Читать книгу: «Innocent or Guilty?»

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1. Then

Chapter 2. Now

Chapter 3. Then

Chapter 4. Now

Chapter 5. Then

Chapter 6. Now

Chapter 7. Then

Chapter 8. Now

Chapter 9. Then

Chapter 10. Now

Chapter 11. Then

Chapter 12. Now

Chapter 13. Then

Chapter 14. Now

Chapter 15. Then

Chapter 16. Now

Chapter 17. Then

Chapter 18. Now

Chapter 19. Then

Chapter 20. Now

Chapter 21. Then

Chapter 22. Now

Chapter 23. Then

Chapter 24. Now

Chapter 25. Then

Chapter 26. Now

Chapter 27. Then

Chapter 28. Now

Chapter 29. Then

Chapter 30. Now

Chapter 31. Then

Chapter 32. Now

Chapter 33. Then

Chapter 34. Now

Chapter 35. Then

Chapter 36. Now

Chapter 37. Then

Chapter 38. Now

Chapter 39. Then

Chapter 40. Now

Chapter 41. Then

Chapter 42. Now

Chapter 43. Then

Chapter 44. Now

Chapter 45. Then

Chapter 46. Now

Chapter 47. Then

Chapter 48. Now

Chapter 49. Six Weeks Later

Chapter 50. That Night

Chapter 51. Now

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

Also by A. M. Taylor

About the Author

About the Publisher

1.
THEN

They find the body on a Sunday.

He didn’t return home the night before, which isn’t unheard of, but when he doesn’t make it back in time for church and he still isn’t home by the time they return, the family begins to worry. His mother rings the police and they tell her to sit tight, while his father calls his brother and gathers up a few of the boy’s friends to set up a search party.

He’s lying in the woods.

He has been all night.

He’s face down in the mud. There’s blood on the side and the back of his head, matting down his hair, pressing it to his skull. It’s a friend who finds him, calling out for the boy’s dad when he does so, the father running wildly towards him, pushing him out of the way, slipping in the mud.

He makes the mistake of moving him. Grabbing him by the shoulders to shake him awake in desperation. When he pulls his hands away they’re covered in blood and as the stories soon will go, the father screams, grief curdling at his throat. The police are called again and this time they come, sirens wailing on the damp air, a parent’s desperate call. Friends and family are pushed to the side lines, forced to watch as the routines of a crime scene establish themselves and the detectives take statements, waiting for the medical examiner to arrive.

The boy’s uncle is sent back to the house with a female police officer in tow to break the news to the mother. Neighbors will go on to tell other neighbors about how she answers the door, arm outstretched, finger pointing at her brother-in-law’s broken face as she shouts “No, no, no, no, no,” over and over and over again, until the female police officer wraps her arms around the older woman’s shaking shoulders and draws her inside her own home.

Word spreads, text messages sent, phone calls answered, whispers met by gasps, grimaces of shock followed by the promise of tears.

Tyler Washington is dead they’re saying.

Murdered.

Found in the woods with his skull bashed in.

Less than a week later my twin brother is arrested.

My brother was born eleven minutes and 37 seconds after me. It was an easy delivery for twins apparently, or so our mom always told us. We were her second pregnancy, and we practically slipped right out; she and Dad barely making it to the hospital before I made my appearance. I came screaming into the world, face red and pink and white, covered in blood and placenta, all of it quickly wiped away to make me clean. Ethan slipped out silently though; maybe I was taking up all the oxygen in the room. In the womb. But Mom says the nurse just gave him a little slap on his small round bottom and he joined me in my new-to-the-world screams.

Twins.

Mom says she was terrified to begin with. Not just of how much more work and effort was involved but with how different we were from our sister Georgia. We took up twice the space, twice the time, twice the breast milk, twice the effort, but we were also strangely self-sufficient she’d tell us. She felt superfluous, she said. Our older sister Georgia had needed her, wanted her, all the time. We needed her occasionally, and wanted only each other. But that was a long time ago and by the time Ethan is arrested we barely speak to one another. Sometimes, I like to tell myself that it’s because we don’t need to; we already know what the other is thinking. But it’s not like that. We shared a womb, shared a life and then suddenly, we split. Into two different people and the difference was what we needed to make us two different people. Otherwise we’d have just spent the rest of our lives as ‘the twins’.

But instead what happened was that Ethan became my twin. I was Olivia, and Ethan was ‘Olivia’s twin’.

