by Megan Goldin
Rachel watched Dan and Christine drive away. Their minds were made up. Kelly Moore was not taking the stand on Monday. The trial was over.
48
Rachel
Rachel sat on her bed listening to the dial tone. Mitch Alkins hadn’t sounded surprised when she told him that Kelly would not be in court come Monday. It was almost as if he’d already resigned himself to that outcome. He must have known the fierce protectiveness of Kelly’s mother would win out against her father’s thirst for revenge.
Alkins had sounded so dejected that Rachel couldn’t bring herself to ask if he’d located Jenny Stills’s autopsy report or found out anything about the circumstances surrounding her death. He’d promised he would look into it, and she believed him. Once the trial was over, Rachel was certain that he’d follow through.
Hannah’s last email had troubled Rachel greatly. Remembering what had happened that night was clearly taking a terrible toll on her. Rachel could feel it in every word, every syllable. She’d briefly considered sharing the letters with Detective Cooper but decided against it. She didn’t have Hannah’s permission to share her story, and Rachel didn’t want to betray her trust.
Rachel brushed her teeth and prepared for bed, feeling restless and sad after her nighttime walk with Kelly’s parents. Scott Blair would go free. His good name would likely be restored. He’d claim that he was the victim of a false accusation. Many would believe him.
Maybe he’d make it to the Olympics and win gold, as his father had proudly predicted that day when Rachel visited their house. Or maybe his name would be tarnished enough, or his confidence and fitness so damaged by his suspension from competitive swimming, that he’d never get back to peak athletic condition. Time would tell.
While Scott would never spend a night in prison, Rachel was certain that Kelly’s name would be mud forever, much like Jenny’s. The Blair supporters would smear her as a vindictive teenager who’d refused to be cross-examined to avoid being exposed as a liar.
As for Kelly’s supporters, they wouldn’t forgive Kelly for giving up. Deep down, they would resent her failure to stay the course, and they’d secretly blame her for making it harder for other victims to come forward in the future.
Kelly would never be free. Never fully recover. Her childhood had been irreparably damaged by that night on the beach. Her family was fleeing town like persecuted emigres. Their lives and livelihood uprooted so she could start fresh in a new town, a new school. Perhaps even with a new name. Christine was right. It shouldn’t rest on the shoulders of a young girl. But it did.
Rachel collapsed on her bed, lying on top of the covers and staring at the ceiling. She’d been so consumed with the podcast and the minutiae of the trial that she hadn’t had a chance to take a step back. To get perspective. As she lay on her bed, she was hit by a niggling feeling that she’d missed something. She’d had that feeling before and brushed it off. But this time she was certain.
Rachel scrambled through the pile of notebooks on her desk until she’d found the notebook filled with her own messy shorthand of Kelly Moore’s testimony. She flicked through the pages until she was three-quarters of the way through the notebook.
There was an old plaid shirt on me. It was a huge shirt. It was tucked under me like a blanket. I don’t know where the shirt came from because Scott hadn’t worn a shirt like that.
Rachel pulled out her file with Hannah’s letters. She lay flat on the bed and read the letters one by one. The green glow of the clock shifted its shape as time passed. As Rachel finished each letter, she tossed it on her bed and unfolded another one. And another. Until she reached the latest emails from Hannah. Rachel found something that made her jolt up in surprise. She turned on the lamp next to her bed to read the passage again. She wanted to be certain.
Jenny was trembling so badly I could hear her teeth chattering. I peered out from under the canvas sheet. Bobby was unbuttoning his shirt. It frightened me to see him get undressed. When he’d removed his shirt, he put it over Jenny and tucked it under her like a blanket.
Similar descriptions. Two rapes. Twenty-five years apart. In the same town. As she crawled under the covers of her bed, Hannah’s letters scattered across the sheets, Rachel told herself it was a fluke coincidence. It was only while she was drifting off that she remembered something that made her realize there was no coincidence at all.
