No One Knows Us Here(93)

Over the next several days, the prosecution made its case against me. No surveillance footage was admitted into evidence. Whether this was because Leo had told the truth about not keeping Glasseyes in his loft, or because Jamila had somehow worked her magic and made the evidence disappear, I didn’t know. I would never know.

The prosecution had to piece its case together the old-fashioned way, by inundating the jury with witness after witness. “This is a cut-and-dried murder case,” Linda Murray intoned.

We had seen Leo’s business manager, Douglas Hemper—otherwise known as Sebastian St. Doug—on the prosecution’s witness list, so when he took the stand, it was no surprise. Calvin had fought it. Whatever Doug had to say about me, it wouldn’t be favorable. Linda would get the whole story out of him, and after that, I’d no longer be the innocent little girlfriend who lashed out at her domineering boyfriend—I’d be the fiery hussy who stabbed a famous tech innovator just for the hell of it. Doug’s testimony would be prejudicial, Calvin had tried to argue to the judge. Linda had insisted his testimony would be essential in understanding the nature of my relationship with Leo. If I was in it for the money, not for love; it could establish my motive for murder. The judge allowed it.

Sebastian St. Doug did not want to be in a courtroom talking about hiring prostitutes. Throughout his testimony, he kept his head down. He talked about getting a referral from a “friend” and setting up a date with me. He talked about meeting me in the Valerie Hotel and taking the photograph he would later show Leo Glass. Why did he show him the photo? He was bragging, he supposed. She got him to admit that he had hoped to hire me, that he expected to pay me in exchange for sexual favors.

She asked him about the monthly transfers from Leo’s bank account to mine. Did Doug know the amount?

“Six thousand dollars.”

“Did Leo Glass tell you the purpose of these transfers?”

“No.”

“Would it be fair to infer that Leo Glass was paying Rosemary Rabourne for sexual services?”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Calvin shot out, offended.

“Sustained.” Judge Landsberger cut Linda Murray a stern look, like a disappointed father. “You know better than that, Counsel.”

Linda Murray went back to her seat, smirking.

Calvin got up to cross-examine him. “Mr. Hemper,” he started. Doug’s eyes lifted, slowly, to meet Calvin’s. Like a dog who had just been scolded for peeing on the living room floor. “Did the defendant perform a sexual act with you on the night she met you at the Valerie Hotel?”

His eyes opened wider, and his lips parted as he ran his mind over the question. “No.”

Linda Murray looked like she wanted to object, but she thought better of it and zipped her mouth into a tight line.

“Did Rosemary Rabourne take any money from you on that night?”

“No.”

I’d gone over the night with Calvin, every detail. I remembered very clearly: I hadn’t gone through with the act, and I’d left the envelope stuffed with bills in the hotel. It shouldn’t matter if I had, I had insisted. Calvin didn’t bother responding to that.

“Thank you,” Calvin said. “No further questions.” And that was that.

A steady parade of expert witnesses followed. The prosecution tried to bring up the fact that the absence of fingerprints on the knife handle was suspect. Why would the knife—only that knife—show no evidence that anyone had ever touched it? It was a fair point, and I glanced sideways at the jury, to see how they were taking it. They looked bored out of their minds.

The prosecution brought in another expert who, based on photographs of my bruising and the DNA found on the cupboards, said it was “certainly possible” that I’d inflicted the wounds myself.

The funny thing is . . . the prosecution got everything exactly right. I had banged my face against the cabinets. I had swiped the boning knife from the rack and plunged it into his throat. I had picked up that knife, washed it off, and hung it back on the rack. They said I didn’t call the police. That was true, too. But I’d tried. At least I’d tried.



After what seemed like weeks, it was our turn. We didn’t need to prove that I hadn’t killed him. I had confessed as much. We needed to make the jury believe that I’d been justified in doing it, that I feared for my own life when I picked up that knife. That I had killed him not in cold blood but in self-defense. Calvin Lewis was convinced we could win. During his opening statements, he had talked about me and the sad little life I’d lived, the tragic death of my mother, my selfless act of taking in my orphaned sister. He alluded to my twisted arrangement with Leo Glass.

There was one detail Calvin Lewis didn’t add to my life story, and it was a crucial one for our case: he didn’t tell them about the IUD. The prosecution had ruled it inadmissible during pretrial proceedings. It was prejudicial, Linda Murray had argued: “Leo Glass is not the one on trial here.” The only way for the jury to hear it, to hear the whole gruesome tale, would be for me to go on the stand and testify, something Calvin Lewis refused to let me do. It never ends well, he insisted, and I was inclined to agree. If they didn’t put me on the stand, I couldn’t lie.

Instead he brought in forensic specialists, psychiatrists, a medical doctor who specialized in post-traumatic stress disorder with a possible explanation for my behavior after the stabbing. I’d been operating under a fugue state when I’d washed that knife, hung it back on the rack. My conscious mind had shut down, and my subconscious mind was working overtime, trying to put order to the chaos. Calvin also brought in an entire team of tech guys who worked on Consuela, the smart-speaker prototype Leo had designed to respond only to his voice. They were able to corroborate the statement I had made to the police: I had tried to call for help.