Until the Sunday when Tyler’s body is found.

Until the Friday, just under a week later when Ethan is arrested for Tyler Washington’s murder, and I become, forever, irrevocably, impossibly ‘Ethan Hall’s twin sister’.

2.
NOW

“There’s no way she did it,” Matt said, “no fucking way.”

“Why?” I asked, “Because she’s a cute girl you wanna screw?”

Matt’s pale face pinkened ever so slightly, those promising rosy spots deepening on the apple of his cheeks. He avoided my gaze when he said, “No, man. She’s just so … small. And quiet. She’s not the type.”

“It’s never the type in these situations though, is it?” Daniel said, voice creamy and languorous, sliding his eyes towards me, glowing in the artificially lit room. It was dark outside already, the blank slate of a grey Oregon afternoon overcrowding the room, so we’d had to turn the ugly strip lights on even though it wasn’t yet four in the afternoon. We’d been in the same room for hours, lunch detritus littering the table, the air pungent with uneaten sandwiches and cold coffee. Tempers and nerves were starting to fray, impatience climbing the walls. I loved this part though; when it felt like anything could happen, like there was no way we could ever lose, like justice wasn’t a pendulum that could sway either way but a judge’s righteous gavel just waiting to be knocked on wood, the sound echoing around the room. We were doing background research on the firm’s newest client Reid Murphy, and the man she’d been accused of almost killing, James Asher, who was currently in a coma on an intensive care ward on the other side of the city. Murphy was 22 and looked even younger, so young you’d ask if her parents were home if she answered her own front door. And Matt was right; she was small and quiet, scared to death in my opinion, not that my opinion really mattered here. All of it would help though; the jury bench packed full of people like my colleagues who thought a girl like Reid Murphy couldn’t ever possibly hurt a man so badly she put him in a coma. But I’d seen something in the un-seeing stare of her eyes, the unwavering gaze, and I wasn’t so sure. Anyone’s capable of anything in my opinion. Again, not that it mattered, not that my opinion counted for anything; we were here to prove she was innocent whether she was or not.

We’d reached the ropiest part of the day, when we’d all been there too long: lunch had been eaten and we’d all start thinking about dinner soon, but for now it was the lull and the dip of late afternoon. Distraction roaring in, heads up, eyes darting between me and Matt, opinions readied to be lobbed across the conference room table. I looked across to Daniel, and could see that his eyes were dancing, like always, ready to tease and tickle, the facetious little quirk to his eyebrows getting more and more pronounced.

Daniel caught my eye and widened his, about to say something, mouth opening to a cartoonish ‘o’ when his phone began to vibrate and his forehead creased. He made the sign for ‘one moment’ at me, holding his finger in the air, and the groans began before he was even out the door. “You better be coming straight back, Koh!” Matt called after him, the glass door closing noiselessly on Daniel’s retreating back. “That better have been some medical results,” Matt continued to grumble, and I thought, not for the first time, about how quickly we’d all become exactly who and what the firm’s partners wanted us to become. Snipping and sniping and picking each other off, one by one. It was all happy and good natured until someone looked as though they weren’t pulling their weight, and suddenly the jabs had real force behind them and judgment started to crash the party. The best of friends, right up until we weren’t.

Daniel’s departure dampened the mood and a weight settled over the room. Instead of punchy and worked up, we fell into resigned lethargy, bending our heads down again, hard at work. Daniel was gone a while though, and my eyes had started to swim, desperate for more caffeine when he eventually came back. No one said anything to him when he did, but he was waiting for me when we finally left the conference room several hours later. He had been sat closest to the door and I furthest from it, so everyone filed out ahead of me, Daniel leaning against the hallway wall, waiting. “What’s going on?” I asked, shouldering my bag, adjusting my jacket. He had a look on his face I couldn’t quite decipher, maybe it was anticipation.

“That phone call was from my friend Ray, you know, the one who works on that podcast?”

“The true crime podcast? Why, was he asking for your help?” We might have only been first year associates, but we were working for one of the biggest criminal defense law firms in Portland, so a true crime podcast producer coming to Daniel for his expertise or opinion wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibilities.

“No, he’s here in Portland, with the host, Kat.”

“Are they working on a Portland case?” I asked, interest creeping into my voice despite myself.

“Maybe, yeah. I told them about you. And Ethan. They’re thinking about doing his case.”

I couldn’t say anything for a second, my mouth suddenly dry. When I eventually managed to speak it came out as a croak, “What?”

