Degree of Guilt (60 page)

‘Mr Hassler,’ Masters said. ‘Was it you that
Mr Tench
saw? Outside the room?’

In Mary’s silence, Paget felt the slow dismantling of their preparations. It was as if the judge had required a closer sense of Mary than Paget could supply. ‘I think so,’ Mary said at last. ‘I think for a moment I was going to get help. But then I went back to the room without doing anything.’ She sounded bewildered. ‘I seem to have an image of being outside the door, not believing what had happened. That if I went back inside, he would be fine and the nightmare would be over.’

Caroline Masters remained silent, waiting for more. Mary, stripped of the careful framework she and Paget had constructed, seemed to have started free-associating. From the corner of his eye, he saw Marnie Sharpe, intently scribbling notes.

‘I felt I was sleepwalking,’ Mary went on. ‘I remember drifting around the room, moving from thing to thing. Touching each piece of furniture as if to find out what was real. I did everything but look at him.’ She paused, gazing up at Masters. ‘You see, it was so horrible the way he died. Staring down at me with the life slipping out of him, as if I had hurt his feelings. When I wake up at night, that’s what I remember. That, and pushing him off me, feeling from his weight that he must be dead.’

‘But if you had to push him off,’ Masters asked. ‘How was it you shot him from at least three feet away?’

Mary shook her head; the movement had a dazed quality. ‘Perhaps he fell forward. But I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

‘Were your panty hose already torn?’

‘Yes.’ There was pain in Mary’s voice. ‘God, yes. Maybe
I
ripped them in the struggle, but yes. Afterwards, I wasn’t capable of anything. Even sensible things. When I called 911, it was like just enough fog had lifted to see the telephone.’

‘Did you scratch Mr Ransom’s buttocks?’

‘I must have – we were struggling.’ Her voice rose in sudden anger. ‘But
not
when he was dead. That’s ridiculous. It’s sick. The prosecutor’s whole case is sick.’ Sharpe looked up from her notes. ‘Sick,’ Mary repeated to Sharpe. ‘But then ambition is a sickness.
I
know.’

As Sharpe stared at her, a murmur rose from the press. Paget sensed that Mary’s sudden challenge would become a defining moment in their memory of the hearing.

‘Ambition may be a sickness,’ Sharpe said to Masters. ‘But murder is a crime. I object to Ms Carelli’s efforts at distraction.’

Masters turned to Mary. ‘Whatever your emotions, Ms Carelli, I will ask that you confine your answers to the questions asked.’

‘I
do
have emotions, Your Honor. I
have
been charged with murder. It’s hard to be dispassionate. Or to feel apologetic to Ms Sharpe.’ She paused. ‘But I will try, at least, to be responsive.’

‘Responsiveness,’ Masters said dryly, ‘will suffice.’

The judge’s shift of mood, Paget realized, was meant to signal that she was finished. ‘Might I ask a few questions?’ he inquired.

‘Of course, Mr Paget.’ Masters smiled faintly. ‘Ms Carelli is
your
witness, and I appreciate that my intervention here has been out of the ordinary. But I wanted to keep Ms Carelli on track, and Ms Sharpe from having to object.’

Mary seemed to gaze at him with the passivity of exhaustion. The effect was far different from that of the poised woman who, unknown to those watching, had lied to the Senate:
this
woman was more flawed, more human, and, somehow, much more real. It came to him that beneath her seeming discursiveness, and pain, the core of Mary’s responses to Caroline Masters had been as flawless as was possible – every inexplicable act explained as trauma, each inconsistency blurred by shock and confusion. Suddenly Paget saw where he should go next. ‘When the police came,’ he asked, ‘did they offer you a doctor?’

‘Yes.’ Mary lowered her head. ‘But I didn’t want anyone touching me. I told them that.’

‘Did they then suggest a rape counselor?’

Mary shook her head. ‘No.’

Paget was quiet for a moment. ‘When had you last eaten?’

‘The night before.’ She paused. ‘That morning, I was too upset to eat.’

‘Did the police ask you
that
?’

‘No.’

Paget nodded. ‘So at the time they questioned you, you hadn’t eaten for almost twenty-four hours.’

‘Yes.’

Paget tilted his head. ‘How does going without food affect you?’

‘I feel weak. It makes me impatient.’ Mary looked at Sharpe. ‘To me, that’s how I sound on the tape of the interrogation – hungry and exhausted. I become a one-note person.’

