“Is there a chance Mrs. Cresswell-Smith will walk?”
“As I’ve told viewers, Mr. Lorrington has been underscoring the weaknesses in the Crown’s case and presenting to the jury feasible alternate narratives. And as Lorrington told the court early in his opening statements, anything can happen in a jury trial. If jurors feel sympathy or identify with Mrs. Cresswell-Smith, or see her as a victim of her husband’s, they are more likely to find reasonable doubt and render a verdict of not guilty. The defense legal strategy has been to acknowledge that while Mrs. Cresswell-Smith is a clever and accomplished con artist, she is not a murderer.”
“Thank you, Melody,” the anchor says. Melody signs off and disappears, and the screen fills with an image of a Quintrex cuddy cabin boat. The anchor says, “New South Wales police are still asking members of the public who might have seen a boat like this under suspicious circumstances to please come forward. The number for the anonymous tip line is at the bottom of the screen. Police are also still looking for this man—”
A photo taken from CCTV footage of a bald man appears. Berle lurches forward in interest. While she’s watched most of the reporting on the trial, she hasn’t seen this photo. The screen splits and shows a better rendering of the tattoo on the man’s neck. Something begins to stir in Berle’s mind. Her heart begins to beat faster. She takes another swig of her beer, fixated by the close-up of the tattoo. It’s a rendering of a hummingbird. The screen flashes to a photograph of a fancy bronze watch.
“Police are also looking for a Rolex Daytona like this one.” Berle coughs as she swallows her mouthful of beer.
“Hey, Herb!”
“What?”
“Get in here, quick.” She’s on the edge of her chair.
He comes around the corner in a sleeveless undershirt that was once white. Berle points her tin at the screen. “That! That watch. I’ve seen it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Our tenant, you idiot. That guy who rents the shack at the bottom of the farm.”
“I don’t deal with him, Berle. You’re the one who wanted to lease that dive. I’ve barely seen his face. He doesn’t come out when I’m around.”
She pushes clumsily to her feet and waddles hurriedly toward the landline phone that squats next to their framed wedding photo.
“What are you doing?”
She guzzles back the rest of her beer, plunks down the empty tin, and picks up the receiver. She feels feverish, excited. “We’re gonna be on TV, Herb. We’re going to be paid to be on television. We’re going to meet Melody Watts. In the flesh. Right here. She’s going to come here.”
“Are you nuts—who are you calling?”
“I’m calling the TV station. I’m calling Melody Watts. I’ve seen that watch on our tenant. He has that tattoo. He arrived over a year ago, and he parks that boat in the shed and just leaves it there with that old dirt bike of his. It’s him. I swear it’s him! He’s been laying low on our farm the whole time!”
Herb stares at his wife. The flies buzz about his head.
“Berle,” he says quietly, “if it’s him, you should call that Crime Stoppers number, you should call the cops, not Melody Watts.”
She puts the receiver to her ear. “We gonna be on TV, Herb.”
THE MURDER TRIAL
Now, February. Supreme Court. New South Wales.
It’s been five days since Justice Parr stood down the court after a highly unusual request from the Crown to bring forward late-breaking evidence and a potential new witness. Lorrington looks gray as court reconvenes this morning. He’s not a man who likes to lose, or to be seen to be losing.
The court officer opens the door. Everyone goes dead still.
He walks in.
For a moment I fear I’m going to faint. He’s come. I was hoping he wouldn’t. It means one thing. He’s turned state’s evidence. Worry tightens. I shoot a glance at Lorrington. He thinks he still has a plan. But he doesn’t, not now. He has yet to learn the depths of my deceit.
I have just become a barrister’s worst nightmare—the client who has lied to him.
The new witness swears on the Bible and takes a seat in the witness box. Dark hollows underscore his eyes. He’s tired. I bet the cops have been hammering him round the clock.
“Can you please state your name for the court?” says Konikova.
“Jack Barker.”
There is a stirring in the gallery. The place is packed with officers. Ellie sits close to Gregg. I wonder if they could be holding hands. A lot could have happened in the year that my case has taken to come to trial.
Konikova says, “Mr. Barker, can you describe to Your Honor how you know the defendant?”
“We met after her father died on the streets in Sydney. She was homeless. We became friends, hustled together on the streets—classic three-card monte, shell games. Slept in parks. Doorways.” He pauses and looks at me. “We were friends.”
I see Ellie whisper something in Gregg’s ear. She’s realizing I’d actually told her the truth about my mother and father, my history, that day she came to see me. It wasn’t just a con used to bond her to me. I learned to hustle on the streets. I learned from Jack. From my dad . . . “Watch the shells closely, kiddo . . .” You should have watched my game more closely, Ellie . . .
“So the two of you go way back?”
“Yes.”
“Did you stay in touch all this time?”
“On and off after she left Australia—she called me occasionally over the years, and made contact again when she returned to Australia to live in Jarrawarra. She arrived several months before her husband and the mark came.”
“The mark?”
“Ellie Hartley. She was the new mark. The new ‘Mrs. Cresswell-Smith.’” He makes air quotes. “As Sabrina explained it to me, Ellie technically wasn’t married to Martin because he and Sabrina already were—Martin had entered
