Berle has sympathy for the woman. That husband of hers sounds like a right asshole. Bastard. She’d have stuck him with a knife, too. Lord help her, but sometimes she feels like sticking a knife in Herb. Berle knows what rage feels like. She knows the taste of betrayal and failure. She glances at the old wedding portrait of herself and Herb on the buffet. They had such dreams back then. Look at her life now. If she had a heap of money and her husband ran off with it, and with his mistress—
Melody Watts appears on the screen.
“Melody is back on, Herb!”
Herb grunts from the other room.
“You’re gonna miss it!”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it,” Herb calls from the other room.
The camera zooms in on Melody Watts. She stands in front of the courthouse doors. She’s impeccably made up and sporting a fuchsia jacket that contrasts with her blonde TV hair. She’s so pretty.
Berle kicks her dog with her swollen foot to stop it from scratching. She takes a sip of beer from her tin, riveted.
“When the Martin Cresswell-Smith murder trial resumes this morning, Justice Geraldine Parr is expected to summarize the central arguments. We anticipate that Justice Parr will outline the key points of evidence given by each significant witness, and she will explain to the jury the relevant laws and how they relate to the case at hand. The next step will be the jury deliberations.”
The screen splits and shows the male anchor behind a desk in the newsroom. “Thank you, Melody,” he says. “And NSW police have still not found an alleged accomplice or the missing Abracadabra?”
“That’s right, Harlan. The mysterious ‘bikie’ with a neck tattoo continues to remain a key person of interest, and he continues to remain at large more than one year after the murder at Agnes Basin.”
“Is there a chance Mrs. Cresswell-Smith will walk?”
“As I’ve told viewers, Mr. Lorrington has been underscoring the weaknesses in the Crown’s case and presenting to the jury feasible alternate narratives. And as Lorrington told the court early in his opening statements, anything can happen in a jury trial. If jurors feel sympathy or identify with Mrs. Cresswell-Smith, or see her as a victim of her husband’s, they are more likely to find reasonable doubt and render a verdict of not guilty. The defense legal strategy has been to acknowledge that while Mrs. Cresswell-Smith is a clever and accomplished con artist, she is not a murderer.”
“Thank you, Melody,” the anchor says. Melody signs off and disappears, and the screen fills with an image of a Quintrex cuddy cabin boat. The anchor says, “New South Wales police are still asking members of the public who might have seen a boat like this under suspicious circumstances to please come forward. The number for the anonymous tip line is at the bottom of the screen. Police are also still looking for this man—”
A photo taken from CCTV footage of a bald man appears. Berle lurches forward in interest. While she’s watched most of the reporting on the trial, she hasn’t seen this photo. The screen splits and shows a better rendering of the tattoo on the man’s neck. Something begins to stir in Berle’s mind. Her heart begins to beat faster. She takes another swig of her beer, fixated by the close-up of the tattoo. It’s a rendering of a hummingbird. The screen flashes to a photograph of a fancy bronze watch.
“Police are also looking for a Rolex Daytona like this one.” Berle coughs as she swallows her mouthful of beer.
“Hey, Herb!”
“What?”
“Get in here, quick.” She’s on the edge of her chair.
He comes around the corner in a sleeveless undershirt that was once white. Berle points her tin at the screen. “That! That watch. I’ve seen it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Our tenant, you idiot. That guy who rents the shack at the bottom of the farm.”
“I don’t deal with him, Berle. You’re the one who wanted to lease that dive. I’ve barely seen his face. He doesn’t come out when I’m around.”
She pushes clumsily to her feet and waddles hurriedly toward the landline phone that squats next to their framed wedding photo.
“What are you doing?”
She guzzles back the rest of her beer, plunks down the empty tin, and picks up the receiver. She feels feverish, excited. “We’re gonna be on TV, Herb. We’re going to be paid to be on television. We’re going to meet Melody Watts. In the flesh. Right here. She’s going to come here.”