Don't Believe It Page 7

  Grace shook her head again. “No, he did tell me. Not about a . . . rendezvous. He just asked me to meet him on the bluff. I didn’t go, though.”

  Pierre’s voice was rising. “But you and Mr. Crist had an argument that day, is that correct?”

  Grace shook her head and opened her palms. “Yes.”

  “You claim this argument was about Daniel Greaves, your friend’s new husband.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Crist found out about your relationship with the groom?”

  Grace squinted her eyes at the detective. “There was no relationship.”

  “Is it not true that you and Mr. Greaves once dated?”

  Grace took a deep breath. “Years ago. Yes.”

  “Perhaps you still had feelings for him.”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Perhaps being in such a romantic setting brought those feelings back to you? Perhaps you started to doubt your relationship with Mr. Crist.”

  Grace did not answer.

  “No?”

  “No,” Grace said.

  Inspector Pierre consulted his notepad. “A few nights ago, you and Charlotte Brooks also engaged in an argument at the Bayside Bar. Other guests of the resort witnessed this argument. Is this not true?”

  Grace again remained silent.

  “Without your input, Ms. Sebold, I can only assume your argument with the bride, understanding now your romantic history, had to do with your relationship with Daniel Greaves. Am I correct, Ms. Sebold?”

  “Yes. But it was just a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding? Surveillance video of the resort shows Mr. Greaves visiting your cottage the day before his wedding. Are you certain you want to go on the record as denying a relationship between you and Daniel Greaves?”

  “We are friends. That’s all.”

  “You can see my confusion, though, Ms. Sebold. And how one might look at all of this and assume you were balancing many men at one time?”

  “Many men? What are you saying?”

  “And that, perhaps, after discovering the phone calls made between Julian and his lover in New York, you were angry and jealous. Perhaps, you were not thinking clearly? Perhaps, you did something out of rage?”

  Grace shook her head. “No.”

  “Were you on Gros Piton on Wednesday evening, Ms. Sebold?”

  Grace looked back and forth at the recording device and the scribbling man, confused by the quick change in topics.

  “Ms. Sebold! Were you on Gros Piton on Wed—”

  “No.”

  “No?” Pierre asked, standing from his seat and hovering over her. “Then can you explain why your shoeprint was found there?”

  Grace shook her head, then put her palms to her temples, as if trying to corral an impending migraine.

  “No, I suppose that is unexplainable,” Pierre said. “Can you tell me why you so thoroughly bleached your room?”

  Pierre waited.

  “No? Can you explain why Mr. Crist’s blood was found in the drain of your sink?” Pierre waited. “No? You have no answers to any of this?”

  “I’d like to speak to an attorney,” Grace said.

  Pierre continued to hover. After his outburst, the only noise in the room came from the hum of the air conditioner. The silence was broken when the door swung open.

  “Sir,” an officer said as he poked his head into the room. “We need you down on the beach. We’ve found something.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “FIFTEEN MINUTES,” THE GUARD SAID.

  Sidney nodded and looked back to Grace. “If I can frame it correctly, and explain away the doubts and misinformation about Allison Harbor and Daniel Greaves, I can imagine your love story with Julian making up the early narrative of the documentary. I can see this pulling the audience onto your side. But eventually the guts of the film will delve into Julian’s murder. I’ll have to present the case against you, Grace. Before I can refute the claims or highlight any inconsistencies, I’ll need to show the audience everything that convicted you. All the evidence.”

  “I understand,” Grace said.

  “The problem is, there’s a helluva lot to show. The print that puts you on the bluff, the blood in your room, the cleanup.”

  Grace exhaled and shook her head in defeat. “I just want the opportunity to tell my side. When viewed only through the lens the detectives offer, even I wonder how so much evidence could exist against me. But please remember that everything about this investigation was tainted, from the collection of evidence to the analysis. From the physical evidence to the DNA evidence to the proposed motives and methods . . . Sidney, it’s all contrived. It was wrong then and it’s still wrong today, ten years later. The detectives did exactly what they’re trained not to do. They picked a suspect first, and then looked for evidence that supported their theory. And the problem with investigating a crime in that manner is that any evidence they came across that didn’t support their theory was ignored or discarded.”

  Sidney nodded. She paused before she spoke again.

  “But the murder weapon, Grace. It’s a sticking point for me, and likely will be for the audience.”

  The Girl of Sugar Beach

  “Pilot” Episode

  *Based on the interview with Claude Pierre

  Pierre placed Grace Sebold under arrest. Two officers led her, hands cuffed behind her back, through the atrium and placed her in the back of a police car. Pierre headed with another officer in the opposite direction, through the lobby and toward Sugar Beach. He walked past the pool, where vacationers elbowed themselves up on deck chairs at the sight of Inspector Pierre and the officer hurrying by. Pierre stepped onto the soft sand of Sugar Beach and made his way past the open-dining restaurant, where breakfast was being enjoyed amid a cacophony of chiming plates and silverware. Those on holiday seemed oblivious to the fact that a guest had washed up on shore two days before.

  “We roped it off as soon as we found it, sir,” the officer said as they walked.

