters faced Mary Carelli. For a long moment, she seemed to appraise her, and then she spoke the final words. ‘Case dismissed, Ms Carelli. You are free to go.’
The courtroom stirred again. Quickly, Judge Masters looked from Brooks to Paget. ‘Mr Brooks, Mr Paget, there is one matter I wish to speak with you about. Ten minutes from now, in chambers.’
She cracked her gavel. Paget glanced at Terri; when he looked up again, Caroline Masters had disappeared.
The rest was white noise. Reporters ran for telephones, snatched portables from their briefcases. The cameras zoomed in on Mary Carelli.
She was weeping.
She stood alone, not covering her face. For an instant, she reached toward Paget, pulled back. Then Carlo was there, putting his arms around her. When he turned to murmur thanks to Paget, one arm still around his mother, he was crying as well. Their faces, Paget thought, were so much alike.
He felt a hand on his elbow.
It was Terri. Her face was drawn, and she did not smile. ‘You did it,’ she said.
Paget stopped himself from holding her. ‘
We
did it,’ he answered. ‘And you’re all right now.’
When they filed into chambers – Brooks and Sharpe, Paget and Terri – Caroline Masters asked them to sit.
‘You did the right thing,’ Masters said to Brooks.
Brooks gave her a Delphic smile. ‘I hope the press sees it that way.’
‘I’ll help them, McKinley. I can talk about this now.’ She gave a dry smile of her own. ‘Do you prefer the word “courageous” or “sensitive”?’
“Courageous,” thank you. “Sensitive” sounds too effete for a prosecutor.’
‘I thought as much. I’ll stick with “courageous”.’
Paget felt an undertone in their exchange, something unsaid. But he was still too dazed to sort it out: it seemed that he had lived so long with the Carelli case, and the specter of the tapes, that he could not accept that it was over. He kept the briefcase close to him.