Command for physically assaulting and injuring a suspect in her custody. And she has the scar on her head to prove it. She also adopted the child who hid under the bed and witnessed the whole thing. Constable Bianchi is vehement—almost radicalized, one might say—in her personal crusade against male violence. Yes, she tried to leave her crusade and her tattered career behind in Sydney. Yes, she tried to lay low and rebuild in Jarrawarra. But then she met Ellie Hartley and saw bruises. By her own admission to the court, Constable Bianchi feared for the woman’s safety. I put it to this court Constable Bianchi had a hate-on for Martin Cresswell-Smith right out of the gate, and was not an unbiased investigator. Constable Bianchi also personally delivered the contraband drugs to the home on Bonny River. This was not an objective investigation, Your Honor, nor was it a clean or fair one.”
He turns to the jury. “Murder consists of two elements. As I stated at the outset to this trial, there must be a proven intention to kill. And it must be proven that the defendant did in fact kill.” He pauses and meets the eyes of each jury member in turn. “I put it to this court that the prosecution has failed to provide evidence of the vital half of that equation. Yes, maybe it could be argued that the defendant—Mrs. Cresswell-Smith—wanted to kill the man she once loved, the man she’d lived with since she was around nineteen years old, the man who then cheated on her, who was embezzling funds she believed were hers, who was going to bolt with his lover to live in a country where there was no extradition treaty. Yes, it could be argued that Sabrina Cresswell-Smith was a con artist, that she defrauded and cheated people out of their money. It could even be argued that she’d come to despise her husband so deeply when she learned of his duality, his deception, his double cross, that maybe she did want to kill him. Perhaps she even intended to kill him. But”—he raises a finger into the air—“she didn’t.”
Lorrington pauses and lets that hang. “Detective Corneil,” he says, turning back to the homicide cop, “is it at all possible that someone else could have hired the mystery biker or some other person entirely to kill Martin Cresswell-Smith—perhaps someone from his past who he’d double-crossed, or someone who was furious at being defrauded, or someone who’d posted signs all over Agnes Basin calling for his murder?”
Silence.
“Sergeant Corneil?” says Judge Parr.
The detective clears his throat. “It’s possible, sir, but evidence of torture suggests—”
“‘Suggests’!” Lorrington swings to the jury, his finger back in the air. “Did you hear that—‘suggests’? This is all they have? A suggestion?”
As he turns to face Corneil, the court door is flung open. The barrister stalls. A legal aide comes rushing down the aisle and goes straight to the prosecuting side of the table. She leans down and whispers into the solicitor’s ear. The solicitor whispers into Konikova’s ear. At the very same time the journalist, Melody Watts, gets up and rushes out the door. So do two cops. Something is happening. What is happening?
Before Lorrington can speak, Konikova is up on her feet. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?”
“What is this about, Madame Crown?” asks the judge.
“We . . . we have a late-breaking . . . development. We have new evidence, a possible new witness.”
“Objection,” barks Lorrington. He looks worried. I am suddenly afraid. “We were not informed of this.”
“This is highly irregular, Madame Crown,” says the judge.
“It’s only just come to our attention.”
The judge irritably wags her hand at them. “Approach.”
THE MURDER TRIAL
Earlier that morning. Toomba, Queensland.
Berle Geller watches television in her squat house with its corrugated tin roof that bakes under the Australian sun. The house is on the knoll of a derelict spread several kilometers outside the small rural town of Toomba in Queensland, close to the border with New South Wales. Flies buzz inside and a lazy fan paddles the air. A dog scratches itself at the foot of her recliner. Berle holds a tin of beer on her belly. Her husband is in the next room doing whatever it is that Herb Geller does, but Berle is glued to the reality show that is the Martin Cresswell-Smith murder trial. She’s convinced Sabrina Cresswell-Smith is guilty, but she agrees with the TV pundits that all the evidence against her is circumstantial at best. Besides,