Degree of Guilt (51 page)

‘Your Honor,’ Paget said to Masters, ‘let me make the thrust of
my
last question clear to Ms Sharpe. My question implied – and I am now saying flat out – that it was shoddy for the People to prejudice Ms Carelli’s hearing by offering testimony which is at once so inflammatory and so flimsy. Period.’

‘All right, both of you.’ Masters turned to Sharpe. ‘I appreciate Mr Paget’s feelings, if not his every turn of phrase. We will likely never know
who
Mr Hassler saw in that window, but we will surely
all
remember her mode of dress – as you no doubt intended.’

Sharpe bristled; she had trouble, Paget realized, dealing with rebukes. ‘Our only intention,’ she said, ‘was to present evidence of what happened in that suite. I hope that the court will accept that.’

‘The court accepts that,’ Masters responded in a milder tone, ‘if not the probative value of this particular testimony. I’ll allow the question, but I suggest that you wrap this up quickly.’

‘Very well, Your Honor.’ Sharpe turned to the court stenographer, a middle-aged black man who sat to the right of Masters. ‘Mr Sanders, could you read back the question?’

He picked up the tape of paper from the machine, squinting at its shorthand symbols, and then read: ‘Ms Sharpe: “Did anyone, from either the police or the district attorney, coach you as to what you saw through the window of your hotel room?”’

Hassler shook his head. ‘No. Not at all.’

Sharpe continued. ‘And what you described here is what you told our office on your own initiative?’

‘Very definitely.’ Hassler paused. ‘I saw what I saw.’

‘And do you, despite the questions asked by Mr Paget, continue to believe that it is more likely than not that the woman you saw was in Mark Ransom’s suite?’

Hassler furrowed his brow. ‘More likely than not?’ he asked Sharpe.

‘That’s my question, yes.’

Hassler paused. ‘I’d have to say “yes” to that,’ he finally answered.

Sharpe paused; Paget watched her decide that this was the most she could do. ‘No further questions,’ she said, and then Hassler left the stand, leaving Paget to wonder if the unclothed woman was Mary Carelli.

Edward Tench was a hawk-faced investment banker with dark-rimmed glasses, a crisply tailored suit, and an incisive air to match, as if he were accustomed to persuading conference rooms full of people to do what he wanted. He smoothed back his dark hair, straightened his red tie, and awaited Sharpe’s next question.

‘So that at about one o’clock,’ Sharpe asked, ‘you returned to your room at the Flood?’

‘Yes,’ Tench answered. ‘I’d just finished an early business lunch and wished to call my office.’

‘And your suite was on the twenty-third floor. Mr Ransom’s floor.’

‘Yes.’

‘When you got off the elevator,’ Sharpe asked, ‘did you see anything?’

‘Yes.’ Tench leaned forward, as if impatient with the structure of the questioning. ‘But perhaps I should explain its elevators. The elevator
I
took was at the far end of a long hallway, containing two suites or rooms that face toward Berkeley. I was, I believe, two suites past Mark Ransom. So that I turned in the direction of his suite.’

‘Thank you,’ Sharpe said dryly. ‘And what did you see?’

‘A woman, standing in front of the door to one of the suites.’

‘And what did this woman look like?’

Tench looked over at Mary. ‘From where I was standing, I couldn’t see her face. But she was quite tall, about five feet eight, with long black hair.’

‘Do you recall what she was wearing?’

‘I really don’t, although I have the odd impression that she wasn’t wearing shoes. What I do recall clearly is the shine of her hair, the way she carried herself – quite straight, like a model. There aren’t many women who look like that from any angle.’

A self-confident professional, Paget thought, determined to get the most out of what he knew, and then some. Without much material for cross, Tench would not be an easy witness – particularly, Paget added to himself, because the woman he saw was more than likely Mary Carelli.

‘What did she do?’ Sharpe asked.

‘She stood there for a moment, staring at the door. Then, very abruptly, she stepped inside. It was as if she’d heard the elevator open and didn’t want to be seen outside the room.’

‘Did someone let her in?’

‘No,’ Tench said. ‘She let
herself
in.’

For an instant, Paget imagined Mary Carelli standing in the hallway. But he could not imagine why she had been there.

‘From her movements,’ Sharpe was asking, ‘did this woman appear to be injured in any way?’

