Eyes of a Child (46 page)

Paget was not a nostalgic man; he enjoyed Carlo more at every age and looked forward to Carlo as an adult, the son who would also be his friend. This sudden tendency to remember Carlo as a younger boy, with tenderness and regret for the passage of years, was a trick of the mind, Paget knew, another symptom of the palpable desire to stop time that had begun with his arrest. On the eve of a trial that could end their life together, Paget felt such regret and self-blame that only clinging to the past provided relief.

Now, with an almost desperate longing, Paget wished to shoot baskets. To remind himself of the weekend he had put up the hoop; the first day he had taught Carlo to shoot; the time that, watching Carlo fill with pride, he had raised the basket to its full ten feet. But Carlo could not know this: he was living in the present, Paget saw, where his father had been indicted for murder and might spend the rest of his life – and much of Carlo's – in prison. It was the thought that Paget awoke to in the middle of the night; he did not wish to dwell on it. All he wanted was to play Horse.

‘One game,' said Paget.

Carlo frowned at him. ‘Would you mind just talking, Dad?'

His son's tone was so flat that it brought Paget up short; he had been expecting Carlo to fill
his
needs for escape, when what Carlo needed was the father he had always had. Suddenly Paget felt ashamed; he reserved his deepest contempt for parents who ignored their children's needs or, worse, expected their children to take care of
them
.

‘Sure.' At dinner, Paget realized now, he had been silent. ‘Sorry. I was just looking for distraction, I guess.'

Carlo seemed to take a second look at him, and then his face grew softer. ‘We can talk while we shoot,' he said. ‘The ball's in my closet.'

Carlo went upstairs; Paget took the stairs down through the basement to the driveway and flicked on the lights he had installed to illuminate the hoop at night. He stood there, gazing up at the hoop; Carlo, who had once been so tentative, should be all-league next year. Paget wondered if he would be free to watch him.

He heard the screen door open behind him, close with a swish, and then the rubbery thump of his son bouncing the basketball. Paget smiled to himself; the sound had so many associations with Carlo that he could replay the memories for hours.

A basketball flew over Paget's head, arcing through the light and shadow, and hit the backboard of the hoop above the garage, barely grazing the rim.

‘Shit,' Carlo said.

Paget laughed. Carlo had all the tools except for a good outside jump shot: speed, dexterity, and reflexes Paget had never possessed at any age. But the one thing Paget had maintained from prep school was a soft jumper he could still hit about half the time. It was why his only means of challenging Carlo was to play Horse, alternating shots until a player sank one and the other had to make the shot or receive a letter. The first one to spell out ‘horse' lost; in recent years, Paget could still win a game by camping outside and, with cheerful sadism, shooting jump shot after jump shot. ‘My object is to improve your game,' he would explain straight-faced to Carlo, who would mumble in disgust and wait unti Paget missed, so that he could return to the repertoire of drives and hook shots his father could not match.

Paget picked up the ball, dribbled to a point about twenty feet away, and fired. With a smooth arc, the ball rose in the dark and then suddenly seemed to fall, flashing through the net without touching metal. ‘True greatness,' Paget said admiringly. ‘Vintage Christopher Paget.'

‘And the fans go wild,' Carlo said with naked sarcasm. He retrieved the ball and went to the spot of Paget's shot. He eyed the net carefully, bounced the ball twice, and then fired it in a flat trajectory that hit the rim, bouncing the ball toward Paget. Carlo seemed to study the net and then jumped as if he had the ball, flicking his wrists in a pantomine shot. ‘There,' he murmured.

‘“H,”' his father answered.

Paget backed away from the net, took roughly the same shot, and missed.

Carlo gathered up the ball. ‘So,' he said, ‘how's your jury?'

‘All right.' Saying this, Paget wished that it were so. ‘A lot depends on how they respond to the lawyers. A friend of mine once said, “A trial is where you choose twelve people to decide which lawyer they like best.” It's a little cynical, but there's something in it.'