“Yeah, I emailed him about it ages ago, but they were just wrapping up the last season and wanted to do a little research, look around a little before deciding on their next topic.” He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, his face lively, animated; eyebrows up by his hairline, mouth grinning and winning.

“Why did you email him in the first place, though? I didn’t ask you to do that,” I said, my mouth still dry, desperate for a drink.

“No, I know. Do I need your permission for everything?”

“When it comes to my fucking family, yeah you do.”

Daniel’s body stopped moving, his never-ending energy finally brought to a standstill. “Liv, come on, what’s the problem here? This is a good thing. It could be really good; the first case they worked on the sentence got overturned, and the guy from the second season? He’s just filed for a retrial, and finally got his request granted after years of trying.”

My hands went up to the strap of my bag, fiddling with it, the weight suddenly uncomfortable on my shoulder. I didn’t meet Daniel’s eye when I said, “It’s just not your place. What were you thinking? How could you do this and not tell me?”

“I’m telling you now,” he said, the words expelled on a massive exhale of breath. “Plus, it’s not as if it’s all set in stone yet. Kat wants to meet you and Ethan, get to know you and the case a little better.”

“What?” I said again, this time in a snap, “Me and Ethan?”

“Yeah, they like to work on cases where they can have the involvement of the family and a close relationship with the subject. You’ve listened to the podcast, you know that.”

I shook my head, but once again I couldn’t say anything, my mind a blank trap. Daniel reached out and put his hand on my shoulder, it was warm and heavy like it always was, a tiny reverberation thrumming through me as he said in a low voice, “Look, I’ve said we’ll meet them for a drink at Blue Plate, and that’s all it has to be if you want. A no-strings after work drink with an old friend of mine. That’s it.”

I knew that wouldn’t be it, but I finally looked him in the eye, and even though I knew exactly what he was doing, the calm, convincing tone, the comforting touch, I nodded my head and agreed to something that made the pit of my stomach scramble and lurch.

Blue Plate was busy and I couldn’t see my roommate Samira anywhere. Probably she was back in the kitchen, prepping the desserts that helped make the restaurant so popular. The maȋtre d’ greeted me and Daniel with familiarity and gave us a corner seat in one of their coveted forest green leather booths. Being roommates with the pastry chef had its perks. Ray and Kat hadn’t arrived yet, and this bothered me. I hadn’t wanted to come after all, hadn’t even known it was happening until roughly twenty minutes ago, and now here I was waiting on a couple of strangers. The restaurant was moodily lit, glittering candles, spherical sconces emitting a gas like low glow. The couple at the table right in front of us were on a first or second date, and to the left a large party had gathered to celebrate a birthday. The birthday girl had balloons tied to the back of her chair and the party’s laughter spilled out over the whole restaurant, people turning to look. I fiddled with my cutlery, the table all laid up for us to eat although we hadn’t ordered any food yet – just wine. I jiggled my legs up and down under the table, Daniel eventually moving his hand to my left knee to still it.

“What is wrong with you?” he said while pouring me a glass of wine. There wasn’t any accusation in his voice; he was practically laughing and he gave me a sidelong look that seemed to say ‘who are you?’

“I’m nervous,” I answered.

“I guess I’ve never seen you nervous.”

“I guess not.”

“You don’t have to worry, Liv. They’re not banking on this for their next season, I’m pretty sure they’ve got other options, so if you don’t want to do it, you don’t want to do it.”

“You think I should though,” I said, taking a large gulp of wine, wishing there was bread on the table for me to bite down on.

Daniel shrugged, “I just think … what have you got to lose?”

I looked at him, wondering. I guess he would think that.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, breaking eye contact with me, and moving to stand up although the table stopped him from doing so properly, so he was kind of crouching, hovering over the table, waving an arm in the air, “there they are! Ray! Over here, man.” He was waving them towards us, ushering with his long, outstretched arm, and I watched as two people walked towards us, weaving their way around tables and chairs.

Ray was shorter than I’d expected, but then everyone is normally shorter than I expected. Kat, meanwhile – for I had to assume this was Kat – was over six feet tall, wearing a mustard yellow shearling biker jacket that matched the wrap she had on her head hiding her hair. Underneath the jacket, she was wearing a black and dark green leopard print jumpsuit, and her shoes were stacked high, not that she needed the extra height, chunky soled Chelsea boots protecting her feet from the rain outside. She smiled amiably at us both as introductions were made. I reached my hand across the table to shake hers, and her smile grew wider, “Hi, Olivia. It’s really nice to meet you.” Her voice was low and throaty, a little scratched, and immediately familiar after hours of listening to her on the podcast.