  Pierre followed the officer down the beach until they reached the water-sport hut. Yellow tape blocked the entrance of the freestanding structure, which consisted of a palm-thatched roof that sat atop four stucco walls. Beige tile surrounded the shack, offering a break from the sand. It was here that guests rented all sorts of water-sport equipment: snorkels and fins, boogie boards and volleyballs. Because of the calm waters off Sugar Beach, and the protected location of Pitons Bay, stand-up paddleboarding was a popular attraction. A long row of yellow paddleboards stood in the sand to the side of the hut.

  “What did you find?” Pierre asked.

  The young officer offered a pair of latex gloves, which Pierre slipped over his hands as he entered the hut. The beige tile led him inside, and the interior of the shack was as meticulously maintained as the rest of the resort. Snorkel masks and scuba gear hung neatly from the walls: fins and vests and wet suits and regulators. Scuba tanks stood in organized fashion along an adjacent wall.

  “Here, sir,” the officer said as they walked to the back wall, which was covered with kayak and paddleboard oars. The officer pointed a flashlight into the back corner of the hut. A long, wooden oar stood haphazardly in the corner, resting sidelong with the handle on the tile floor and the blade wedged into the corner.

  “It looked out of place because it was not hanging with the rest of the oars. When I took a closer look, I noticed this,” the officer said as he placed the beam of his flashlight close to the paddle.

  Pierre leaned down. Without taking his eyes off the paddle, he waved his index finger at the officer and took the flashlight, placing it inches from the wooden blade. He ran the light down the shaft, then back up.

  “Has anyone touched this oar?”

  “No, sir. The activities hut has been vacant since Thursday morning when the beach was cordoned off. As soon as I noticed the paddle, I roped off the hut and put a call in for you.”

  “Well done. Get the crime scene
men back down here.”

  As the officer hurried from the hut, Pierre continued to stare at the speckles of blood that covered the blade of the paddle.

  A clear plastic tube preserved the wooden paddleboard oar as if it were on display at a museum. It rested next to Dr. Mundi as he stood at the autopsy table. He was finishing the postmortem of a St. Lucian man killed the night before during a drug deal gone awry.

  “Is it possible?” Pierre said.

  “Possible?” Dr. Mundi said as he momentarily stopped his work to stare at the preserved oar.

  “Yes. It matches the nature of the fracture. A blunt, heavy object that could be swung at low-to-medium velocity. But I’d need to take measurements to see if the blade matches the size and shape of the skull fracture.”

  “Emmanuel,” Pierre said, getting the doctor’s attention by addressing him by his first name. “I understand the methodology you must use to confirm my suspicion. I also know that will take some time, of which I’m very short. What I’m asking you today is if you think this paddleboard oar could have been, not if it was for certain, but if it could have been used to strike Julian Crist and cause his head trauma.”

  “Perhaps,” Dr. Mundi said, still scrutinizing the plastic tube while his hands were frozen midsuture above the body in front of him. “But from here, the size of the blade doesn’t match what I remember about the fracture.”

  “His blood is on the blade, Emmanuel. DNA will prove that it is a match,” Pierre said.

  “You’ve made me aware of that fact, Claude.”

  Pierre looked across the mortuary at the doorway, then back to Dr. Mundi. “I need this, Emmanuel,” he said in a controlled voice. “I have pressure on me to get this under control quickly. I need you to tell me this oar caused the skull fracture.”

  “You’re asking me, while I have a different body on my table, to confirm that this oar caused the skull fracture in the Crist case. My initial instinct is only that it’s possible. I need to run the tests and perform my analysis. I’ll need to pull the body from the cooler and have a closer look.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll be done here in an hour.”

  Pierre nodded, rested his hand on top of the plastic tube. “I’ll wait.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “TIME’S UP,” THE GUARD SAID.

  “Listen, Grace,” Sidney said. “I’ll be honest with you. Exonerations are terribly rare. They don’t happen often, and never without new evidence turning up. I want you to know that I will be pitching this documentary to my network as a spotlight on you and your story. I can’t promise anything will change for you because of this film. I can promise, however, that if we get the project off the ground, you and your case will gain mainstream attention from a major network in America. You’ll have the haters and the cynics, those who will never believe you are anything but Julian Crist’s killer. But if we present your case correctly, we may also capture the attention of others who believe you. And none of us know who those people might be, or where that attention will lead.”

  “I’ll take attention right now,” Grace said. “Because I’ve got nothing else. I’ve exhausted my appeals, so legally there is nothing left for me to pursue. This documentary is all I have. So I’m on board with you telling my story. A story the world has never heard because the real Grace Sebold was overshadowed ten years ago by the spectacular headlines of blood and cover-ups and shoeprints and skull fractures. ‘Grisly Grace’ with all her lovers who flew into a jealous rage. All that crap that had so little to do with who I am and what Julian meant to me. So, please, tell the world who Grace Sebold is. For that, I’ll be forever grateful. But I’m begging you, Sidney. Look into my case. Look at the evidence that was used to convict me. Show how wrong it was. Show how inconsistent it was. Promise me you’ll look.”

