Eyes of a Child (76 page)

For a moment, Caroline toyed with the nondescript black watch she wore only for trials. ‘Mac's in trouble,' she said after a time. ‘If we really go after him – put him on the stand next time – I can make him look like he's covering for someone. Even if that didn't scare him, and I think it does,
Colt
may call him off.'

Paget considered that. ‘It's possible, I suppose. But the local media would be all over him.'

Caroline smiled slightly. ‘Our friend Slocum has problems of his own. At least one part of the local media may be content to let Ricardo die.'

She gave him a veiled look above the smile; for an instant, Paget saw her wonder if she was drinking with a murderer.

‘Care to eat?' Paget said.

By five o'clock, when they ceased deliberations for the day, the jury had not come in.

Paget picked Carlo up after basketball practice; as much as possible, he insisted that they follow a normal routine. But when they arrived home, there was a cluster of reporters and TV cameras on the sidewalk, looking for a quote.

‘I hate them,' Carlo said.

‘You're not alone.'

They parked in the garage and entered the back of the house without acknowledging the media. Two cameramen scurried up the driveway, to film them as they disappeared. The murderer, Paget thought bitterly, and the child molester.

Paget flicked on the kitchen light; it was dark outside, and the room seemed suddenly bright, reminiscent of the winter evenings when Paget would cook and Carlo would loiter at the kitchen counter, looking over his homework or, if it was done, eating potato chips and talking to his father or watching sports or news on the miniature television. The memory led Paget to the thought that by this time tomorrow, the verdict might be the lead story on the evening news. He felt a lump in his chest; this might be the last night that, however tentatively, he and Carlo could hope that their world would somehow return to normal. Only last night, Paget had bought Carlo more potato chips.

‘Why don't I make chicken piccata,' he said.

It was Carlo's favorite. Although the boy did not seem hungry, he answered, ‘Sure.'

Paget fell into their ritual, thawing the chicken, scattering the capers and slicing the scallions. For once, he did not ask after Carlo's homework.

Carlo leaned on the counter. ‘So what do you think they'll do?' he asked after a time.

What should he tell him? Paget wondered. That he himself could not judge, or that his own lawyer thought that the best she could do was hang the jury? And then, looking into the face of his son, Paget knew what to say.

‘I don't know,' he answered. ‘I only know that you helped me.'

Carlo's eyes flickered with hope. ‘Do you think so?'

Carlo was still so young, Paget realized; the cruelest thing he could do was refuse to accept the gift of his son's lie or to let Carlo wonder – perhaps starting tomorrow – if he had helped Victor Salinas convict him by not lying well enough. ‘Yes,' Paget answered. ‘The way Caroline told the jury to believe you was one of the finest parts of her argument. That's what they'll remember.'

Carlo gazed at the counter; somehow it reminded Paget of Caroline, staring into her drink for answers. ‘I haven't been sure,' Carlo said at last.

‘
I
am.' It was all that Paget could give his son; there was no good way, after Velez, to tell Carlo that he had lied for an innocent man. ‘That, and coming with Terri today, were all you could have done for me.'

Watching Carlo, Paget saw the boy remember his own discomfort with Terri, perhaps consider that she might be no more certain of Carlo's innocence than Carlo was of his father's. ‘Will she be here tonight?' Carlo asked.

‘Later.'

Carlo nodded but did not answer. Paget was somehow certain that Carlo would go to his room and remain there. And then Paget saw him turn away, gazing at the blank screen of the television.

Paget reached into a cabinet and pulled out the chips he had bought. ‘Here,' he told Carlo. ‘Have some of these.'

Never, when making love with Terri, had Paget wished to imagine that he was anywhere else. But now, as he entered her, he found himself amid a fantasy where Richie's death had never happened and where, as their two children slept in Paget's quiet house, Terri and he would create a child of their own.