I nodded in response, and felt my throat constrict. Daniel had to nudge me a little to remind me to speak and I was relieved my voice came out sounding normal when I said, “Yeah, you too. Both of you,” I added, taking in Ray as well. “I’m a big fan of the podcast.”

“Oh, you listen? I wasn’t sure after speaking to Danny about it,” Ray said.

I raised my eyebrows at the ‘Danny’, but nodded again, “No, I listen. I just didn’t ever expect to be the subject of it.”

Kat and Ray shared a small look and Kat said, “Well, we haven’t decided on the topic for our third season yet, to be honest. And it would really be Ethan rather than you that was the subject …” she finished with a grin, stretching her hand out to take the glass of wine Daniel had just poured for her.

“Oh, I know it wouldn’t be me,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I just meant … this was hard for my whole family, you know? It’s not just Ethan, although obviously it’s his story. He is the one in prison, after all.”

Kat raised both her eyebrows at me and nodded slowly. “Do you think you’d be able to get your family to talk with us? If we moved forward with Ethan’s story?”

I licked my lips, trying to stop myself from biting at them. “Maybe, I don’t know. Probably Georgia, my sister, but even then I’m not completely sure.”

“But, they do believe he’s innocent, right? Like you do?” Kat asked.

And there it was; Ethan’s innocence, dropping into the room like a rock through water.

“Yes,” I said eventually, but it was so long since I’d talked to my family about Ethan and his innocence, I wasn’t completely sure whether I’d just told a lie or not.

3.
THEN

The room changes the moment the judge says the word, ‘guilty’. I watch Ethan’s shoulders stiffen, his entire body braced. We were told to expect this, and yet still, somehow, I didn’t. Didn’t think the system could get it this wrong. Ethan’s long, slim body is completely still; he hasn’t moved, but his lawyer is next to him, arm slung around his shoulders, and I wish I could hear what he’s saying but I can’t. Ethan still doesn’t move. Doesn’t make to reply to his lawyer, doesn’t look as though he’s ever going to move again, until suddenly he does. He’s forced to; the bailiff is attaching his handcuffs again, taking him away.

He turns then, finally, and even though Mom calls out his name, her voice cracking the room in two, he looks straight at me, our identical eyes catching. We’re the same height. He’s not all that tall for a guy, but for a girl I am, and so we’re eye to eye. Mom reaches up to him, pulling him into a hug before they take him away, and Dad has to pull her from him, letting my older sister, Georgia in for a hug too, and then clapping Ethan’s shoulder. Dad says something I don’t hear, and Ethan is swaying slightly in the push and pull, arms and hands outstretched towards him, taking, taking, taking. And still he hasn’t taken his eyes off mine. Finally we hug, for the first time in years it feels like, and of course it’s only one sided because he’s already in chains, but before he’s pulled away again I say, “I’ll make this right, okay? I promise.”

He nods at me, as if it’s all understood, a done deal, as if he knows that, somehow, someday, I’ll get him out of this, out of prison, even though I have no idea how, and wish that he’d tell me. Mom and Georgia are crying, albeit quietly, as Ethan is led away, and when I turn to look at Dad, he’s dumbfounded, his face a mask of stupefied tragedy like I’ve never seen it before. I want to reach out to all of them, to be pulled back into their orbit, but I feel detached from them now, a satellite circling them, no longer a part of the home planet. Mom and Georgia look so similar huddled together, the same size and shape, small and compact, shoulder to shoulder. Ethan and I always took after Dad more, and when I look at him now I wonder if I’m seeing my twin in thirty years’ time, face crumpled and destroyed by sudden loss, transfixed by a horror no one ever saw coming. And then I make a decision, putting my arms around them all, pulling them towards me, pulling them into my own tilted orbit; the strange, circling satellite, and like that we walk out of the courtroom together.

4.
NOW

“Did you ever doubt him?” Kat asked, swirling the wine in her glass around so it shone in the candlelight. “Did you ever think he might have done it?”

“No,” I said.

“Really?” She said, her head pulled back in surprise, her voice going up. “Not even once?”

“We shared a womb. It breeds a certain amount of trust.”

“So, you guys are like, really close?”

I took a sip of wine, licking my lips after, “We weren’t when it all happened … when Tyler died, we hadn’t been close for years, not since we were nine, ten.”

