Dangerous Girls
Page 37
“Objection!” My lawyer sighs. “The time of death has not been determined. The attack could have been carried out before the defendant returned to the house, or when she was out at dinner.”
“Sustained.”
Dekker hides a scowl. “I’ll rephrase,” he says. “If a stranger broke in while you were in the house, he would have gone directly past your room, isn’t that true?”
“No,” I say again, “There were other ways into the house.” I turn to the judge. “Can I show, on the screen . . . ?”
“Surely this is something for the defense cross-examination—” Dekker tries to talk over me, but the judge interrupts him.
“You brought up the floor plan, so I’ll allow it.”
There’s a moment’s pause, then Dekker reluctantly hands over the iPad and pointer.
“The front door wasn’t the main way in,” I explain, marking the other exits on the map. “We mostly went in and out via the deck, here, at the back of the house. The whole back wall opened up, like sliding doors, and they were unlocked most of the time. We were coming and going; it was too much hassle for everyone to deal with a key. Elise had a balcony of her own, with doors out over the beach—”
“Her balcony was several stories off the sand,” Dekker interrupts me quickly.
“One floor, not very high,” I insist. “About fifteen, twenty feet, with easy footholds in the wood beams. Niklas climbed up, just the night before, and Max got in there when we couldn’t open Elise’s bedroom. Anyone could have climbed up from the beach, and it’s set back, so not many people would see.”
“Anything else?” Dekker’s tone is dangerously polite. “Any secret passages, or hidden exits?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.” Judge von Koppel sighs. “The prosecution should refrain from sarcasm. Anything else to add to the floor plan, Miss Chevalier?”
“Just, our bedroom was across the house from Elise’s. We had music on, and . . .” I swallow. “If someone had been in there, we wouldn’t have heard. We didn’t hear anything.” My voice breaks, and my lawyer leaps up.
“We ask to adjourn for the day, Your Honor!” he says quickly. “The defendant is clearly emotional, no doubt suffering due to the prosecution’s incessant badgering—”
“Oh, come on!” Dekker interrupts. “This is a blatant attempt for sympathy. She’s fine.”
They all turn to look at me, the judge peering down with her usual inscrutable gaze.
I stare back at her, pleading. All day, it’s been nothing but the knife prints and the blood smears and the precise re-creation of our footprints in that hallway; until now I can hardly remember what I’ve said, and what Dekker has been drumming away at us.
“I’d prefer to avoid any further delay,” she announces, and my heart falls. “Mr. Dekker, you may continue your questioning, but keep it brief.”
He turns on me with a grin. “So, back to the floor plan. You claim you never heard anyone enter the house.”
“Not through the front door,” I correct him. “But like I said, you could climb up the balcony directly to Elise’s room. Niklas did it, maybe more than once.”
Dekker scowls. “As we’ve already established, Niklas van Oaten was at home with his father on the afternoon of the murder.”
“But if he climbed up, somebody else could have done the same.” I can’t keep the note of desperation from my voice.
“Somebody?” Dekker repeats, mocking. “Does that seem likely to you, Miss Chevalier? That a random stranger would decide to climb up the side of the house, in full view of the beach, not knowing if anyone is home? And then, when they find Miss Warren there, instead of fleeing, or simply knocking her down, they take the knife from the kitchen, and stab her thirteen times?”
I look down.
“That was a question, Miss Chevalier,” Dekker’s voice booms out. “Is that a likely scenario? Does it sound at all plausible to you?”
“It’s possible,” I say through gritted teeth. “Elise could have had the knife in her room. The window was smashed. It was a break-in.”
“You claim it was a break-in.” Dekker corrects. “Evidence for which, is murky at best. And as for your intruder theory, isn’t it far more likely that Miss Warren’s attacker knew her?”
“No,” I insist.
“Knew, in fact, that she would be alone in the house that afternoon.” Dekker ignores my reply. “And that this attacker could come and go in broad daylight, without raising suspicion. That her attacker had keys to the house and knew the alarm codes.”
“No!” My voice is shrill. He’s making it sound simple, too simple, and I can tell from the expressions in the courtroom that they agree.
“Isn’t it more likely that her attacker harbored a jealous rage . . .,” Dekker is relentless. “And was angry at the victim? Angry enough to stab her thirteen times and leave her there, bleeding to death on the bedroom floor—”
“Objection!” My lawyer finally cries out. “The prosecutor is testifying!”
“Sustained.”
“That’s fine.” Dekker grins at me again, cruel and triumphant. “I have no further questions for the witness at present.”
“Would you care to cross?” von Koppel asks my lawyer, but he must be able to tell, I’m beyond helping right now.
“No, Your Honor,” he sighs. “Nothing further.”
As I step down from the witness seat, I see my dad seated in the front row. He meets my eyes and quickly sends me a wave and a smile, but I catch the look on his face just before he manages to mask it: worried and bleak. The hopeless exhaustion in his gaze is how I feel after my day on the stand, but somehow, seeing it reflected back at me drives the chilling truth home. My legs waver, and a wash of dizziness passes over me as I realize the truth.
We’re losing this.
PRETRIAL
“The key is to get on the offensive. Find other suspects, start taking apart the prosecution’s case before we even get to trial.”
His name is Oliver Gates, and he’s an old college buddy of my dad’s, recruited to rescue my crumbling legal defense. A short teddy bear of a man in square black-rimmed glasses and a crumpled shirt, he paces in the small interview room, oblivious to the specks of coffee stains on his novelty golf-print tie. I watch, my heart sinking. He’s soft-looking and warm, a million miles from Dekker’s cut-throat aggression or even Ellingham’s snooty professional detachment.
