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  “We have a caller on the line,” the radio host said, after the final notes of acoustic guitar had faded away. “What’s your name?”

  “Dean.”

  “What do you want to talk about today, Dean?”

  “Everyone is so politically correct these days that nobody calls it as they see it. So I’m going to say it straight out. That trial next week is a disgrace.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked the radio announcer.

  “Because what the heck was that girl thinking!”

  “You’re blaming the girl?”

  “Hell yeah. It’s not right. A kid’s life is being ruined because a girl got drunk and did something dumb that she regretted afterward. We all regret stuff. Except we don’t try to get someone put in prison for our screw-ups.”

  “The police and district attorney obviously think a crime has been committed if they’re bringing it to trial,” interrupted the host testily.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I feel bad for her and all. Hell, I feel bad for everyone in this messed-up situation. But I especially feel bad for that Blair boy. Everything he worked for has gone up in smoke. And he ain’t even been found guilty yet. Fact is, this trial is a waste. It’s a waste of time. And it’s a waste of our taxes.”

  “Jury selection might be over, but the trial hasn’t begun, Dean,” snapped the radio announcer. “There’s a jury of twelve fine citizens who will decide his guilt or innocence. It’s not up to us, or you, to decide.”

  “Well, I sure hope that jury has their heads screwed on right, because there’s no way that anyone with a shred of good old-fashioned common sense will reach a guilty verdict. No way.”

  The caller’s voice dropped out as the first notes of a hit country-western song hit the airwaves. The announcer’s voice rose over the music. “It’s just after eleven A.M. on what’s turning out to be a very humid Saturday morning in Neapolis. Everyone in town is talking about the Blair trial that starts next week. We’ll take more callers after this little tune.”

  3

  Rachel

  The moment the traffic light turned green, Rachel put her foot on the gas and shot out across the intersection toward her hotel. It was a modern four-star hotel on a beach road, opposite the town’s new marina, where day cruisers were docked in a gleaming white row. Hanging off the biggest boat was a giant red banner offering the cheapest prices in town for day trips and game-fishing cruises.

  Rachel gave her car to the hotel parking valet and wheeled her suitcase to the reception desk. Check-in wasn’t for an hour, but the hotel had promised to make her room available early.

  Rachel had deliberately arrived in Neapolis days ahead of the trial to cultivate sources and get to know the people and the rhythm of the town. She was under enormous pressure to make Season 3 better than the last two seasons. A flood of imitation podcasters were copying her original format, with varying results. She had to keep Guilty or Not Guilty fresh and groundbreaking, or risk the podcast falling into obscurity as ambitious rivals overtook it. In short, she had to deliver a podcast that ran rings around the first two seasons. There was no room for failure and Rachel knew it. That was why she’d selected a case for Season 3 that was topical, controversial, and had the potential to spark conversations at water coolers and dinner tables alike.

  For the first time Guilty or Not Guilty would cover an active trial while it played out in court. The previous seasons had rehashed old cases from years earlier, where everything was viewed through the twenty-twenty lens of hindsight, and with masses of information available online.

  Covering a trial while it was under way would put the audience in a virtual jury box. Rachel would give her listeners the testimony and the evidence in real time as it came out in court, as if they were real jurors. Every listener would reach his or her own verdict based on the evidence as the jury deliberated.

  Season 3 would test Rachel’s endurance more than ever. She planned to attend court during the day and record podcast episodes at night, as well as post on the podcast website daily summaries of each day’s hearings and transcripts of testimony, whenever possible. She’d have to do it all without Pete at her side. He’d been in a motorcycle crash and couldn’t join her for the trip. Although he’d insisted that he’d help all he could from his hospital bed.

  Rachel’s first interview was scheduled for later that afternoon, and she wanted to freshen up and change into clothes better suited to the sticky heat. Mostly she wanted to unpack so she could explore the town before her hectic work schedule began. Her heart sank a little when the hotel reception clerk said that her room was still being cleaned.

  Rachel headed to the lobby cafe, sitting at a small, round table while she waited for her room. Behind her was a gilded birdcage. She assumed it was ornamental until she heard a rustling noise and turned around to see a brown bird with a reddish tail scratching listlessly at birdseed. A waiter passed by. She called him over and ordered a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

  “What kind of bird is that?” Rachel asked the waiter when he returned with her drink.

  “It’s a nightingale,” he said. “The manager thought it was a cute idea to have a songbird in the lobby. The problem is that bird doesn’t know how to sing. I’ve never heard it so much as tweet. It’s not much to look at, either. Between you and me, I think it’s a fake. I don’t think it’s a nightingale at all.”

  “Well, I’m hardly a bird expert, but even I can tell that’s one unhappy bird,” Rachel said.

  “Maybe,” the waiter said, shrugging helplessly as if to tell her that he had no influence when it came to the bird’s welfare. “You’re here for the trial, aren’t you?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “What makes you think that?” Rachel responded, suddenly on guard.

  “You don’t have a vacation vibe. The manager said we’d be getting some guests staying here for the trial. Media types. Lawyers too.”