‘Is that
all
you felt – hunger and exhaustion?’

‘No. I felt disoriented.’ Her voice fell. ‘I was answering questions to answer them. Even when I didn’t
know
the answer. By the time I asked for a lawyer, it was the only thing I could do.’

Paget turned to face the courtroom – the cameras, the reporters standing in the back, the sheriff’s deputies guarding the door. Then he saw Carlo, sitting in the front row, expression soft and focused on Mary, as if to get her through this.

Paget faced her again. Quietly, he asked, ‘Did you murder Mark Ransom?’

Mary straightened on the witness stand, raising her chin. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I did not.’

‘What
did
you do?’

‘Defend myself. Because he wanted to abuse me. Because I was so terribly frightened. Everything that was happening, everything about who Mark Ransom was and what he wanted from me, scared me to my soul.’ Mary’s voice grew quiet. ‘I didn’t want to lose myself. That was why he died.’

Paget was silent for a moment, and then he nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s all I have.’

Sharpe walked toward Mary, her right hand clasping the barrel of Mary’s gun.

‘What’s she doing?’ Terri whispered to Paget.

‘Psychological warfare, I think. She wants to make Mary hold the gun.’

Sharpe held the gun out to Mary. ‘This
is
yours, isn’t it?’

Mary stared at her. She did not take the gun. ‘It looks like mine.’

‘It’s been identified as
yours
.’ Sharpe thrust the gun toward Mary. ‘Take a closer look.’

Mary gazed at the gun as if it were a foreign object. ‘It wouldn’t help,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t know guns. And I’d rather not touch this or any gun, ever again.’

Sharpe paused. Abruptly, she asked, ‘You’d never owned a gun before, had you?’

‘No.’

‘And you didn’t buy this one until
after
Mark Ransom called you?’

‘I think so.’

‘I
know
so.’ Sharpe walked back to the prosecution table, put down the gun, and then turned. ‘The reason you gave Inspector Monk for buying
this
gun is that you’d received threatening calls, correct?’

Paget tensed; Sharpe had immediately headed for one of Mary’s lies. On this, and other points, he had coached Mary to give the minimum answer, so as not to lie further.

‘Correct.’

‘How many calls were made?’

Mary hesitated. ‘Two, I think.’

‘You
think?
The calls disturbed you so much that you bought a gun, and you don’t remember how many?’

Mary folded her hands. ‘If that’s a question, my answer is the same: I think there were two calls.’

‘You do remember the sex of the caller, I assume.’

Mary nodded. ‘It was a man.’

Sharpe placed her hands on her hips. ‘Then please tell us, in as much detail as possible, what this man said in his threatening call or calls.’

It was what Paget had feared: that Sharpe would ask an open-ended question, requiring Mary to embroider the fictions she had already told. Mary straightened on the witness stand. ‘I don’t recall precisely. But he said something about watching my house. That was why I bought the gun.’

Sharpe gave her a skeptical smile. ‘He didn’t happen to mention Laura Chase, did he?’

Paget half stood, thinking to object to the sarcasm. And then Mary said coolly, ‘No, he didn’t. So I’m almost sure that it wasn’t Mark Ransom.’

There was another murmur from the courtroom, a cough that sounded like stifled laughter. Sharpe stopped, staring at Mary. ‘Did you think it was
anyone
you knew?’

‘No.’

‘If you had thought that, you would have reported them, correct?’

Mary hesitated. ‘I believe so, yes.’

‘But you didn’t report the calls at all, did you?’

‘No.’

Sharpe paused. ‘Wouldn’t it have
had
to be someone you knew?’

Paget saw the apprehension register in Mary’s eyes. ‘You mean,’ she said calmly, ‘because the telephone isn’t listed?’

Sharpe looked surprised. Mary had preempted her question and the trap that lay behind it. ‘Yes,’ Sharpe answered. ‘Among other things.’

Mary nodded. In a tone of sympathetic puzzlement, she said, ‘I can’t explain that, either.’

Paget almost smiled. What stopped him was the look on Masters’s face; her eyes seemed to narrow, as if she had registered how clever Mary was.

Terri had seen the same thing. ‘This would be better if we had a jury,’ Terri whispered. ‘Mary should just take her lumps and go on.’

Terri looked tired, Paget thought. ‘You’re right,’ he murmured back.

‘In fact,’ Sharpe was asking Mary, ‘you never told anyone about the calls, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Not the police, or friends, or anyone at ABC.’

