by Megan Goldin
“What was his name, Rick?”
“Rat,” said Rick hoarsely, as his laughter became a cough. “That’s what they should have called him. Looked like a rat. Ran like a rat.”
“Rick,” said Rachel. “What was his name?”
“Better to forget some things. There are folks in this world that a man can’t afford to cross,” he rasped in between coughs. “I’m senile but not that senile. All these years I kept my mouth shut. Why would I open it now?”
The old man’s spasm of coughing worsened so that Rachel could barely make out his last words. She rushed to a water cooler in the corner of the room and quickly filled a cup with water. By the time she returned, he was bent over, spluttering into his hands. When he lifted up his head, his lips were covered with blood.
“What’s wrong with him?” Rachel asked a uniformed nurse who’d rushed over, decked out with a mask and gloves.
“Lung cancer,” the nurse whispered grimly.
The nurse approached Rick and talked to him in a loud voice, as if he were deaf. “We’ll have to move you to the clinic. I need you to stand up so we can get you in the wheelchair.” She grabbed Rick’s arm and helped him stand while an orderly maneuvered a wheelchair in place.
Rachel watched Rick being wheeled away for treatment as he continued to cough uncontrollably into a wad of Kleenexes the nurse had given him. Rachel wished there was a way to get him to cooperate. To appeal to his better nature. The problem was that Rachel doubted that Rick had a better nature.
On the way out, Rachel took a brochure off a stand in the reception area. It had the same glossy Photoshopped pictures of blossoming gardens and breathtaking views of paddocks that she’d seen on the website. At the back of the brochure was corporate information. The retirement home was owned by Blair Developments. That shouldn’t have surprised her. The Blair family’s interests were, after all, extensive.
Rachel was driving back to the hotel when she realized her phone was vibrating. She answered it on speaker while signaling to make a left turn.
“Is that Rachel?”
“Yes,” Rachel answered over the click of her turn signal.
“This is Renata. From the florist shop. I was so focused on looking for old orders that I didn’t look at the current orders. There’s an order for a premium bouquet to be delivered to Jenny Stills’s grave tomorrow morning, eight A.M. sharp. My courier isn’t too happy to be working so early.”
37
Guilty or Not Guilty
Season 3, Episode 8: Consent
If you’ve been following this podcast, then you’ll know that this trial is all about consent.
Prove that K consented to sex that night, and then Scott Blair walks free. Prove that she didn’t, and he goes to jail. It really is that simple. And complicated. Because therein lies the rub.
Since K and Scott Blair were the only ones on the beach that night, there are only two people who know what happened. Scott Blair, the defendant. And K, the complainant. This case will depend almost entirely on who the jury believes more.
Will it be Scott Blair? A champion swimmer born and raised in Neapolis. A local boy expected to put his hometown on the map by winning big at the next Olympics. Many people in this town are rooting for Scott, and they’re vocal about their belief that he’s been falsely accused. Others see him as a sexual predator.
Or will the jury believe K, the teenage girl who says that Scott Blair raped her? The girl with the bright smile and big dreams of becoming a physiotherapist before the events of last October brought her world crashing down. K has had to move schools. Twice. She’s now being homeschooled. She’s been attacked on every front. Her morals have been questioned. Her motives for accusing Scott Blair have been questioned. She’s lost friends. There are people in this town who won’t talk to her family. She can’t even leave her house because in a town like this, everyone knows, everyone stares.
K can’t defend herself publicly. She’s a material witness in the trial and she can’t say a word until after she testifies, due to the risk it could damage the prosecution’s case. She and her family have had to take all the abuse being directed at her without being able to say a single word in her defense.
Tomorrow, K will finally have her chance to speak. She’ll take the stand and provide the most crucial testimony of the trial. And the most harrowing.
To remind you, K is only sixteen. Yet she will have to relive every single thing that happened to her that night. She’ll have to do it in public. To a room full of strangers. In excruciating detail. She’ll be asked the most intimate questions imaginable. How many times he penetrated her. Where. How. And so on. Think about that for a second. She’s a teenage girl.…
If that’s not horrible enough, then K will have to do it all over again during cross-examination. Defense attorney Dale Quinn will try to trip her up. Twist her words. Do everything that he can to damage her credibility, to portray her as a liar. Or a fantasist. Or both. He’ll put on his best manners. His softest voice. He’ll be considerate. He will feign concern.
Let there be no doubt that it will be ugly. Dale Quinn’s job is to defend his client. The sad reality is that the only way he can do that effectively is by decimating K’s testimony.
That’s how trials work. It’s medieval. It’s not about getting to the truth. It’s about who can put on a better show. And Mitch Alkins and Dale Quinn are among the best showmen around.
Scott Blair, incidentally, gets to choose whether he testifies. He could get through this entire trial without ever opening his mouth. It’s up to his lawyers to decide whether he takes the stand, or never utters a single word in his own defense. The decision of whether he testifies will likely depend on how damaging K’s testimony is.