  Rachel could tell he was fishing to find out which category she fell into, but she had no intention of satisfying his curiosity. She’d booked into the hotel using Pete’s family name for a reason. She didn’t want anyone at the hotel to know her true identity.

  “I gather the trial is an emotional topic around here,” she said.

  “It can get heated,” he agreed. “Everyone knows the boy involved. Some personally and some by reputation. He’s pretty famous around here. And this town is small enough that people can pretty much guess who the girl is, even though her name has been kept out of the newspapers.”

  “If everyone knows everyone, I’m surprised the trial wasn’t moved to a different jurisdiction.”

  “I heard the judge refused to allow it to be moved. Said he had faith in the jurors. I think he’s right. They’ll be fair. I don’t think it’s true that everyone knows everyone here. Maybe once. Neapolis isn’t a small town anymore.”

  “Have you lived here long?” Rachel asked.

  “My parents moved here when I left for college. I visit them in the summer and work at the hotel during the tourist season.” He wiped the table next to Rachel’s as he spoke.

  “You must like the place if you come every summer?”

  “It’s great for kids and old people. Not much to do here if you’re my age. Nothing in the way of jobs, that’s for sure,” he said. “My dad says this town never got a break. The factories are struggling. Fishing and tourism are the big money earners. Neither are reliable. The fishing used to be good. Not so much anymore. The tourism, well, that depends on the hurricane season.”

  Rachel’s phone rang. The call was from Pete. The waiter inched away, straightening chairs that didn’t need to be straightened. Rachel could tell that he was listening in to her conversation. He had a perplexed expression that suggested he was trying to figure out why her voice sounded so familiar.

  It was a common reaction. Rachel’s soft, breathless broadcast voice was instantly recognizable. It was her signature. That and her tendency to break the fourth wall with re
flections on the miscarriages of justice that she investigated for the podcast. The combination made the podcast addictive.

  “Rachel Krall has sexualized true crime in the same way that Nigella Lawson has given sex appeal to frying eggs,” one newspaper columnist wrote. “Krall’s seductive voice and out-loud musings give her true-crime podcasts the intimacy of pillow talk. It’s no wonder that it’s the most successful podcast in the country. I suspect Ms. Krall could record a podcast on paint drying and people would be hooked on her every intonation and the silky cadence of her bedroom voice.”

  “I couldn’t hear your voice mails properly, Rach. The connection was horrible. I did hear you mention finding something on your car? What was it?” Pete asked.

  “Someone left a letter on my car while I went for breakfast at a truck stop. It was addressed to me. By name,” Rachel said, cupping the receiver of her phone so the waiter wouldn’t overhear.

  “Were there any threats?” Pete asked.

  “It wasn’t the content of the letter so much as the way it was left for me under my windshield wiper,” she said. “Someone recognized me, Pete.”

  “It was bound to happen,” sighed Pete. “You are a household name.”

  “I’m not a household face. People don’t recognize me so easily, and this place was truly in the middle of nowhere. I don’t think anyone here has ever heard of the podcast. It’s so remote.”

  “What was in the letter?” Pete asked.

  “Something about a girl called Jenny who was murdered here in Neapolis decades ago,” Rachel told him. “The writer claims to have emailed us in the past asking me to investigate. We must have sent back one of those rote letters I hate so much. We should stop sending them, Pete. They’re soul destroying. Better to not respond than brush people off.”

  “Let me get this right,” said Pete. “After writing to you several times and getting a rejection letter, this person just by chance happens to see you at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere, recognizes you, and leaves you a letter on your car while you’re eating breakfast.” A note of worry inflected Pete’s voice. “That seems awfully coincidental.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly my point,” Rachel said. “I didn’t even know myself that I was going to stop until I saw the restaurant sign on the highway. What’s the probability that someone who sent me fan mail months ago and received your very polite ‘thanks but no thanks’ letter happened to be at an isolated rest stop area at the exact time that I made an unplanned stop?”

  “Whoever left the letter must have followed you,” answered Pete. “Did you notice being tailed on the drive down?”

  “I’m pretty sure I saw the same car off and on for a good part of the drive. I lost it when I hit heavy traffic as I drove into Neapolis,” Rachel said.

  “Did you get a description? License plate?”

  “You know me, Pete. I can’t tell a Mazda from a Toyota, and don’t even get me started on European cars. The way I figure it, there’s only one word for someone who followed me across three states to leave a note on my car.”

  “A stalker,” said Pete.

  “That’s why I’m just slightly freaked out. Not from the letter. The letter intrigues me, to tell you the truth. It’s the way it was left for me. The familiarity of its tone. And the fact that whoever left it must have followed me,” said Rachel.

  “I could ask the cops to look into it. See what they can find out,” Pete offered. “My contact at the FBI said we shouldn’t hesitate to file a complaint after the death threats you got last year. I still have his card with his direct number,” he added. “Send me a copy of the letter. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Let’s keep the letter between us for now. I don’t want cops involved. Not yet, anyway. I don’t want to be the girl who cried wolf,” said Rachel.

  “If you insist,” said Pete reluctantly.

