by Zara Lisbon
CHAPTER 9
JUSTINE CHILDS BUILDS A CASE
As she’d been instructed, my mom took me to see Jack Willoughby the following day at two thirty. The offices of Thatcher, Chance, and Shaw were classic and pared down. A little stuffy. Some carpet, lots of marble. Or maybe it was marble laminate. Various degrees from prestigious schools hanging from wood-paneled walls. We sat across from Jack, who rolled his sleeves up and greeted us with a warm smile.
“Thank you for taking the time to make it over today,” he said. “I’m looking forward to getting down to work.”
“Well, it’s not like we had a choice,” I grumbled. I wasn’t trying to be rude; I was just so anxious I couldn’t keep it down. My heart pounded. I felt as though my skeleton were trying to jump out of my skin and dash away.
“Justine,” my mom scolded, “Come on.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it.
“I get it,” he assured me. “This is extremely stressful. But you’re in good hands, and the strategy here is simple.”
“Excellent,” my mom said, sitting up stick straight. “Let’s talk strategy.”
“First off, there’ll be a fitness hearing. That will determine whether or not Justine is unfit for juvenile court. If she’s found to be unfit, she’ll be tried as an adult.”
“She’s absolutely fit for juvenile court,” my mom said. “She’s only sixteen.”
“It’s … possible, yes, but—”
“What would the difference be?” I asked.
“In juvenile court, the verdict is decided by a judge, no jury, and you can’t be sentenced to jail, only juvenile hall. In adult court, you have a jury to decide on a verdict, and, of course, you can be sentenced to jail for any number of years.”
“Jesus Christ.” My chest tightened. My mom slipped herself a Xanax and rubbed her temples.
“What are the factors that would determine where she’s tried?” she asked.
“Past records, the nature of the crime … but let’s put that out of our minds,” Jack said, seeing the distress he’d caused, and made a swooping gesture with his hands as if wiping the information off a screen. “Let’s proceed now as if you’ll be standing trial in juvenile court. The way I see it, there’s not enough evidence to prove your guilt. We have one eyewitness, who I can prove unreliable, and besides that, it’s just the fingerprints on the murder weapon.”
“That second one is a pretty big deal,” I pointed out. “Isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “Just because your prints were found on the knife doesn’t mean they were from that night. And besides, there were other prints too. Yours weren’t the only ones.”
“Who else’s prints were found?” my mom asked.
“I don’t know.” He glanced at his notes. “They don’t know yet.”
“I bet anything they’re Olivia’s,” I said.
“Who’s Olivia?” he asked. “And what makes you think that?”
“She was a friend of Eva-Kate’s. She never really liked me. But I saw her last night and she said something … Well, okay, so, I asked her a question and she said, ‘As if I would tell you, ya psycho bitch.’”
“And?” my mom asked.
“Go on,” Jack encouraged me.
“And the thing is, I realized I’d seen on Eva-Kate’s Instagram someone had written, ‘I hope you die, ya Barbie.’ So, I mean, that has to point to something, right? Not everyone talks like that, you know? It’s kind of specific.”
“Maybe.” Jack wrote it down. “It’s not really enough to cause reasonable doubt, but it might be worth looking into. Do you know where she was the night of Eva-Kate’s death? Or why she might want to hurt her?”
“She was there, at Eva-Kate’s house,” I said. “But a motive? I don’t know.”
“Okay, well, for now you don’t need to worry about that. For now all you need to do is stay out of trouble and under the radar. Forget about what other people did or didn’t do, and let’s stay focused on the fact that the prosecution’s evidence is weak and I’ll be able to take it apart in court. Does that make sense?”
Hardly, I thought. “Sure,” I said, forcing a smile. But no way was I going to go home and rest easy knowing I was the main suspect in the death of a national star.
