by Abigail Haas
I try to think, to pull back from the edge of despair and see this clearly. Manslaughter. A plea. “I’d have to say I did it,” I say, realizing. “I’d have to say I’m guilty.”
“Manslaughter is unintentional death,” Gates quickly replies. “He’s saying you didn’t mean to kill her. You fought; you lost control. A crime of passion, in the moment.”
“But I didn’t.” I look at them, plaintive. “I didn’t kill her.”
“I know it’s a lot to think about.” Gates’s tone is gentle. “But this is a limited-time offer. He wants it wrapped up before the judge calls us back for closing arguments.”
“I have to decide now?”
“I’m sorry.” Gates looks apologetic. “I know it’s fast, but this is a good thing.”
“How can you say that?” I cry. “It’s prison! I’d be guilty. I’d go back there for years!”
My words echo. Gates looks away.
“You think I should take it.” My heart twists.
He sighs. “I do. A lot of evidence is circumstantial, but it doesn’t look good. The affair, Mel’s testimony—”
“She’s lying!” I cry again.
“Either way, do you want to risk it with the judge?” Gates leans across the table, solemn. “If she convicts you of murder, that’s a twenty-year sentence, minimum. Twenty years. At least, this way, you’d be out sooner. You’d have a life, after.”
After.
I choke back another sob. “Daddy?” I ask, my voice wavering. “I don’t know. . . . I can’t think straight. What should I do? Tell me.”
My father swallows and finally meets my eyes. “Gates is right, sweetie,” he says quietly. “You should take the deal.”
The words are soft, but they crash through me like thunder. I stare at him, dumbfounded, and then I see it: the faint flicker in his eyes. He tries to look away and hide it, but it’s too late. I see.
He thinks I’m guilty.
My heart breaks wide-open.
“Eight years isn’t so long.” He hurries to my side, trying to cover the betrayal. “You’d be twenty-five. That’s still young, you could have a life, do whatever you want.”
“But I didn’t do it.” My voice is thin and tired. I can’t move, not a single limb. He sits beside me on the floor. “I didn’t . . .”
“I’m sorry, sweetie” is all he can say, over and over. He hugs me close, and for a moment I’m a kid again, crawling into his lap. Before the long work nights and the hospital rooms, and everything began to change. Before I wound up here, staring into the bleak abyss of years in prison, my whole youth, locked away in that terrible place. “I’m so, so sorry.”
EIGHT YEARS
I was going to go to college, some sun-drenched campus far away.
I was going to take film, and women’s studies, classes in literature and ancient philosophy.
I was going to study abroad in Prague, and walk those golden bridges. Sip coffee in tiny cafés and flirt with cute waiters.
I was going to learn to surf, and learn to speak Italian, and how to change a flat tire.
I was going to try bangs, and dark eyeliner, wear scarlet lipstick and tartan capes.
I was going to fall in love again.
I was going to road-trip across the country, stay in cheap motels and collect postcards from every state.
I was going to see the world.
I was going to move into my own apartment and furnish it with cheap thrift-store finds, sip tea in the afternoon from mismatched vintage china, in a space that was all my own.
I was going to be alone in a strange city where nobody knew my name.
I was going to finish reading Great Expectations.
I was going to have another macaroni night with my dad in our kitchen back at home.
I was going to see a midnight screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show with a rowdy costumed crowd.
I was going to get two kittens and name them Eleanor and Marianne.
I was going to volunteer at the cancer hospice.
I was going to fight for something I believed in.
I was going to grow herbs in terra-cotta pots outside my kitchen window.
I was going to write something one day, that people would read. Maybe even love.
I was going to kiss a lot of boys.
I was going to stay up all night talking, and know that it was just the beginning.
I was going to get married, in a strapless white dress with my mother’s veil.
I was going to graduate high school in my cap and gown.
I was going to dance through a hundred more rock shows, drenched in sweat and songs.
I was going to spend a summer backpacking through Europe.
I was going to sing along to the radio every day.
I was going to get my boots fixed before fall.
I was going to buy that red belt I saw in the store.
I was going to watch all the shows I left on my DVR.
I was going to see it snow at Christmastime in New York.
I was going to get an A on my history midterm.
I was going to get a new car for graduation.
I was going to make him proud.
I was going to start all over again.
I was going to be brave, and good, and bold.
I was going to love him forever.
I was going to hold her hand till the very end.
NOW
I tell them no.
Eight years is too long. Even just one year more of this would destroy me, but more than that, I can’t plead guilty. I won’t sign the deal and say I killed her, when I’ve spent so long fighting to clear my name. I’ll take my chances on the judge instead, and all of Dekker’s failings.
I know I’d rather kill myself than go back to that prison again. I have to try for freedom, or nothing at all.
CLOSING ARGUMENTS
PROSECUTION:
“Elise Warren was the light of her parents’ life. A kind, fun-loving girl who loved to spend time with her friends, volunteer, join school clubs and activities. A straight-A student, she could have had any future that she chose. But Elise will never get to live those dreams, because her life was cut brutally short by a frenzied attack. On the afternoon of March twentieth, Elise was attacked in her bedroom as she prepared to go meet her friends. This wasn’t an accident, or a quick death, no; you’ve heard from expert forensic witnesses how Elise was stabbed thirteen times in the chest and stomach with a kitchen knife and then left to die in a pool of her own blood. She would have died gasping for air, feeling her own life and that bright future slip away as she slowly bled to death.
