“I’m calling the TV station. I’m calling Melody Watts. I’ve seen that watch on our tenant. He has that tattoo. He arrived over a year ago, and he parks that boat in the shed and just leaves it there with that old dirt bike of his. It’s him. I swear it’s him! He’s been laying low on our farm the whole time!”
Herb stares at his wife. The flies buzz about his head.
“Berle,” he says quietly, “if it’s him, you should call that Crime Stoppers number, you should call the cops, not Melody Watts.”
She puts the receiver to her ear. “We gonna be on TV, Herb.”
THE MURDER TRIAL
Now, February. Supreme Court. New South Wales.
It’s been five days since Justice Parr stood down the court after a highly unusual request from the Crown to bring forward late-breaking evidence and a potential new witness. Lorrington looks gray as court reconvenes this morning. He’s not a man who likes to lose, or to be seen to be losing.
The court officer opens the door. Everyone goes dead still.
He walks in.
For a moment I fear I’m going to faint. He’s come. I was hoping he wouldn’t. It means one thing. He’s turned state’s evidence. Worry tightens. I shoot a glance at Lorrington. He thinks he still has a plan. But he doesn’t, not now. He has yet to learn the depths of my deceit.
I have just become a barrister’s worst nightmare—the client who has lied to him.
The new witness swears on the Bible and takes a seat in the witness box. Dark hollows underscore his eyes. He’s tired. I bet the cops have been hammering him round the clock.
“Can you please state your name for the court?” says Konikova.
“Jack Barker.”
There is a stirring in the gallery. The place is packed with officers. Ellie sits close to Gregg. I wonder if they could be holding hands. A lot could have happened in the year that my case has taken to come to trial.
Konikova says, “Mr. Barker, can you describe to Your Honor how you know the defendant?”
“We met after her father died on the streets in Sydney. She was homeless. We became friends, hustled together on the streets—classic three-card monte, shell games. Slept in parks. Doorways.” He pauses and looks at me. “We were friends.”
I see Ellie whisper something in Gregg’s ear. She’s realizing I’d actually told her the truth about my mother and father, my history, that day she came to see me. It wasn’t just a con used to bond her to me. I learned to hustle on the streets. I learned from Jack. From my dad . . . “Watch the shells closely, kiddo . . .” You should have watched my game more closely, Ellie . . .
“So the two of you go way back?”
“Yes.”
“Did you stay in touch all this time?”
“On and off after she left Australia—she called me occasionally over the years, and made contact again when she returned to Australia to live in Jarrawarra. She arrived several months before her husband and the mark came.”
“The mark?”
“Ellie Hartley. She was the new mark. The new ‘Mrs. Cresswell-Smith.’” He makes air quotes. “As Sabrina explained it to me, Ellie technically wasn’t married to Martin because he and Sabrina already were—Martin had entered false information on the Nevada marriage forms.”
There is a murmur in the gallery.
“Order, please, silence,” calls the court officer. My gaze is riveted on Jack. I’m willing him not to go there—but he has to. Or why else would he be here right now?
“Can you explain to Your Honor why you went to Jarrawarra Bay?”
“Sabrina hired me.”
“Can you describe to Your Honor what Sabrina Cresswell-Smith hired you to do for her?”
“She wanted surveillance on her husband and the mark. She paid well for it. I’d left the navy with a dishonorable discharge and needed cash badly. She—Sabrina—felt her husband was up to something, and she said she was worried. So I followed them and reported on their movements when they were outside of the house.”
“What vehicle did you use to follow them?”
“A brown Toyota Corolla.”
More murmurs in the gallery.
“Order! Quiet in the court, please!”
The sketch artist turns a fresh page, her gaze flicking back and forth between Jack and me and her sketch. Reporters scribble furiously. I can almost feel the news vans hovering outside waiting with their big satellite dishes on top. Heat presses into the room.
“Did Mrs. Cresswell-Smith ever ask you to do anything other than surveillance?”