It was still dark when Rachel rolled out of bed and dressed in running gear. Even though it was a good hour before dawn, it might as well have been the middle of the night when Rachel pushed through the revolving doors of the hotel and emerged onto the deserted street. The streetlights were on and the traffic lights were changing colors, but there was not a single vehicle on the road that ran parallel to the beach.
Rachel ran along the boardwalk, retracing the route she’d walked with Dan and Christine Moore the night before. By the time she reached Morrison’s Point, the sky was a lighter shade of dark blue. Dawn would break soon. Rachel didn’t stop at the jetty. She kept running, passing one beach after the next until her face was flushed and her breathing labored.
The boat sheds rattled in the breeze as she came onto the last beach. It was so close to the marine reserve that she could see the timber-and-stone visitors’ station with its maps and illustrations of local bird and marine life. Rachel moved between the boathouses quietly, sticking to the shifting shadows.
She pressed herself against a shed and waited. As dawn broke, a door slammed open. The hulking figure of Vince Knox—or whatever his real name was—pushed a small fiberglass boat out of the timber shed and down a sandy incline toward the water. The outboard motor was lifted up so it wouldn’t drag on the sand.
When the boat was on the edge of the water and would go no farther, he went into the water and grabbed the ropes, pulling the boat off the beach until it was floating.
Rachel ran down to the beach and waved to get his attention. He didn’t see her at first. He was arranging crab cages on the bottom of the boat so the weight was evenly distributed. When he raised his head, he looked confused and then angry to see Rachel waiting by the shore.
“You again! What do you want this time?” His voice was rough.
“How’s the bird doing?” Rachel asked.
“She’s drinking and eating,” he said. “I’ll release her in a couple of days.”
“That’s good news,” said Rachel, still standing her ground. He went about his work but glanced at her every now and again as if to ask why she was still there.
“I need to ask you about something important.”
“I don’t answer questions. Not yours. Not anyone else’s. Now get the hell off my beach,” he called back.
“It’s about the Scott Blair trial,” she said.
He looked at her in irritation. They’d already discussed that the last time she’d turned up uninvited. He jumped out of his boat and waded back onto the beach. Rachel thought he was coming to talk to her. Instead, he walked straight past her and kept walking up to the boat shed. When he returned, he was carrying a big white bucket for his catch, and a rusted pike. Rachel suspected it was to lift the crab cages out of the water, but he held on to it like it was a spear, and she got the impression that he was hoping it would intimidate her.
“You lied by omission on the stand. I want to know what really happened,” Rachel called out as he walked past her.
“I don’t have to tell you shit about nothing,” he said, tossing the bucket into the boat. He pointed the metal pike at Rachel as if to scare her off. Rachel kept her hands on her hips. Vince Knox didn’t scare her one bit.
“There’s nobody around except for you and me. If you were a smart lady, you’d turn around and get the hell out of here,” he warned her.
“Listen to me for two minutes,” Rachel insisted.
Finally, he put down the bucket, listening to her speak as he stared down at his bare feet. His shorts and T-shirt were soaked through from pulling the motorboat into the water. Rach
el gave him an abridged version of what she needed. And why. His expression was impassive as she explained.
“I can’t help you,” he said when she was done. “I told you before. I mind my own business. It’s the only way I can survive, living the life that I live.”
“Sometimes a man has to speak up or be responsible for the repercussions of his silence,” Rachel told him.
He turned back to the boat and tossed in the pike with a clatter before climbing in. The boat rocked unsteadily as he scrambled to a seat next to the outboard motor. Rachel slipped off her sneakers and waded barefoot into the water.
“Wait,” Rachel called out, approaching the boat.
He ignored her and pulled the cord to turn on the engine. It spluttered. He reached out to pull the cord a second time when Rachel called out again.
“Bobby, wait,” she shouted. He dropped the cord and looked up at her.
“How do you know my real name?”