For the few moments that he was able to believe this, the escape lent their lovemaking a certain sweetness: each movement in the dark seemed slower, each sensation of her closeness to him – her breasts against his chest, the smell and feel of her hair, her hips moving with his – was more intense. When he came inside her, some part of him imagined her smiling into the eyes of their child, and then she lay next to him, quiet and still, and Paget was in the present.

Gently, Paget kissed her.

She had come to him with a simple warmth that said without words that, at least for this night, she had resolved to put all else aside. But Paget knew that her warmth could no longer be instinctive and unthought of; it was an act of generosity and not of impulse. He could not say this: he could only accept what she could give him, as he had accepted her lies. There was no graceful way to thank her.

They lay silent in the dark. The moonlight came through his window; its frame was cracked open, the crisp winter air reminding Paget of college winters in New England, so that even the murmur of cars passing by, muted by distance, began to sound like wind or waves. When he touched her face, Terri seemed far away.

All at once, he had the desire to tell her what truths he could. ‘I wonder,' he murmured, ‘if this is anything like the fear of dying.'

Her eyes widened. ‘How do you mean?'

‘To drift back and forth between wanting to take each moment and imprint it in your mind, so as not to lose it, and remembering what you once took for granted as precious.'

She touched his hair. ‘Is that what you're doing, Chris?'

‘That, and wishing for what I've never had.' He kissed her forehead, adding in a tone of irony, ‘Perhaps if I
do
face something really profound – like truly dying – I'll manage to rise above self-pity.'

Terri did not answer. After a time, she said, ‘Caroline was terrific, you know. Perhaps, someday, I'll learn to be that good.'

Paget found that he wanted to know what Terri thought, at least to talk again as professionals if they could not go deeper. ‘How were final arguments?' he asked. ‘From your perspective, that is.'

Terri seemed to search for words he might believe, yet that skirted what could not be said. ‘They both did what they had to do, I think. Salinas handled his evidence well.' Terri paused; she did not need to tell Paget what she meant. ‘Caroline was far different, and more emotional than usual. Where she was strongest was making them distrust Brooks and despise Richie. It's easier for a jury to think about reasonable doubt if they hate the victim.'

The last comment, flat and dispassionate, gave Paget a sudden frisson; they were lying in bed, talking about her dead husband, the man Paget was accused of murdering. Silent, he touched her skin.

Wind rattled the window. After a time, Terri said quietly, ‘If you want me to, I can stay.'

Part of him, Paget realized, desperately wanted her close; part of him was suddenly haunted by her presence. ‘What about Elena?'

He felt Terri watching him in the dark, face on the pillow next to him. ‘My mother's with her. She said she'd stay the night.'

‘Then be with me. Please.'

She moved closer to him; it seemed less spontaneous than hopeful, as if by doing this they could feel closer. But what Paget felt was all that had come between them.

‘I haven't said this enough,' he said quietly. ‘But I hate this for Elena.'

It was strange, Paget thought; Terri felt more distant. It was not that her body had moved; it was just that she seemed very still now, within herself.

‘I know you do,' she said.

It was the last they spoke.

At some point, sleep into the night, her quiet became sleep. Paget never slept. When he looked at the clock at last, hoping it was near dawn, the time was just past three.

In six more hours, the jury would begin again.

At ten-forty the next morning, Caroline called him at home.

‘You'd better meet me down there,' she said. ‘Lerner's deputy just called. The foreman sent Lerner a note – the jury wants to see him.'

‘They're hung,' Paget said automatically. His nerve ends tingled.

‘Maybe they just want more instruction,' Caroline answered. ‘But hurry.'

By the time he arrived, pushing through a crowd of reporters, the word had spread; the courtroom was filled with media people, and Salinas was there. Almost as soon as Paget arrived, the deputy led the jurors back to the box. The jurors looked strained and silent; Marian Celler and Joseph Duarte, who often chatted during breaks, did not look at each other. Luisa Marin, next to Celler, whispered something in her ear.

‘All rise,' the deputy intoned, and then Lerner took the bench.

He looked from Salinas to Caroline and then to the jury. ‘I have a note,' he said, ‘indicating that you have been unable to reach a verdict.' He found Joseph Duarte, asking, ‘Is that correct, Mr Foreman?'

