She pulled to a stop at a red traffic light and turned on the car radio. It automatically tuned into a local station running a talkback slot in between playing old tracks of country music on a lazy Saturday morning. She surveyed the town through the glass of her dusty windshield. It had a charmless grit that she’d seen in a hundred other small towns she’d passed through over her thirty-two years. The same ubiquitous gas station signs. Fast-food stores with grimy windows. Tired shopping strips of run-down stores that had long ago lost the war with the malls.

“We have a caller on the line,” the radio host said, after the final notes of acoustic guitar had faded away. “What’s your name?”

“Dean.”

“What do you want to talk about today, Dean?”

“Everyone is so politically correct these days that nobody calls it as they see it. So I’m going to say it straight out. That trial next week is a disgrace.”

“Why do you say that?” asked the radio announcer.

“Because what the heck was that girl thinking!”

“You’re blaming the girl?”

“Hell yeah. It’s not right. A kid’s life is being ruined because a girl got drunk and did something dumb that she regretted afterward. We all regret stuff. Except we don’t try to get someone put in prison for our screw-ups.”

“The police and district attorney obviously think a crime has been committed if they’re bringing it to trial,” interrupted the host testily.

“Don’t get me wrong. I feel bad for her and all. Hell, I feel bad for everyone in this messed-up situation. But I especially feel bad for that Blair boy. Everything he worked for has gone up in smoke. And he ain’t even been found guilty yet. Fact is, this trial is a waste. It’s a waste of time. And it’s a waste of our taxes.”

“Jury selection might be over, but the trial hasn’t begun, Dean,” snapped the radio announcer. “There’s a jury of twelve fine citizens who will decide his guilt or innocence. It’s not up to us, or you, to decide.”

“Well, I sure hope that jury has their heads screwed on right, because there’s no way that anyone with a shred of good old-fashioned common sense will reach a guilty verdict. No way.”

The caller’s voice dropped out as the first notes of a hit country-western song hit the airwaves. The announcer’s voice rose over the music. “It’s just after eleven A.M. on what’s turning out to be a very humid Saturday morning in Neapolis. Everyone in town is talking about the Blair trial that starts next week. We’ll take more callers after this little tune.”

3

Rachel

The moment the traffic light turned green, Rachel put her foot on the gas and shot out across the intersection toward her hotel. It was a modern four-star hotel on a beach road, opposite the town’s new marina, where day cruisers were docked in a gleaming white row. Hanging off the biggest boat was a giant red banner offering the cheapest prices in town for day trips and game-fishing cruises.

Rachel gave her car to the hotel parking valet and wheeled her suitcase to the reception desk. Check-in wasn’t for an hour, but the hotel had promised to make her room available early.

Rachel had deliberately arrived in Neapolis days ahead of the trial to cultivate sources and get to know the people and the rhythm of the town. She was under enormous pressure to make Season 3 better than the last two seasons. A flood of imitation podcasters were copying her original format, with varying results. She had to keep Guilty or Not Guilty fresh and groundbreaking, or risk the podcast falling into obscurity as ambitious rivals overtook it. In short, she had to deliver a podcast that ran rings around the first two seasons. There was no room for failure and Rachel knew it. That was why she’d selected a case for Season 3 that was topical, controversial, and had the potential to spark conversations at water coolers and dinner tables alike.

For the first time Guilty or Not Guilty would cover an active trial while it played out in court. The previous seasons had rehashed old cases from years earlier, where everything was viewed through the twenty-twenty lens of hindsight, and with masses of information available online.

Covering a trial while it was under way would put the audience in a virtual jury box. Rachel would give her listeners the testimony and the evidence in real time as it came out in court, as if they were real jurors. Every listener would reach his or her own verdict based on the evidence as the jury deliberated.

Season 3 would test Rachel’s endurance more than ever. She planned to attend court during the day and record podcast episodes at night, as well as post on the podcast website daily summaries of each day’s hearings and transcripts of testimony, whenever possible. She’d have to do it all without Pete at her side. He’d been in a motorcycle crash and couldn’t join her for the trip. Although he’d insisted that he’d help all he could from his hospital bed.

