The Last Precinct - Cornwell Patricia - Страница 51

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"So now we hammer at my credibility." The tasteless pun is deliberate. She is swinging at me just as Chandonne did, but for a very different reason, of course. She doesn't want to destroy me. She wants to make sure I am not destroyed.

"Why did you sleep with Jay Talley?" She is at it again.

"Because he was there, damn it," I retort.

She erupts in a sudden salvo of laughter, deep throaty laughs that push her back in her chair.

I am not trying to be funny. I am disgusted, if anything. "That's the banal truth, Ms. Berger," I add.

"Please call me Jaime." She sighs.

"I don't always know the answers even to things I should. Such as why I had my moment with Jay. But I'm ashamed of it. Up until a few minutes ago, I felt guilty about it, so afraid I Used him, hurt him. But at least I didn't kiss and tell."

To this she has no response.

"I should have known he's still in the locker room," I go on as my indignation unfurls brightly before our eyes. "No better than those teenaged boys gawking at my niece in the mall the other night. Walking hormones. So Jay has bragged about it, I'm sure, told everyone, including you. And let me add…" I pause. I swallow. Anger is a lump in my throat. "Let me add that some details aren't your business and will never be your business. I ask you, Ms. Berger, as a matter of professional courtesy, not to go places where you don't belong."

"If only others would abide by that."

I make a point of looking at my watch again. But I can't leave, not before I ask her the most important question. "You believe he attacked me?" She knows I am referring to Chan-donne this time.

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't believe that?"

"Obviously, my eyewitness account turns everything else he's said to the bullshit it is," I reply. "It wasn't them. There was no them. Only that goddamn son of a bitch pretending to be the police and coming after me with a hammer. I'd like to know how the hell he can explain that. Did you ask him why there were two chipping hammers at my house? I can prove from the hardware store receipt that I bought only one." I push that point again. "So where did the other one come from?"

"Let me ask you a question instead." She avoids answering me again. "Is there any possibility you only assumed he was attacking you? That you saw him and panicked? You're positive he had a chipping hammer and was coming after you with it?"

I stare at her. "Assumed he was attacking me? What possible explanation could there be for him being inside my house?"

"Well, you opened the door. That much we know, right?"

"You aren't asking me if he was an invited guest, are you?" I stare defiantly at her, the inside of my mouth sticky. My hands are trembling. I push back my chair when she doesn't answer me. "I don't have to sit here and take this. It's gone from the ridiculous to the sublimely ridiculous!"

"Dr. Scarpetta, how would it make you feel if it was publicly suggested that you, in fact, did invite Chandonne into your home and assaulted him? For no reason, except perhaps you panicked? Or worse. That you are part of his conspiracy as he has stated on tape_you and Jay Talley. Which also helps explain why you went to Paris and slept with Talley and then met Dr. Stvan and took evidence from the morgue."

"How would that make me feel? I don't know what else to say."

"You're the only witness, the only living person who knows that what Chandonne is saying is lies and more lies. If you're telling the truth, then this case is completely up to you."

"I'm not a witness in your case," I remind her. "I had nothing to do with the Susan Pless murder investigation."

"I need your help. It's going to be very, very time-consuming."

"I won't help you. Not if you're going to start questioning my veracity or state of mind."

"Actually, I don't question either. But the defense will. Seriously. Excruciatingly." She is cautiously working her way around the edges of a reality she has yet to share with me. Opposing counsel. I suspect she knows who. She knows exactly who is going to finish what Chandonne started: the dismantling, the humiliation of me for all the world to see. My heart beats in sick thuds. I feel dead. My life has just ended right before my eyes.

"I will need you to come to New York at some point," Berger is saying. "Sooner rather than later. And by the way, let me caution you to be very, very careful who you talk to right now. I don't recommend, for example, that you talk to anyone about these cases without conferring with me first." She begins packing up her paperwork and books. "I caution you about having any contact with Jay Talley." Her eyes flick mine as she snaps shut her briefcase. "Unfortunately, I think we're all going to get a Christmas present we're not going to like." We get up from our chairs and face each other.

"Who?" I go ahead and ask her in a tired voice. "You know who's going to represent him, don't you? That's why you stayed up all night with him. You wanted to get to him before his counsel slams the door shut."

"All true," she replies with a hint of irritation. "The question is whether I was suckered into it." We look at each other across the shiny expanse of the wooden table. "I find it a little too coincidental that within an hour of my last interview with Chandonne, I get word that he's retained counsel," she adds. "I suspect he already knew who his counsel was and may, in fact, have already retained him. But Chandonne and the dirtbag he's hooked up with would believe that this tape"_she pats her briefcase_"would only hurt us and help him."

"Because jurors either believe him or think he's paranoid and crazy," I summarize.

She nods. "Oh sure. They'll go for insanity, if all else fails. And we don't want Mister Chandonne at Kirby, now do we?"

Kirby is a notorious forensic psychiatric hospital in New York. It is where Carrie Grethen was incarcerated before she escaped and murdered Benton. Berger has just touched another part of my painful history. "You know about Carrie Grethen, then," I say in a defeated way as we walk out of a conference room that I will never feel the same about again. It, too, has become a crime scene. My entire world is turning into one.

"I've done some research on you," Berger says almost apologetically. "And you're right, I do know who's going to represent Chandonne, and it's not good news. In fact, it's pretty damn awful." She puts on her mink coat as we walk out into the hallway. "Have you ever met Marino's son?"

I stop and stare at her, dumbfounded. "I don't know anyone who has ever met his son," I reply.

"Come on, let's get you to your party. I'll explain as we walk out." Berger cradles her books and files, walking slowly over quiet carpet. "Rocco Marino, affectionately known as 'Rocky,' is an exceptionally sleazy criminal defense attorney who has an affinity for representing the mob and others who make it worth his while to get them off the hook by any means. He's flashy. Loves publicity." She glances over at me. "Most of all, he loves to hurt people. That's his power trip."

I flip off the hallway lights, throwing us briefly into darkness as we approach the first set of stainless steel doors.

"Some years ago_in law school, I'm told," she continues, "Rocky changed his last name to Caggiano. A final rejection of the father he despises, I suppose."

I hesitate, facing her in deep shadows. I don't want her to see the expression on my face, to detect my sense of utter undoing. I have always known that Marino hates his son. I have entertained many theories about why. Maybe Rocky is gay or a drug addict or simply a loser. Certainly it has been clear that Rocky is something of an anathema to his father, and now I know. I am struck by the bitter irony, the shame of it all. My God. "Rocky so-called Caggiano heard about the case and volunteered?" I ask.

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