The Night Swim(60)

“It’s common for the emotional and psychological effects after a sexual assault to be delayed by hours, days. Even weeks,” Dr. Lawrence responded. “I believe Kelly was trying to hold herself together emotionally until she was in a safe space. Indeed, once she arrived home, she broke down.”

“In your dealings with Kelly, have you found her to be truthful and credible?” Alkins asked.

“In every way,” she said.

“Is there a chance that she misinterpreted what happened? Or exaggerated, maybe even lied about some details, or all of it?”

“I’ve spent more than ten months seeing Kelly as a patient. I have found her account of what happened and her emotional responses to be consistent throughout. I have absolutely no reason to doubt her word on what she says happened that night. No reason at all.”

Dale Quinn bounded out of his seat to cross-examine Dr. Lawrence. He happily dragged out his questioning for as long as possible, knowing that the longer she was on the stand, the less the jury liked her, and by extension, the less they’d believe anything she said. He effectively gave her enough rope to hang herself as a witness, thought Rachel. When Quinn was ready, in his softest, folksiest voice he reeled her in for the kill.

“Dr. Lawrence, did you work for an organization called the Women’s Rape Network after college?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I’ve been told that the Women’s Rape Network’s philosophy is that women who say they are the victims of a sexual assault should be believed no matter what. Is that accurate?” Quinn asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Isn’t it true that your testimony today is based on that same view, that your role is to support Kelly and not question whether she is telling the truth?”

“I have no reason to doubt Kelly.”

“You weren’t there that night, were you?” Dale Quinn asked.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“And you didn’t see any of it happen. Did you?”

“No.”

When Dr. Lawrence left the stand, Judge Shaw announced they’d take a lunch break. It was already running late enough for Rachel’s stomach to rumble.

Rachel hung back until most of the court had cleared out, except for the lawyers. Mitch Alkins and a young female lawyer on his team were talking and packing files into their briefcases.

“Mr. Alkins,” Rachel called out. He paused from packing his briefcase and gave Rachel a hard stare that told her to back off. “Mr. Alkins, I’m a reporter. My name is Rachel Krall; I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

“She’s the one from the podcast I was telling you about,” the other attorney whispered to Alkins in a voice loud enough for Rachel to hear.

“Ah, the reporter who believes in crowdsourcing justice. Why not get rid of the jury system altogether and decide on innocence and guilt with an online poll,” he muttered.

“Mr. Alkins, I need to ask you something. In private,” Rachel said, ignoring his comments. She had more important things to discuss than the ethics of crime podcasts.

“We’re not allowed to talk to reporters until after the case. Judge’s orders,” he said.

“It’s not about the trial,” said Rachel. “It’s about something else. Mr. Alkins, did you once know a girl by the name of Jenny Stills?”

Alkins froze for the briefest moment. It was so quick that Rachel wondered if she’d imagined it. He put another file in his briefcase, pulled the lid down tightly, and snapped the latches shut. When he was done, he walked right past her without a word and left the courtroom.





35



Rachel


Rachel shielded her eyes with her hand as she moved from the courthouse into the bright sunshine of the afternoon. The roar of passing traffic was deafening after hours spent in the hushed confines of the courtroom.

Dan Moore was heading down the stairs in front of her. He looked as if he’d aged a decade since the trial began. Being in court every day listening to deeply upsetting testimony about his daughter’s sexual assault was taking a heavy toll on him.

“How’s Kelly doing?” Rachel asked when she caught up to him in the plaza.

“She’s understandably nervous about testifying, but she absolutely insists that she wants to do it,” he said. “Her therapist says it will give her closure and help her move on with her life.”

Once they parted ways, Rachel headed over to a pretty street of cafes and specialty stores a few blocks from the courthouse. In Rachel’s computer bag was the faded bouquet ribbon she’d found at Jenny Stills’s grave. Rachel had shown the ribbon to two florists at downtown stores. They both said they’d never used that type of ribbon. It was a high-quality two-toned ribbon made from real fabric. One of the florists suggested that Rachel check at a shop called Antique Flowers, a high-end florist store that specialized in expensive, classical arrangements.

The store had been closed every time Rachel drove past, but that morning while driving to court she’d seen the “Closed” sign had been removed from the door. She’d been running late and didn’t have time to go into the store. But now, since court was done for the day, Rachel rushed over to the florist shop so she could ask about the ribbon before the store shut for the day.