by Megan Goldin
“You never forget your first death notification,” he said. “Jenny Stills was mine. I never imagined that I was being sent out to her mother’s house to deliver that terrible news because the police chief wanted me out of the way so he could get my partner to cover up Jenny’s rape and murder.”
“Didn’t you ask questions afterward, given how closely you were involved in the case, helping Hannah and giving the death notification to her mother?” Rachel asked.
He shook his head. “I was sent straight from Jenny’s house to work a roadblock near the car-accident scene. After that, I went home and slept. When I returned to work, my partner told me he had good news, that someone had dropped out of a police-training course that I’d applied for in Charlotte. There was a spot for me, but I had to leave right away. When I finished the course, I was immediately offered a junior detective job in Rhode Island,” he said.
“Was Russ Moore’s hand in that, too?” Rachel asked.
“Probably. The chief in Rhode Island was an old friend of Russ Moore. I’m sure he called in a favor,” he said, looking back out the window. “Mitch asked me to get hold of the autopsy report for Jenny Stills. I spoke to a friend. They found the file, but there was nothing in it. Russ did a thorough job of destroying any evidence she was murdered.”
Rachel poured a packet of brown sugar into her coffee and stirred it in the silence that followed. Russ Moore had owned the town when he was police chief. He’d had so much power that he was able to do whatever he wanted. He’d terrorized his wife and son, driving his wife to suicide. He’d framed Bobby Green as the perpetrator of the fatal car crash that had shocked Neapolis, even though his own son had been behind the wheel. And, perhaps most horrifyingly, he’d made sure his most loyal police officers covered up the rape and murder of Jenny Stills. Detective Cooper’s phone beeped. He took it out of his pocket and read the message.
“It’s from Mitch,” he said. “The jury has reached a verdict.”
53
Guilty or Not Guilty
Season 3, Episode 12: The Verdict
Today Scott Blair woke up in his bed. Maybe for the last time in a long time. He dressed in navy pants and a blue sweater. He brushed his teeth. He shaved. He probably had breakfast, despite what I’m sure were nervous butterflies in his stomach.
Before he left for court, maybe he stuck his head into his bedroom for a final look. I’m betting he wondered whether he’d sleep in his bed that night or he’d be in a cell in a prison-issue jumpsuit, serving the first night of a long prison sentence.
When Scott Blair arrived in court, surrounded by his lawyers, his parents nervously shuffling in behind him, he looked like a deer caught in headlights. He’d lost control of his life to twelve ordinary people from various walks of life who sat in judgment of him. Twelve strangers who would decide his fate.
He knew the power they had over him as he watched the jury file in with fixed expressions and gritted teeth. You could almost see him asking himself the question: “How did I screw up my life so badly that I ended up here?”
It took less than two days for the jury to reach a verdict. They sifted through the evidence methodically and patiently. They asked Judge Shaw for clarification on questions of law. They reviewed thick transcripts of testimony. The jury didn’t have K’s testimony to consider. That was struck from the record. They didn’t have Scott Blair’s testimony, either. He never took the stand. Yet they reached a unanimous verdict. By early afternoon, the courtroom was full as we waited to hear their decision.
Judge Shaw asked the defendant to stand. Scott stood and sort of puffed out his cheeks as if he was taking a huge lungful of oxygen as he waited for the verdict to be read out.
The jury foreman passed a slip of paper to the bailiff. Scott Blair’s parents tightened their grip on each other’s hands as the paper was handed to Judge Shaw. His mother flinched as the judge opened the folded sheet. All eyes were on the judge’s expression as he read the jury’s verdict. His face was inscrutable.
Then he put the paper down and cleared his throat. Cynthia Blair put her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes. Her son’s fate was about to be sealed, one way or the other, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Scott Blair’s posture relaxed for an instant when the words “not guilty” rang out. But they were quickly followed by “guilty,” “guilty.” He flinched each time. It was as if the air had been sucked out of the courtroom.