“Sustained.”
Dekker hides a scowl. “I’ll rephrase,” he says. “If a stranger broke in while you were in the house, he would have gone directly past your room, isn’t that true?”
“No,” I say again, “There were other ways into the house.” I turn to the judge. “Can I show, on the screen . . . ?”
“Surely this is something for the defense cross-examination—” Dekker tries to talk over me, but the judge interrupts him.
“You brought up the floor plan, so I’ll allow it.”
There’s a moment’s pause, then Dekker reluctantly hands over the iPad and pointer.
“The front door wasn’t the main way in,” I explain, marking the other exits on the map. “We mostly went in and out via the deck, here, at the back of the house. The whole back wall opened up, like sliding doors, and they were unlocked most of the time. We were coming and going; it was too much hassle for everyone to deal with a key. Elise had a balcony of her own, with doors out over the beach—”
“Her balcony was several stories off the sand,” Dekker interrupts me quickly.
“One floor, not very high,” I insist. “About fifteen, twenty feet, with easy footholds in the wood beams. Niklas climbed up, just the night before, and Max got in there when we couldn’t open Elise’s bedroom. Anyone could have climbed up from the beach, and it’s set back, so not many people would see.”
“Anything else?” Dekker’s tone is dangerously polite. “Any secret passages, or hidden exits?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.” Judge von Koppel sighs. “The prosecution should refrain from sarcasm. Anything else to add to the floor plan, Miss Chevalier?”
“Just, our bedroom was across the house from Elise’s. We had music on, and . . .” I swallow. “If someone had been in there, we wouldn’t have heard. We didn’t hear anything.” My voice breaks, and my lawyer leaps up.
“We ask to adjourn for the day, Your Honor!” he says quickly. “The defendant is clearly emotional, no doubt suffering due to the prosecution’s incessant badgering—”
“Oh, come on!” Dekker interrupts. “This is a blatant attempt for sympathy. She’s fine.”
They all turn to look at me, the judge peering down with her usual inscrutable gaze.
I stare back at her, pleading. All day, it’s been nothing but the knife prints and the blood smears and the precise re-creation of our footprints in that hallway; until now I can hardly remember what I’ve said, and what Dekker has been drumming away at us.
“I’d prefer to avoid any further delay,” she announces, and my heart falls. “Mr. Dekker, you may continue your questioning, but keep it brief.”
He turns on me with a grin. “So, back to the floor plan. You claim you never heard anyone enter the house.”
“Not through the front door,” I correct him. “But like I said, you could climb up the balcony directly to Elise’s room. Niklas did it, maybe more than once.”
Dekker scowls. “As we’ve already established, Niklas van Oaten was at home with his father on the afternoon of the murder.”
“But if he climbed up, somebody else could have done the same.” I can’t keep the note of desperation from my voice.
“Somebody?” Dekker repeats, mocking. “Does that seem likely to you, Miss Chevalier? That a random stranger would decide to climb up the side of the house, in full view of the beach, not knowing if anyone is home? And then, when they find Miss Warren there, instead of fleeing, or simply knocking her down, they take the knife from the kitchen, and stab her thirteen times?”
I look down.
“That was a question, Miss Chevalier,” Dekker’s voice booms out. “Is that a likely scenario? Does it sound at all plausible to you?”
“It’s possible,” I say through gritted teeth. “Elise could have had the knife in her room. The window was smashed. It was a break-in.”
“You claim it was a break-in.” Dekker corrects. “Evidence for which, is murky at best. And as for your intruder theory, isn’t it far more likely that Miss Warren’s attacker knew her?”
“No,” I insist.
“Knew, in fact, that she would be alone in the house that afternoon.” Dekker ignores my reply. “And that this attacker could come and go in broad daylight, without raising suspicion. That her attacker had keys to the house and knew the alarm codes.”
“No!” My voice is shrill. He’s making it sound simple, too simple, and I can tell from the expressions in the courtroom that they agree.
“Isn’t it more likely that her attacker harbored a jealous rage . . .,” Dekker is relentless. “And was angry at the victim? Angry enough to stab her thirteen times and leave her there, bleeding to death on the bedroom floor—”
“Objection!” My lawyer finally cries out. “The prosecutor is testifying!”
“Sustained.”
“That’s fine.” Dekker grins at me again, cruel and triumphant. “I have no further questions for the witness at present.”
“Would you care to cross?” von Koppel asks my lawyer, but he must be able to tell, I’m beyond helping right now.
“No, Your Honor,” he sighs. “Nothing further.”
As I step down from the witness seat, I see my dad seated in the front row. He meets my eyes and quickly sends me a wave and a smile, but I catch the look on his face just before he manages to mask it: worried and bleak. The hopeless exhaustion in his gaze is how I feel after my day on the stand, but somehow, seeing it reflected back at me drives the chilling truth home. My legs waver, and a wash of dizziness passes over me as I realize the truth.
We’re losing this.
PRETRIAL
“The key is to get on the offensive. Find other suspects, start taking apart the prosecution’s case before we even get to trial.”
His name is Oliver Gates, and he’s an old college buddy of my dad’s, recruited to rescue my crumbling legal defense. A short teddy bear of a man in square black-rimmed glasses and a crumpled shirt, he paces in the small interview room, oblivious to the specks of coffee stains on his novelty golf-print tie. I watch, my heart sinking. He’s soft-looking and warm, a million miles from Dekker’s cut-throat aggression or even Ellingham’s snooty professional detachment.
