The Night Swim(37)
She looked down at the plaza from the top of the stairs as she waited to go through the metal detectors. The area was bustling with a festive atmosphere that seemed to Rachel to be in poor taste, given it was the start of a rape trial. Food trucks were doing a roaring trade in coffee, doughnuts, and breakfast burritos. Protesters with black T-shirts that said “Stop Rapists” were waving “Lock Him Up” placards. Locals stood around taking selfies.
When the Blair family’s car pulled in, there was a sudden high-pitched scream so loud that heads turned to see what was going on. “Castrate him,” a protester screeched. It was followed by incoherent chanting that became louder as Scott Blair and his parents moved through the crowded plaza, flanked by a two-man security detail. Rachel realized the protesters were chanting, “Cut it off, cut it off,” as they followed the Blair family to the courthouse steps. They were shouted down by a rival group of mostly women wearing white T-shirts with Scott Blair’s photo printed above the word “Innocent.”
The courtroom was half-empty when Rachel pushed through its imposing polished doors and settled in her reserved seat in the media gallery. The court had original timber benches, paneled walls, and a gray stone floor. Filtered light came through clear lead windows set high up on the walls. They softened the harsh summer light and gave the court the atmosphere of a church.
The relative quiet was disrupted by the chaotic thump of files being unloaded onto tables by paralegals. Court clerks turned on computers and arranged paperwork as they prepared for the judge’s arrival. A hum of chatter rose into a din as the courtroom quickly filled to capacity.
Scott Blair arrived, surrounded by a phalanx of lawyers. He wore dark pants and a light blue V-neck sweater that made him look wholesome and younger than his nineteen years.
Cynthia Blair walked behind him in an austere navy dress. Her hair was styled straight; her makeup, natural. Her jewelry was almost nonexistent other than her wedding ring. Rachel found it hard to believe that she was the same glamorous, bejeweled woman she’d met two days ago. Greg Blair wore a middle-of-the-range suit that Rachel cynically suspected was carefully chosen to make the jury forget that the Blairs were the wealthiest family in town.
Dale Quinn had chosen an equally forgettable suit-and-tie ensemble in his bid to play the role of local boy done good rather than the brash out-of-towner. Quinn had used every media opportunity leading up to the trial, including a profile puff piece in the local newspaper, to wax nostalgic about growing up in Neapolis. Even though, from what Rachel knew, he’d lived there only briefly.
With those carefully placed interviews, he’d courted the future jurors before they even received their letters in the mail summoning them to jury duty. Quinn well knew the power of pretrial publicity. “It’s never too early to start influencing a jury,” he was fond of saying, as Rachel had learned from watching YouTube videos of his lectures and interviews as part of her own pretrial research.
The bailiff’s booming voice brought everyone to their feet as a wood-paneled door opened and the judge entered the courtroom. Judge Nathaniel Shaw was a shortish man with a wiry frame evident despite the billowing folds of his black robe. His tanned face was testament to his reputation as an avid sailor and cyclist. Rachel had heard the judge was sometimes known to cycle to court on his racing bike. The gray tinges to his light brown hair gave him a gravitas beyond his forty-something years. His sharp blue eyes scanned the court with a haughty authority that told everyone, without him having to utter a single word, that he did not suffer fools gladly.
Judge Shaw was known to have an aversion to long-winded arguments and courtroom theatrics. He had a low threshold for legal maneuverings of any kind if they slowed the wheels of justice unnecessarily. His judgments were terse and rather colorless in their legal prose, though sometimes interesting in points of law. He had zero tolerance for grandstanding, and most notably, he loathed journalists with a passionate intensity. He glared at the reporters in the media gallery as if to remind them of that fact.
Rachel felt that his most withering scowl was reserved for her. She’d been told confidentially when she picked up her media accreditation badge that Judge Shaw was not happy that she’d be covering the trial for the podcast. He’d found out from his staff that her investigative work in Season 1 of Guilty or Not Guilty had resulted in Frank Murphy being let out of prison after Rachel found fresh evidence that quashed the popular high school coach’s murder conviction.
For the past seven of the eleven years in which Judge Shaw had been a judge, he hadn’t been reversed. Not once. He’d told his staff that no podcaster was going to ruin his near-exemplary record. Or at least that’s what Rachel was told by her source, a court administrator who was a fan of her podcast and had become a wealth of information on the inner workings of the courthouse.
Judge Shaw had already banned video and audio recordings of the trial. The last thing Rachel needed was for the judge to micromanage her coverage or restrict her access. It was with relief that Rachel heard from the same court administrator that Judge Shaw was a self-confessed Luddite who had never listened to a podcast in his life and didn’t even own a smartphone. “Let’s hope it stays that way,” she’d told Pete.
After the jury filed in, the Moore family entered the courtroom. Kelly’s parents held their daughter’s arms, propping her up and shielding her from seeing Scott Blair at the defendant’s table as they made their way to a row of seats behind the prosecutors. Kelly had been allowed in court to listen to the prosecution’s opening arguments. After that, she and her mother would have to leave, as they were both being called as witnesses and the rules of court prohibited them from being present until they testified. Dan Moore had told Rachel that he would sit through the entire trial to represent the family.