Degree of Guilt (3 page)

Terri suppressed a smile.

‘Curiously,’ Paget said to Starr, ‘I anticipated this problem and called Magistrate Riordan’s office this morning. He’ll be available until six.’

Starr stared at him. Paget pointed toward a telephone table. ‘The telephone is over there,’ he said. ‘Just dial nine for an outside line. I believe Ms Peralta’s written the number down for you, if you haven’t yet committed it to memory. . . .’

‘This is an abuse. You’re trying to invade the tactical decisions of opposing counsel. That’s the classic definition of work product.’

‘Hardly. In fact, I’m fascinated to know how the identity of the nameless person with whom Mr Gepfer shared this document could be
anyone’s
work product. Really, Mr Starr, it seems you have but two choices. The first is to call Magistrate Riordan and present an argument that, quite likely, is without precedent in the annals of Western jurisprudence. That’s the option I favor, if only for the sheer interest of listening to it.

‘The second and more mundane choice is to take a ten-minute break and see if we can resolve this matter without compelling Mr Gepfer to answer any more questions.’

Starr was impassive. Finally, he waved Gepfer and the court reporter from the room.

‘If you have something to say to me,’ Starr said at length, ‘I’ll give you ten minutes.’

Terri could not help but admire the gall that made a trip to the abattoir sound like a concession to good manners.

‘Ten minutes,’ Paget responded, ‘is all I’m giving you to drop this lawsuit.’

‘What kind of crap –’

Paget reached beneath the table, pulling a typed agreement from his briefcase. ‘This is a stipulation of settlement. It recites that you have become aware that your charges against Steve Rudin are mistaken; that Mr Gepfer has confirmed the error; that you are dismissing this lawsuit; and that your firm is paying Mr Rudin $250,000 to compensate him for his time and expenses.’

‘I won’t sign that.’

‘For at least six months,’ Paget went on, ‘you’ve had this document. Which means that you’ve known for at least six months that my client was innocent of fraud.’

‘You can’t hold me responsible for what Gepfer says now.’

Paget looked at his watch. ‘Why don’t we save eight minutes and ask Gepfer what you knew?’

‘The man’s admitted falsifying documents. Now you want him to give false testimony. Whatever he says, no one will believe it.’

‘Won’t they? Frank was bankrupt when he killed himself. That leaves only two defendants with money. Gepfer has less than a million; but my client is
very
wealthy
and
covered by insurance. So you make a deal with Gepfer: if he doesn’t give anyone else the document and doesn’t tell anyone what really happened, you let him keep the money he stole and try to extract a settlement from my client by tying him up in an endless lawsuit you know to be a fraud.’

Starr folded his arms. ‘You can never prove that.’

‘Care to find out? Because if the case against Steve Rudin goes one question longer, you’ll find out more than that. Whether we can prove it. Whether we can win a suit for malicious prosecution. Whether the legal press will enjoy watching us try. Whether the Bar Association will let you keep your license. Whether every judge in this district will start looking at you like some evolutionary cul-de-sac. And the only person who will enjoy that more than I is Steve Rudin – the man you charged with fraud.’ Standing, Paget looked at his watch again. ‘You have five minutes, it seems.’

Terri followed him to his office.

It was sparsely furnished: bright modern prints; two plants; a glass table; a single picture of a dark-haired boy. Paget collected art, she knew; one of the prints was a Miró. She had no idea who the boy was.

Paget stood staring out the window.

‘Will they go for it?’ Terri asked.

‘Yes.’ He answered without turning. ‘Starr is driven by sheer self-interest.’

‘I can hardly believe he knew.’

‘Oh, he knew. Always expect people to be what they’ve been in the past. That way, they don’t surprise or disappoint you.’ Paget shoved his hands in his pockets, sounding suddenly weary. ‘Being surprised is a sin, professionally. But it’s the disappointment that can be so soul-wearing.’

The remark was uncharacteristic; it was almost, Terri thought, as if he were talking to himself.

‘How
did
you get the document?’ she asked.

‘I promised not to say.’ He turned, smiling faintly. ‘But Starr really should treat his employees better.’