“Now, the defense has tried to pin the blame for this murder on anyone but the woman here on trial today. They’ve told you that this was a break-in gone wrong, that somebody scaled the back wall to the house in broad daylight and, when faced with Elise, instead of turning and running, or simply knocking her down, they instead picked up the knife and killed her. But a murder case isn’t about theories; it’s based on evidence. And the evidence in this case points to one woman, and one woman alone: the defendant, Anna Chevalier.
“Experts have testified that the deadly wounds inflicted on the victim were the result of a passionate frenzy, from somebody who likely knew the victim. The defendant’s fingerprints were found on the murder weapon. Her physical DNA and hairs were near the body. And as you’ve heard over the past weeks, the defendant had both motive for the killing and a pattern of violent behavior, which makes Elise Warren’s death seem like a tragic inevitability.
“You’ve heard how the victim was having a secret affair with Miss Chevalier’s boyfriend, and that the defendant was sent into a jealous rage when she discovered the truth, fighting with the victim and threatening to kill her. Now, threats are one thing, but we’ve found that the defendant has a long record of violent physical outbursts. Time and time again, she’s lashed out at the people around her, inflicting serious physical damage. What’s more, the defenda
nt has no alibi for a portion of the afternoon of the murder, and even lied to police about her whereabouts that day. These lies undermine everything the defendant has said to you during this trial. How can we believe a single word she’s said? She denies knowing about the affair, when her friend has testified to overhearing the defendant fight with the victim about it. She denies coercing her boyfriend into giving her an alibi for the afternoon, and she has even tried to pin the blame on the victim for their partying and reckless behavior, when other friends have all testified that the victim was a model student and citizen before she became friends with Miss Chevalier.
“As we’ve seen, since the murder and throughout the trial, the defendant displays a troubling lack of responsibility. In the days after the murder, she was seen laughing and joking with her boyfriend, and in fact, just hours after discovering the body, Miss Chevalier seemed more concerned with buying a soda than the fact that her best friend was dead. These are the marks of a remorseless killer, who struck the victim in a premeditated attack fueled by sexual jealousy and rage. This is a woman who deserves to pay—for the life she’s taken, and the lies she’s told.
“A young woman is dead. Nothing can bring her back, but justice must be done. So, I ask you to deliver justice, to Elise Warren’s parents and friends, and to the memory of Elise herself. Find the defendant guilty, and award her the maximum sentence permitted for her crimes.”
DEFENSE:
“Justice. The prosecution likes to talk a lot about it, as if prosecuting an innocent teenage girl for a crime she didn’t commit could ever be justified. The fact is, Klaus Dekker has botched and mishandled this case from the very start. Responding to 911 calls from the scene of the crime, police found broken glass in the room, indicating a break-in. The victim’s friends testified that Elise had been harassed by two men in the days leading up to the murder—Niklas van Oaten, and the market trader known only as Juan, who had a record of theft and break-ins. Yet instead of pursuing these suspects, Dekker instead concocted an outlandish theory about the crime, deciding that the defendant—a young girl with no criminal record, with no real violence to her name—had somehow plotted to kill her best friend, a girl she counted closer than any sister.
“You’ve seen the extent to which Dekker has gone to prove this so-called theory: tampering with video evidence to conceal Juan’s stalking of the victim, and putting witnesses on the stand to contradict their own testimony. He wants you to assess the evidence in this case. The fact is, the evidence against my client is purely circumstantial. Due to police failure to preserve the body, the exact time of death of the victim is still unknown. No blood from the victim was found on the defendant’s clothes or person. Several other fingerprints were found on the knife, including that of her boyfriend, Tate Dempsey, and others who were staying in the house. The room was easily accessed from the beach, and several other people knew of the way inside.
“As to the defendant’s behavior after the murder . . . It’s clear that Anna Chevalier was in shock. You’ve seen expert psychologists testify about the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder, and how the delayed reaction to grief can affect different people. Seeing her dear friend lying in a pool of blood was a deeply traumatic experience for the defendant, a trauma worsened only by the aggressive interrogations she suffered at the hands of the prosecution. In her testimony here, Anna has shown she is a caring, empathetic young woman who has remained admirably strong in the face of her imprisonment. The prosecution has tried to paint her as a cold-blooded killer, somehow sexually fixated on the victim. He has shown you photos, and isolated incidents to try to build his case, yet this is nothing more than baseless slander. Any one of us could be made to look a monster, with selective readings of our history, but for every photograph he shows you out of context, I can show you another side to the defendant: a caring, thoughtful, intelligent young woman who has bravely faced tragic loss before in her life, with the death of her mother. That is the real Anna Chevalier, not the wild party girl the prosecution would have you believe.
