by Abigail Haas
“No.”
Dekker stops. “You weren’t in the house at that time?”
“No, I mean, we were. Me and Tate,” I clarify, trying not to trip over my words. “But the front door wasn’t the only way in.”
“But if a stranger broke in to attack Miss Warren, as you claim, then he would have had to have passed your bedroom to get there.”
“Objection!” My lawyer sighs. “The time of death has not been determined. The attack could have been carried out before the defendant returned to the house, or when she was out at dinner.”
“Sustained.”
Dekker hides a scowl. “I’ll rephrase,” he says. “If a stranger broke in while you were in the house, he would have gone directly past your room, isn’t that true?”
“No,” I say again, “There were other ways into the house.” I turn to the judge. “Can I show, on the screen . . . ?”
“Surely this is something for the defense cross-examination—” Dekker tries to talk over me, but the judge interrupts him.
“You brought up the floor plan, so I’ll allow it.”
There’s a moment’s pause, then Dekker reluctantly hands over the iPad and pointer.
“The front door wasn’t the main way in,” I explain, marking the other exits on the map. “We mostly went in and out via the deck, here, at the back of the house. The whole back wall opened up, like sliding doors, and they were unlocked most of the time. We were coming and going; it was too much hassle for everyone to deal with a key. Elise had a balcony of her own, with doors out over the beach—”
“Her balcony was several stories off the sand,” Dekker interrupts me quickly.
“One floor, not very high,” I insist. “About fifteen, twenty feet, with easy footholds in the wood beams. Niklas climbed up, just the night before, and Max got in there when we couldn’t open Elise’s bedroom. Anyone could have climbed up from the beach, and it’s set back, so not many people would see.”
“Anything else?” Dekker’s tone is dangerously polite. “Any secret passages, or hidden exits?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.” Judge von Koppel sighs. “The prosecution should refrain from sarcasm. Anything else to add to the floor plan, Miss Chevalier?”
“Just, our bedroom was across the house from Elise’s. We had music on, and . . .” I swallow. “If someone had been in there, we wouldn’t have heard. We didn’t hear anything.” My voice breaks, and my lawyer leaps up.
“We ask to adjourn for the day, Your Honor!” he says quickly. “The defendant is clearly emotional, no doubt suffering due to the prosecution’s incessant badgering—”
“Oh, come on!” Dekker interrupts. “This is a blatant attempt for sympathy. She’s fine.”
They all turn to look at me, the judge peering down with her usual inscrutable gaze.
I stare back at her, pleading. All day, it’s been nothing but the knife prints and the blood smears and the precise re-creation of our footprints in that hallway; until now I can hardly remember what I’ve said, and what Dekker has been drumming away at us.
“I’d prefer to avoid any further delay,” she announces, and my heart falls. “Mr. Dekker, you may continue your questioning, but keep it brief.”
He turns on me with a grin. “So, back to the floor plan. You claim you never heard anyone enter the house.”
“Not through the front door,” I correct him. “But like I said, you could climb up the balcony directly to Elise’s room. Niklas did it, maybe more than once.”
Dekker scowls. “As we’ve already established, Niklas van Oaten was at home with his father on the afternoon of the murder.”
“But if he climbed up, somebody else could have done the same.” I can’t keep the note of desperation from my voice.
“Somebody?” Dekker repeats, mocking. “Does that seem likely to you, Miss Chevalier? That a random stranger would decide to climb up the side of the house, in full view of the beach, not knowing if anyone is home? And then, when they find Miss Warren there, instead of fleeing, or simply knocking her down, they take the knife from the kitchen, and stab her thirteen times?”
I look down.
“That was a question, Miss Chevalier,” Dekker’s voice booms out. “Is that a likely scenario? Does it sound at all plausible to you?”
“It’s possible,” I say through gritted teeth. “Elise could have had the knife in her room. The window was smashed. It was a break-in.”
“You claim it was a break-in.” Dekker corrects. “Evidence for which, is murky at best. And as for your intruder theory, isn’t it far more likely that Miss Warren’s attacker knew her?”
“No,” I insist.
“Knew, in fact, that she would be alone in the house that afternoon.” Dekker ignores my reply. “And that this attacker could come and go in broad daylight, without raising suspicion. That her attacker had keys to the house and knew the alarm codes.”
“No!” My voice is shrill. He’s making it sound simple, too simple, and I can tell from the expressions in the courtroom that they agree.
“Isn’t it more likely that her attacker harbored a jealous rage . . .,” Dekker is relentless. “And was angry at the victim? Angry enough to stab her thirteen times and leave her there, bleeding to death on the bedroom floor—”
“Objection!” My lawyer finally cries out. “The prosecutor is testifying!”