Carlo walked to where his father had stood and gazed at the basket gauging his shot. ‘Yeah,' he said. ‘How do you feel about that? I mean, Caroline's smart and all. But she doesn't seem that warm and fuzzy.'

Without waiting for an answer, Carlo replicated Paget's jump. This time it landed inside the rim, swirled once, and came out again.

‘Trying to beat me at my own game?' Paget asked.

Carlo shrugged. ‘We'll see.'

Paget retrieved the ball. ‘About Caroline, I picked what I'm comfortable with, and I'm happier with cool and smart than some folksy gunslinger who thinks he's Mr Populist.' He paused for a moment; Carlo's tenuous early life had made him a careful observer, and with his usual good instincts, he had hit upon Paget's only real doubt about Caroline. ‘Jurors don't like arrogance,' Paget continued. ‘But they
do
admire style and intelligence, and a lot of people seem to have a secret longing for aristocracy – which is why admiring the Kennedys became a national exercise in self-improvement. Wit and style seem part of Caroline Masters' birthright, and she can adapt her touch to the audience. She'll do fine with these people.'

Paget hoped that was right. He bounced the ball once and arched another jump shot, which fell through the hoop, ‘The pressure's on,' he said to Carlo.

Carlo got the ball. ‘Is Caroline going to talk to me again? Before I testify?'

‘Sure.' Paget turned to him. Inside, he ached for Carlo; not only would Salinas try to make him testify against his father, but he would drag him through Richie's charges that he molested Elena. Paget wished that he could help his son prepare, and blamed himself that Carlo had to face this at all. But it would not help to say this now.

‘You couldn't be in better hands,' Paget added calmly. ‘Caroline will prepare you not only for everything
she'll
ask you but for everything Victor Salinas will ask you. That way, you'll be as comfortable as possible.'

Carlo turned to him. ‘I really
am
feeling the pressure,' he said quietly. ‘But not from your stupid jump shot. I just want you around to shoot it, okay?'

Paget smiled. ‘Okay.'

Carlo shook his head. Even more softly, he said, ‘I wish I could talk to you about what to say.'

Paget gazed at him across the half-lit driveway. ‘I know, son. But we can't.'

Carlo was staring at him now. ‘Dad,' he said slowly, ‘I really don't want to screw up.'

‘Then just tell the truth. That way you
can't
screw up.'

But Carlo only looked at him. Oh, God, Paget thought, you're not really sure, are you? ‘Look,' Paget went on, ‘we really
can't
talk about this, okay? But I've never told a serious lie that I haven't paid some price for, and there are some I've had to live with for a long time.' He paused, finishing softly: ‘Don't try to do that for me, Carlo. I'll know you're doing it, and it will hurt me. And if Salinas catches you at it, that could hurt me quite badly.'

Carlo rested the ball on his hip, looking back at Paget as if to fathom his meaning. ‘All this evidence they say they have . . .'

‘Will be explained. Just be patient, for two more weeks.' Paget tried to smile. ‘Meanwhile, shoot the ball, okay?'

Inside, through the screen door, came the distant ringing of a telephone. With an anxious expression, Carlo turned, ‘It's probably Terri,' Paget said, ‘calling to wish me luck. I'll call her in a while.'

Carlo gave his father a questioning look. ‘It's fine,' Paget said. ‘We've got a game to play.'

Carlo hesitated, then he turned to the basket, breathing in once, and sank the jump shot.

‘Grace under pressure,' Paget remarked. As Carlo flipped him the ball, he heard the phone still ringing.

Something in the conversation, Paget realized, made him remember the times when Carlo was much younger and Paget had cheated to help him win, missing easy shots or miscounting the letters of ‘horse.' It was one thing that Paget did not miss; all at once, he wished that he could talk to his son, his friend.

The phone stopped ringing. For a brief instant, Paget thought of Terri; the sudden silence felt like losing her.

Distractedly, he shot the ball.

From the side, Carlo seemed to study his form. But this time, Paget's shot bounced off the rim.

‘I'm taking your jump shot,' Carlo announced. ‘I've decided it's time to learn.'

With perfect form, suddenly quite like Paget's, he swished the ball through the net.