Most defense lawyers prefer their clients not to testify. Their reasoning is that it’s the prosecutor’s job to make the case. The defense doesn’t have to make any case at all. So why put their client on the stand and risk something damaging coming out during a brutal cross-examination? That’s the logic anyway.
So we have this unfair disparity in rape cases where the victim gets—let’s call it what it is—violated. Twice. The first time in the attack. The second time in court.
Meanwhile, the defendant—the man accused of perpetrating the brutal crimes against K—well, he does not have to make a peep. All he has to do is turn up in court each day with a solemn face and the shell-shocked demeanor of the falsely accused.
K will not have an easy time of it on the stand. She will likely spend hours testifying for the prosecution. She may spend even longer being grilled by the defense. Her testimony will be put under a microscope. It will be poked and prodded by Scott Blair’s formidable legal team as they look for lies, or inconsistencies. Anything to damage K’s credibility. Anything to get their client acquitted.
The process is so awful that it makes me wonder why a teenage girl would go through this nightmare experience if her accusations are false. If she is making it up.
I’m Rachel Krall and this is Guilty or Not Guilty, the podcast that puts you in the jury box.
38
Rachel
The dark outlines of fishing trawlers moved slowly against a pink-tinged sky as Rachel did hamstring stretches by a bench overlooking the sea. Dawn was breaking over Neapolis on the most important day of the trial.
Rachel should have been fast asleep in her hotel room bed, given that she’d gone to sleep at midnight after working late in the recording studio. Instead, she woke before dawn and dressed in running shorts and a sleeveless Lycra top for a brief morning jog along the boardwalk to clear her head before spending the day in court. Kelly Moore was due to take the stand in what was expected to be an intense and emotional day of testimony.
Rachel finished her stretches and then shuffled into a jog, gradually speeding up until she was running down the boardwalk in long, smooth strides. As she ran, she veered away from her intended route and crossed the road, heading toward downtown Neapolis, a few
blocks away. She passed a row of shuttered shops, pursued by the clatter of a garbage truck emptying Dumpsters behind her.
She ran past the cafe next to the library, where a waiter was opening yellow umbrellas at outdoor tables while a barista wearing a black cloth apron picked up a crate of milk cartons that had been left outside the cafe door. She ran across the road to the city park, where the hiss of sprinklers forced her off the grass and onto a bicycle path that led to the heritage section of Neapolis. Rachel passed the dark and silent courthouse and continued running through a maze of side streets until she reached the gloomy entrance of the cemetery.
It was only when she checked her watch as she approached the cast-iron cemetery gate that she admitted to herself that, deep down, she’d always intended to be at the cemetery that morning. Renata’s flower arrangement would be delivered to Jenny Stills’s grave by a special courier at 8:00 A.M. sharp. The delivery time was very specific. It made Rachel think that someone was turning up at the cemetery to place the bouquet on the grave. Rachel hoped that person would be the elusive Hannah, who hadn’t been in touch for days.
Rachel should have been getting dressed, reviewing notes, eating a filling breakfast to sustain her through the long day ahead. The last thing she should have been doing on the morning of the most important day of the trial was running to a cemetery to watch flowers being delivered to the grave of a girl who had died decades earlier, in the faint hope that Jenny’s grieving sister might appear.
The cemetery gate creaked sharply as Rachel pushed it open and walked past a row of ivy-covered gravestones. The air was cool and still as she moved through the labyrinth of crumbling tombstones down the sycamore tree–lined path that connected the old and the new sections of the cemetery.
When Rachel caught sight of Jenny’s grave, she stepped off the path and hid among the trees, watching and waiting as the rapid beat of her heart returned to normal.
A young man arrived at 8:00 A.M. sharp. Right on time. He held a black motorcycle helmet under his arm and carried an elaborate bouquet of flowers. He strode to Jenny’s grave, where he casually tossed the bouquet, and walked away, putting on his motorcycle helmet as he disappeared through a rear service gate.
Rachel heard the roar of a motorcycle as he drove off. She waited ten minutes. And then fifteen. It was twenty-five after eight in the morning and nobody had arrived. She couldn’t wait any longer. She had to return to the hotel to get ready for court or she’d never make it in time.
Suddenly, Rachel heard footsteps coming from the direction of the old cemetery. Someone was walking toward her. She slipped farther into the trees as the crunch of gravel became louder. She was so far inside the foliage that her view was blocked by thick-leafed branches. Rachel couldn’t move to a better vantage point without crackling leaves underfoot and forcing branches to sway. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she waited in frozen silence, holding her breath as the footsteps briefly paused.
She detected a hint of hesitation before the steady pace passed her hiding spot. She didn’t move at all until the footsteps became more distant and she could tell the visitor was heading toward the new section of the cemetery. Toward Jenny’s grave. Rachel moved closer to the path so that she could see the visitor. She was surprised to see that it wasn’t Hannah at all. It was a dark-haired man in a navy suit.
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 cl
utched 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 high school. 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.”
