Jodie Picoult - Salem Falls

He smiled, his very best Opie Taylor grin, one that invited the jury to believe that they were in excellent hands. “Instead, I urge you to listen to Gillian Duncan, when she tells you what she suffered at the hands of Jack St. Bride. And to her girlfriends, who were also there that night. Listen to the detective who found Gillian after the attack, and who investigated the crime scene. Listen to an expert witness, who did DNA analysis on evidence collected from the scene. Listen to the doctor who examined Gillian Duncan after the assault.” Matt looked at each member of the jury. “Listen carefully, ladies and gentlemen, because at the end of this case, I’m going to ask you to find Mr. St. Bride guilty . . . and on the basis of everything you’ve heard, you will.”

Jordan watched Matt return to his seat. The jury knew he was supposed to follow that opening act; most of the men and women in the box had their eyes turned expectantly on him. But he sat an extra moment longer, as if he, too, were considering Houlihan’s words at face value. “You know,” he said conversationally, “if the only evidence you were going to hear was what Mr. Houlihan just laid out in his opening, then I’d agree with him a hundred percent. From everything he just said-heck, it sure does look like Jack St. Bride committed this crime. However, there are two sides to every story. And you’re not just going to hear the state’s version of what happened that night . . . you’re going to hear Mr. St. Bride’s version as well.”

He ran one hand lightly along the railing of the jury box. “My name is Jordan McAfee, and I’m here to represent Jack St. Bride. And just like Mr. Houlihan, I want you to listen carefully . . . but I also want to remind you that things aren’t always what they seem to be.” Suddenly, Jordan leaned forward, as if to pluck something from behind a juror’s ear. The woman blushed as he stepped back, brandishing a shiny quarter.

“Objection,” Matt called out. “Is this an opening argument or a David Copperfield show?”

“Yes, Mr. McAfee,” the judge warned. “Did I not say something about turning this court into a circus?”

“I beg your pardon, Your Honor. I just wanted to prove a point.” Jordan grinned, holding up the coin. “I think we all know I didn’t just pull this out of juror number three’s head. But it sure looked that way, didn’t it? Like I said-things aren’t always what they seem to be. Not even when you experience them firsthand.” Jordan flipped the quarter into the air-and after spinning, it appeared to simply vanish. “It’s certainly something to keep in mind when you listen to the prosecution’s eyewitnesses.”

Matt sprang to his feet. “Objection!”

“On what grounds, Mr. Houlihan?” asked the judge.

“Your Honor, the credibility of all the witnesses is in the hands of the jury. It’s not for Mr. McAfee to determine whether testimony is credible or not . . . particularly during an opening statement.”

She arched a brow. “Mr. Houlihan, can we just get through this opening statement?”

“I’d like a ruling for the record, Judge,” Matt said stiffly.

“Overruled.” She turned back to Jordan. “Proceed.”

“Listen to everything,” Jordan advised the jury. “But don’t trust everything you hear. Picture what the witnesses tell you . . . but don’t assume that’s what actually happened. As Mr. Houlihan said, your job on this jury is crucial. Yet where the prosecutor would like you to act as a sponge, I want you to be a filter. I want you to ask yourself who was there. Ask yourself what they saw. And then ask yourself if you believe them.”

Rape victims, Matt thought, were the worst.

By the time larceny and assault cases made it to trial, victims put on the stand were angry about what had happened. In a murder case, of course, there was no victim left at all. No, it was only in a sexual assault case that someone who had been terrorized and was still, for the most part, traumatized, had to face her attacker from just a few feet away.

“That’s him,” she replied in response to Matt’s last question. She pointed with a trembling finger.

“Judge,” Matt said, “may the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant.” He stepped smoothly in front of her, again blocking her view of St. Bride. “Gillian, what happened that night?”

Gillian bent her head, hiding her face. “I told my father I was going to my house, but I wasn’t, not really. We all lied, just to get out. Things had been so crazy . . . and our parents told us we couldn’t . . . well, it was like a dare for us.”

“Where did you go?”

“To the forest behind the cemetery. There’s a big dogwood there.” Gilly swallowed. “We built a campfire, and we were just sitting around it telling jokes and trying . . . trying to act brave.”

“Who was with you?”

“Meg was. And Whitney and Chelsea.”

“What time was this?” Matt asked.

“Around eleven o’clock.”

“What happened next?”

“After midnight, we decided . . . that it was time to go home. We were putting out the fire when he showed up.”

“Who, Gillian?”

“Jack St. Bride,” she whispered.

“What was he wearing?”

“A yellow T-shirt. And jeans, and boots.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“He smiled,” Gillian answered. “He said hello.”

“Did you say anything in return?”

“We were all really scared. I mean, we all knew what everyone had been saying about him raping that other girl-”

“Objection,” Jordan said. “Hearsay.”

“Sustained.” The judge glanced at the jury. “You’ll disregard that last statement.”

“You were scared,” Matt prompted.

“Yes . . . and all of a sudden he was right there with us, and looking a little wild. So, actually, none of us said anything. We were too terrified.”

“What happened next?”

Gillian seemed to draw into herself, remembering. “He looked at the fire,” she said, “and sat down. He asked us if we were roasting marshmallows. I remember thinking that . . . well, that it was an ordinary question. I expected someone who was supposed to be such a dangerous man to be . . . a little more dangerous.”

“Then what happened?”

“I told him we were just on our way home. He said that was too bad. Then he said good night and headed into the woods.”

“Do you remember which trail?” Matt asked, pointing to a map propped beside her.

Gillian touched a thin line arcing north, one that didn’t lead back to the cemetery. “This one.”

“Then what?”

“Well, as soon as he was gone we were all, like, Can you believe it? Can you believe it was him?” She hunched her shoulders. “Then we left.”

“What path did you take?”

Gillian pointed to a trail that led to the northeast, tracing it to the far edge of the woods. “I took this one,” she said softly. “It’s a shortcut for me. But the others were going toward the cemetery, because it was the quickest way back to their side of town.”

“Did you feel nervous about walking home alone?”

“No,” Gillian said. “I mean, this guy who was supposed to be the Devil himself had left. What else was there to be afraid of, once he was gone?”

“What did you do next?”

Tears began to well in Gillian’s eyes, and Matt’s heart turned over. Christ, he didn’t want to make her relive this. “I hadn’t gone more than a few seconds before I realized that I never checked the fire. I mean, we put it out and all, but it was still smoking a little. So I figured I’d go back and make sure it hadn’t caught on again.” Her words stretched thin. “When I got to the clearing, it was empty. I kicked dirt over the fire, and all of a sudden he . . . he grabbed me from behind. He must have been hiding . . . or . . . or following me,” she said.