“The law calls for you to convict my client only beyond a reasonable doubt. Time and again, we have shown that this doubt exists: in the lack of evidence supporting the prosecution’s case and Miss Chevalier’s supposed motive for the crime. To convict her now would be a tragedy no less than Elise Warren’s murder, for just as that young woman lost her life, so too would Miss Chevalier if sent back to prison to serve decades for a crime she didn’t commit. Justice demands her acquittal. The evidence demands her acquittal. I place her life in your hands, and urge you to do the right thing. Thank you.”
WAITING
The judge doesn’t come back with a verdict that day, nor the next one. I get up every morning and leave prison like it could be the last time, then spend the day in the conference room at the courthouse, pacing, nervously waiting for news. Gates and Lee swear it’s a good thing, that it means she’s taking her time to pick apart every little detail of the case, but I won’t let myself get swept up in false hopes.
“She could have made her mind up on day one,” I tell them. “And just be back in her office, catching up on her DVR and gossip magazines.”
Lee gives me a look. “I know this is hard, waiting,” he says. “But it’s the best you could hope for, it taking so long. We always knew Dekker’s case was weak, and now she gets to see that for herself.”
I sigh. “I know, I just . . . What if—”
“Don’t.” He stops me. “You’ve just got to have faith.”
I look at him, his brown eyes so calm and trusting. He’s the one person who has stuck with me through it all—despite the lies people told about me, all the terrible things they have said. “How can you still believe in me, after everything? Even they don’t . . .” I drop my voice. Gates and Dad are on their cell phones, deep in two different conversations about legal process and our chances of getting the verdict overturned. For all the delay, I know they still expect the judgment to come back guilty. Maybe they even think I deserve it.
Lee leans closer. “I know you,” he says softly. “I know you’re a good person. And even if this comes back wrong, it’s not the end. We can appeal,” he reminds me. “Get Dekker’s evidence thrown out. Whatever it takes, I’ll be here.”
I want to believe him. He’s been here before, after all, but I’m not his sister—I can’t stay hopeful through years in prison. I’m not that strong.
* * *
The hours tick past, with no news. Then, just before four p.m., a knock comes on the door. We all leap up. A guard beckons Gates out; he exits, giving me a nod as he passes.
“Oh God,” I breathe. My skin prickles hot with nerves; my stomach turns over. “This is it.”
Lee grabs my hand and squeezes, but when Gates comes back in a moment later, he quickly shakes his head. “It’s not that,” he says. “There’s someone who wants to see you.” He pauses, uncomfortable. “Tate Dempsey wants to talk with you.”
Tate.
I blink. Months of silence, all my letters left unanswered, and now he wants to see me?
“You don’t have to,” Lee tells me, but I slowly shake my head.
“I . . . Yes,” I say, suddenly calm. “Let him in.”
Gates nods to someone in the hallway. My dad gets up, clearing his throat. “We’ll, uh, give you some privacy.”
They exit, but Lee is the last to leave. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I can stay, if you want—”
He stops talking as Tate steps into the room.
I glance up, almost afraid to look at him after all this time. But there he is, looking just the same as ever: neatly dressed in a preppy oxford button-down and dark pants, his hair golden and tousled. He stands by the doorway, awkwardly slouching with his hands in his pockets. Finally, I let my gaze settle on his face.
God, how I loved that face.
“It’s fine,” I tell Lee softly. “Really.”
He nods. “I’ll be right outside,” he says, stepping around Tate and clos
ing the door behind him.
Silence.
I watch Tate scuff the ground with his spotless sneakers, looking anywhere but directly at me. Finally, I sigh.
“What do you want?”
He walks closer, then stops. “Can I . . . ”
“Sit?” It’s almost funny, that he would think it matters. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
He lowers himself carefully onto one of the folding metal chairs, and takes a breath. Then another. “How are you doing?” he asks.
My mouth drops open. Is he serious?
“Just great,” I reply, sarcastic. “Except for this whole pesky murder conviction hanging over my head.”
Tate seems to crumple in front of me. “God, Anna, I’m so sorry.” He reaches for my hand across the table, but I flinch back. “It wasn’t my idea, to cut the deal, I swear to you. But my parents said I had to. Dekker was coming after me; they said I would go on trial for sure.” Tate stares at me, imploring, with those blue eyes I know by heart. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“You always had a choice!” I burst out. “I’m here because of you. I lied for you. You’re the one who sold me out—you betrayed me!”
Tate hangs his head.
I fight to stay calm. There’s nothing he can say, I realize. Nothing at all. He was weak, and selfish, and he let me down in every way he could. But what else was he going to do? He always wanted to be so good: the perfect son, the best boyfriend. Elise was right, in the end: all that perfection had to fall apart sometime.
I swallow, gathering my strength. “When did it start?” I ask softly. “You and Elise. Tell me. Please.”
Tate reluctantly lifts his head. “Anna . . .”
“You owe me this much, at least.”
He looks away again. “Jordan’s party,” he says finally. “It was . . . maybe a month before the trip?”
I nod. I remember.
“My parents were on at me, about summer internships, and volunteering, and . . . I just wanted to forget it all. You were home, sick, and . . . I wound up out in the gazebo with Elise and a bottle of tequila.”