“Why?”

I shrugged, trying to think back that far. It had all seemed so important then. “We were just really different. We still are.”

“But you’re close now?” Kat was leaning forward, her arms resting on the table. It felt casual, but it wasn’t and I wondered for a second if she was recording the whole thing.

“It’s a little difficult to be close when there’s an entire prison system between you, but yeah, I guess you’d say we were close.”

“I’d really like to meet him. To go and see him, but I don’t think he’ll see me without you there.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked, my palms beginning to itch.

“Because that’s what he told me.”

“You’ve spoken to him already?” I asked with a sideways glance at Daniel. He was drinking from his glass of wine and didn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t be here unless I had done. Look, Olivia,” she said, rearranging herself in her seat, settling in for something, “you can’t take this lightly. We go all in on a subject and a case when we research it. We want the truth and we want some kind of resolution, and it can be really painful and uncomfortable for a lot of people, even the innocent and the victims. If we do this, we’re going to be dredging up your whole family’s past. Yours, Ethan’s, pretty much everyone who was involved in the investigation. So, you have to know what you’re getting yourself into. And Ethan really has to know, because it’s going to affect him the most. I need to see it in his eyes that he understands everything that we’re going to do in the process of making this podcast, otherwise it’s not going to happen. I need that from you too.”

The birthday party was still roaring with delight at the table next to us, and the couple on the date had descended into distractingly awkward and prolonged silences. Waiters and waitresses were passing our table constantly, eyeing up our rapidly depleting carafe of wine with professional interest, stopping to drop by some dinner menus. But it was as if the four of us, hell the two of us – Kat and I – were all alone in that din. She was staring at me with such intensity, my natural inclination was to look away, but I couldn’t. She demanded attention. I reached for the stem of my wine glass, needing something to touch, something to do, and finally I shrugged, feigning a kind of natural indifference I felt a million miles from, and said, “Of course.”

“Okay,” Kat said, suffusing that one word with a sense of boundless relief and animation, and leaning back in her seat with a wide grin before reaching over to pick up one of the menus that had been left for us, “So, what’s good here?”

I sank back in my own seat, mirroring her and said nonchalantly, “Here? It’s all good.” But it was a nonchalance I didn’t feel – does anyone ever feel truly nonchalant? – and when I picked up the menu to see what was on offer tonight, I felt like I’d set something in motion that I’d never be able to stop. I wasn’t used to feeling so out of control. Ever since Ethan had been arrested, I’d done everything I could to maximize the sense of control I had over my life, and that of my twin brother’s. It was the whole reason I’d gone to law school, the reason I’d stayed in Oregon, so close to a home that had so thoroughly rejected me and my family; I was going to clear his name. But I’d never imagined doing it this way, with microphones and journalists, and a whole audience watching. Or listening, at least. So, why did I? Maybe it was Daniel’s luminous eyes staring so expectantly at me, as bright as a child’s; or maybe it was Kat’s, hard, dark and defiant, the face of true tenacity. Or maybe it was the thought of Ethan’s, so similar to mine – identical in fact – staring at me in horror and disbelief, an unasked, pleading question hidden within them on the day he was pronounced guilty. I knew that he’d given up thinking that anyone, least of all me, would be able to get him out of there by now. I’d gone to college for him, surprised everyone and got into law school for him, and yet I still hadn’t been able to do the thing that really mattered, and have him exonerated. Or maybe I said yes to the podcast, because I’d finally figured out that control was an illusion; a net the size of the world trying to catch just one single butterfly. And that chaos always managed to creep in, flap its wings, and change everything forever.

So, we ordered dinner, a bright pink beetroot risotto with bright white beads of goat cheese melting into it for Kat who turned out to be vegetarian, a shared beef bourguignon for Daniel and Ray who most certainly were not, and a cedar plank salmon for me. By the time we were ready for dessert, the restaurant had quieted to a lull, the birthday party having moved on to a bar, the flaccid date disbanded in near-silence, and my roommate Samira came out to join us, bringing more desserts than we’d ordered with her.

“You have to try the apple, cheddar and caramel pie,” she declared, skootching in next to me on the bench, “all anyone’s ordered tonight is the chocolate freakin’ torte.”

“Well, if you didn’t make it so freakin’ delicious maybe they wouldn’t order it so much,” I said.

