“If it helps, I just got off the phone with a charity worker who works with the poor in Neapolis and she said that he’s been known to sleep in a boat shed near the marine reserve,” said Pete.

Rachel knew the beach Pete was referring to. Right next to the national park was a sheltered beach with a row of boat sheds and a ramp. On the map, it was called Anderson’s Beach. But Rachel knew it in another context. It was the beach where Scott Blair had taken Kelly Moore for pizza and then allegedly raped her.

After Rachel finished the call with Pete, she set her alarm to wake her before dawn. She wanted to run along the beach south of Morrison’s Point in case she stumbled across Vince Knox sleeping rough in one of his usual haunts.

After catching her breath on the jetty, Rachel continued running south to the national marine park, darting over clumps of glistening seaweed that had littered the beaches overnight. When she came around the last peninsula, she saw a row of boat sheds in the distance, painted in faded pastel hues. From across the beach, Rachel heard a repeated banging noise. It was coming from a boat-shed door, which was slamming open and closed in the wind. She ran across the sand to the shed to close the door. Otherwise it would tear off its hinges from the repeated banging.

As she approached, the door blew wide open in a fresh gust, giving Rachel a clear view inside. There was an old fiberglass boat with an outboard motor. Men’s work clothes hung off nails banged into the timber. On the concrete floor was a makeshift bed and a pile of blankets. On the walls, newspaper clippings fluttered in the early morning breeze.

Rachel stepped into the boat shed, her eyes drawn to the wall decorated with the newspaper clippings. She was shocked to see they were all about the Scott Blair case. They’d been carefully torn out and hammered into the timber walls with rusty nails. There were black-and-white photos of Scott Blair coming into court, and photos of Mitch Alkins and Dale Quinn walking down the courthouse stairs, their expressions blank.

An article about Kelly Moore’s testimony was pinned promi nently on the wall. Sections of text were circled with a ballpoint pen. As Rachel moved closer to read the text in the dim light, the door banged shut behind her. It cast the room in an opaque blackness that made it impossible for Rachel to see.

Rachel instinctively moved blindly in the direction of the door, shoving it hard with her shoulder. The door swung open violently. Rachel tripped and stumbled out into the bright glare of morning and straight into the naked chest of a man.

The right side of his bare torso was horribly disfigured with severe burn scars, puckered and patched by skin grafts. The parts of his chest unmarred by scars were covered with tattoos. Rachel recognized one as a homemade gangland prison tattoo. She raised her head to look at the stranger’s face. Vince Knox’s eyes were narrow and they burned with rage.

“What are you doing sneaking around here?” he rasped. His lip lifted in a half snarl as Rachel moved back in surprise.

He lurched toward her as if to scare her. It instinctively made her want to step back to put space between them, but she resisted the urge. If she stepped back then he’d be able to corral her into the boat shed and lock her in. Rachel took a step to the side, which at least offered the possibility of outrunning him across the sand dunes.

Except Rachel didn’t run. She didn’t need to. He’d turned his attention away from her and bent down to caress a quivering seagull, which was bundled up in a plaid shirt near his feet. His gentle touch and the deep concern that creased his face as he tended to the bird was a sharp departure from his anger toward Rachel a moment earlier.

“I didn’t know that someone lived here,” Rachel said, by way of an apology. She figured that the only way to defuse the situation was to act normal. “I thought the boat shed lock had broken off.”

“I left the door unlocked when I went for a swim.” He rose, looming over Rachel to intimidate her again. She held her ground. “What are you doing here? You’re not a cop, are you?” he hissed. “I hate cops.”

“I’m a reporter covering the trial. I saw you testify for Scott Blair. You didn’t look like you were enjoying it. After you left court, I saw you talking to some guy who works for Greg Blair. Did Greg Blair buy your testimony, Mr. Knox?”

“No,” he said. “Everything I said in court was true. Scott Blair saved that kid’s life that day. Swam out and pulled him in. That’s the God’s honest truth.”