  “I’m sorry, Pete. I shouldn’t bother you with this stuff. You’re in the hospital and you’re probably in agony.”

  “Nah, they’ve given me stuff for the pain. Trust me, anything I can do to take my mind off my current predicament is fine by me. Send it over, Rachel; I am actually begging you. I can safely say that if I die here, it will be only of boredom.”

  “I feel like an idiot, Pete. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “Better to be paranoid than to lower your guard, Rach. There are a few nutjobs out there and I am betting that you are right at the top of their crazy list. You need to watch your back.”

  After hanging up, Rachel took a photo of the letter with her phone and emailed it to Pete. It was only when she was stuffing the pages back into the envelope that she noticed writing scribbled on the corner of the envelope, almost as an afterthought.

  Maybe we should talk in person. I’ll wait for you at the Morrison’s Point jetty at 2 p.m. sharp.

  Rachel tore the envelope into strips. She had no intention of rendezvousing with an anonymous fan and possible stalker at an old jetty. Pete was right. She needed to be careful. The first episode of Season 3 had been released. Her fans knew she was in Neapolis to cover the trial. So did everyone else.

  4

  Guilty or Not Guilty

  Season 3, Episode 1: Victim Blaming

  Ever since I announced that I’m covering a rape trial for Season 3, I’ve been inundated by people asking me why. My mother. My brother. My producer. Even my ex called to express his reservations.

  The phrase “Rachel, are you crazy?” came up a lot. They’re worried that no matter how I report on the trial, I’m going to rile people up. I’m going to offend people. I’m going to get hate mail and abuse. And, perhaps most frighteningly, I’m going to get crucified on Twitter.

  Because rape, for a reason that I can’t understand, is divisive.

  Murder is a piece of cake by comparison. Everyone agrees that murder is heinous. There’s no argument about that. There’s no difference of opinion. The Bible says it straight out: “Thou shalt not kill.”

  When it comes to rape, the Bible is more ambivalent. Much like rape laws have been for millennia.

  Raping women was considered a legitimate spoil of war throughout much of human history. It wasn’t that long ago when a husband could rape his wife without breaking the law in some states. In some countries, a husband can still rape his wife, or even a random woman or girl. As long as he marries her afterward.

  That’s why I chose this case rather than cover another murder trial for Season 3. I want to make you think about how rape and the threat of rape affect the lives of women in a hundred different ways.

  I suppose there’s another reason why I chose to cover this case. Long before I heard about the rape trial in Neapolis, there was another case I worked on that, well, I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that it got to me. Even today, I get kind of teary. And emotional. As you can probably hear … Damn, I promised I wouldn’t cry when I told you the story.

  The victim was my age. She lived on my block. We shopped at the same supermarket. We took shortcuts through the same park at night. We took the same train from the same platform. So, yeah, her death felt personal.

  It was my park. My neighborhood. And she died there, on a damp stretch of grass where my friends and I would play Frisbee in the summer.

  But … if I’m honest, I think there was more to it than that awful, selfish thought that “but for the grace of God go I.” Her story, out of all of the stories that I covered as a crime reporter, tore me up because of the way she was treated after her death.

  I won’t say her real name, but let’s call her Cat Girl. She loved cats. She had a miniature sphinxlike cat tattooed on her shoulder. That was how she was identified—through that tattoo. She worked at an animal shelter on Sundays and at a soup kitchen on Wednesdays. She was kind and funny. By all accounts, she was a talented jazz musician with a husky, evocative voice that put chills down my spine the first time I heard a recording of her singing. If that wasn’t enough, she played some seriously good sax.

 
Cat Girl worked at a little jazz club in Carytown, in downtown Richmond. Music lovers went there for the jazz. College students went there for the Happy Hour specials. The bar was a hole-in-the-wall sort of place. Narrow wooden stairs at a side-street entrance leading down to a basement bar. It had midnight blue walls and grungy water-stained tables with mismatched chairs. Nobody noticed because the place was too dark to see anything except the stage.

  It was a Thursday night. Cat Girl performed a few songs in between serving tables. At some point, a big-shot record producer who was out scouting talent gave her his business card and invited her to audition for a band he was putting together. It was the biggest break she’d ever had. His business card was listed in her personal effects in the autopsy report. It was a sobering reminder that her life went from elation to tragedy in the space of hours.

  When the bar closed, she walked home instead of taking a cab. Maybe she wanted to unwind. It was early summer. A perfect night for walking. So she walked. Why not. Right?

  It took fifteen minutes for her to walk home. The last part was a little dicey. Remember, it was my neighborhood. I knew it like the back of my hand. Before she cut through the park, she texted her friend to say she was almost home. I guess you can figure out the rest.

  Her body was found by a jogger. She was lying on the grass in the middle of the park. Her clothes and hair were wet. It had rained overnight. Her underwear lay in a ball in a puddle and her skirt was hiked up. There were bruises around her throat. She’d been raped and strangled.

  It was the way that she’d been left exposed by her killer that sickened me most. He’d taken everything from her. He’d taken her life. Yet even in death, he had to degrade her in one final act of humiliation.