* * *
When I woke up, blackout curtains had been installed on my windows and everything was dark. I had to peer between a slit in the fabric to orient myself. An overeager sunbeam sliced into the room and I jerked back, startled. The sound of claws against wood told me Princess Leia was somewhere in the room, blessed with having no idea of what was happening in my life. The truth was I could go to jail and she’d be fine. At that thought, I reached for the half-empty bottle of scotch stored under my bed and took a big gulp, the liquid flaring down my throat in soothing strands.
With the edge taken slightly off, I reached for my phone and unlocked it. In my experience—and maybe you can relate to this—Instagram is a colorfully curated escape from the doldrums of real life, an easy way to check out, then check back in whenever you feel ready. But not today. Not this time. I opened the app and was met with torrential notifications. Likes and tags, follow requests and comments. I scrolled and scrolled, seeing no end to any of it. Thousands of comments, then hundreds of thousands, the numbers racing up faster than I could blink. My heart pumped, eyelids flickered. If the numbers themselves were the high, the comments were the comedown.
You are a psycho murderer, one read. Too bad California doesn’t have the death penalty, said another. I should have stopped there, but Lord knows I’ve never had that level of willpower.
Justine Childs is a cold-blooded killer.
I hope you rot in hell, you social-climbing whore.
You’re not fooling anyone, devil’s child!
If Eva-Kate never met you she’d still be alive.
Kill yourself.
God is judging you.
Whore.
Kill yourself.
Are you happy now, bitch?
How do you sleep at night?
Kill yourself.
Psychopath.
This is what evil looks like.
Of course she’s guilty, she was jealous of Eva-Kate and couldn’t handle it!
You think you’re gonna get away with this but you’re not!
Kill yourself.
Cold-hearted bitch!
Morally FUCKED.
How can you stand yourself?
You disgust me.
Kill yourself.
You’ll get what you deserve.
You’re not even pretty, LOL!
This skank killed Eva-Kate!
Die, die, die.
Kill yourself.
Bitch.
Psycho killer.
Kill yourself.
Whore.
Tramp.
Kill yourself.
Kill yourself.
Kill yourself.
Kill yourself.
Each one felt like a punch to the stomach. It didn’t matter if I was innocent; the world was going to skewer me for this. But then, through the dense overlay of tears, I caught a glimpse of solace.
Y’all got it twisted. Justine is 100% innocent. Link in bio.
The comment was written by someone going by @Kenzie.Malone. Her account was mostly flowers and seascapes, all of it adhering to a strict pink-and-blue color scheme. Of the one hundred and twelve photos posted, she wasn’t in any of them. The link in her bio read: FreeQueenJustine.com. I clicked, exhilarated.
The link took me to a bare-bones website with my name and face plastered at the top. Underneath my face a titled typewriter font read: I.N.N.O.C.E.N.T. And beneath that:
Hey, guys, my name is Kenzie Malone, and I believe very strongly that Justine Childs did not kill Eva-Kate Kelly. I intend to do everything in my power to prove her innocence, and I hope you’ll join me in this mission. If you’re not convinced, here are the reasons I personally believe she couldn’t have committed
this heinous crime:
No motive—why on earth would Justine kill her best friend? As far as we know, there was no conflict between the two.
Unlike Justine, plenty of people out there had a problem with Eva-Kate (to protect myself, I can’t post any theories publicly, but my DMs are open if you wish to discuss).
She wasn’t at the house at the time of the murder.
She has no history of being a violent person.
If you’d like to donate money to the Justine Childs Innocence Project, click HERE. If you’re a true Eva-Kate Kelly fan, you’ll want to know the truth about what happened to her, so I suggest you stop wasting your time by barking up the wrong tree. Let’s find the real killer!
Yours truly,
Kenzie
Beneath her message, a carpet of comments unfolded, these ones taking on a completely different tone than the ones posted to my Instagram:
Justine is an angel, she couldn’t hurt a fly!
Too pretty to be a killer, smh.
Donated!
INNOCENT!
Honestly, why would such a quality human being waste her time with trash like Eva-Kate anyway?