“Then what’s the connection between you and Greg Blair?” Rachel asked.

“It’s none of your goddamn business,” he roared. Realizing that he’d startled the bird, he bent down again to soothe the frightened creature in a hushed voice.

“Maybe it’s not my business,” said Rachel. “It is the business of the prosecutor, Mitch Alkins. He might be very interested, especially if Greg Blair paid for your testimony.”

“Every word that I said was true. That trial, it ain’t got nothing to do with me,” Vince Knox said. “I don’t have time for your dumb questions. I need to put a splint on this bird’s wing before she goes into shock.” He moved into the boat shed and returned a moment later with a box of bandages. He squatted down and expertly repaired the injured bird’s wing with a crude splint and bandages as Rachel watched.

“How long have you been living here?” Rachel asked a few minutes later as he cut up scraps of fresh fish with a pocketknife which he fed to the injured gull, now swathed in bandages.

“I stay sometimes in the summer. Get paid to keep an eye on the boats. There’s a shower and toilets. A coin barbecue so I can cook. That’s all I need.”

“Where do you live in the winter?”

“I get by,” he said. “If I make enough money in the summer then I rent a room. Mostly I mind my own business. You should try it sometime.”

Rachel flushed. He was right. She had no right to barge into this man’s life with her questions.

“Tell me about how you know Greg Blair and I’ll go,” she said.

“I knew Greg once,” he said. “He remembered me. Asked me to testify for his son about that time I saw him save that kid from drowning. Said if I didn’t then he’d remind people of something that I did a long time ago. All I want is a quiet life, so I agreed. Didn’t say anything that wasn’t true in court. I made sure of it.”

“I had the feeling that you know more than you said in court. That you were holding back on something,” Rachel said softly.

“What makes you think that?” He stared at her with an expression that she couldn’t decipher.

“Instinct,” she said.

“Your instincts are wrong,” he snapped.

“How did you get your injuries?” Rachel asked as he put on his plaid shirt and buttoned it up to cover the puckered burn scars on his chest.

“Knife fight,” he said, pointing to the scars that slashed the side of his face.

“What about the burns? They look pretty bad.”

“They’re from a childhood accident. Have I satisfied your curiosity now?” he asked. “I might not look like much. And I might not have much. But there are a lot more dangerous people than me in this town. They wear suits and look respectable, but there ain’t nothing respectable about the things they’re willing do to get what they want. Nothing.”

Rachel thought about his remark as she ran across the beach back toward town. Wisps of clouds marred the otherwise perfect sky as she jogged toward her hotel in the far distance. It was Friday, the last court session before the weekend. Rachel’s gut feeling told her that it would be a dramatic one.

All week, court had started the same way. Judge Shaw asked Mitch Alkins if Kelly Moore was returning to the stand. Alkins told the judge that Kelly’s psychiatrist said she wasn’t quite ready. That she needed a little more time. Alkins had bought time all week with that response. He wouldn’t get away with it for much longer. Dale Quinn was running out of witnesses and Judge Shaw was running out of patience.

44

Guilty or Not Guilty

Season 3, Episode 10: Cross-examination

Tempers are short in court as we get to the business end of the trial. There’s been no more banter about what the jurors ate for lunch. The mood is too tense. Judge Shaw is on edge. His tongue is pure acid. I’ve heard people say they haven’t seen him this acerbic since he was last reversed by an appeals court seven years ago.

The jury is showing signs of exhaustion. Too many long days of hearing testimony that is complex and oftentimes harrowing. It gets to a person after a while, trying to figure out who to believe.

Today the jury heard the forensic expert for the defense give his testimony. Professor Carl Braun earned an estimated thirty thousand dollars to tear apart the prosecution’s forensic case with surgical precision. He said there was zero evidence that indicated K was sexually assaulted. Zero. That is reasonable doubt right there. If the jury believes him, that is.