“A girl who once knew you, she wrote me some letters that mentioned a boy with gray eyes called Bobby,” said Rachel. “Bobby helped her injured sister by taking off his shirt and wrapping it around her like a blanket to keep her warm. To stop her from going into shock. Just like the way you did with the seagull. And just like the way you did on this very beach last year when you found—” Her words were swallowed by the wind.
“Who is the girl who wrote the letters?” he interrupted. “What’s her name?”
“Her name is Hannah Stills. Her sister was Jenny Stills,” said Rachel. “Do you remember them?”
“A little,” he said. “My memory is bad from that time, on account of the accident.”
“What accident?”
“I drove a truck into a tree when I was younger. Killed my two friends. I survived. If you can call looking like this surviving,” he said, lifting his T-shirt to display the third-degree burns she’d seen before on his chest. He laughed, an angry, bitter laugh. “I was in the hospital for nearly a year after that. Had skin graft after skin graft. Fourteen surgeries in all. That whole period is a haze. I remembered only what I was told. That I’d driven into a tree and killed my friends. I reckon that these scars here are a small price to pay for what I did.”
“Maybe you don’t remember Jenny Stills,” Rachel said. “But you remember another girl you helped on this beach. You were there that night. Weren’t you?”
He didn’t hear her. He’d turned on the outboard motor and was heading out into the ocean. Rachel listened to the whine of the motor as he navigated the boat through the crests of incoming waves until he had escaped the pull of the tide and was out at sea.
When he returned, two hours later, Rachel was sitting cross-legged on the beach, waiting for him. Once he’d secured his boat and stepped onshore, he looked at her and nodded.
49
Rachel
Dale Quinn failed to hide his elation when he saw the dejected slump of Mitch Alkins’s shoulders at the prosecutors’ table as he walked into court on Monday morning. Victory was within touching distance.
Quinn took his seat at the defense table and leaned back for a lighthearted exchange with Greg Blair. The courtroom was crackling with anticipation by the time Judge Shaw entered in his black robe. His eyes were steely when he asked Mitch Alkins, as he’d done every morning the previous week, whether the complainant was ready to resume her cross-examination.
“Your Honor,” said Alkins, “Miss Moore’s parents and therapist have advised that her mental state is too fragile for further questioning in open court. However, she can provide written answers, or videotape her answers to a list of questions provided by the defense. I ask for latitude in this regard. She is very young and very traumatized and I am certain we can elicit her testimony under cross-examination without tormenting her further by bringing her back into this courtroom.”
“Your Honor.” Dale Quinn bounded to his feet. “I need to cross-examine the witness myself before the jury. Anything less would prejudice my client’s right—”
“Yes, yes, I know, Mr. Quinn,” interrupted Judge Shaw. “Your client’s right to a fair trial. Believe me, Counselor, we are doing contortions here to keep it as fair as possible.”
Judge Shaw gestured for Quinn and Alkins to approach the bench. Nobody so much as cleared their throat as the judge conferred with the two attorneys at a sidebar, everyone straining to hear their hushed discussion. Sophia, the courtroom artist next to Rachel, stopped sketching while they spoke. It was impossible to know exactly what had been discussed when Judge Shaw finally ordered Quinn and Alkins to step away from the bar and return to their seats.
Mitch Alkins’s shoulders were hunched and he scratched the side of his forehead as if he was deeply unsatisfied with the outcome as he returned to the prosecutors’ table. Rachel guessed that Judge Shaw had refused his request to allow Kelly to provide testimony in writing or by video.
Back at the defense table, Dale Quinn stood up, trying not to look jubilant as he buttoned his jacket. “Your Honor,” Quinn said. “Since the complainant, Miss Moore, is unavailable today, which was the deadline for her to return to court for cross-examination, I move that her entire testimony be struck from the record.”
“I am inclined to agree with Mr. Quinn,” said Judge Shaw.
“Your Honor,” Alkins interrupted.
“I’ve given you ample time, Mr. Alkins,” Judge Shaw said. He instructed the jury to disregard all of Kelly Moore’s testimony. The jury would not be able to draw on anything she said when she took the witness stand earlier in the trial. All of her testimony would be erased, as if she’d never said a word.
