John Lescroart - Guilt

'It changes who you are,Mark. It would change everything.'

Hovering over her now, he shook his head. 'No, it wouldn't.' He came down to one knee. ' I am the same person.'

She couldn't face any more of it, and she closed her eyes. 'Tell me you didn't do that, Mark. Please. You're scaring me to death.'

'And I suppose I killed Victor Trang for practice.' He put his hand around the back of her neck. 'It's your own guilt that's eating you up, Christina. Not mine. I don't feel any guilt.'

'Did you do it?' she repeated.

'And the guy in Vietnam, too. And raped Diane Price.'

'Did you?'

'What does it matter?'

'Please! I have to know.'

'No,' he said, 'you have to trust me.'

She took his hand away from her neck, holding it to keep it off her. 'When I know you've lied to me? When you act so convincingly? When you're just so cruel? I need to know, Mark. I need to know who you are.'

The eyes – at long last – softened. Shaking his head, he let out a sigh. 'I don't even remember this lie about Joe Avery, Christina. I don't remember what it was about, when I told it, anything about it. If I told you a lie, I'm sorry. The act I put on in the courtroom was a strategic decision. The insane accusations got to me and I let myself lose my temper, which I normally hold in pretty good check. That's all that was.'

'But were they insane, Mark – the accusations? That's what I'm asking you.'

'How many times do I have to answer that question, Christina?' He hung his head. 'God help the accused. It never ends.'

'It can. It can end right now.'

'What's it going to do for us? Or for me? I'll tell you again, no, I didn't do it, and then some other doubt will come up in six months or a year, or you'll hear some new story about something I did or didn't do in the Stone Age.'

'No, Christina, what's happening here is I've got to keep proving myself to you, over and over again. And I'm going to tell you the truth – it's wearing me down. You're doing what Wes has done, what Flaherty did…'

'What did they do, Mark? What did they do?'

'They abandoned me, Goddamn it! They didn't believe me, don't you see? They emasculated me. Except with you, it's more literal. That's what tonight was about, all these times it hasn't worked. I can't take your doubts anymore. What's happened is you cut my balls off.'

'Mark

'No! We've taken it this far. I don't feel like I'm a man around you anymore. I'm afraid the smallest slip of the tongue, the tiniest slip in behavior, and I'm back on the block being scrutinized and judged – and asked- over and over again. Well, I can't do it. My body doesn't lie. I'm not loose. I'm not having any fun. Nothing's easy anymore. It doesn't feel like you love me.'

He put his hands under her shirt and ran them over her belly, her breasts. She didn't want that – any part of it. What was the matter with him? Couldn't he tell that?

But he had just told her it didn't feel like she loved him anymore. And now, if she told him to stop, it would be worse.

She no longer felt she knew what the truth was. Maybe the whole thing was her fault, her weakness in not being able to believe.

She understood why he wouldn't tell her again, once and for all. He was right – it wouldn't be once and for all. The last time she asked him, it had been once and for all then, too. The question had been asked and answered. How many times did she have to ask, and what damage did it do to him each time?

He was going to be the father of their child, and her own inability to trust was threatening all of them.

But it wasn't all her. She knew that. Something had darkened in him. His hands were still moving over her, his breath quickening.

Maybe the darkness had always been there and it had taken these troubles to make it visible. But the way he treated her now, talked to her, it was coarse. He had coarsened. She didn't respond to it and never would.

She felt his hands on her. He was strong and powerful and she realized that she was afraid. Her skin seemed to crawl under his touch. After all they'd covered tonight, she couldn't imagine that he felt amorous. He pulled her shift up, brought his mouth to her breasts.

God, what made him work?

He yanked at the rope that held his robe and it fell open. He was hard, protruding. He took her hand and put it on him, exultant at the simple functioning. 'Here's something for you now.'

He pulled her underpants off – quickly now, roughly – afraid that the moment would pass again.

No words. He was pushing her back into the chair, opening her legs. There was a savage set to his jaw, and emptiness in his eyes.

She could do nothing to stop him.

After the trial, Wes Farrell gave up for a long time.

He decided not to cut his hair again until something – anything – made sense. He stopped cleaning his apartment, not much of his forte anyway. Enrolling in night classes, he started taking history courses because everyone in them was already dead and couldn't hurt him anymore.

As part of his decision to quit the practice of the law entirely, he gave up the lease on his North Beach office. He located and reattached the ten pounds he'd lost for the trial, cut off his fancy mustache and mothballed his fancy clothes.

The world was a sham. People – particularly charming winners – were scum. Any form of idealism was delusion. Since a quick and painless suicide by, say, gunshot wound smacked of commitment, he elected to pursue the more leisurely course of gradual alcohol poisoning.

There had been a short window of opportunity right as the trial was winding down during which he considered calling Sam Duncan. After he'd read Diane Price's diary, he knew he'd been an arrogant fool and was wrong on all counts.

After he'd heard from Flaherty and decided to abandon the character issue, Wes realized he would not have to cross-examine Diane Price. He would not have to take her apart.

And that, in turn, might give Wes the chance to tell Sam that he'd come to believe her. He was a schmuck. He loved her. Could they perhaps try again?

But Wes wasn't Mark Dooher with his good timing and phenomenal luck. He was the punching bag for a hostile universe. The Diane Price fiasco with her rogue firearm took his play with Sam out of the game.

Since he was down anyway, Lydia chose this moment to confide to him the tender tale of her and Dooher's carnal union on the day of Sheila's funeral.

So Wes decided to sink for ever into his quagmire of drink and despair over humanity. Lydia's story strengthened his resolve against women in general. He couldn't let himself forget that any commitment in the love area was bogus and suspect and programmed for failure. And he'd had enough failure.

In what he took to be a sign of his mental health, he forged a firmer bond with Bart, firing the graphic designer in his building who had been taking the dog out for walks. Wes started caring for Bart – albeit haphazardly – on his own.

The dark period lasted seven or eight months, but the race riots that nearly destroyed the city in the summer following the trial got his attention and he wound up being coerced by circumstances into helping a fellow student who was being framed for a racial murder, and making an unlikely ally in Abe Glitsky.

Finally, he'd done some good as a lawyer.

So he cut his long hair and broke out his old suits and started again.

And by then, time had healed some of Sam's wounds as well.

He put the full court press on her with apologies and flowers and apologies and dinners. And apologies. He was an insensitive non-Nineties type of guy but he was going to try and change. And he meant it.