He turns to the jury. “Murder consists of two elements. As I stated at the outset to this trial, there must be a proven intention to kill. And it must be proven that the defendant did in fact kill.” He pauses and meets the eyes of each jury member in turn. “I put it to this court that the prosecution has failed to provide evidence of the vital half of that equation. Yes, maybe it could be argued that the defendant—Mrs. Cresswell-Smith—wanted to kill the man she once loved, the man she’d lived with since she was around nineteen years old, the man who then cheated on her, who was embezzling funds she believed were hers, who was going to bolt with his lover to live in a country where there was no extradition treaty. Yes, it could be argued that Sabrina Cresswell-Smith was a con artist, that she defrauded and cheated people out of their money. It could even be argued that she’d come to despise her husband so deeply when she learned of his duality, his deception, his double cross, that maybe she did want to kill him. Perhaps she even intended to kill him. But”—he raises a finger into the air—“she didn’t.”
Lorrington pauses and lets that hang. “Detective Corneil,” he says, turning back to the homicide cop, “is it at all possible that someone else could have hired the mystery biker or some other person entirely to kill Martin Cresswell-Smith—perhaps someone from his past who he’d double-crossed, or someone who was furious at being defrauded, or someone who’d posted signs all over Agnes Basin calling for his murder?”
Silence.
“Sergeant Corneil?” says Judge Parr.
The detective clears his throat. “It’s possible, sir, but evidence of torture suggests—”
“‘Suggests’!” Lorrington swings to the jury, his finger back in the air. “Did you hear that—‘suggests’? This is all they have? A suggestion?”
As he turns to face Corneil, the court door is flung open. The barrister stalls. A legal aide comes rushing down the aisle and goes straight to the prosecuting side of the table. She leans down and whispers into the solicitor’s ear. The solicitor whispers into Konikova’s ear. At the very same time the journalist, Melody Watts, gets up and rushes out the door. So do two cops. Something is happening. What is happening?
Before Lorrington can speak, Konikova is up on her feet. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?”
“What is this about, Madame Crown?” asks the judge.
“We . . . we have a late-breaking . . . development. We have new evidence, a possible new witness.”
“Objection,” barks Lorrington. He looks worried. I am suddenly afraid. “We were not informed of this.”
“This is highly irregular, Madame Crown,” says the judge.
“It’s only just come to our attention.”
The judge irritably wags her hand at them. “Approach.”
THE MURDER TRIAL
Earlier that morning. Toomba, Queensland.
Berle Geller watches television in her squat house with its corrugated tin roof that bakes under the Australian sun. The house is on the knoll of a derelict spread several kilometers outside the small rural town of Toomba in Queensland, close to the border with New South Wales. Flies buzz inside and a lazy fan paddles the air. A dog scratches itself at the foot of her recliner. Berle holds a tin of beer on her belly. Her husband is in the next room doing whatever it is that Herb Geller does, but Berle is glued to the reality show that is the Martin Cresswell-Smith murder trial. She’s convinced Sabrina Cresswell-Smith is guilty, but she agrees with the TV pundits that all the evidence against her is circumstantial at best. Besides, Berle has sympathy for the woman. That husband of hers sounds like a right asshole. Bastard. She’d have stuck him with a knife, too. Lord help her, but sometimes she feels like sticking a knife in Herb. Berle knows what rage feels like. She knows the taste of betrayal and failure. She glances at the old wedding portrait of herself and Herb on the buffet. They had such dreams back then. Look at her life now. If she had a heap of money and her husband ran off with it, and with his mistress—
Melody Watts appears on the screen.
“Melody is back on, Herb!”
Herb grunts from the other room.
“You’re gonna miss it!”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it,” Herb calls from the other room.
The camera zooms in on Melody Watts. She stands in front of the courthouse doors. She’s impeccably made up and sporting a fuchsia jacket that contrasts with her blonde TV hair. She’s so pretty.
Berle kicks her dog with her swollen foot to stop it from scratching. She takes a sip of beer from her tin, riveted.
“When the Martin Cresswell-Smith murder trial resumes this morning, Justice Geraldine Parr is expected to summarize the central arguments. We anticipate that Justice Parr will outline the key points of evidence given by each significant witness, and she will explain to the jury the relevant laws and how they relate to the case at hand. The next step will be the jury deliberations.”
The screen splits and shows the male anchor behind a desk in the newsroom. “Thank you, Melody,” he says. “And NSW police have still not found an alleged accomplice or the missing Abracadabra?”
“That’s right, Harlan. The mysterious ‘bikie’ with a neck tattoo continues to remain
