Fresh wild yellow daisies were scattered across both graves. Someone had been there recently. It must have been Hannah, thought Rachel. She squatted down to take a closer look and immediately noticed fading graffiti on the bottom of the headstone. She wiped off a thin coating of dirt until she was able to make out the faint outline of a word on Jenny’s tombstone: WHORE.
A cold chill ran through Rachel. Twenty-five years had passed and someone still went to the trouble of stopping by Jenny Stills’s grave, not to lay flowers but to insult her. To dehumanize her. Rachel had heard the same word used to describe Kelly Moore, the complainant in the Scott Blair trial. Would Kelly have to spend the rest of her life being smeared as well?
Rachel saw no other graffiti, although she did find a faded two-toned blue ribbon among old leaves piled up at the corner of Jenny’s grave. It was tied around a bouquet of flowers so desiccated that the dry petals turned into dust in Rachel’s hands when she picked it up. Attached to the ribbon was a water-stained card; the ink had run and the message was unreadable.
It began to rain. Lightly at first, and then with a ferocity that forced Rachel to run for cover. It felt as if the elements were pursuing her as she ran, deafened by the crackle of rain hitting hard, unyielding gravestones.
Rachel sprinted through the cemetery gate to her car. She clambered into the driver’s seat, dripping wet, still holding the ribbon and faded card from the old bouquet she’d found at the grave. She shoved them into her glove box.
The downpour was heavy as Rachel backed out. Yet through the thick relentless pelting of raindrops again her car, something caught her eye in the rearview mirror. It was a woman standing by the cemetery gate, watching her. When Rachel turned around for a better look, there was nobody there.
12
Guilty or Not Guilty
Season 3, Episode 4: Into the Night
I’m a visitor in this town. I don’t know anyone at all. So when I’m not working, I’m listening to local talk radio. It keeps me company. That and my calls to my producer, Pete, who, incidentally, for those who have written to ask, is on the mend. He should be out of the hospital very soon.
I miss Pete. It’s lonely being on the road without him. Local radio has become my companion. Pathetic, right? Aside from keeping me company, it helps me take the temperature of this town. I can tell you that it’s fever pitch ahead of the trial.
One theme that keeps coming up is opinions from some people—by no means all—suggesting that K kind of brought this on herself. Drinking. Hanging out with boys. You know, the usual BS we hear about rape victims. This is a small town and there has been lots of gossip about what happened that night. Lots of speculation.
Today I was at the supermarket to buy candy to feed that sweet tooth of mine. An argument broke out in the checkout line next to me over whether Scott Blair was guilty. And even if he was guilty—to quote the lady in front of me in the line—“whether his life should be ruined over one dumb night with a girl who knew what she was getting herself in for the second she got into his car?”
I managed to record part of the argument that broke out on my phone. I want to play it to you so you can get a sense of how the locals feel about this case.
“She was drunk. Means she couldn’t consent.”
That was from a mom with a toddler sitting in the back of a shopping cart.
“He was drunk, too. How could he know she didn’t consent if he was drunk? It goes both ways. Anyway, his life is ruined. What happens if some slutty girl tries to ruin my kid’s life by making stuff up?”
“Watch your mouth, mister.”
“Hey! You watch it.”
“If she says it happened, then I believe her.”
This was from the lady working the checkout.
It went on like that for a while until voices were raised so loud that the store manager threatened to call the cops. This town is so wound up about the trial that it will almost be a relief when it finally starts. Everyone has an opinion, but nobody seems to know any facts. So let’s talk about what did happen that night.
It was close to midnight when K entered that barren field of wild grass after being kicked out of Lexi’s party. The path was slick and muddy. It had rained earlier. K would have had to walk slowly so as not to slip.
The cold air might have sobered her. Perhaps enough to realize that it was a really bad idea, walking there alone. She probably considered turning back. In the same situation, I might have turned back. At least, the sober me would have turned back.
The drunk me, scared and humiliated, emboldened by alcohol, probably would have done exactly what K did. Yeah, if I think about myself in that situation, then I would have kept going. Turning back would have amounted to defeat. K wouldn’t have wanted to give Lexi the satisfaction.
At around the halfway point, K heard footsteps. Someone was running toward her. A tall, broad-shouldered man emerged from the dark.
Have you ever heard of the “fight-or-flight” response? It’s an instinct hardwired into humans to either fight or flee from danger. Except turns out that “flight or flight” isn’t the whole story.
Experts now know that when faced with extreme danger from which we can see no way out, humans freeze. Just like lizards freeze in the hope their camouflage will protect them from a predator. That’s why it’s now called the fight, flight, or freeze response.
So from what I’ve learned, K didn’t run. She didn’t hide. K froze. Right there on the path as the man came closer. When she saw his face, a rush of relief would have run through her. He was a familiar face, a senior from school with a nice-guy reputation.
Harris Wilson has darkish hair that flops over his forehead. That night, he wore a denim jacket over a gray T-shirt and black skinny jeans. According to a phone interview I did with him several weeks ago, he told K that she shouldn’t be walking there alone.
“And you should?” she responded.
“Probably not. I thought I’d keep an eye on you. Make sure you get home safe.”
“I don’t need company,” she replied. “It’s no big deal. You can go back if you’re scared.”
She walked off, leaving him behind for a second until he caught up. Silence followed until K asked how he ended up at Lexi’s party. He said he and a friend heard about the party on Instagram and decided to check it out. The friend wanted to stay. He thought the party was boring and left.
Eventually, the path came out alongside a neighborhood playground surrounded by hedges. Harris lived diagonally opposite the playground. K lived three blocks away.
They hung out in the playground, rocking gently on adjacent swings as they talked about Lexi, and the party, and school.
Harris had a flask of bourbon in his jacket pocket. They shared it. It burned her throat, but it made her drunk again and restored the euphoria she’d felt at the party.
They listened to music on Harris’s phone. He showed her funny memes. They drank more whiskey. Between the two of them, they finished the flask.
Emboldened by the alcohol, Harris kissed her. He said she kissed him back. They messed around for a bit. Nothing serious. When he tried to take things further, she pulled away and pushed off on the swing until she was airborne. He said he was going home to get a joint from his bedroom. Remember, his house was right across the road.