‘Nice shot,' Paget said.

Carlo retrieved the ball. But instead of tossing it, he walked over to his father and handed him the ball, looking into his face.

‘I think you'll feel a lot better,' Carlo said, ‘when you've finally gotten to testify.'

Silent, Paget took the ball. He backed up two feet, to where Carlo had stood, and carefully faced the basket. But his shot, falling, grazed the outside of the hoop.

‘“H,”' Paget said.

The Trial

Chapter
1

A murder trial is like a cocoon, Paget thought: the world outside seems barely to exist.

He sat at the defense table with Caroline Masters, waiting for Salinas to begin his opening statement. He could imagine the routines of daily life only by attaching them to Carlo, who had no choice but to go to school, or to Terri, whom Paget had asked to mind his cases. But his sole concrete image was that of the satellite trucks of news services, set up outside the Hall of Justice to feed live reports from the trial.

At Paget's insistence, the trial itself would not be televised. But there was no help for the reporters who jammed the courtroom; or the fading novelist who had decided to write a true-crime book; or the producer who hoped to make a miniseries – all waiting for that dramatic moment that would reveal Paget's character and which, translated into words or images, would put their own distinctive signatures on the death of Ricardo Arias.

For what mattered was not truth but entertainment, and here the plot was far too good. ‘The Christopher Paget trial captures the essence of the nineties,' a television news report had begun; Paget had switched it off before he could find out what the essence of the nineties was.

Caroline, he knew, had worries of her own. She was facing by far the biggest case of her career, and the pressure was compounded by her ambitions. As if she had heard his thoughts, Caroline turned to him with a slight smile. In fresh makeup and gold earrings and a well-tailored black suit, she seemed nothing like the tired woman he had seen the night before. ‘Forgive me,' she murmured, ‘but some perverse part of me enjoys this.'

‘Then it's all worthwhile,' Paget said dryly. But, for that moment, he felt better; during the next two weeks, no matter how many reporters and voyeurs packed the courtroom, the only people who would matter as much as Caroline were Judge Lerner and the jury.

Paget turned to scan the jury, among them Marian Celler, attentive and carefully dressed, with reading glasses on a silver chain around her neck; Luisa Marin, hands clasped and eyes half shut; Joseph Duarte, holding a notepad with a look of skeptical alertness, preparing to master this experience as he had mastered so many others. Paget wondered if he would ever become as real to them as they already were to him.

Finally, there was Jared Lerner. The judge alone would decide what these jurors would hear and how much latitude Caroline would have in creating a Richie different from the embattled underdog Salinas would put before the jury. From the bench, Lerner looked from Caroline to Salinas; beneath the judge's calm, Paget sensed the pleasure of a man who was about to conduct the biggest trial of his career and felt himself well qualified.

Lerner took a long last survey of the courtroom and then nodded to Victor Salinas. ‘Mr Salinas,' he said, and the trial began.

Approaching the jury, Salinas paused to underscore the moment. The jurors looked rapt. There was utter silence.

‘
This
,' Salinas began, ‘is a case about secrets, and about lies. More than that, it is about arrogance.'

He stopped, looking directly at Paget. ‘The arrogance of a man who decided that
another man
was too inconvenient to live, and too insignificant for anyone to question how he died.'

Gazing back so that the jury could see him silently challenge Salinas, Paget wondered if the prosecutor's stare of distaste was theater or an effort to stoke his own intensity. Abruptly, Salinas faced the jury, speaking to Joseph Duarte.

‘Ricardo Arias,' he said softly, ‘was a man like you or me. He had a daughter he loved, a life built on family, a future he believed in – the dream of starting his own business. And most of all, he had his wife, Teresa.'

His voice became flat with muted outrage. ‘That was the
first
time that Christopher Paget, Teresa's boss, found Ricardo Arias inconvenient. Because he wanted Teresa for himself.

‘And so, ladies and gentlemen, Christopher Paget took her from her husband, and her home.'

‘Victor's going for it,' Caroline whispered to Page. ‘This is almost too good to believe.'