“Sustained.”
“That’s fine.” Dekker grins at me again, cruel and triumphant. “I have no further questions for the witness at present.”
“Would you care to cross?” von Koppel asks my lawyer, but he must be able to tell, I’m beyond helping right now.
“No, Your Honor,” he sighs. “Nothing further.”
As I step down from the witness seat, I see my dad seated in the front row. He meets my eyes and quickly sends me a wave and a smile, but I catch the look on his face just before he manages to mask it: worried and bleak. The hopeless exhaustion in his gaze is how I feel after my day on the stand, but somehow, seeing it reflected back at me drives the chilling truth home. My legs waver, and a wash of dizziness passes over me as I realize the truth.
We’re losing this.
PRETRIAL
“The key is to get on the offensive. Find other suspects, start taking apart the prosecution’s case before we even get to trial.”
His name is Oliver Gates, and he’s an old college buddy of my dad’s, recruited to rescue my crumbling legal defense. A short teddy bear of a man in square black-rimmed glasses and a crumpled shirt, he paces in the small interview room, oblivious to the specks of coffee stains on his novelty golf-print tie. I watch, my heart sinking. He’s soft-looking and warm, a million miles from Dekker’s cut-throat aggression or even Ellingham’s snooty professional detachment.
And right now, he’s all I’ve got.
“There’s Tate, that’s something,” Gates continues, checking his notes. The table is piled with them, looseleaf and stuffed into cheap cardboard binders.
I frown. “I thought they dropped the investigation into him.”
“They did.” Gates nods. “But even with his plea, we can cast some doubt, stir it up. And this Juan guy, lurking around. This is good stuff.”
My expression must be less than confident, because he pauses, exhaling. “I know I’m behind,” he adds, apologetic. “And I’m not from some big fancy firm, like the other guy. But I’m getting up to speed on everything. I’ll do my best, I promise.”
“It’s not you.” I feel bad for letting my doubt show. “I’m just tired, of all of this. I thought . . . They told me everything would be okay, that they had a plan, and then . . .” I trail off, feeling tears sting in the back of my throat as I bite back the words I can’t bring myself to say.
Then they all left.
Ellingham quit. He’s still representing Tate and the Dempseys, of course. He didn’t even do it himself: He had his assistant call my dad to explain that it would be a conflict of intere
st, keeping me as a client. I guess we should have seen it coming, but it still hurt, yet another person walking away. Lamar and the gang are gone, Tate’s gone too, and now my dad—back in Boston to try to raise the money for this new legal team, and to pay for all these flights and hotel fees that mount up every time he comes to see me.
“It’s okay.” Gates sits beside me, a puts a hand, gentle on my shoulder. It’s the first kind human contact I’ve had in weeks now, and I have to shrug it off—not because I don’t want it, but because I need it too much.
“Did Dad say when he’s coming back?” I ask, swallowing back my emotion. For weeks now, I’ve had nothing but distant phone calls, with Dad’s voice so harried and guilty down the line. It only makes me feel worse, to think what this is putting him through.
“He’s trying.” Gates looks sympathetic. “But there’s a lot to do. He’s found a firm that has a branch in Amsterdam,” he adds in a hopeful voice. “We’re talking all the time about how best to proceed, how this is all going to play out. It’s a whole different legal system here.”
I nod.
“I’m asking around at the police department.” The other guy in the room speaks up for the first time. He’s younger, in his twenties, I guess, and dressed more casual in jeans and a shirt; dark hair cut conservatively over brown eyes. He’s been taking notes this whole time, and I figure him for Gate’s assistant, or some junior with his law firm. “Word is, Dekker isn’t the most popular guy,” he continues. I have to let out a bitter laugh at that. “So maybe we’ll find a source to give us the inside track on his investigation, find out why he got so fixated on you—and what he might have overlooked in the meantime.”
“Good.” Gates nods, making notes. “Any word from the embassy? Some official support could really help us out right now.”
The guy shakes his head. “I’m getting shut down at every level. Senator Warren must have got involved, or maybe the Dempseys. I shouldn’t even be here; this is all unofficial.”
I look up, confused. “But aren’t you with him?” I nod to Gates.
They exchange a look. “No, this is Lee Evans, a junior consul from the embassy.” Gates explains. “I introduced him when we met last week, remember?”
I don’t.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I guess things are kind of a blur. . . .”
“No need to apologize,” the Lee guy smiles at me.
Gates’s phone buzzes. “This is my investigator now; I’ll just be outside.”
