by Abigail Haas
He’s not the only one. I wait, breathing softly, praying that this big break is something real and substantial, and won’t just fade away like Niklas or Juan or all the other arguments we’ve made these last weeks.
“Can you tell me what this is?” Gates asks. He hits the controller, and a familiar video begins to play, up on the screen.
I exhale, disappointed. We’ve already seen this: the security footage from the grocery store down the street from the house. There’s a date and time stamp in the corner showing the afternoon of the murder, and Elise is clear in view, idly browsing the snack aisle.
Lee leans forward from the seat behind me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Just wait,” he whispers with another grin.
Gates hits pause on the video, still waiting for an answer.
Dekker answers cautiously. “It’s the tape from the store, the last time the victim was seen alive.”
“You already showed us this footage, I know.” Gates smiles. All his previous weary defeat has disappeared, now he’s the shark, circling for the kill. “In fact, you used it to establish the time of death, and prove that Tate Dempsey couldn’t have been the one who killed her.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Dekker is looking worried now. His eyes dart to the back of the courtroom, like he’s seeking someone out. “The time of death gives him an alibi, but not her.”
“And by her, you mean the defendant.”
“Yes, of course,” Dekker snaps. He’s riled, I realize, watching carefully. He knows what this is about—what’s coming. Lee’s grip on my shoulder tightens in matching anticipation.
“Where did you get this tape?”
“From a source,” Dekker replies. “An outside investigator hired by the Dempsey family.”
“But this isn’t the full tape, is it?”
There’s a beat. Silence. Dekker opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
The judge leans over. “Detective?”
“I . . . I’m not sure what you mean.” Dekker’s sweating, his forehead shiny and red. He looks guilty, although of what crime, we don’t know yet. The courtroom is totally still, all of us waiting for the next words.
“Then let me show you.” Gates beams. “This is the video you submitted as evidence.” He starts the video again and the frames run through on the screen, grainy and black-and-white. Elise enters the store, browses the aisles. She grabs a bag of chips and a soda, pays, and leaves. The video cuts.
“But that wasn’t the only footage given to you, was it?” Gates says loudly. Dekker is silent. “There was footage from a second camera, outside the store.”
This is news to me—and everyone else. Fevered whispers fill the courtroom.
Gates hits play and another video starts, this one angled from the doorway, with a view out into the busy street. We see Elise stroll toward the store and enter, but there’s another figure in the frame, several steps behind.
Juan.
I inhale in a rush. Even in the grainy recording, it’s him: dreadlocks and a loose linen shirt. He follows Elise down the street, then drops back as she enters the store. He stops, waiting on the other side of the road.
Gates pauses on him lurking there, watching the grocery store. “Is this the man known to you as Juan?” he asks.
“Yes,” Dekker replies quietly.
“The man named as a suspect by the defense, whom the defendant says argued with the victim and followed them back on their first day.”
Dekker is silent, but then offers a grudging “Yes.”
“And in this footage, does he appear to be following the victim, again? Stalking her?”
Dekker doesn’t say a word.
“Let’s take a look for ourselves.” Gates hits play again.
The video continues: Juan loiters opposite the grocery store. Elise emerges, just a blond head in the frame. As she exits to the right of the camera shot, Juan crosses the street, moving closer toward us—and Elise. Gates freezes the video just before he disappears from the frame: the large figure heading determinedly after Elise.
There’s a long silence.
I can’t believe it—that the video existed, all this time. Dekker saw this and tried to bury it. I knew he hated me, but I didn’t realize he would tamper with evidence just to see me go down.
Lee’s hand slips from my shoulder, but I reach to grab it, holding tight. We share a breathless, hopeful smile as Gates circles for the kill.
“When did you decide to edit this video?” Gates demands.
“I . . . It wasn’t a decision, as such,” Dekker fumbles. “There were many leads—”
“But this offers clear proof that Juan was the last person to see the victim alive.”
“We don’t know—”
Gates talks over him. “So not only did you ignore a crucial suspect but you deliberately withheld evidence that would help clear my client!”
“I—”
“Why did you ignore this evidence?” Gates demands. “Why pursue this unjustified and deeply flawed prosecution against my client when you knew full well there were better suspects more likely to have committed this crime?”
“We tried to locate Juan,” Dekker argues weakly. “But we couldn’t find him.”
“And you needed a suspect,” Gates mocks him. “Someone to put on trial, to prove to the world you weren’t a bungling, incompetent detective. So you picked my client—a young woman with no criminal record, no motive, no history of violence—”
“She does, she could have—”
“You picked her to be the scapegoat for this farce of a trial!” Gates finishes with a roar.
Silence. Dekker is slumped in his seat, sweaty and broken. He knows he fucked up, and now we all know it too.
“No further questions,” Gates finishes. “The defense rests.”
THE TRIAL
After Dekker is humiliated on the stand, my dad presses Gates to file for a mistrial. “We can argue incompetence, withheld evidence,” he argues, but Gates stands firm.
“A mistrial isn’t the end,” he explains. “Another prosecutor could launch another case, and then we’d wind up back here, a year, two years from now. They might not even let her go home before a new trial.”