‘No, again. She moved very quickly.’ Tench paused. ‘I had the fleeting image of a dancer, perhaps a tennis player. A woman with confidence in her body.’

‘I’m going to enter a belated objection,’ Paget said. ‘I wonder if the witness could refrain from sharing with us his rich cultural experience and points of reference, and just stick to facts. Truly, I don’t know whether this woman was a model, a dancer, an athlete or, for that matter, had recently had a steel rod implanted in her spine. And neither does this witness.’

Masters smiled briefly and then turned to the witness. ‘In light of Mr Paget’s request, Mr Tench, I wonder if you could confine yourself to what you actually saw.’

‘Of course, Your Honor.’ Tench looked vaguely thwarted. ‘I was only trying to be helpful. It’s been my understanding that in the law, as with investment banking, one’s experiences shape one’s observations.’

‘Oh, they do,’ Masters agreed. ‘By the way, how long did you observe
this
woman?’

Tench seemed to reflect. ‘It couldn’t have been long.’

‘Because from what you describe,’ Masters continued, ‘it sounds like ten seconds at the outside.’

Tench looked nettled for a moment. ‘It was probably that.’

‘Oh, well,’ Masters rejoined. ‘One’s experience can enhance the most fleeting observation. Press on, Ms Sharpe.’

Now Sharpe looked annoyed. It was a very good day for Caroline Masters, Paget thought, regardless of how the lawyers were doing; the first newspaper pieces about the judge were already starting to appear, and clips of her courtroom style would surely be featured on the nightly news. But how that might affect her, Paget could not guess.

‘Your Honor,’ Sharpe finally said. ‘I wonder if I could ask Ms Carelli to stand and turn her back to the witness.’

‘Mr Paget?’

There was nothing he could do. ‘Certainly, Your Honor. Ms Carelli would be pleased to turn her back to this witness.’

Judge Masters smiled at one corner of her mouth. ‘Ms Carelli,’ she said.

Mary rose, gazing at the witness. Then, slowly, she turned from him.

She could not help it, Paget realized; the image of a dancer or a model leapt easily to mind. For a strange moment, he remembered her standing naked in front of the Vasarely in his apartment, quite graceful and quite straight.

Now, in what seemed to be a lifetime later, Mary Carelli gazed out at the courtroom full of media people, come to watch her on trial for murder. She held her head high, kept her eyes still. Paget watched her face.

‘That looks like the same woman,’ Tench said. ‘Or put another way, the woman I saw looked as Ms Carelli does now.’

‘Mary’s face showed nothing. The courtroom was still.

‘May Ms Carelli sit?’ Paget inquired.

‘Of course,’ Masters said. ‘Thank you, Ms Carelli. Any more questions, Ms Sharpe.’

‘None, Your Honor.’

As Mary sat, she shot a querying look at Paget. How much does this hurt, the look asked, and what can you do with him?

Very little, Paget thought. He did not even rise from the table. In his most languid voice, he asked, ‘Tell me, Mr Tench, was this nameless, faceless mannequin you saw for less than ten seconds in a dim hallway at least wearing clothes?’

There was a ripple of laughter. Masters raised her gavel and then thought better of it, looking over at Tench. His mouth formed a grimace in what, Paget thought, was meant to convey perfunctory amusement and a sense of his superiority.

Sharpe stood again. ‘Really, Your Honor, this isn’t comedy.’

‘Far from it,’ Paget answered. ‘But this witness’s powers of observation are so extraordinary that when he could not recall the woman’s clothes, I feared the worst.’

Masters’s shrug suggested that her amusement was running low. ‘For the record, Mr Tench.’

Tench turned to Paget. ‘Yes,’ he said in a tone of weary condescension. ‘The woman was dressed.’

‘That’s a relief,’ Paget answered. He turned to Masters. ‘Given that Ms Sharpe wishes to avoid comedy, I have no further questions.’

‘Ms Sharpe?’

‘No.’ She looked at Paget with asperity. ‘There’s nothing to ask.’

‘You may step down, Mr Tench.’ He did so, looking irritated at his abrupt dismissal.

Masters, too, had begun to look annoyed. ‘Tempers seem to be fraying here,’ she said. ‘I’d like a half-hour recess, and then we’ll meet in chambers. The topic will be certain evidence proposed by the prosecution to conclude their direct case.’