  Sidney opened her mouth to speak, then put her lips together to consider her words. “Listen, Grace, you’ve been through a lot in your life. Things I’ll never understand and will never be able to relate to. I’m not going to be another person who delivers disillusionment to you. I’m going to make a documentary about you. About your history. About who Grace Sebold was when she came to Sugar Beach back in 2007, about how her boyfriend was killed, and about how she was accused and convicted of his murder. I’m going to highlight the way you’ve clung to your innocence for the past ten years. I’m going to present the idea that a police force, eager to avoid a drawn-out murder investigation that would hurt tourism, too quickly jumped to conclusions, utilized illegal interrogation techniques, and assigned you an incompetent defense attorney. I’ll highlight the discrepancies of your case, and I’ll cover everything you’ve told me in your letters. Will that be enough to find an audience? I think so. Will it be enough to prove your innocence? I doubt it.”

  “I am innocent, Sidney.”

  “I understand your conviction, Grace, but I can’t promise that my documentary will prove this. Again, my intention is to tell your story. If, in doing so, we cast everything that stands against you into doubt, I’ll consider it a victory.”

  Grace sat back in her chair, folded her arms across her chest.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  Sidney blinked a few times as she considered the question and all the evidence that had convicted Grace Sebold years ago. Her mind was clouded by everything she had learned from Claude Pierre. She glanced quickly at the camera filming from the corner of the room, and then looked back to Grace. “I’m not sure what I believe.”

  JURY DELIBERATION DAY 1

  As the twelve jury members sat around the conference table, it took thirty minutes of introductions until it was decided that Harold Anthony would act as foreman. Harold was one of four men on the jury; the other eight were women. Five were business professionals, two were retired, and one was a stay-at-home mom.

  Harold Anthony was a local businessman with a calm demeanor and clear ability to lead. He was an easy choice to head a group discussion that would determine a woman’s fate, and decide if she was guilty or innocent of murder.

  “Okay,” Harold said from the head of the conference table. “The entire case, offered from both sides, has been presented to us. The judge has made it clear that the world is watching and waiting for the twelve of us to make a decision. The media scrutiny will be intense and, perhaps, overwhelming. The judge has made clear that after a thorough and complete deliberation, we need to stand together as one on our decision. So I think the first thing we should do is discuss our initial thoughts and clarify any areas we do not fully understand.

  “Her fingerprints were found on the murder weapon,” one of the retired women said. “I’m not fully understanding what there is to debate.”

  “Well,” Harold said. “Since our initial vote was not unanimous, we’ve been burdened with the task of debate until such time that we all agree. But you bring up a good jumping-off point . The murder weapon, and her fingerprints on it, is as good a place to start that debate as any.”

  PART II

  THE PITCH

  CHAPTER 11

  Monday, March 20, 2017

  THE NETWORK’S HEADQUARTERS BUILDING WAS LOCATED IN MIDTOWN. Sidney took a cab across Forty-second Street until traffic choked her progress. She dropped the fare over the seat, thanked the driver, and stepped into the spring morning. Weaving between cars until she reached the curb, she blended into the steady current of Monday-morning commuters flowing through the streets of Manhattan. She bumped shoulders for four blocks until she pushed through the revolving doors and into the lobby. The elevator took her to the forty-fourth floor. She showed her ID card to get past reception, then swiped it again to gain access to the executive offices. Her meeting was at 9:00 a.m. and traffic had slowed her down. The plan had been to sip coffee in the lobby’s café and peacefully collect her thoughts before her pitch. Instead, she was rushing to make it on time.

  The office was a cacophony of glass walls that offered little in the way of privacy for the executi
ves running the network. The architectural design allowed Sidney, as she exited the elevator, to see that the media room was already full. She took a deep breath and hurried across the office. When she pulled open the door, she was relieved to hear the quiet murmur of several overlapping conversations. A dozen rows of chairs lined the room, all facing the north wall, where a DVD projector lit up a floor-to-ceiling screen with the title:

  The Girl of Sugar Beach,

  Producer: Sidney Ryan

  She squeezed into the only vacant seat, which was in the front row and reserved for her. She believed for a moment that her last-minute arrival went unnoticed.

  “The Great Sidney Ryan has finally joined us for her own screening,” Luke Barrington announced in his deep, obnoxious voice.

  Sidney closed her eyes and exhaled. She had mistakenly believed Luke only used the insufferable voice during the recording of his prime-time news program. However, over the last year, she learned the rhythmic churning of hop-along syllables and cavernous inflection came with everything he uttered, from the detailing of a young woman’s death on his top-rated news show, to the retelling of his weekend over Monday-morning coffee. Sidney wanted to claim that the sonorous voice, which had privately earned him a nickname of “the Bear,” was plastic-banana fake, but since Luke had never once faltered from this tone, she could only argue that it was annoying.

  “Now that we’re all behind schedule,” the Bear continued, “let’s rush things along, shall we?”

  This was directed at Graham Cromwell, who ran the news division at the network.

  Graham walked to the front of the screening room and stood in the glow of the DVD projector. “Thanks, Luke. Sorry to keep you from your morning round of golf. But perhaps you should put in a few hours of work this week. Your ratings are flat.”