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Rachel didn’t need to see Mitch Alkins’s face to know it was him. His powerful build and towering height were dead giveaways. He reached the grave and bent down to pick up the flower arrangement the courier had tossed there. He placed the bouquet gently on the grave and stood for a moment with his head bowed in mourning before stepping back and whirling around.
Rachel quickly moved deeper into the shadows between the trees as he returned in her direction. He walked faster. For a frightening second, she wondered if he’d seen her and was coming to confront her. The cemetery was so silent that she was afraid he’d hear her heart pounding as he passed by.
As he came close, she saw his eyes were bloodshot. Rachel guessed he’d been up late preparing for court. She was relieved when he quickly disappeared the way he had come. The metal clang of the old cemetery gate banging shut confirmed he had left. She ran ahead and watched through the fence as Mitch Alkins drove away.
The line going through the metal detectors at the courthouse entrance was halfway down the stairs when Rachel arrived. She was frazzled from the mad rush to get ready for court.
She hadn’t had time to blow-dry her hair or put on any makeup. She’d dressed hastily, and her tight gray skirt and white shirt felt twisted and uncomfortable on her clammy skin. Deciding to take a taxi and avoid wasting time looking for a parking space, Rachel had used the brief journey to fix her hair and apply lip gloss in the back seat as the taxi took a shortcut to the courthouse, driving at breakneck speed before pulling to a stop by the plaza. Court was almost full when Rachel entered and took her seat in the front row of the media gallery.
Mitch Alkins was flicking through a notepad filled with tight, black writing at the prosecution’s table. He was wearing the same suit he’d worn at the cemetery. His face was inscrutable. His eyes were set in concentration. He appeared oblivious to the impatient murmurs across the courtroom and the squeaking of chairs as the clerks settled into their seats. He’d shifted mental gears from mourner to prosecutor in the space of an hour.
Why go to the cemetery on such an important day? The question troubled Rachel until she remembered what Kitty, Hannah’s adoptive mother, had told her. Today must be the anniversary of Jenny’s death, Rachel realized. That’s why Mitch Alkins had ordered the flowers and visited the grave before court. The card he’d ordered with the flowers had said simply:Forgive me.Rachel wondered what he had done to Jenny Stills that warranted a lifetime of forgiveness.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Sophia, the court sketch artist whose corner seat in the media box next to Rachel offered the best view of the courtroom and plenty of elbow room for sketching. Sophia placed a selection of pastel shades on the timber ledge in front of her as she prepared for a long session.
She was a veteran courtroom artist who’d sketched at over sixty trials. Since cameras were banned at the Blair trial, Sophia’s drawings were the only visual depictions of the trial that the outside world would see. Her sketches had run on TV news broadcasts every night since the trial began. Rachel had also connected her to Pete, who’d commissioned a series of black ink drawings of the trial for the podcast website. Each day, a drawing related to that day’s testimony was posted.
“You’ve seen more than a few trials in your time. What do you think, Sophia?” asked Rachel once Sophia had organized her drawing equipment. “Do you think the evidence the prosecution has presented so far is enough for a conviction?”
“Not likely,” Sophia answered. “Dale Quinn did a brilliant job at twisting the prosecution’s witnesses into knots and highlighting every conceivable inconsistency to make them look like liars. Plus he showed that several of the witnesses had an axe to grind against Scott Blair. I just can’t see the jury convicting based on what’s been presented so far.”
“What about the forensic evidence?” Rachel asked. “I thought Dr. North did a convincing job of analyzing the forensics from the rape kit to show that Kelly’s injuries strongly indicated that she didn’t consent.”
“Maybe,” sighed Sophia. “The problem is that I’ve seen Dale Quinn’s expert witness on the stand. He’s the best that money can buy. He’ll demolish Dr. North’s testimony.” She was going to say more but she was cut off by the bailiff’s call for everyone to rise for Judge Shaw. “I’m sorry to say that this case lives or dies on Kelly Moore’s testimony,” Sophia whispered furtively to Rachel as the judge entered the courtroom.
39
Rachel
Kelly Moore’s mother covered her mouth with her palm in distress as her daughter swayed on her feet after swearing in on the Bible. Instead of fainting, Kelly clutched the polished timber of the witness stand. Her knuckles were white as she lowered herself into the chair.
The fragile young woman in the witness box bore almost no resemblance to the vibrant, outgoing girl in the photographs that Rachel had seen in Dan Moore’s office. Her eyes were wide and her face was ashen against the dark fabric of her blouse as she waited for Mitch Alkins to ask his first question.
Alkins’s voice was laced with compassion as he slowly eased Kelly into a series of questions about that night. From her walk back from the party with Harris Wilson, to the stab of fear when she saw a man standing in front of her by the swing in the park that night, to the sheer relief that ran through her when she realized the stranger was the famous Scott Blair.
“I knew who he was,” she said in a soft voice. “I’d never met him before, but we all knew Scott Blair. He’d gone to our highschool. I knew that he was a famous swimmer. He was in advertisements and magazines and stuff. Everyone at Lexi’s party was talking about how he’d crashed her party.”
“Did you feel less afraid once you recognized that the stranger was Scott Blair?”
“Yes. A lot less afraid. He was really nice. He apologized for scaring me. He told me that Harris texted him to drop me at home because his parents had caught him sneaking into the house and they wouldn’t let him out again,” she answered.
Kelly described how she walked with Scott to his car. It was a silver sports car with soft leather seats and a new-car smell. He opened the front passenger door for her and made sure she put on her seat belt before he drove off. Kelly told him her address. He said he knew the street, which is why she was surprised when he drove right past it.
“I told him that he’d missed the turn. He said not to worry. That he’d loop around.”
“And did he?” Alkins asked.
“He offered to take me for a drive first. I’d never driven around in a convertible with the top down. I said, ‘Sure.’ We drove along the coast. We were heading home when he suggested we get food,” she said. “He asked me what kind of food I liked. I said pizza. He said he liked pizza, too.”
Alkins showed Kelly the CCTV footage from the pizza place. He asked her why she didn’t alert the staff at the pizza parlor or ask to use their phone to call her parents. “Why did you return with Scott to his car?” Alkins asked.
She told him that she had no concerns about Scott’s behavior at that point. He’d been friendly and attentive. She believed he would take her home right after they’d eaten, just as he’d promised. In the car, he suggested they eat the pizza at the beach. Shewasn’t crazy about the idea, but she didn’t want to be difficult, so she agreed. He drove to a beach. Kelly had lost her bearings by then because it was late at night and very dark. She didn’t know where she was, but she knew they weren’t near town because she couldn’t see the bright lights of the marina from the stretch of beach where they sat.
“We ate pizza and listened to waves. Scott brought beer from his car. I drank a bottle,” said Kelly. “He drank two bottles. He said he didn’t have to be up at dawn to train, so he could have fun.”
“What happened when you finished eating the pizza and drinking the beer?”
“Scott told me that I was really beautiful and that he liked me a lot. And then he kissed me.”
