Degree of Guilt (44 page)

‘Do you recognize this photograph?’ Paget asked.

‘Yes.’ Monk spoke in measured tones. ‘It’s a police photograph, from the crime scene. Blown, up, of course.’

‘And is that how Ms Carelli appeared when you first saw her?’

‘Yes.’

‘That
is
a bruise on her cheek, is it not?’

‘Yes.’

‘And her eye was swollen?’

Monk nodded. ‘Yes.’

Paget raised an eyebrow. ‘Yet according to your testimony, there was no sign of a struggle.’

‘In the room itself,’ Monk responded. ‘That was what I said.’

Pausing, Paget gave him an incredulous look. ‘In the room itself,’ he repeated. ‘If the coffee table had been chipped, would Ms Carelli be on trial here? Or would you have charged her with vandalism as well as murder?’

Terri tensed. ‘Objection,’ Sharpe snapped. ‘The only purpose of
that
question was harassment.’

‘Sustained.’ Masters turned to Paget. ‘Don’t even try to rationalize that one, Counselor. And don’t insult the witness
or
this court by doing it again.’

‘Forgive me, Your Honor. I’ll try to make the point in a less polemic fashion.’ Paget again faced Monk. ‘Could you please look at the photograph, Inspector.’

As Monk turned to Mary’s bruised image, Paget backed away from it until he stood next to the witness stand. Together, he and Monk gazed at the picture like two visitors to a gallery. ‘Would you say,’ Paget asked conversationally, ‘that Ms Carelli’s face showed “signs of a struggle”?’

Monk nodded. ‘With a bruise like that, physical violence is one possibility.’

‘As a result of your investigation, are you aware of any
other
possibility?’

‘No,’ Monk answered carefully. ‘Not that we are
aware
of.’

‘And in fact, Ms Carelli told
you
that Mark Ransom had struck her as she tried to defend herself.’

‘Yes. She did.’

‘But you didn’t take her to the hospital.’

Monk blinked; Terri saw that the change of subject had come so quickly that it seemed to undermine his confidence.

‘No.’ Monk paused. ‘She said she didn’t want to go.’

Still gazing at the picture, Paget tilted his head. ‘Do you think that was a judgment that
this
woman should have made?’

Monk turned to him. ‘I thought she
could
make it, yes.’

‘Are you a doctor?’

Monk looked annoyed. ‘No.’

‘Do you know, for example, whether Ms Carelli had a concussion?’

‘No.’ For the first time, Monk showed some desire to explain. ‘When we got there, Ms Carelli was calm, well-spoken, and sensible. The bruise on her face was not near as ugly as that blowup makes it appear. If
she
didn’t want to go to the hospital,
we
didn’t want to force her.’

‘But you didn’t want to release her, either.’

‘Of course not.’ Monk frowned. ‘She’d not only killed Mark Ransom; she was the only person who
knew
what went on in that room.’

‘So forced with a choice between questioning Ms Carelli or taking her to the hospital first, you questioned her. Is that correct?’

Monk hesitated. ‘Yes.’

‘How soon after arriving at the Flood did you begin to question her?’

Monk stared at the ceiling. ‘Roughly three hours.’

‘And where did the questioning occur?’

‘The police station.’

‘What did you do with Ms Carelli in the meantime?’

Monk hesitated. ‘For forty minutes or so, we kept her there. Mostly for the medical examiner.’

Paget gave him a sideways look. ‘To take various tests?’

‘Partly.’

‘Like fingernail scrapings?’

‘Yes.’

‘And reexamining the scratches on the body?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you had time to poke and prod Ms Carelli for your own purposes, but no time to take Ms Carelli to the hospital for the purpose of ensuring her well-being.’

‘Objection.’ Sharpe stood. ‘Misstates the prior testimony. Inspector Monk has already testified that Ms Carelli didn’t
want
to go to the hospital.’

‘Sustained.’ Once more, Masters frowned at Paget. ‘Stick to the facts, Mr Paget.’

‘Of course, Your Honor.’ Almost immediately, Paget asked Monk, ‘So there were roughly two hours that Ms Carelli spent waiting for you to question her?’

‘Yes.’

‘And these were spent at the homicide bureau?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’ Monk paused. ‘We tried to be sensitive to her rights, Mr Paget. I’m sure we’d have heard from you if I’d detailed another homicide inspector to chat with her without Miranda warnings.’

