“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 closing 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?