She WILL be exonerated.
LEAVE JUSTINE ALONE (to the tune of Leave Britney Alone, LOL).
Justine, if you’re reading this, we got your back!
It was Rob.
Donated!
Look at that baby face! She’s too cute!
Leave her alone, damn.
Eva-Kate was friends with shady-ass people, Justine is not one of them!
Donated!
Let me know how I can help.
I bet it was Rob.
If you think that girl could kill anyone you are TRIPPING.
Her mom was after her money.
Aren’t the cops looking into Rob? It’s always the boyfriend.
Innocent.
SO innocent.
Rob. It was Rob. Haven’t you seen Law and Order? It’s always the boyfriend!!
Free Justine!
Justine is Queen.
Bae.
Donated!
WE LOVE YOU JUSTINE!
Justine is an ANGEL.
It had to be Rob. I mean, come on.
Thanks for making this site, let’s get her in the clear!
OMG she is SO innocent.
Leave Justine Alone is the new Leave Britney Alone.
#freeJustine
They went on and on. I read to the bottom and closed my eyes. How odd, I thought, how little any of these people knew about me, about who I am and about what actually happened. But they had such big, certain opinions anyway. I couldn’t remember the last time I was certain about anything, let alone the life of a total stranger. They thought they knew me and I felt sad for them. So this is what it’s like, I thought, when massive amounts of strangers think they know you. Dizzy and disoriented, soaring and shaky like the ground has been pulled out from beneath you. It was a thrill and a horror. The strange comfort of a fever. I didn’t know if I liked it. I didn’t hate it.
Kenzie Malone had set up a corner of the site for “Anonymous Theories,” but after thirty minutes of scrolling, I saw nothing even remotely useful. All of it boiled down to: It was Rob. It was Rob. It was Rob. Can’t one of you help me? I thought, pleading then with the universe, Can’t somebody help me? Jack Willoughby would. Maybe. I prayed.
I typed his name into the search bar and traded FreeQueenJustine.com for nine Google search results. I clicked on the first one, an article on CHOMPER.com. “Prodigy Jack Willoughby Makes Legal History as Youngest Lawyer to Acquit Defendant in Murder Trial.” The article read: After almost one year in court, Jessica and Rebecca Bianchi walk free. Accused of slaying their parents in cold blood, the twenty-two-year-old twins were found not guilty.
“No, I don’t think they did it,” said juror Althea Judkins. “Of course, it’s possible, there was some evidence that said maybe so, but on the other hand there was overwhelming evidence that a third party was in the house that night. So, you know. Reasonable doubt and whatnot.”
“Yes, I’m extremely happy with the outcome,” said Willoughby. “But I’m not at all surprised. Once Jessica told me she heard a voice that night, a voice that wasn’t her sister’s, I knew we could prove somebody else was in that house. It was simple: My clients were innocent. I knew that from the beginning, and now the jury has spoken.”
What about me, Jack? I stopped to think. Am I innocent? Then I kept reading: At only twenty-four years old, defense attorney Jack Willoughby makes legal history as the youngest lawyer to ever win a murder trial. After credibly establishing the possibility of the presence of a third person in the Bianchi house the night of the killings, Willoughby convinced the jury to acquit. Authorities are now investigating Lawrence Shaeffer, boyfriend of Rebecca Bianchi, whose footprints were found in the home and whose fingerprints were found on the shotguns used to kill Mr. and Mrs. Bianchi.
The article went on for a little while after that, but I had all the information I needed. And I needed to talk to Dr. Silver. If somehow I could prove he’d come by that night, maybe they’d check the athame again and find his fingerprints, and then just maybe … maybe everything would be okay again and I could go on to live some semblance of a normal life, find inner peace, or something like it. Doubtful. The word flared up in fiery neon branded somewhere in the back of my mind.