Paget stared at him. ‘Speaking of sensitivity, Inspector, did you bring in a rape counselor?’

‘No.’

‘Or a doctor?’

‘No.’

‘Or bring her any food?’

‘I don’t know.’ Monk paused. ‘I know we gave her some coffee.’

‘With cream and sugar, I hope.’ Quickly, Paget looked up at Caroline Masters. ‘My apologies, Your Honor.’

Masters, Terri saw, wore a faint smile of amusement. ‘Respect, Mr Paget, is never having to say you’re sorry. Move on.’

‘Thank you.’ He turned back to Monk. ‘At this point,’ Paget asked, ‘did you know how long Ms Carelli had been without sleep?’

‘No.’

‘Or food?’

‘No.’

‘You never asked?’

Monk hesitated. ‘Not directly, no.’

‘But you did know she’d been beaten?’

‘She said she’d been hit. If that’s what you mean.’

‘I appreciate the fine distinction, Inspector. Let me put it another way.’ Pausing, Paget pointed at the picture. ‘You
did
see that bruise?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Ms Carelli had already told you that Mark Ransom had tried to rape her.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you knew that she had shot him.’

‘Yes.’

‘It also appeared from the room that she and Mr Ransom had been drinking champagne.’

‘Yes.’

Paget looked from Mary to Judge Masters, then back to Charles Monk. ‘So at the time that you questioned her, at least as far as you knew, in the last eight or so hours, Ms Carelli’s only nutrients were champagne and coffee.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And during those eight hours, you had reason to believe, Ms Carelli had been struck, sexually assaulted, and forced to shoot someone.’

Monk stared at him. ‘She
wanted
to answer questions.’

‘Wouldn’t
you
, Inspector? Wouldn’t any normal person who shot someone in self-defense want at least to say that?’

‘Objection,’ Sharpe cut in. ‘That question is argumentative.’

‘Sustained,’ Masters said. But her face and voice told Terri that Paget’s point was made.

Paget still faced Monk. ‘Are you familiar with the medical definition of shock, Inspector?’

‘No.’ Monk was clearly nettled now. ‘But I have a layman’s experience of shock, gained in twenty years of dealing with violent crime. And in my experience, Ms Carelli had none of the loss of focus that
I
associate with shock.’

Paget stared at him. ‘I guess we’ll have to take your word for it – seeing that there was no doctor on the scene. But are you really comfortable trying to nail Ms Carelli for discrepancies in what she told you, after eight hours of the trauma you’ve just acknowledged, without offering her so much as a Big Mac and fries?’

‘
Objection
,’ Sharpe called out. ‘This is a court of law, not a high school debate. Rhetorical questions have no place here.’

‘Mr Paget,’ Masters said, ‘please show the rules of evidence some respect. And for that matter, give the court at least modest credit for intelligence. I got the message five questions ago.’

Paget smiled. ‘Then I’ll be happy to sit down,’ he said.

Sharpe stood. ‘A few brief questions,’ she said.

Masters nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

Sharpe faced Monk. ‘Who terminated your interrogation?’ she asked.

‘Ms Carelli.’

It was a good opening question, Terri realized. Unable to attack the tape itself, Paget had undercut the basis for it – that Mary was equipped to talk at all. Now Sharpe would try to show that Mary was in full control.

Sharpe went on. ‘So Ms Carelli felt free to decide not to answer any more questions.’

‘Of course.’

‘When she refused to continue, did Ms Carelli seem disoriented?’

‘Objection,’ Paget said. ‘We’ve already established the witness’s lack of medical expertise.’

‘I’m not asking for a medical opinion,’ Sharpe retorted. ‘I’m asking the kind of questions any layperson is entitled to answer: “Did Ms Carelli seem confused?”’

‘Overruled,’ Masters said. ‘The witness may answer.’

‘No.’ Monk paused. ‘I remember thinking that Ms Carelli was unusually poised and very smart – remarkably so for a woman who’d just shot someone to death.’ Monk paused again. ‘The thing that really struck me is that she turned off the tape herself.’

Listening, Paget did not change his expression. But Terri knew how much these questions had to hurt; the woman Monk described more closely resembled the cool voice on the tape than the battered face on the easel.