The jury found Scott Blair “not guilty” of raping K. But it found him guilty on one count of sexual assault and two counts of sexual battery.
Many of you may agree with the verdict after listening to the testimony and reviewing the evidence that we’ve put on the podcast website. We’ve also uploaded an analysis from a law professor about why the case might not have met the legal definition of rape in North Carolina, which requires threats, such as the use of a deadly weapon, for a sexual assault to be deemed rape in that state.
Some of you, no doubt, will say that it’s a travesty of justice. That Scott Blair should have been convicted on the most serious charge of rape. Others will say that he shouldn’t have been convicted at all. That there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him beyond a reasonable doubt.
I’m sure I’ll get messages from people expressing all sorts of opinions. Believe me, I’ve heard every possible view during my brief time in Neapolis covering this trial. I’ve received a flood of messages arguing the merits of chemical castration. And other emails telling me that rapists deserve to die. I’ve also received plenty of messages in support of Scott Blair, accusing K of all manner of sins, including the sin of lying.
To tell you the truth, I don’t get how we can almost unanimously agree that murder is wrong, yet when it comes to rape some people still see shades of gray. At least judging by our inbox and social media, which my producer, Pete, has been monitoring closely over the course of this season.
While the case might be over in court, the appeals will start almost immediately, even before Scott Blair’s sentence is handed down. But regardless of how much prison time he gets, Scott will pay for what he did for the rest of his life. His life as he knew it is over. He is now a convicted sex offender. He’ll be on the registry. He’ll never, ever swim competitively again. Let alone for his country.
As for K, the victim. She’s moved away to start a new life somewhere else. Perhaps the verdict will give her a measure of peace. I hope so.
The jurors will return to the mundane worries of their day-to-day lives. Keeping their businesses afloat, or their employers happy. Raising children and grandchildren. Paying mortgages. But I can’t help thinking that this case will hang heavily over them in years to come. It’s a terrible thing for a person to have to stand in judgment of another.
This is Rachel Krall and this was Season 3 of Guilty or Not Guilty, the podcast that puts you in the jury box.
54
Rachel
Rachel pulled her suitcase across the hotel lobby. She was looking forward to getting home. The radio reports that morning had warned that a tropical storm out in the Atlantic was strengthening and might be recategorized as a hurricane as it moved toward the coast. Rachel wanted to be far gone by the time it hit. She paused when she saw a tall man leaning against a faux marble column, his arms crossed.
“You’re not staying for the sentencing?” Mitch Alkins asked.
“I have to head back,” Rachel said. “What do you think Scott will get?”
“At a guess, around eight to ten years. He’s a first-time offender. I don’t think Judge Shaw will throw the book at him. But who knows,” said Alkins. “One thing is for sure; the defense will appeal. Judge Shaw might lose that nonreversal record he’s so proud of.”
“I’m sure you’ll do everything in your power to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Rachel said. He smiled determinedly. Rachel had no doubt that Mitch Alkins would see to it that Scott Blair received a hefty prison term and served every day of it.
“Do you have time for a quick drive?” Alkins asked. “I want to show you something.” Rachel looked at him questioningly. There was a strange note in his voice. She had a feeling he was hiding something.
Rachel decided to delay her departure even though she’d hoped to get out of town before the highway snarled up with cars leaving before the storm hit. Rachel stored her bags in the hotel luggage area and followed Alkins out to the street where he’d parked his black Jeep. They drove south along the beach road. Alkins didn’t say where he was taking her. She didn’t need to ask.
When they arrived at the Morrison’s Point beach, he parked right next to Detective Cooper’s car. She saw the glint of the detective’s blond hair at the end of the jetty, where he stood looking out to sea. The sky was overcast and forbidding. There were no boats in the water. It wasn’t sailing weather. Fishermen were scattered in their usual spots across the jetty, their lines hanging into the rough water. A couple of teenage boys jumped into the waves, despite the old warning sign.
“Dumb kids,” a fisherman complained. “They’re scaring all the fish away.”