The tape, Paget knew. But as Masters slammed the gavel, finishing public proceedings for the day, Paget found himself still wondering why Mary had left the suite. And then he turned to see his son, staring at his mother with new questions in his eyes.

No matter what doubts he had tried to plant today, Paget realized, the look on Carlo’s face told him how much Marnie Sharpe had managed to achieve.

Like her courtroom, the chambers that Caroline Masters used were borrowed: the tomes on evidence, treatises on trial practice, and bound jury instructions belonged to another judge, and the heavy furniture and green leather chair were unrelieved by any touch that was Masters’s own. It did not seem to matter; three days into the hearing, Caroline Masters looked at home.

She leaned back in the chair, fingers interwoven beneath her chin, gazing thoughtfully at the tape recorder Sharpe had placed in front of her. The only persons present were Terri, Paget, Sharpe, and her assistant.

‘The media,’ Judge Masters said, ‘don’t know what they’re missing. Which is precisely how I intend to keep it.’

‘What are we authorized to say?’ Sharpe asked.

‘Nothing. You’ll tell the press, as I have, that these private sessions are to rule on disputed points of evidence. Period. You will not describe what the points are or what is in dispute.’

Sharpe leaned forward. ‘It seems to me,’ she ventured, ‘that Mr Paget wants selective publicity – nationwide television for some aspects, and a lead-lined vault for anything that sheds some real light on Ms Carelli.’

‘This isn’t about what Mr Paget wants. It’s about
my
quaint notions of decency.’ Pausing, Masters looked at each lawyer in turn. ‘As I understand it, the parties intend to treat me to a tape of Ms Carelli’s psychoanalysis, another tape providing some distasteful insights into the relationship of a dead film star with a revered United States senator, and testimony from three women regarding Mark Ransom’s sexual habits and/or his misuse of the tapes in question. If this stuff turns out to be admissible, I’ll admit it. Until then, I’m more concerned with protecting the particular people involved than I am with the “people’s right to know” – or, for that matter, the
National Enquirer
’s right to supplement their usual fare about Peter Lawford’s final days and sex between women and apes.’ She turned back to Sharpe. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

Sharpe hesitated, as if to protest the focus on her. Then she nodded.

‘Good. Because if you feel like I’m picking on you, Marnie, you’re right.’ Masters’s voice grew quieter. ‘Like half of America, I watched Ms Carelli on
60 Minutes
. But unlike most of them, I knew precisely where the interviewer’s questions came from. And I was forced to ask myself: Does Marnie Sharpe only care about the privacy of women who’ve
actually
been raped? Now, this morning, you wonder aloud about keeping information private which could cause great hurt to any number of people, before the court even determines that it’s fit to be evidence.’ Masters glanced at the tape recorder, then back at Sharpe. ‘I don’t know what’s on this tape. But if the press prints anything about it until and unless I decide that it’s admissible, and I trace that story to your office, I will hold you personally responsible. Have I made
that
clear enough?’

‘Yes,’ Sharpe said, with an edge in her voice. ‘You have.’

Paget glanced at Terri, silently wondering whether these stringent procedures reflected the judge’s reaction to the seriousness of the case, or something else. But Terri looked as surprised as he.

‘During our private sessions,’ Judge Masters continued, ‘it will be necessary to bring in a stenographer and have a record of what’s said. But I intend to make this as comfortable as possible for the women who’ve come forward. This experience will be bad enough for them, and for my part, I think the courts should make every effort to encourage women who’ve been victimized to say so. Which means, among other things, that
I
will be the primary questioner. If anyone then wishes to ask anything for the sake of preserving the record on appeal, of course they may. But if I conclude that the particular testimony offered will
not
be used in open court, then I’ll have that transcript sealed from the press to protect the women involved. As for the tapes, I’ll play them
without
a stenographer, given that they speak for themselves.’ Once more, Judge Masters glanced at each lawyer. ‘Is that agreeable? If not, tell me now.’

There was silence. Usually, Paget knew, the judge would be more observer than participant. He watched Sharpe calculate Masters’s response if she objected; his own guess was that the judge would tell her to go to the court of appeals. But the hearing was going too well for Sharpe to risk alienating the judge, and Masters’s resolve to guard the privacy of Mary and certain witnesses did not affect Sharpe’s case on the merits.