The courtroom was hushed as Quinn asked the judge if he could make one further request. He was one chess move away from winning the case. “Your Honor, in light of your decision to strike Miss Moore’s testimony from the record, I ask that this case be dismissed, with prejudice, due to insufficient evidence.”
“Mr. Alkins, I believe Mr. Quinn has a strong argument. Do you have anything to say?” Judge Shaw leaned forward into his microphone.
“Your Honor,” said Alkins, standing up. “I would like to recall a witness before you consider the defense’s request.”
“You have already rested your case,” snapped Judge Shaw. “You can’t go calling witnesses now.”
“The witness that I’d like to call was a witness for the defense. Mr. Quinn has not yet rested the defense’s case.”
“Who would you like to recall, Mr. Alkins?” huffed Judge Shaw.
“I would like to recall Mr. Vince Knox.”
A hum rippled across the courtroom. They all remembered Vince Knox as the surly character witness, his face and neck disfigured by tattoos and healed gashes from switchblade attacks. He’d testified to Scott Blair’s heroism for saving the life of a drowning boy.
“Mr. Alkins, why are you wasting the court’s time by bringing a character witness for the defense back to the stand?” the judge asked impatiently.
“I believe that Mr. Knox may have information that is of material value to this case, beyond his testimony as a character witness for the defendant.”
“I’ll allow it,” said Judge Shaw, looking anything but happy about the direction the trial was taking. “You’re on razor-thin ice, Mr. Alkins. I suggest you get to the point with this witness. In record time.”
Dale Quinn leaned toward Scott Blair and whispered in his ear. Scott shrugged. It was obvious to Rachel that Quinn had asked his client if he knew what Mitch Alkins might want to extract from Vince Knox, of all people.
Trying to buy time, Quinn asked Judge Shaw for a half-day adjournment to prepare for the witness. Judge Shaw ruled it out. He pointed out curtly that the witness was in fact a defense witness being recalled to the stand and Quinn had already had ample time to prepare. Quinn then tried for a brief recess to confer with his client.
“No,” intoned Judge Shaw, as if he were talking to a preschooler nagging for a restroom break. “You may not have a short recess. We have just sta
rted for the day. Bailiff, bring in the witness.”
The courtroom doors opened to let Vince Knox into the courtroom. He wasn’t in the borrowed suit he’d worn the last time he’d testified. This time he wore neatly pressed denim work pants and a worn work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
The courtroom artist drew Vince Knox as the judge reminded him that he was still under oath. The good side of his face was weathered and ruddy from the outdoors. The other side had puckered knife scars, one of which made his eye droop. This time he made no effort to cover up his neck tattoos under his shirt collar.
“Your name is Vince Knox, is that correct?” Alkins asked.
“Yes, sir. It is.”
“You were also known by another name in the past. What was it?”
“I used to be called Bobby. Bobby Green,” said the witness. A frisson of surprise ran through the courtroom, but the witness seemed oblivious as he waited for Alkins’s next question.
“Why did you change your name, Mr. Knox?” Alkins asked.
“A friend of mine once told me that if you change your name, you change your luck. I decided I’d come back here with a new name. Start a new chapter. Neapolis is where I grew up. I’ve always loved it here: the ocean, the birds. It’s where I want to live out the rest of my life.”
As the witness spoke, Quinn turned around and gave Greg Blair a withering look before whispering into the ear of an associate, who immediately rushed out of the courtroom. Rachel suspected the junior lawyer had gone to collect dirt on Vince Knox’s past, when he was known as Bobby Green, to give Quinn ammunition for his redirect.
Alkins asked Knox where he had been on the night when Kelly Moore was raped. He explained that he’d been living in one of the boat sheds. “It was more comfortable than sleeping in my car. Also there’s toilet and shower facilities on the beach, and a barbecue that takes quarters. It’s too cold to stay there over the winter,” Knox said. “But I was there when that girl was hurt.”
