intended to kill Martin, and that you did in fact kill him. The prosecution is missing the key element of that equation. And remember this—anything can happen in a jury trial. Anything. At the end of the day, all we need is to show reasonable doubt. We can do that.”
Lorrington’s strategy is to both undercut the police investigation and deliver to the court an alternate narrative of events that matches the forensic evidence. A story where I did not murder Martin. A story where the cops screwed up. It will be his story versus the prosecutor’s story. That’s ultimately what a jury trial is—a battle of two narratives. A fight for the very heart and emotions of the jurors. Lorrington said that, after all, a jury trial hinges on emotion more than logic.
I’m a victim. I was framed. I’m not a killer.
Deep breath. Assume identity . . .
Victim.
I smooth my damp palms over my tan linen skirt. The tan of neutrality. Like my flat, nude-colored shoes. Neutral. My blouse is simple, white. The white of innocence. I adjust my pretty horn-rimmed glasses. They say hardworking. My hair has been cut. No polish on my nails. I could be a librarian. I could be your sister, your mother. Your girlfriend. I could be you. Demure. Gentle. Empathetic. Sensitive. Wronged. So very wronged—framed, in fact.
I’ve played this character well and often throughout my life. I can do it again. I’m adept at masks. An expert, really. I learned from one of the best. My husband. The deceased. Martin Cresswell-Smith.
The car comes to a stop. Thump, thump, thump goes my heart.
Lorrington takes out his headphones and turns up the volume on his phone so I can hear. It’s the reporter outside, the one at the top of the stairs—Melody Watts. Her Australian accent is blunt.
“. . . the accused is arriving now with her barrister and solicitor.”
Camera angles change, and suddenly we’re looking back down at our car. The effect is surreal. Melody Watts is saying, “Mrs. Cresswell-Smith has been out on bail since her arraignment just over a year ago. Bail was set at one point five million. At the time Magistrate Robert Lindsay found the Crown’s case against the accused was ‘not weak,’ but he ultimately determined its strength was outweighed by a number of factors, including Mrs. Cresswell-Smith’s need to prepare for trial with her legal team, plus her lack of criminal history in New South Wales. He said”—Melody Watts consults her notebook for the exact quote—“‘While murder is the most serious offense, refusal of bail is not to be deemed as a punishment, as there is still a presumption of innocence in the bail act.’” She looks up at the camera, and the sun catches the whiteness of her teeth. “Mrs. Cresswell-Smith was not deemed to be a danger to the community, and she surrendered her passport.”
Lorrington puts on his wig and adjusts his robe. Suddenly my mouth is bone dry.
We exit the car.
Humidity slams me like a wall. Sound is suddenly explosive. The crowd jostles, chatters, jeers, taunts. Mobile phones are held high, recording, snapping photos. Press cameras zoom in with monstrous telephoto lenses. My barrister touches my elbow gently and escorts me up the steps, his robe billowing out behind him. The journalists clamor forward, mikes reaching out. They’re after blood. Which will boost ratings in an era of dying media, and their desperation is ugly.
“Mrs. Cresswell-Smith, did you kill your husband?”
“Did you do it? Did you kill Martin?”
A searing flash of memory blinds me and I almost stumble. Blood. Martin’s. The fishing knife . . . the fury in Martin’s eyes. The bitter bile of betrayal in my throat.
“How long had you been planning his murder?”
Anger expands like a hot balloon inside me. My pulse races. My raw hatred for Martin pushes against my carefully constructed emotional walls. I fist my hands tightly at my sides and clench my teeth as I ascend the stairs flanked by my legal team in their flowing black robes.
“Innocent until proven guilty!” yells a large woman.
“Bitch! Black widow bitch!”
Rage explodes and shatters my facade into a million shimmering shards and I’m filled with a vileness of fury that makes me want to inflict bodily harm. I swing around, opening my mouth around a ferocious retort.
A camera clicks in my face.
Fuck.
My lawyer grabs my arm. “Do not engage,” he hisses in my ear. “Do not look at the cameras. Do not smile. Do not say anything.”