As I was pulling out of the driveway, I glimpsed Colton standing in the doorway. He called my name, but I didn’t stop. I needed some distance. And I needed answers.
Thirty minutes later, a sales associate at the apparel store where Claire had presumably shopped—while her husband was being murdered—swore to me there was no back door. No fire exit. No loading dock. Not even a restroom window. Too distraught to think straight, I walked the entire store looking for that nonexistent exit, and then I went outside and drove along the back wall of the store, and saw only solid brick walls between the two mall entrances. No exit.
Claire’s alibi was rock solid.
After buying a new phone, I crawled back to the house, defeated and despondent. It was clear to me I was going to die, after spending who knew how many years locked up on death row.
I couldn’t think about it.
When I got home, Colton was preparing Billy Ray for his testimony, and I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t mention a word about Claire’s alibi; it would’ve only discouraged them more, instilling into them the same fear that coursed through my veins like molten, red-hot lead.
Grabbing a couple of bites from a plate with snacks that Billy Ray had thrown together, I poured myself a large glass of Grey Goose and went into my bedroom to watch the mall surveillance videos again.
Maybe, against all conceivable odds, I’d missed something.
51
Billy Ray
The following day, Colton clasped my hand as we made our way through the media mob in front of the courthouse. Some of what I’d said to him the night before must have taken root.
Tony Vega was among the crazed photographers. “Hey, Princess!” he shouted, putting his camera right in my path. “Aren’t you afraid of dying?”
I kept my head lowered and didn’t reply; I knew anything I said would end up badly quoted and taken out of context, sensationalized and fictionalized, then printed on tabloid pages everywhere. To Judge Antunez’s point, capital cases were rare. The public’s lust for blood, for a good scandal, was insatiable, and sold a lot of media.
The first witness of the day was Detective Aaron Stanek. He was the only one who greeted me with a nod. After being sworn in, Mitchell began questioning him. The detective’s testimony was tedious and procedural, detailing each step of the investigation.
My mind drifted to unanswered questions—if the store had no back exit, how had Claire managed to sneak out? I knew it was her in that hotel video, knocking on the penthouse door with her key card. She’d had the motive, means, and opportunity, and yet I couldn’t prove it. I couldn’t prove any of it.
And where was she, anyway? Last night’s news had mentioned her absence from the courtroom, citing grief as the reason.
Last night, I’d spent a while searching the internet, digging for stuff about her past—everything I could find. My premise was simple; someone who decides on and plans a murder in only three minutes had to have done it before. Perhaps I couldn’t prove she’d killed Winston, but if I could find something to cast some doubt on her, it would probably help my case.
By the time I’d turned off the night lamp and fallen asleep, I had some interesting findings, and a lot more questions, even if I’d already known she wasn’t Winston’s first wife.
Mitchell finished with the detective after about an hour, and boredom had descended on the faces of the jurors. A couple of them had been yawning, shifting in their seats, losing their focus. I leaned closer to Colton and whispered, “You have to wake them up.”
“I will.” He nodded and stood, asking standard questions to challenge the investigation process and create doubt.
My mind wandered again, this time considering the very few days I had left until the trial would be over. Not even a week. Then, in the case of a guilty verdict, I would be remanded, dragged out of the courtroom in cuffs, and thrown in prison. For years, I’d wilt on death row while Colton would file appeals and try to have my sentence commuted. At least that scenario had an expiration date, an end.
All of my assumptions had been wrong, though, and if the woman in the hotel video wasn’t Claire, I had no idea who else she might be.
Something the detective was saying grabbed my attention.
“After reviewing all the evidence, no substantial motive was established,” Stanek finished.
“So you don’t believe the defendant had any reason to commit the murder?” Colton asked, drawing closer to the witness, but still facing the jurors. The yawning had stopped.
“That’s correct,” the detective replied. “The investigation did not reveal any motive on the defendant’s part. Other people had motive and access—”
Mitchell jumped up. “Objection! Lack of foundation.”
“I’ll overrule that,” the judge said with a headshake. “Of course there’s foundation, Counselor. Try harder next time.”
“Other people, like who?” Colton asked.
“Like the victim’s wife, for example.”