Detective Cooper turned and waved to them as they approached. Standing alongside him was Hannah. She was wearing a striped gypsy skirt and a cropped denim jacket. Rachel could see a hint of a black henna tattoo going down the back of Hannah’s neck as she leaned over the edge, throwing flowers into the water.
Rachel had last spoken to Hannah in the hospital. She’d been sitting up in bed picking at her lunch tray when Rachel came into her room with a big bouquet of get-well flowers. They’d talked for a while, until visiting hours had ended.
Hannah had told Rachel that she wasn’t sure if she’d slipped into the water that night, or if her arms had given out, or, she conceded, if she had finally answered the beckoning call of the ocean. “Regardless,” she’d said, “I’m so grateful to you, Rachel. You risked your life for me.”
Hannah turned and smiled at Rachel when she realized that she’d joined them on the jetty. She handed Rachel some flowers and together they tossed the remaining daisies into the water. When they were done, they stood together watching the floating petals get consumed by waves until they disappeared under the surface.
“I can drop you off at Kitty’s house on my way back,” Rachel offered. “There’s a storm coming. You might want to get out of here now while the going’s good.”
“I don’t want to leave so quickly. Storm or no storm, I’m going to stay for a while,” Hannah said. “Maybe I’ll do some painting. There’s a gallery owner who’s been pestering me to have an exhibition, and I was thinking I could put together a collection of paintings of Neapolis to go with my other work and hold an exhibition next spring.”
She turned to Rachel and touched her arm. “I want to apologize. I manipulated you with my letters so you’d help me find Jenny’s murderer, and then I brought you to the jetty and put your life at risk. I had no right to put you in such danger. I was so focused on trying to get him to confess that I didn’t consider the possibility that he might kill us both to make sure his crimes stayed a secret.”
“Fortunately, that didn’t happen. We’re both alive and well,” said Rachel. “And now, when he’s caught, I can testify to his confession.”
“Didn’t you hear?” said Hannah uncertainly, glancing over Rachel’s shoulder at Detective Cooper.
“Hear what?” Rachel asked.
“Dan Moore’s body was found early this morning,” Detective Cooper said. “He was in the water, tied by a rope to one of his boats. He tried to make it look like a boating accident, but he was an experienced sailor. A man like that with all his naval experience doesn’t get caught in rigging and drown. Not unless he intends it.”
“I guess he did it for his daughter?” Rachel said. “So she wouldn’t have to cope with him being put on trial after everything else she’s had to deal with?”
“Probably,” said Detective Cooper. “It’s unfortunate, though. Dan Moore deserved to be punished for what he did to Jenny, and to Bobby Green. He knew Bobby Green never killed those boys in that car crash, but he let him serve years in prison for it. Ruined his life,” he said, shaking his head. “I spoke to Bobby earlier and told him he was never responsible for those boys dying in that accident. I told him what really happened that night and how he got burned. He sobbed like a baby.”
“He ruined my life, too,” whispered Hannah. “Not anymore. From now on, I’m doing right by my sister and my mother. I’m going to live a full life instead of one consumed by guilt.”
“You have nothing to feel guilty about. You never did anything wrong, Hannah,” said Rachel softly. “You were a kid.”
“I know that now,” Hannah said. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you did for me, Rachel. You could have ignored me, put me down as a crazy stalker, but you believed me and you were there for me that night on the jetty. We finally know what happened to Jenny.”
“I’d like to show you something,” said Mitch Alkins, his voice husky. “You too, Rachel.”
He led them all down the jetty until they reached the halfway point. Embedded in the timber handrail was a brass plaque commemorating the death of Jenny Stills. It was signed The People of Neapolis.
“It was engraved immediately after the mayor signed off on it yesterday,” Alkins said. “He wanted to honor Jenny’s memory here at the place where she was murdered. He said it was long overdue.”
Hannah ran her fingers over the engraving on the plaque as tears wet her face. It was a small step but an important one. It corrected the record of what had happened to her sister on that beach twenty-five years earlier.