“Seeing this through is the only way,” Lee agrees. “An ‘innocent’ verdict finishes this for good.”
But what if I’m not found innocent after all? I want to ask, but they’re all so upbeat and optimistic, I can’t bring myself to be the lone voice of warning. “The video changes everything,” they say over again, with a breathless enthusiasm that tells me just how dire my situation was before. Now we have proof of Juan’s stalking and Dekker’s vendetta against me. The judge will have to question everything, and see Dekker for the corrupt man he really is.
I try to stay calm, but their hope is infectious, like sunlight warming me in my dark cell, and I sleep straight through the night for the first time in months. When I’m taken to meet Dad in the conference room of the courthouse the next morning, he greets me with a box of fresh-baked pastries and a clutch of brown manila envelopes.
“What are those?” I ask, sinking my teeth into a soft pillow of flaky donut.
“College letters,” he replies with a smile. “They came for you months ago, but I didn’t want to get your hopes up, before . . .”
My hand freezes, outstretched. “But won’t it jinx things?” I whisper. It feels way too soon to be thinking about the future, not with the trial still in progress and everything still ready to fall apart.
“Gates is going to finish up the defense today,” Dad says. “He thinks we should end on the video, and not throw anything else to distract the judge. So, with closing arguments and some final motions, we’ll be wrapped by tomorrow.” He gives me another hopeful smile. “The judge could have a verdict before the weekend.”
I sit down with a thump. “So soon?” I feel a shiver.
“I called and spoke to the admissions people. They all deferred your place until next year
, if you want it. But you’ve got options. Your college fund is safe,” he adds awkwardly. “The money, from your mother. I never touched it. . . .” He pushes the envelopes toward me again, and despite every instinct screaming that this is a bad idea, that I’m tempting fate somehow if I look, I reach for them.
University of Chicago. Bryn Mawr. Georgetown. Smith. USC.
I open each envelope in turn, the paper already slit and waiting for me to slide out the cover sheets.
Congratulations!
Acceptances, a fat stack of them. I line them up in turn on the table, still feeling strangely uneasy. When I pictured getting my college letters, this was never how I imagined it. I was going to be waiting for the mailman at home, grabbing the pack from his outstretched hand and racing into the house to excitedly tear them open, already speed-dialing Elise.
“I’m sorry I opened them,” Dad apologizes, watching my face. I can feel the happy expectation radiating from him. “I didn’t want you to see, if there were any rejections.”
“I got in,” I say softly, staring at the admissions booklets, the glossy pictures of undergraduates strolling across leafy campuses. It’s a world I haven’t let myself imagine, or even think about, the great prospect of after.
Dad beams. “I know you want to try the West Coast,” he adds, but I shake my head.
“We were going together,” I say, stroking the cover of the USC packet. “It wouldn’t be right, walking around there, without her.” I take a breath. “Besides, I want to stay close to home—to you. An East Coast school.”
Dad smiles widens. “That . . . that would be great, sweetheart. I’d love to see you.”
I nod, still staring at the papers when the guard comes to summon us to the courtroom. My future, right there on the table: one path, the possibilities, but only if I make it out of this hell first.
I’m close. So close.
THE TRIAL
I walk into court the next morning knowing it’s one of the very last times. There’s nothing but legal motions and closing arguments now, before the trial ends and it’s all down to Judge von Koppel and her cool, blond deliberations.
I expected to feel relief, but instead, I almost don’t want it to end. This trial has been the only constant thing in my life for months now. First, it was the light on the horizon, keeping me going through the endless nights in prison. Now, there’s a comfort to the daily routine: dressing up in normal clothes; fixing my hair as best I can in a borrowed mirror; drinking in the view from the darkened windows of the prison van as we drive across the island to the courtroom.
It’s not just me—we’ve all fallen into a regular pattern here. Dad fetches coffee on his way in for us all; Elise’s parents sit in the same spot in the back left of the courtroom every day, staring straight ahead through every witness and piece of evidence. Even Dekker has his small habits and rituals, like the way he’ll straighten the papers on his table into perfect angles before the judge calls us all to order, and unbutton his jacket before standing to interrogate a witness. I know it sounds crazy, that something as dramatic as a murder trial could become normal and everyday, but it is to me now. And soon, everything will be different.
“Ready?” Lee gives me an encouraging grin as the judge settles in at the front of the room and we take our seats. “Nearly over now.”
He’s not the only one smiling. The mood in the courtroom is visibly lighter—they know we’re at the end too, and I guess the reporters and families are all relieved to be able to go home soon. Tate and Lamar and everyone have had to stay on the island throughout the trial, in case they were needed to testify. Only AK comes to court every day, probably making notes for his televised trial roundup on the Clara Rose Show each night. But the others stay away, and although being stuck in Aruba isn’t the worst fate, I know they must be ready to leave the minute the judge says that they can.
I’m the only one here who’s scared for this to be over.
“Counselors?” The judge bangs her gavel for silence. Gates rises, but the other table sits empty—Dekker nowhere to be seen.