He steps out, leaving me alone with Lee. Now that I’m paying attention, I can see he’s cute, preppy, and full of concern. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through in here,” he says softly.
I shrug, still wary.
“Are you sleeping okay?” he checks. “Can I bring you anything? Because we can get you some medication if you’re still having problems—”
“No, no more pills.” I stop him. “They make me too fuzzy,” I fidget with my handcuffs. Even here, in the interview room inside the prison walls, with a guard outside the door, they won’t take any chances. I look down at my chafed wrists and the nails I’ve bitten bloody. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to sleep anymore.”
He nods. There’s silence, but it’s not like with Ellingham, or any of the police—accusing and cold. This is warmer, understanding.
“You’ll get through this,” he says. “You’re strong.”
“How would you know?” I snap before I catch myself. “I’m sorry, I know you’re here to help, it’s just . . .”
“I’m just another stranger, I get it.” Lee looks rueful. “You must be sick of us by now.”
“No,” I reply a after a moment. “It’s better you’re here than . . . not.”
Gates comes back into the room. “Visiting hours are almost over. We should get going.”
“Okay.” I stand awkwardly, watching them pack all the paperwork away. “Will you be back tomorrow?”
“We have a lot of files to go through. . . .” Gates looks torn, so I keep my voice bright.
“It’s okay. It’s actually a good thing. Dekker can’t question me without you or a lawyer around. I bet he’s going crazy out there, having to leave me alone.”
“You shouldn’t joke,” Lee warns me quietly. “From what I’ve heard, he’s a dangerous man.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I turn to stare at him. “I’m trying, okay?”
“We know,” Gates soothes me. “You’re doing great. Here.” He reaches into his canvas bag. “Your dad sent this to give to you.”
I take the envelope. Inside, there’s a photo of the two of us from Christmas a couple of years ago. We’re wearing the dorky matching holiday sweaters my mom bought for us, smiling into the camera in front of the tree.
I love you. Everything will be okay—trust me.
• • •
I say my good-byes to Gates and Lee, watching through the bars as they head down the hallway and out of sight, to freedom.
Everything will be okay. Trust me.
I don’t know how many times he’s said that to me, not just here in prison but my whole life. When I was scared for the first day of school, or stressed about a big test; when I fell off my bike in sixth grade and split my lip. When my mom got sick. I always believed him. He’s my father, he wouldn’t lie to me; he’s a grown-up, he knows the truth. But now I see his promises for what they really are: hopeful prayers, a mantra he says as much to reassure himself as me.
He can’t fix this, not even close.
I drift back through the prison to the rec room. Without Dekker haunting my every day with his relentless questions, there’s nothing to fill the time except my own black thoughts. The other women still look at me suspiciously and turn away before they talk, but even if one of them did take pity and try to make conversation, I don’t know what I would say. They spend their days watching TV or repeating foreign-language tapes, reading from old school textbooks, mouthing along with the words.
“We return now to our main story of the night, the brutal murder of Elise Warren.”
I freeze.
They tell me not to watch any of the coverage, but I can’t help taking two steps toward the small TV set up in the corner of the room.
“An innocent spring break, ripped apart by an unspeakable crime. A jealous friend, with a history of violence and wild partying.” The anchor is blond and middle-aged, but hiding it under a layer of tanned makeup and a helmet of spray-stiff hair. It’s Clara Rose, the biggest name in salacious true crime TV. I used to channel-hop past her show—endless exposés of dead fiancées, kidnapped children, and murderous cheating husbands. Now it’s my own photo up on screen, the mug shot from the police station, the night Dekker formally arrested me.
“As Elise Warren’s family and friends still mourn her brutal stabbing, we go behind the scenes to reveal the truth about her accuser murderer, Anna Chevalier. What could have driven this straight-A schoolgirl to the edge?” Clara leans into the camera across her news desk, wide-eyed with fake dismay. “Stay tuned after the break, when we bring you psychologist reports and exclusive interviews with the friends who knew her best.”
I feel the eyes of the other women watching me. I know I should walk away, but I can’t. My feet stayed glued to their spot, my eyes fixed on the small screen.
I stay.
CLARA ROSE SHOW TRANSCRIPT
CLARA: Welcome back. Thanks for tuning in, I’m Clara Rose. Tonight, we go inside the crime that has rocked the island paradise of Aruba, the brutal murder of seventeen-year-old Elise Warren, daughter of former Massachussetts state senator Charles Warren, who recently stepped down from his post—and likely gubernatorial run—to spend time with his family during this horrible tragedy.