Rachel and Alkins slowly walked back to his car. It was too loud for them to talk over the roar of wind until they were in the Jeep and the doors were shut.
“Do you regret coming back to live here?” Rachel asked as he drove her back to the hotel.
“Almost every day,” he admitted.
“So why come back?” Rachel asked.
“It’s a long story that I can’t go into without violating attorney-client privilege. Let’s just say that I had a case that left me questioning everything I ever believed in.” His voice was low and pensive.
When they reached the hotel, Rachel leaned forward and impulsively kissed Mitch on the cheek before climbing out of the car. He sat behind the wheel with the engine still running, watching her go through the revolving door before he slowly drove off.
Rachel collected her luggage from the bellboy and headed toward the basement parking lot elevator. She stopped abruptly as she noticed a tourist standing at the gilded nightingale cage, snapping his fingers as he tried to get the terrified bird to sing. When that didn’t work, the man tapped the cage until it rocked and the bird fluttered about in confusion.
The hotel manager was on the phone when Rachel stormed into his office. She helped herself to a chair by his desk while he hastily finished his call, and then she told him in no uncertain terms what she wanted.
Thirty minutes later, Rachel was in her car, driving down the congested main street, heading out of town. She turned up the radio to hear a news update. The newscaster announced that if the storm maintained its current trajectory, it would hit landfall along the coastline within forty-eight hours. “Residents of Neapolis and nearby towns are being told to prepare for the worst and to implement their hurricane-disaster plans,” the announcer said. “If you can get out of town, then go. There’s still time.”
The traffic was heavy on the way out of Neapolis. Rachel stopped at a red light next to a strip mall and watched a tradesman on a ladder hammer a plywood sheet to protect a shopwindow. Rachel put her foot on the accelerator when the light changed and drove through.
She checked her voice mail messages as she merged onto the state highway. “Rachel!” It was Pete. He sounded excited. “I’ve found a case for Season 4. I’ve started researching it. I think we’re onto something incredible. This will be the best season ever. Call me and I’ll tell y
ou about it.” Rachel hit delete. There was a long beep before the next message.
“Rachel, this is Cynthia Blair here,” said the crisp voice. “I just want to say that I hope you are very satisfied with yourself. You told us when we met that you were covering the trial to get to the truth. Clearly, you don’t care about truth. All you care about is fame, and money,” she said. “You got your ratings. Didn’t you, Rachel? That’s what it’s all about. You did it by demonizing my son and depriving him of a fair trial. I don’t understand how you can live with yourself. I really don’t.”
Rachel sped up as the message ended abruptly with a click. She drove for a while in silence as she shifted lanes, navigating through the congestion on the highway. She pressed hard on the accelerator until the other cars were well behind her and the charcoal asphalt of the highway stretched so far in front of her that it looked as if it might reach the sky.
Rachel’s eyes flicked to her rearview mirror as she heard a flutter from the back seat. The nightingale was rocking contentedly on the perch in the birdcage.
Acknowledgments
I sometimes joke that writing a novel is the writing equivalent of running a marathon. It’s exhausting and solitary work, requires extreme discipline, and there’s no assurance of making it to the finish line. The similarity extends beyond the writing because, just as with marathons, there are many people behind the scenes who play critical and often unsung roles. I wish to extend my deepest appreciation to Charles Spicer, for his invaluable advice as I worked on this novel. I am most grateful to Jennifer Enderlin, Sarah Grill, and the rest of the talented team at St. Martin’s Press and Macmillan. It is an enormous privilege to have you all in my corner. Thank you to my agent, David Gernert, and Ellen Coughtrey, as well as to Rebecca Gardner and the rest of the team at The Gernert Company. To Ali Watts and the “random penguins” at Penguin Random House Australia, as well as to all my other international publishers and translators, I am most grateful for your support. After my novel The Escape Room was published, I was inundated with messages from booksellers and book lovers. Every message touched me. Thank you so much to everyone who wrote to me.