“No, Marshall,” Grace whispered.
“She knew. She was talking with the detective from Whiteface.Gus.I heard her say his name. She knew everything.”
They both looked down at her body. A syrupy puddle ofdark red blood was creeping from underneath her and spreading across Ellie Reiser’s hardwood floor.
“What do we do?” Marshall asked. He looked down at his old chess set hanging from his right hand, the strings of the satchel that held it wrapped tightly around his fist. He looked up at Grace next, as if he were surprised to see it in his hands. There was blood on the mesh pouch. He held it out for Grace to take.
“Help me, Grace.”
She looked down at the body and the blood; then she looked up into her brother’s eyes.
“You’re going to listen to me very carefully,” Grace said. “And you’re going to do everything I tell you.”
She took the nylon bag that contained the Lladró chess set. It wasn’t the first time Grace Sebold’s brother stood in front of her, covered in blood and asking for guidance.
Gros Piton
March 29, 2007
The blood was a problem.
He’d swung his chess set so aggressively that it split Julian’s scalp, the gash spitting blood in a fast splatter across his face and shirt. It covered his hands and arms. His aggression was a manifestation of his anger. Julian acted like she belonged to him, looking at Marshall with pity and sorrow for the life that might have been. Marshall had an image of the way his life should be, and also the way it likely would proceed from here. He couldn’t change the past, but he would make sure his future got no worse. He knew what was coming. He could feel it in his tightening muscles and his defiant neurons. His fine motor skills were already failing. His ability to walk would soon leave him. His speech too. His aptitude for clear thought had succumbed to intermittent boutsof cloudiness. The combination of his ailments would come together in a perfect storm that would require more help than his parents could offer. Marshall believed the one who was responsible for his condition should be the one who stood up to assist. Running off with Julian Crist could not happen, the same way Henry Anderson was not allowed to take a bigger role in Grace’s life.
Marshall needed Grace. He needed her now, and he’d rely on her more in the future. During their last “life management” meeting with his therapist, Marshall’s parents had discussed in-home care. Basically, a stranger coming into the home at some point in his future to bathe him, change his clothes, and help him get to the toilet. Marshall was managing these things on his own now, but his therapist preferred presenting future events so Marshall had time to “process” the change that was coming. She had flipped open a brochure for a full-time facility, where those with traumatic brain injury and other chronic, debilitating conditions eventually “gathered.” The therapist presented it like an opportunity, something to look forward to. His parents and the therapist had only gotten that far in their discussion of his future because Grace had been gone at medical school and had not been around to protest. Being in New York for residency would be a benefit, as she would be closer to him. But the idea that she would spend that time with Julian ate at him. Like Henry Anderson, Julian could not be allowed into Grace’s life.
Marshall knew Julian’s death would be a shock, but Marshall and Grace shared the secret of Henry Anderson. He knew she’d absorb this secret as well. They existed, Marshall and Grace, because of each other. They would endure together. It was the only way.
The spray of blood startled him and froze him. The blunder made his mind wander. He began to analyze his mistakeand look for a solution, even before his current task was complete. He saw Julian stagger to his feet. Without thinking, he lifted his foot, kicked him forward, and watched him stumble to the edge of the bluff and over the side. The chance that this would be considered an accident, like the last time, was close to zero, given the blood that covered the granite bluff. It was a terrible error.
He made it back to the base of Gros Piton, breathing heavily. When he wiped his brow, the back of his hand came back smeared in red. He could only imagine a picture of himself, speckled in blood and sweat, with his chess set hanging from his shoulder as he ran through the resort. He waited in the shadows of Gros Piton while the purple glow of the setting sun spilled from the horizon and poured onto the white sand of Sugar Beach. A tuk-tuk was not an option, so the long trek back to the cottage would be on foot. His silhouette cut across the corner of the beach, unnoticed by those watching the sunset, as he headed into the foothills of the resort.
He was staying in a two-bedroom villa with his parents, and that, too, was not an option. Instead, he veered to the right when he made it up the steep incline. The door was locked when he tried the handle, and he worried that Grace had already left to meet Julian. He knocked loudly. When Grace answered, he simply handed her the bag that held his chess set.
“I need your help.”
PART V
ON THE ROAD AGAIN
JURY DELIBERATION DAY 4
Harold stood next to the chalkboard. His hands were covered in a white, dusty coat of chalk. On the board was a detailed summary of the three previous days of deliberation. He had taken the morning to review meticulously their discussion from each day, making sure each juror was on the same page and that there was no confusion about the facts presented during the long trial.
“It’s now three o’clock on day four. I think we’ve had a very careful, and sometimes spirited, discussion about the case. I know I’ve learned a great deal from listening to each of your opinions, and I hope my own views have helped shape our decision. When we sat down four days ago, we took an initial vote that had us nearly split in half. Today, after a careful review of the facts, and unless there are objections, I propose we take our second vote to see where we stand as a group. To complete this process, we all knowwe must come to a unanimous decision. Are there any objections to conducting an open vote again now?”
There were not.
“Okay,” Harold said, taking a seat at the head of the table. “I’ll need a show of hands. First I’ll ask who believes she is guilty. Then I’ll ask who believes she isnotguilty. Are we clear?”
All twelve agreed they were.
CHAPTER 59
Thursday, September 13, 2018
THE COURTROOM WAS STANDING ROOM ONLY. EACH PEW WAS PACKED, shoulder-to-shoulder. The front pews held family and friends. Those of the victim on one side; those of the accused on the other. The rest of the crowd was made of eager spectators that considered a spot in the courtroom more coveted than World Series tickets. Those standing in the back of the court were media; they not only clogged the rear walkway, but they also spilled out into the hallway. Those not lucky enough to gain access stood outside on the courthouse steps.
Local news stations and every cable news program had cut into regularly scheduled programming to bring the world the verdict live as it happened. After four days of sequestered deliberation, news had broken that the jury was back with a decision. Attorneys had been summoned, the judge was in chambers, the defendant was en route, and the jury members were being shuffled into the courthouse from their deliberation room. The participants had taken some time to assemble, which gave cable news a gratuitous hour to rehash thelast three months of drama. Legal analysts, after witnessing closing arguments, had predicted the verdict would come immediately, perhaps after only a few hours of deliberation. But as the days passed, the experts predicted a hung jury. They all took to the airwaves now to offer new predictions. It was being called the trial of the young century, rivaling even the theatrics of the O.J. Simpson trial of the ’90s.
