The hook of a silver hand gaff had been sunk deep into the decedent’s chest. On the handle in black letters was the word Abracadabra. And what appeared to be stab wounds from a knife punctured the shirt all over the man’s torso. He’d been stabbed easily fifteen times. Lozza leaned in, bringing her flashlight beam closer. A dark ligature mark circled the man’s swollen neck. There were more ligature marks around the wrists. A rope was still tied around the bare ankles. Lozza’s heart beat slow and steady. Her attention shifted down the length of the man’s right arm. He was missing three fingers. Cut nice and clean above the joints. Neater than a mud crab’s work.
Gregg sloshed and clambered out of the water and up onto the bank. He took two steps into the grass, braced his hands on his knees, and retched.
Lozza returned her attention to the rope around the decedent’s ankles. Polyprop. Bright yellow and blue. Not Barney’s. If she were a betting woman, Lozza would bet that the rest of this yellow-and-blue line had been used to anchor this victim to something heavy underwater, where crabs and fish and sea lice and other mangrove critters would have picked his bones clean in a few more days. And then the bones would have disarticulated and buried themselves deep in the soft silt. There’d have been nothing left to find of this body. Except Barney and his crab pot had come along and gotten tangled in a killer’s lines.
Her mind shot back to Ellie—her apparent memory loss and strange actions. A sick feeling filled Lozza’s gut. Had she played them? Was she still playing them all? Every goddamn step of the way?
Because this sure as hell was no deep-sea fishing accident. This was no ordinary husband missing at sea. This was murder.
Lozza reached for her phone to call it in. While she and Gregg were the first responding officers, this would need to be run out of State Crime Command.
And right now Ellie Cresswell-Smith was the key person of interest.
THE MURDER TRIAL
Now, February. Supreme Court, New South Wales.
I focus on keeping my hands in my lap as Molly Konikova, the Crown prosecutor, rises. The barrister positions her binder upon a lectern on the prosecuting side of the bar table. She’s tiny—birdlike—swallowed by her silk robe, which drapes around her like oversize black wings. Thin lips. Beaked nose. Bony, fluttery hands. Her hair, a dun color, hangs in lackluster strands to her jawline beneath her gray wig. Excitement jabs through me—she’s a cartoon, a caricature of ineptitude and weakness. Surely the jury of twelve sensible-looking citizens seated across the room from me in the dock will take my defense barrister far more seriously than this sparrow-creature? My barrister is tall and pale-skinned with a head of thick dark hair, physically toned, his judicial garb more elegant than sinister. A man who radiates a calm and sophisticated intelligence, a man who can read the minds of a jury and spin a con, because he is a magician himself.
Konikova eyes me. Her gaze is cool. Direct. Almost steely. Perhaps I’ve misread her? No, I don’t think so. She waits a beat, then turns her gaze on the jury—seven males, five females. The men average older. My odds lie with the men, I think. Women are the harshest critics of each other. I suspect this is because the flaws we see in other women are flaws we hate to acknowledge in ourselves. Being critical, lashing out at other females, is a way of attacking those traits within ourselves that we detest most.
Silence presses into the courtroom. Tension grows thick. The air is too warm, no natural light. Anxiety blooms in my chest. I flick a glance toward the shut doors. I’ve never tolerated well the sense of being boxed in. Suddenly the thought of year upon year of incarceration—twenty-five to life—fills me with such a clear and singular dread that I can taste it in the form of bile at the back of my throat. I moisten my lips. I concentrate on keeping my hands motionless. I aim my toes toward the jury bench, as I’ve been schooled. It keeps me facing in the most advantageous direction, I’ve been told.
Konikova begins her address to the court, and her voice startles me. It doesn’t match her appearance. It’s big. Amplified by the microphone. Assured yet friendly. My heart beats faster.
I’ve been told voice is key for advocacy. A trial advocate with a voice that does not project functions at a constant disadvantage. After all, it’s theater. Barristers are performers, consummate story spinners, and not every solicitor has what it takes to become an advocate. My anxiety tightens. Perhaps I really have misjudged the prosecutor. I’m slipping.
“. . . and over the course of this trial,” she is saying, “what will emerge is a shocking portrait of a woman who grew so embittered, so enraged by jealousy and betrayal, so hateful of her husband, that she cunningly and systematically plotted the ultimate revenge. Murder.” Konikova waits a beat. The only sound is the scratching of the court artist’s chalk.
“Granted,” says Konikova, “the victim, Martin Cresswell-Smith, was no angel himself. By all accounts he was a sociopath who brought out the very worst in his wife, but she also brought out the worst in him. Mr. and Mrs. Cresswell-Smith’s relationship devolved into a vicious spiral, a devious battle to the ultimate end. Death.” Another pause. The sketch artist glances up, assesses me, and resumes her work. I wonder what—or who—she is seeing.
I am a victim. I am demure. Wronged.
“And this heinous war that was waged between Mr. and Mrs. Cresswell-Smith was not isolated to the couple. They took innocent people down in collateral damage.”
There is a stirring in the public gallery. Many of the observers are cops. Newspapers have speculated that one of Lorrington’s legal strategies will be to undermine and discredit the key investigators on the case—Detective Senior Constable Laurel “Lozza” Bianchi, Detective Sergeant Corneil Tremayne, and Constable Gregg Abbott. So this is personal for them. The jurors seem to be leaning almost imperceptibly forward. The Crown prosecutor has hooked them. She’s begun reeling them in. And they all want to play their part in the resolution. They want to see a Villain. They want to see the Villain grovel, go down, and be punished by the might of the law. They need to see a Hero triumph. It will make them feel good about the world. Konikova is giving them exactly what they’ve come for, a chance to do their civic and honorable duty and set right a hideous wrong. I know how this works.
I hate her from this instant and I struggle to refocus on her words, which are suddenly blurring in my head.
“. . . and step by logical step, founded on irrefutable forensic evidence, on police statements, on the testimonies of witnesses, and on the expert assessment of a forensic psychologist, the Crown will demonstrate to Your Honor that this defendant”—she swings the back of her hand in my direction, waits for all the members of the jury to look directly at me, to get a good, long look—“is a cunning, cold, calculating mastermind. A chameleon who is able to project a demure countenance. Do not be fooled by her ruse,” Konikova says. “Because at the end of the day you will be left with no choice but to find her guilty on all charges.”
A rustle of activity passes like an invisible current through the audience. Reporters scribble fervently in their notebooks. I swallow. A drop of sweat slithers between my breasts. I pin my desperate desire for freedom on Peter Lorrington and his legal team.
Konikova tips her wigged head toward Lorrington. “No doubt my esteemed colleague of the bar will attempt to obfuscate matters. Misdirect. He will offer to you alternate versions of events and attempt to match them to the facts. But remember, it’s just that. A story—a fiction. Smoke and mirrors. He will likely spin for you a narrative of a victim who fell prey to an abusive and domineering husband who pushed her to the very edge of her sanity.” Konikova pauses and nods. “Yes, he thinks you are gullible. Psychologists will tell you that gullibility is deeply engrained in all of us, and when immersed in a story that stirs emotions, it’s easy to let your guard down. Your duty is to not succumb, to not let your guard down, to keep your eye on the ball.”