There was a knock on the door. Starr’s associate came in, holding the settlement papers. He paused, glancing at Terri. She wondered if the associate, who seemed a little too interested in her, realized that she was married. It wasn’t as though he
knew
her at all, and lately it was harder to believe that men could find her attractive. What could you say about a nose that she thought was a little too sharp, crescent eyes a little too small for her liking, straight brown hair that she shared with fifty million other Hispanic women in the Western Hemisphere alone? You could say what Richie said in that ambiguous tone of voice – that she looked smart.

‘He signed them,’ Starr’s associate said, and handed the papers to Terri.

‘Thank you,’ Paget answered civilly. The associate looked at him, then at Terri, and left.

Terri felt a rush of triumph, although the triumph was not hers. Without really thinking, she said, ‘I thought maybe the watch trick was overdoing it a bit. At least on top of handing him the agreement.’

He shrugged. ‘Apparently not.’

‘Did you ever do that before?’

He regarded her a moment. ‘Once. Years ago.’

‘Did it work?’

‘After a fashion.’

There was distance in his tone, perhaps preoccupation. Feeling awkward, she looked at her watch.

‘I have to run. A kid emergency.’

‘I have somewhere to go too. We’ll call Steve Rudin in the morning.’

The telephone rang. Distractedly, Paget answered it. Terri paused in the doorway, thinking it might be something about the case. But what kept her there, forgetful of herself and time, was the stillness that came over him.

‘Where are you?’ Paget finally asked.

He listened for another moment.

‘Don’t talk to anyone,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right down.’

Paget sounded quite calm. Only when he put the telephone down, with almost exaggerated care, did she notice he was pale.

She looked at him quizzically.

Paget seemed surprised to see her. Then he said simply, ‘Mark Ransom’s been killed.’

It startled her. She did not know why someone would be calling him or how he was connected to the famous writer. Finally, she asked, ‘Who was that?’

He paused a moment. ‘Mary Carelli.’

‘The TV interviewer?’

The description seemed to surprise him. Suddenly it came to her: the woman in Washington, the second witness against Lasko. Then, as if correcting her Christopher Paget replied, ‘My son Carlo’s mother.’

Christopher Paget had not imagined that the mother of his only son, a woman for whom he had felt much more passion than trust, would be accused of murder within twenty-four hours of appearing in their lives for the first time in eight years.

They had been in the kitchen of their house in Pacific Heights. It was four o’clock: through the floor-to-ceiling window, the failing sunlight lent the trim Victorians and stucco mansions a pale Florentine pink and white; the bay a slate blue; the Marin headlands beyond a tawny brown. Paget was slicing lemons for chicken piccata. Carlo was sitting on a barstool, slender frame leaning against the counter, complaining about his girlfriend’s parents.

‘She’s
fifteen
,’ Carlo was saying, ‘and they’re absolutely paranoid. They’ve done everything but have her tubes tied.’

Paget smiled at the hyperbole; he was fairly confident that Carlo did not yet warrant such drastic measures.

‘Like what, exactly?’ he asked.

‘Like they won’t even let her out on weekends.’

‘At all?’

‘At all.’

Paget began chopping scallions. ‘That’s a bit medieval. Are you sure there isn’t some history there?’

‘She
has
no history, Dad. They’ve never let her out of the house at night. They’re afraid her morals are going to get corrupted or something, and all
I
want to do is introduce her to my friends and do stuff with everybody.’

For the moment, Paget guessed, that was pretty much true; Carlo and his friends hung out in groups, and the easy interchange of boys and girls as friends struck Paget as infinitely saner than the rituals of his own teenage years, when girls were a mystery and dates took place in cars.

‘They’re afraid of
something
,’ Paget finally said. ‘Perhaps from their own lives.’

Carlo pondered that a moment. Not for the first time, Paget examined his son with a kind of wonder. To be so uncertain still, he thought, yet so suddenly close to manhood. Paget could recall like yesterday carrying Carlo on his shoulders. Now Carlo was taller then he, a handsome blackhaired boy with a crooked grin and startling blue eyes. The eyes were regarding him with that opaque look which, Paget knew, often concealed thoughts too close to home. ‘They’re pretty young,’ Carlo ventured, ‘to be parents of a fifteen-year-old.’

Paget refocused on the scallions. ‘And Jennifer is an only child?’

