Free Degree of Guilt by Richard North Patterson Page A

watching into an eerie replica of the father.
    ‘Is it true,’ Paget finally asked, ‘that James Colt junior plans to run for governor?’
    Brooks nodded. ‘So I understand.’
    Paget appraised him. ‘You certainly do have your troubles,’ he said finally. ‘Which you might do well to leave behind.’
    ‘If only we could, Christopher. If only we could.’
    Paget considered him. ‘All right,’ he finally said. ‘So the M.E. doesn’t like the powder marks.’
    Brooks’s eyes widened in mock surprise. ‘Very perceptive,’ he answered. ‘There were no powder marks. No gunshot residue of any kind. Nothing.’
    ‘And so?’
    ‘So it’s a problem. The M.E. can’t always tell us what did happen, but she can pretty much always tell us what didn’t happen. And what didn’t happen here is that Miss Carelli shot Mark Ransom from two, three inches. Not even close.’
    ‘That’s surprising,’ Paget said. ‘Mary’s usually so precise. I guess she forgot her ruler.’
    Brooks’s smile was a narrowing of the eyes, quickly passing. ‘Nice jury argument. But with Ransom eight hours dead, we can’t ignore that. And it’s going to keep us thinking for a while.’
    ‘Come off it, Mac. Ransom was attacking her at the moment the gun went off. Mary could have been wrong. Ransom could have been shrinking back from the gun. Consider all the possibilities.’
    ‘And I’m sure you’ll suggest all that to her. Just as possibilities, of course.’
    Paget shrugged. ‘When she thinks about it, I doubt she’ll be able to swear to a distance.’
    ‘But then,’ Brooks went on, ‘there’s cutting off Monk’s questions. It just doesn’t sit right with some of the people you’re asking to believe her. And she did ask for a lawyer.’
    ‘Law school graduates are funny like that. And she didn’t ask for a lawyer – she asked for me. It was more like calling a friend, or a priest.’
    ‘A priest?’
    ‘Someone who would feel sympathy,’ Paget said coolly, ‘as she has every right to expect.’
    ‘She will certainly get sympathy. But just like you’re not a priest, I’m not an ostrich. One possible construction of pulling the plug on Monk is that she saw she was in trouble.’
    For the first time, Paget felt a moment of fear. ‘A far more humane construction,’ he retorted, ‘is that she was a bit under the weather.’ He turned back to Sharpe. ‘How many rape victims ever report what happened? Maybe fifteen percent, even people like Mary Carelli. They feel ashamed, they feel guilty, they feel alone, and if they report it, then they get to explain it all to some man they’ve never met, while they’re still semitraumatized. Mary Carelli got to explain herself within three or four hours of killing the man who tried to do it, sitting with Monk in an environment where she was utterly lost. So she felt disoriented, attacked, ashamed, and, yes, probably as “guilty” as any normal person would feel who has just shot someone to death. Even though she’s innocent under the law.’
    Sharpe’s face was taut; Paget realized that it was herself, not Mary, whom she saw as under attack. ‘We know about rape,’ she answered. ‘ I prosecute any case that’s righteous. Even if I think we’ll lose.’
    ‘I’m well aware of that.’ Paget looked back to Brooks. ‘You have a fine record on sex crimes, Mac. The people who care know that. Don’t throw it away by coming out on the wrong side of a bad case.’
    Brooks’s gaze was cool. ‘Give me a reason to spring her, Chris. One I can explain to people.’
    Paget had a bleak, wasted feeling. ‘I have a reason,’ he finally said. ‘But not one I’d like explained to anyone.’
    Brooks looked curious. ‘What is that?’
    How little, Paget thought, he wanted to say this, with or without Sharpe in the room. ‘My son, Carlo. He’s fifteen now and lives with me.’ Paget exhaled. ‘He’s also Mary’s son.’
    Brooks stared at him. ‘Sweet Jesus Christ,’ he