I opened Instagram to message Ruby and saw that my following had gone up to one hundred and eighty thousand. One hundred eighty thousand people. Following me. It was a rush of champagne bubbles to the head. Champagne, I thought. If a hundred and eighty thousand followers isn’t something to celebrate, then what is? I made sure my mom wasn’t around, then popped a bottle from my dad’s cabinet and poured the overeager liquid into a glass flute. I brought the glass to my lips, then tilted my head back so the champagne slid swiftly down my throat, sparkling all the way down. Satisfied with the instant buzz, I returned to my room.
I found Ruby on Instagram (@Ruby2sday, 43.8K followers) and DMed her: Ready to see the Dr. now. ASAP.
She wrote back almost immediately: be ready in an hour.
So I was.
If I went out the back into the alley, I’d risk my mom seeing me through her office curtains, so I went out the front and power walked, baseball cap pulled over my eyes, glancing over my shoulder every few steps, to the end of the street, where Ruby idled in a vintage Mustang. Dusty sunset pink, top down.
“I made an appointment at his Beverly Hills office under a fake name,” she said with a coyote-sly smile. “We’ll pretend like we’re there for a consultation, then get him to admit what he did. I’ll record it on my phone.”
“How were you able to get us in so last minute?”
“This guy’s reputation has kind of sucked for a while, he’s just rebuilding.”
“Okay, but…” She was so excited, I didn’t want to rain down hard on her parade, so I treaded lightly. “I’m not sure that … I mean, do you think he’s really just going to admit to murder just like that?”
“Not to murder,” she explained. “Just to being at the house that night. That’s all we need.”
This felt more realistic, more doable, and I relaxed a little.
“Do you mind putting the top up?” I asked. “I really shouldn’t be out.”
CHAPTER 10
JUSTINE CHILDS VISITS PLASTIC SURGEON
The offices of Dr. David K. Silver were located twelve floors above a Bank of America and had tall, tinted glass windows overlooking Santa Monica Boulevard, which looked distant and flat from that distance, the cars like kindergarten toys. Ruby, with her hair tied back and face half hidden behind black Balenciaga cat-eyes, scribbled furiously on a stack of intake papers using the name Jordan Hayes, while I accidentally found myself in a staring contest with a fat clown fish squirming inside an aquarium that protruded from the wall like a pregnant belly. I was either too tired or too nervous to look away. The slick, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach
was as if I’d swallowed that clown fish whole. I twisted my hair up into my baseball cap and put on my reading glasses, hoping this would be enough for me to go relatively undetected. If Dr. Silver recognized me—or Ruby, for that matter—we wouldn’t get a word out of him. And I needed that word.
A nurse with freshly bleached hair and too much lip liner called Jordan Hayes. Ruby explained to her in a suddenly British accent that I was her sister.
“If it’s all right with you, I absolutely need to bring her into the consultation,” she explained. “She’s the voice of reason in my life and without her I’d make the stupidest decisions. She’s here to make sure I don’t leave here today with an entirely new face.”
“Sure, mhm,” the nurse said blandly with a routine smile, apparently impervious to Jordan’s awkwardly foreign charm. I, on the other hand, was very amused and had to look down at the white linoleum floor to keep from laughing. The nurse directed us down the hall and soon we were alone in a heavily air-conditioned, pine-scented room with a Hawaiian seascape rippling on a flat-screen TV to the melodic tune of a pan flute. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors flanked the TV. I looked up and saw that the ceiling itself was a mirror. The bird’s-eye view of myself in that black baseball hat made me feel like a pawn in a game of chess.
“Let me do the talking, yeah?” Ruby said. “You’re not the smoothest with words. And your nerves are palpable right now. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said, though I was, of course, offended. But I was even more grateful for the permission to stay silent.
“There’s something kinda calming about this place,” she said, hopping up onto the reclining chair covered in waxy paper. “It’s good to know there’s somewhere to go when I decide to get rid of the crow’s-feet I can already see starting to form on my face.”