Rachel’s first interview was scheduled for later that afternoon, and she wanted to freshen up and change into clothes better suited to the sticky heat. Mostly she wanted to unpack so she could explore the town before her hectic work schedule began. Her heart sank a little when the hotel reception clerk said that her room was still being cleaned.

Rachel headed to the lobby cafe, sitting at a small, round table while she waited for her room. Behind her was a gilded birdcage. She assumed it was ornamental until she heard a rustling noise and turned around to see a brown bird with a reddish tail scratching listlessly at birdseed. A waiter passed by. She called him over and ordered a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

“What kind of bird is that?” Rachel asked the waiter when he returned with her drink.

“It’s a nightingale,” he said. “The manager thought it was a cute idea to have a songbird in the lobby. The problem is that bird doesn’t know how to sing. I’ve never heard it so much as tweet. It’s not much to look at, either. Between you and me, I think it’s a fake. I don’t think it’s a nightingale at all.”

“Well, I’m hardly a bird expert, but even I can tell that’s one unhappy bird,” Rachel said.

“Maybe,” the waiter said, shrugging helplessly as if to tell her that he had no influence when it came to the bird’s welfare. “You’re here for the trial, aren’t you?” he asked, changing the subject.

“What makes you think that?” Rachel responded, suddenly on guard.

“You don’t have a vacation vibe. The manager said we’d be getting some guests staying here for the trial. Media types. Lawyers too.”

Rachel could tell he was fishing to find out which category she fell into, but she had no intention of satisfying his curiosity. She’d booked into the hotel using Pete’s family name for a reason. She didn’t want anyone at the hotel to know her true identity.

“I gather the trial is an emotional topic around here,” she said.

“It can get heated,” he agreed. “Everyone knows the boy involved. Some personally and some by reputation. He’s pretty famous around here. And this town is small enough that people can pretty much guess who the girl is, even though her name has been kept out of the newspapers.”

“If everyone knows everyone, I’m surprised the trial wasn’t moved to a different jurisdiction.”

“I heard the judge refused to allow it to be moved. Said he had faith in the jurors. I think he’s right. They’ll be fair. I don’t think it’s true that everyone knows everyone here. Maybe once. Neapolis isn’t a small town anymore.”

“Have you lived here long?” Rachel asked.

“My parents moved here when I left for college. I visit them in the summer and work at the hotel during the tourist season.” He wiped the table next to Rachel’s as he spoke.

“You must like the place if you come every summer?”

“It’s great for kids and old people. Not much to do here if you’re my age. Nothing in the way of jobs, that’s for sure,” he said. “My dad says this town never got a break. The factories are struggling. Fishing and tourism are the big money earners. Neither are reliable. The fishing used to be good. Not so much anymore. The tourism, well, that depends on the hurricane season.”

Rachel’s phone rang. The call was from Pete. The waiter inched away, straightening chairs that didn’t need to be straightened. Rachel could tell that he was listening in to her conversation. He had a perplexed expression that suggested he was trying to figure out why her voice sounded so familiar.

It was a common reaction. Rachel’s soft, breathless broadcast voice was instantly recognizable. It was her signature. That and her tendency to break the fourth wall with reflections on the miscarriages of justice that she investigated for the podcast. The combination made the podcast addictive.

“Rachel Krall has sexualized true crime in the same way that Nigella Lawson has given sex appeal to frying eggs,” one newspaper columnist wrote. “Krall’s seductive voice and out-loud musings give her true-crime podcasts the intimacy of pillow talk. It’s no wonder that it’s the most successful podcast in the country. I suspect Ms. Krall could record a podcast on paint drying and people would be hooked on her every intonation and the silky cadence of her bedroom voice.”

“I couldn’t hear your voice mails properly, Rach. The connection was horrible. I did hear you mention finding something on your car? What was it?” Pete asked.