Sharpe moved closer. ‘Did Ms Carelli ever ask for food?’

‘No. As the tape indicated, she asked for water.’

‘Did she ever ask for a doctor?’

‘No.’

‘Or for time to rest?’

‘No.’

Sharpe nodded. ‘After the end of the tape,’ she said softly, ‘did she ask for anything at all?’

‘Yes.’ Monk looked from Mary to Paget. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘She asked for a lawyer.’

‘
This
,’ Marnie Sharpe said on the television, ‘is a simple act of murder.’

Terri and Paget sat in the library, reviewing Terri’s notes to help prepare for Elizabeth Shelton. Reporters were clustered outside. They had shouted questions as Paget had driven Terri and Carlo into the garage: the questions were as much about Carlo’s acknowledgment of Mary as they were about the trial.

Paget looked up at the screen; in dispassionate tones, he said of Sharpe, ‘She did well today.’

Terri paused, sensing how the loneliness of the hearing must bear down on Paget when he had so much at risk. They had done little but work, avoided all personal subjects; now she wished that there was something she could do for him besides be a lawyer. ‘You did well too,’ she told him.

He shrugged. ‘You’re kind to say so. But all I did was nibble at the edge. It’s not nearly enough.’

He sounded tired, Terri thought, and it was only the first day. ‘A lot of it’s up to Mary,’ she answered. ‘You can’t kill this case on cross-examination. No one could.’

‘Let us start,’ Sharpe was saying in the background, ‘with the only things about which Ms Carelli appears to have told the truth to anyone.’

Terri watched her for a moment. Quietly, she said, ‘What
is
the truth, I wonder.’

Paget leaned back on the couch, staring into the empty fireplace. Except for the lamps and the spotlit palm in the window, the room was dark; in profile, Terri could not read Paget’s face. Finally, he answered, ‘I try never to ask myself that.’

‘Because you don’t want to know?’

‘Partly that.’ He turned to her. ‘It feels almost like superstition – that there’s some reason that I
shouldn’t
know.’

‘And the other part?’

‘The other part is that knowing is impractical.’ He smiled faintly. ‘The truth might inhibit my imagination in constructing a defense.’

‘About the
dead
,’ Sharpe was noting quietly, ‘one can say just about
anything
.’

‘It’s a funny game we play,’ Terri said at length. ‘It’s not about the truth. It’s about burdens of proof and rules of evidence – what the prosecution knows, whether they can prove it, whether we can keep things out or cast doubt on what comes in.’

Paget nodded. ‘That may be morally unsatisfying, on a human level. It’s what I think civilians find so disenchanting the feeling that a trial is Kabuki theater and
not
a search for truth.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, they forget that the system is freighted with other values, one of which is that a civilized society is
not
about retribution at any cost. If it were, we’d just skip trials and start tearing Mary’s fingernails out until she told “the truth.” Whatever
that
is.’

‘Specifically,’ Sharpe was saying, ‘Dr Shelton believes that Mr Ransom had been dead for a good half hour when Ms Carelli chose to scratch the buttocks of a corpse.’

Paget looked up at the screen. ‘If I can’t do something with
that
,’ he said softly, ‘Mary’s close to finished.’

In Terri’s mind, she heard Monk testifying again, tracing Mary’s fingerprints as she drifted about the room at will, touching lamps, tables, drawers in a stranger’s hotel suite. Doing what? Terri wondered. And was Ransom still alive, or dead on the floor?

‘Do you think she’s still lying?’ Terry asked Paget.

Paget stared at her. ‘Yes,’ he said in a reluctant voice. ‘At least in part. But I don’t know
which
part. Nor do I want to.’

Terri considered him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she answered softly. ‘But I think I’d like to know.’

‘Then do me a favor, Terri. Just don’t tell me.’ He hesitated, then added softly, ‘I think it’s enough to know the truth about our own lives.’

Terri fell quiet for a time. ‘I keep wondering,’ she ventured, ‘what happened to the second tape. And, for that matter, to the Lindsay Caldwell tape.’

For a moment, Paget looked upstairs, as if afraid that Carlo might hear them. ‘I have no idea,’ he finally said. ‘But seeing as how you’ve asked, I don’t think the tape got lost by accident.’

Terri stared at him. ‘Mary?’ she asked.