Carlo nodded. ‘After her, she says, her parents gave up sex.’

‘Kids always think that.’ Paget smiled. ‘The alternative is too grotesque for any teenager to imagine.’

‘I don’t know.’ Carlo’s voice took on a teasing edge. ‘I’ve never had much trouble with that.’

‘I suppose it’s that I’m single.’ Paget took a light tone, trying to decipher the meaning of his son’s remark. ‘I guess that makes my social life a little more conspicuous and makes it somewhat less likely you’ll confuse me with Ward Cleaver. Back to Jennifer: is your homework done?’

‘Yes – for hours. We’ve got a basketball game tomorrow, and I want to rest up. Anyhow, what does my homework have to do with Jennifer?’

‘If you have time, perhaps we could invite her to dinner this evening. I can make more chicken, and maybe Jennifer’s parents will feel better about letting her go somewhere they know there’s another parent and perhaps a few house rules.’

Carlo grinned. ‘Like safe sex and a two-drink limit?’

‘If I were you, I would keep
that
line in the family.’ Paget looked over at him. ‘I sometimes wonder, Carlo, what lessons you’ve learned from me.’

‘What do you mean?’

Carlo looked genuinely puzzled. Perhaps, Paget thought, there was less beneath the conversation than he had feared. ‘There’s enough to choose from,’ Paget finally said. ‘Your life hasn’t precisely been the Disney Channel.’

‘Did I ever accuse you,’ Carlo said, deadpan, ‘of murdering Mickey Mouse?’

Paget put down the knife. ‘You are absolutely determined to make this hard for me. Okay, the message goes like this: The subject of the moment is sex. It can be wonderful – as long as you treat it with respect, it’s part of a friendship, and you’re as honest about your feelings as you would be with any friend when the subject truly matters. Sometime, making love will be there for you. When it is, don’t lie, don’t push, and don’t sleep with anyone you won’t care for next month. Is that succinct enough?’

Once more, Paget saw the question in Carlo’s eyes. But his son let it go unspoken, as he had for eight years. ‘Maybe,’ Carlo said simply, ‘our generation will do better with all that.’

‘I think you’ll do better with everything.’ How, Paget wondered, to steer the conversation from this precipice. ‘The most important thing,’ he added, ‘is to listen, to be fair with each other, and to speak your heart without attacking your partner. But my own parents could neither show nor tell me, and I’ve only been able to tell you.’ And Paget thought silently, I’ve been all you had. ‘Maybe,’ he finished, ‘you can show
me
.’

When the doorbell rang, his son was still regarding him, as if forming a thought or question. Paget smiled. ‘Dorothy Parker once asked, when the doorbell rang, “What fresh hell is this?” But in this case, someone’s just saved you from “Father Knows Best.”’

Carlo raised an eyebrow. ‘Guess you want me to get that.’

‘Please.’

Paget heard his son head past the dining room, feet padding on the hardwood floor. The living room was large, with a sprawling Persian rug and a ten-foot ceiling that tended to eat up sound, muffling Carlo’s footsteps as he moved toward the door. Paget resumed thinking about chicken piccata.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes,’ Paget called out.

‘There’s someone here.’

Carlo’s voice sounded thin and a little strained. Paget put the knife down and headed for the living room.

She stood with her back to him, looking at the prints as she had that morning in Washington, fifteen years before.

He watched her, silent.

Without haste, she finished her scrutiny of the last print, an exotic African landscape by Jesse Allen, lush trees and surreal birds that existed only in the artist’s imagination. Turning, she said, ‘It’s rather like your apartment on East Capitol. Of course, I recognize several of the prints.’ She smiled almost imperceptibly, pointing out the red-and-blue print of a geometric ball that seemed to roll as one approached it. ‘That’s a Vasarely, I believe you once informed me.’

Speak of the devil, Paget thought, looking from the woman to his son. But they had not been speaking of her, not directly, and Paget found himself speechless with surprise and withheld anger.

‘Carlo,’ he finally said, ‘I believe you recall your mother.’

Carlo stood as if caught between them, uncertain of what to do or say. Flashing the boy a warm, almost intimate smile, she moved to him. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said dryly to Paget. ‘We’ve met.’