Von Koppel frowns. “Have we seen the prosecution judge?”
There’s silence. I look around, confused. Dekker is always punctual and precise—in all the weeks of the trial, he’s never once been late.
“Let’s try to find him.” The judge doesn’t look impressed. She beckons Gates and a couple of people closer, and they begin to murmur in hushed tones.
I sit back, on edge now. “Where do you think he is?” I ask Lee. I drum a pencil against the table, my nerves suddenly jittering.
“Who knows? Maybe he had a crisis of faith and is off contemplating his sins,” he jokes, but I shake my head.
“Don’t.”
“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “Have you thought about what you’ll do?” Lee leans in close. His brown hair is longer than when I first met him, months ago, and brushes against his collar. “When you get out of here, I mean. What’s the first thing on your list?”
I feel that flash of panic again, like he’s tempting fate, but I know he’s only trying to keep my spirits up. I pause to think about it. “A bath,” I say at last. “I’m going spend a whole day in the tub—lock the door, use a whole bottle of bubble bath, just lie there for hours.”
Lee grins. “Sounds good.”
“What about you?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, go back and see my folks, I think.”
“You won’t go back to the embassy?”
Lee gives me a look. “I don’t think so. Technically they’re calling this leave, but, I don’t think I’ll be welcome back in the diplomatic corps again, at least not for a while.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. He’s never said anything, but I know being a part of my team has caused all kinds of problems with his job, and after Clara Rose started speculating about our relationship, it only got worse.
He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. I was thinking about going to law school, anyway, do this for real.”
“You mean rescuing damsels in distress from foreign jails?” I joke. “You should, you’d be great. But first,” I add, “can I recommend a haircut?”
He laughs. “You should talk.”
“Don’t remind me.” I groan, touching the split, sun-damaged ends of my hair. It seems silly, to care about my appearance when the rest of my life is on the line, but I quickly found out in prison that vanity can almost be a form of hope. You try to keep hold of the person you used to be, with all the same shallow, flimsy worries, because letting them go would be a form of surrender. “I’ll put that on my list,” I tell him. “First, a bath, then eight hours in a salon.”
“I think you look great,” Lee says, almost shy. Our eyes meet for a minute, and then there are footsteps, loud, as Dekker sweeps in. He’s clutching an armful of papers, his assistant scurrying behind.
“And here he is,” the judge says icily. “I believe we have some pre-closing motions to argue. Shall we go to my chambers?”
“A moment, Your Honor.” Dekker deposits the papers and pauses to take a breath. He turns and shoots me a look so full of triumph that it freezes the blood in my veins. “I would like to call a witness to the stand.”
“What’s going on?” I whisper, anxious, but Gates is already approaching the front of the room with Dekker quickly following behind. They argue there for a moment with the judge, their voices too low to reach me. “What’s he doing?” I ask Lee again, but he just shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know.”
“But he can’t, can he?” I ask. “The prosecution finished; it’s against the rules.”
“Sometimes, the judge will let them,” Lee watches the front of the room. “If it’s important enough.”
Dekker’s new witness must be, because after another few minutes of hushed argument, Gates returns, downcast. “She’s allowing it,” he says. We all look to one another, not sure what this means. “Is there anything I need to know?” Gates leans in close, his expression like s
tone. “If there is, you need to tell me right now.”
“I . . . No!” I shake my head helplessly. “You know everything.”
Dekker clears his throat. “I’d like to call Melanie Chan back to the stand.”
Mel?
My head snaps around to watch her enter the courtroom. She’s dressed in a neat blouse and pleated skirt, hair smoothed back under a wide blue headband. Mel takes a seat in the witness chair, and raises her hand to swear the oath.
“Anna?” Gates urges again, under his breath. “What does she know?”
“Nothing,” I insist again, but Gates doesn’t look convinced. I wrack my brain, but nothing comes to mind—nothing that would have Dekker swaggering around so confidently, like the trial is as good as won. “She was off diving with the others, she wasn’t even there that day!”
Gates nods grimly, scribbling a note. “Let’s see what this is about, then,” he says, turning back to the front.
There’s silence, and then Dekker begins.
“You already testified here before, Miss Chan.”
“Yes.”
“But you contacted my office yesterday to retract that testimony.”
“I . . . Yes.” Mel meets my eyes briefly, then looks away.
“So what you told this court several weeks ago wasn’t true?”
“No, it was, I just . . . I didn’t tell you everything.”
Gates leaps to his feet. “Objection! The witness has admitted perjuring herself. Anything else she has to say now cannot be seen as reliable.”
“I’m inclined to agree.” Von Koppel flickers an eyebrow to Dekker.
“I understand. However, given the gravity of the situation, and the fact that the witness voluntarily recanted her statements knowing full well the consequences she’d face. I believe her testimony should be heard.”
I hold my breath until the judge nods. “Carry on, for now.”
My heart sinks. I look desperately at Mel, but her gaze is fixed straight down on her hands, clasped in her lap.
“Miss Chan.” Dekker approaches gently, his tone soft and encouraging. “What did you tell me, when you contacted me?”