“I’m not going to argue with you there, all I’m saying is it’s a crying shame that only four people so far have tasted this sensational delight. It’s served with rosemary ice cream for Christ’s sake,” Samira said.

I took one of the servings of pie from her and introduced her to Kat and Ray. “Shadow of a Doubt?” she said, her eyes widening, “Man, this is an honor. I do my best pastry making listening to you guys.”

It was Samira who had got me listening to Shadow of a Doubt in the first place. She’d told me about it before Daniel had even realized he’d gone to college with the often referred to, but rarely heard producer, ‘Ray’. Shadow of a Doubt had been my introduction to true crime podcasts, and now I listened to them constantly, voraciously, omnivorously. Funny ones, sentimental ones, sincere ones, straight down the line ones. At first I’d thought I’d be too close to it to enjoy any of them. Both as a lawyer and as my brother’s sister. But it turns out the opposite was true; I loved them just as much as anyone did. And boy, did everyone seem to; our collective blood lust undimmed since Jack the Ripper stalked the streets and sold out newspapers, and the Victorians realized just how much murder sells.

“Are you sure about this?” Samira asked as she looped her arm through mine and we walked home together. Daniel had left with Kat and Ray, his face silly and drunk, eyes alight when Ray had mentioned something about their hotel bar. It was a Friday night, but the neighborhood was crisp and quiet as we walked. All it took was a sudden left turn, and the lights and sounds of restaurants, bars and coffee shops transformed into rows of quiet houses, buttoned up against the early fall evening.

“Why are you asking? I thought you loved Shadow of a Doubt.”

“I do, and don’t get me wrong, I am thrilled to have just met the great Kat Thomas, and mysterious Ray Mackenzie in person, believe me. But come on, it’s going to be a whole different thing, actually being on the podcast.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I mean, you did change your last name just to stop people knowing you were Ethan Hall’s sister. This is kind of going to blow that little charade right over.”

I laughed, the sound getting lost on the wind; Samira was always coming up with sayings and aphorisms that weren’t quite right, that she’d plucked straight from the air in front of her. “I know that.”

“Yeah, I guess you do.”

“Anyway, it’s all a moot point until Ethan agrees to it.”

We walked along in silence for a while, our house coming into view, the streetlight that stood sentry outside it turning the red of the cherry tree’s leaves almost neon in the night. “Do you think he will?” Samira asked.

“I think he’ll think he doesn’t have a choice,” I said, although as we ascended the steps to the front porch, I had no idea if that was true or not.

“And what about your family? Kat said she’d want them to be involved right? You really think they’d be cool with that?”

I sighed, thinking about my parents and sister, all three of whom, as much as they loved Ethan, preferred to pretend that none of the nasty business of ten years ago had ever happened. “I don’t know,” I said, sliding my key into the lock, “I’m seeing them for dinner on Sunday though, so I guess I’ll find out then.”

* * *

“Keys, wallets, all personal effects in the trays to your left, and then step through, please ma’am.”

It was just like being at the airport, except instead of boundless freedom and flight on the other side of security, there was the complete opposite. I went through the motions without comment, Kat right behind me, free of her recording equipment and her producer, Ray, as only two of us were allowed during visiting hours at a time. This part of any visit was always the strangest. When Ethan was right in front of me, and I could see his face, hear his voice, I could almost forget where we were, and when I wasn’t there, the reality of it was dimmed, but this in-between part reinforced that reality all too clearly. I’d expected to have to talk Kat through the rigors and rigmarole of prison visitations, but realized that she must have done plenty of prison visits in the past for the first two seasons of Shadow of a Doubt. Her face was blank and mild, although her eyes retained their alert liveliness, and she was unfailingly polite to everyone we came into contact with.

Ethan was already in place when we walked into the visitor’s room. Gone were the days when I had to talk to him through bullet proof plastic and a telephone handset. Good behavior had seen his privileges expand, and now we could sit around a round, concrete table, curved benches fucking up our backs. The windows were high in there, taller than any human and the room had the same artificial lighting of any institution; harsh and unforgiving. Ethan watched us walk across the room towards him, his eyes trained on Kat. He didn’t look at me at all until after I’d introduced them and they’d awkwardly shaken hands. He looked tired and thin, but then he always looked tired and thin, so I tried to look for ways in which he looked different to normal, certain that something was off. It took me a little while to realize, but finally I got it; his eyes. They were alight and alive in a way I hadn’t seen in years. That was why it had taken me so long to figure out; because it had been so long since I’d seen him like this. He looked excited. He looked awake.