‘No. No one.’ Mary paused. ‘Not even the person who sold me the gun. I didn’t want to sound paranoid.’

‘Was that it? Or was it hard to describe calls you never received?’

It’s not that hard for Mary, Paget thought to himself. ‘The problem isn’t describing them,’ Mary told Sharpe. ‘That’s
not
the reason.’

Sharpe gave her a cynical once-over. ‘Didn’t you buy the gun for the specific purpose of confronting Mark Ransom?’

The answer, Paget knew, was yes. ‘No,’ Mary said firmly. ‘The reason is that the calls reminded me that I was a woman who lived alone. Just as I told Inspector Monk.’ Mary paused, tilting her head. ‘You prosecute rape cases, don’t you? Don’t a lot of your cases come from women who live alone?’ A final pause. ‘Or,’ Mary finished in a soft voice, ‘from a woman who has been
trapped
alone?’

Sharpe turned to Caroline Masters with a weary expression. ‘Your Honor, would you again explain to Ms Carelli that her purpose is to answer
my
questions, not to give speeches or pose questions of her own – rhetorical or otherwise.’

Masters turned to Mary. ‘There
are
rules here, Ms Carelli. You should confine yourself to giving Ms Sharpe
answers
she doesn’t like. So that she can ask more questions that
you
don’t like.’

Mary smiled faintly. ‘All right.’

‘All right?’ Sharpe repeated in sarcastic tones. ‘If it’s all right with you, Ms Carelli, let’s discuss another matter you never reported to the police – that Mark Ransom had a tape or tapes that were damaging to you. You failed to mention that, correct?’

‘Objection,’ Paget interjected. ‘I already asked that question, and Ms Carelli already answered. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but repetition is harassment.’

Sharpe turned from Paget to Masters. ‘I can well understand why Mr Paget wants to sweep this under the rug. In fact, the first hour of his examination swept so many things under the rug that he needed a shovel. But he can’t inoculate Ms Carelli against cross-examination – particularly on a foundational question to establish the premise for questions Mr Paget never asked.’

‘Speaking of speeches,’ Masters rejoined, ‘your last sentence was sufficient. Ms Carelli can answer the question.’

Sharpe turned to Mary. ‘Yes,’ Mary answered promptly. ‘I failed to tell the police.’

‘And in fact, you led them to believe that your sole purpose in seeing Mark Ransom was professional.’

Mary paused. ‘By omission, yes.’

‘By omission? Didn’t you tell Inspector Monk quite an elaborate story about the news value of the Laura Chase tape, and your interest in the ethics of buying and selling people’s secrets?’

Mary straightened in her chair. ‘What I said was true,’ she answered quietly. ‘What I didn’t tell Inspector Monk was that the secrets Mark Ransom proposed to buy and sell included my own. Because, as I said, I was deeply ashamed.’

Once more, Sharpe seemed to slow, and then find another angle of attack. ‘Didn’t you also invent fictional dialogue for Mr Ransom? Such as him telling you that truth is more important that privacy or sentiment, for the dead and for the living?’

Mary looked at her calmly. ‘He
did
say that. Laura Chase was the dead.
I
was the living.’ She paused. ‘Mark Ransom was using Laura Chase’s secret for money, and mine for sex.’

Sharpe nodded curtly. ‘Which must be why you told Inspector Monk that you were surprised to find Mark Ransom alone. You
did
say that, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did.’ Mary paused. ‘As I said, I didn’t want to admit to blackmail.’

‘Is that also why you told Inspector Monk that you expected Mark Ransom to bring a publicist?’

Mary paused. ‘Yes.’

‘
That
wasn’t a mere omission, was it? It was a lie.’ Sharpe paused. ‘A lie, deliberately invented to cover your purpose in coming.’

Masters turned to Mary, as if awaiting her answer. ‘I don’t know
why
I said it,’ Mary answered, ‘except that I was frightened and confused.’

‘But you didn’t expect a publicist, did you?’

‘No, I did not.’ Mary paused. ‘Nor did I go there intending to shoot Mark Ransom.’

Sharpe turned to Masters. ‘I move to strike the last sentence of that answer as unresponsive.’

‘Granted.’ Masters turned to Mary. ‘Again, Ms Carelli, confine yourself to answering the question which is asked.’ She gave a thin smile. ‘After all, this is municipal court. We have higher standards for responsiveness than do presidential debates.’