Duarte stood, gazing straight ahead. ‘Yes, Your Honor. We're evenly divided.'

Paget tensed. ‘Good,' he heard Caroline murmur.

Turning, Paget saw that Victor Salinas was openly disappointed. His own palms felt clammy.

‘I'm going to ask you a series of questions,' Lerner said to Duarte. ‘I want you to listen carefully and answer each question without explanation or elaboration. Is that clear?'

The careful admonition seemed to increase the tension. Duarte merely nodded, as if reluctant to make a sound; in twenty-four hours, his air of confidence had frayed.

‘They're pissed at each other,' Caroline whispered.

‘Mr Foreman,' asked Lerner, ‘how many ballots have you taken?'

Duarte stood straighter. ‘Three.'

‘Without indicating whether the votes were “guilty” or “not guilty,” what was the division after the first ballot?'

Duarte paused a moment. ‘Seven to five, Your Honor.'

‘And when did you take your last ballot?'

‘At about nine-thirty this morning.'

Lerner frowned. ‘Is there anything the court can do, by providing a rereading of testimony or further instruction on the law, to assist your deliberations?'

Slowly, Duarte shook his head. ‘That's not the problem, Your Honor.'

Lerner folded his hands. ‘Is it your impression, Mr Foreman, that you cannot reach a verdict?'

‘Say “yes,”' Caroline whispered under her breath. ‘
Please
.'

‘It is,' Duarte answered.

Lerner looked from juror to juror, as if seeking confirmation. ‘I'm going to poll each of you,' he said at last.

Slowly, one by one, Lerner asked the jurors whether they believed they were deadlocked. The first five answered yes; the sixth, Marian Celler, hesitated before agreeing.

Lerner faced Luisa Marin. ‘Do
you
,' he asked, ‘believe that this jury cannot reach a verdict?'

Marin hesitated; watching, Paget was quite certain that she had never been the focus of this much attention, except perhaps in the hours after finding her policeman father dead. Through his anxiety, Paget felt for her.

‘No,' she said in a shaky voice. ‘It's only been two days. I think we should talk more.'

Paget tensed; did this mean, he wondered, that she was preparing to change her vote? ‘Let them
go
,' Caroline whispered to Lerner.

Lerner raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you believe,' he said to Marin, ‘that there is a reasonable likelihood that further deliberation will lead to a verdict?'

Marin nodded with an air of stubbornness. ‘We need to talk,' she repeated.

Duarte had turned, staring at Marin. Marian Celler frowned at him.

‘Duarte's voting against us,' Paget said under his breath.

‘I think so too. But what about Marin?'

On the bench, Lerner folded his hands. ‘Members of the jury,' he said. ‘This trial took two weeks. However difficult your discussions may have been, your deliberations have lasted less than two days. . . .'

‘
No
,' Caroline whispered. At the prosecution table, Victor Salinas sat up, alert with hope. Lerner did not have to push them, Paget knew, but Luisa Marin had given him a reason.

‘Under these circumstances,' Lerner continued, ‘you may not have considered all of the evidence. I would like you to return to the jury room, deliberate with mutual courtesy and respect, and see whether you can reach a verdict.'

Slowly, Duarte nodded. Marin folded her arms, looking at no one. Paget felt his eyes close.

By the end of the second day, the jury had not returned.

Chapter
2

At eleven-fifteen the following day, Caroline called Paget at his office.

‘They're in,' she said.

Paget felt his chest constrict. ‘I'll be right down.'

Replacing the receiver, he looked around his office. Part of him, he suddenly knew, did not wish to leave; only as long as he stayed here was he allowed to hope. In a kind of stupor, he put on his coat, fumbling with the buttons.

At his insistence, Carlo was in school. Paget had promised to call the principal's office directly after the verdict, so that Carlo would not hear it from schoolmates or reporters before Paget picked him up. No matter what, he resolved, he would keep his promise.