Kat had got out her notebook and pencil she’d been allowed to bring in with her and was making note of the date, time and place in grey lead.

“What’s your show called again?” Ethan asked.

“Shadow of a Doubt,” Kat said.

“And it’s an online only thing? Like YouTube?”

“It’s a podcast. It’s audio only. Most people listen from their phones. Obviously, we have a website though, where we post updates, and sometimes transcripts or other artefacts that listeners can read for a deeper understanding and experience.”

Ethan’s brow furrowed, the light leaving his eyes a little. “But people really listen?”

“Yeah, they really listen,” Kat said.

“They average about 250,000 downloads per episode,” I added, Kat turning to me in surprise. “I looked it up last night,” I said, shrugging.

“And that’s a lot?” Ethan asked.

“That’s a whole lot,” I assured him. They had a TV in the rec room, and there was internet access from some ancient computers, but sometimes it was hard to truly fathom just how far the prison, and therefore the prisoners, lagged behind the rest of the world. Ethan lived in a time warp where the word ‘Netflix’ meant DVDs arriving by mail, and Instagram nothing at all. It always brought me up short in conversations with him; he hadn’t even joined Facebook before being imprisoned, that’s how long ten years was in the 21^st century. To someone raised on the viewing figures of Friends or CSI, 250,000 people must have sounded inconsequential.

“Okay,” Ethan said slowly, turning his attention back to Kat, “so, what’s the point of your show? Are you going to prove I’m innocent, somehow?”

Kat took a deep breath and shifted in her seat so she was sitting up a little straighter. She was wearing the same yellow head wrap she’d been wearing the night before, a deep yellow color, almost gold, but the rest of her outfit was grey and black, in contrast to the colorful get-up I’d seen her in at the restaurant. “We never set out to prove if someone is innocent or guilty,” she said, “that would mean we were starting from a hypothesis and that’s definitively what we do not do. In both the cases we’ve worked on before there was strong indication that there had been a miscarriage of justice, and I think we’ve been able to help shed light on that, and maybe even bring about some real change. But really this is about figuring out what happened and why there’s still doubt hovering over any one case.”

She spoke like she did on the show, in full, thoughtful sentences that sounded as if they might have been written beforehand, but in this case clearly weren’t. Maybe it was the way she always sounded – it was certainly how she’d come across last night, but I found myself wondering what she’d sounded like before she started podcasting, or when she was two bottles of wine in and sloppy and drunk.

“And is this going to be on the podcast?” Ethan asked, motioning between the two of them to indicate he meant their current interaction.

“No. They wouldn’t let me bring my cellphone or any recording equipment in, so I’m not recording this. I’ll take notes though, and if we decide to go ahead with the show – all of us – then what I’ll probably do is describe this initial interview to the audience. Does that all sound okay to you?”

“Okay. So, how will you actually interview me, then?” Ethan asked, looking puzzled.

“Probably over the phone. If you give your consent, that is. We wouldn’t be able to keep coming back and forth from here anyway,” Kat said.

“Right, okay,” Ethan said, although I thought I could detect a tremor of uncertainty as he glanced over at me.

“Okay, so. Tell me about Tyler,” Kat said and my stomach rolled over. I hadn’t expected her to ask about him, although why not, I’m not sure.

“Tyler?” Ethan asked, his eyes locked on mine.

“Yeah. You must have known him, right?”

“We both did,” Ethan replied, his gaze returning to Kat.

5.
THEN

The judge calls for closing arguments and I turn instinctively to the jury. I’ve been studying them, searching their faces for weeks now, scouring for anything, any little thing, that gives their sympathies away, and I’m still none the wiser. Any time one of them shifts in their seat, sighs from bodily discontent, or shrugs a shoulder, my eyes swivel to them like the search beam of a lighthouse. But they all sit up a little straighter now, their attention trained on the prosecutor; they like him, I realize, or maybe they’re just relieved to see light at the end of this tunnel, a way home and a way out. At least for them.

“Tyler Washington was eighteen when he died, his whole life ahead of him,” the prosecutor begins and I think, despite myself, here we go. It’s not that I don’t feel bad for him, or for his family, but this is the way every statement about Tyler Washington, from the very first news article, to his obituary, to the opening statements of the trial, have begun. At first they stopped me short; dead at eighteen, a life cut so very, very short, but it’s been almost a year now and hearing the same sentences over and over has worn me down. The jury is listening though, alert, not quite jaded. Only one juror is sitting slightly slumped in her seat. She’s young, the youngest on the jury by quite some margin, and as I stare at her, her eyes flick from the prosecutor, straight to me. As if she could feel me watching her. She has sullen, hooded eyes and the look of someone who doesn’t spend much time outdoors, which is unusual around here. I wonder if she went to the same high school as Tyler, as all of us, maybe a few years ahead, and then I realize that the prosecutor is still talking and I’m missing the whole thing.

“It wasn’t just that Tyler was class president and captain of the basketball team, or even that his mother is mayor of this city. It’s that his teachers described him as ‘charming’ and ‘cheeky’, his friends would call on him to help move furniture, to drive them out to a new climbing spot, to lend them money even, and he’d invariably say yes. His peers knew him as friendly and affable, even caring and kind and his family relied on him for cheer and quick wit, even in trying times. ‘He always seemed to have a smile on his face’, his former vice principal said. In comparison, people have very little to say about the defendant. Ethan Hall doesn’t stir up happy memories, or a long list of complimentary adjectives. At school he was a loner, and if he hadn’t killed Tyler Washington, his peers say they barely would have remembered he even attended Twin Rivers High with them.”

Ethan’s shoulders have stiffened; I’m watching them. This is the same shit Ethan’s lived with most of his life, and for most of that time I was part of it, I helped fuel it. I wonder if we weren’t twins it would have happened differently. If Ethan would have blended in to the background more if it wasn’t for me, constantly calling attention to myself. But we’re so different it was constantly remarked upon; the cheerleader and the loner who somehow once shared a womb. So far, this is nothing compared to what’s been written in newspapers and discussed on TV screens, or even what was shouted at him in the hallways of our high school, way back before any of this happened, but the prosecutor’s just laying the ground work. There’s more to come.

“When Tyler Washington left his friend’s house that night, do you think there could have been any way he thought he might not make it home? No. Of course not. That’s not a thought that ever crosses an eighteen-year-old’s mind. At eighteen, you are invulnerable, indestructible, immortal. But Tyler wasn’t any of those things. All he was doing was trying to save time, to cut a couple corners and get home through the woods a little quicker. But Ethan Hall had other ideas. We may never know if Ethan followed Tyler into those woods with the intention of killing his former classmate, but let’s focus on the things we do know. Ethan had been hanging out that night at his friend Kevin Lawrence’s house, just a twenty-five-minute bike ride away from where Tyler was at Jessica Heng’s house. So, when he left Kevin’s house he would have entered the woods at almost exactly the time Tyler Washington is believed to have died. Remember that the medical examiner estimated and testified to the fact that Tyler most likely died between 1:45 and 2:45 on the morning of Sunday August 24, and that Kevin Lawrence has stated that Hall had left his home somewhere between two and two thirty a.m.. Did Ethan watch Tyler enter the woods and seize on an opportunity, or did he happen upon him and the two get into a fight, as the defendant admitted to in a confession he has since recanted?

“Ethan Hall is not to be trusted. His refusal to stand by his initial confession and plead guilty to this crime proves that. Don’t be confused by his quiet demeanor and slight frame. Ethan may not be the strapping basketball player Tyler was, but he trained as a fencer for much of his young life, and as we heard in witness testimony from a fencing expert, this kind of training could easily give him the advantage, even in a fight against a larger man.”

I knew it wouldn’t take long before the fencing came up. It’s been over four years since Ethan did any seriously and yet here we are, talking about how it’s possible he might have killed someone based on the fact he used to be able to point an unusually thin sword in the right direction. The prosecutor has been standing in front of the jury bench the whole time, attention focused on them, impassioned words underlined by hand movements and gesticulations, but now he turns to Ethan and his demeanor changes. Ethan’s does too. His shoulders fold in on themselves, he shifts lower in his chair, shrinking. It makes me want to grab him and pull him up, force him to sit straight, to look ahead, to face these accusations with both eyes wide open. But there’s nothing I can do, and I can see in the way most of the jury members look at him, that they think this shrinking, this shirking, makes him look guilty.

“And what then, of motive?” the prosecutor asks, the words puncturing the room. He’s still looking at Ethan, as if he’ll get out of his seat and answer the question directly, but then, smooth as butter, his attention shifts back to the jury and he leaves Ethan alone.

“Tyler was the golden boy, liked – loved even – by all, as I’ve already mentioned. Who could possibly want to hurt – to kill – him in this savage, unprovoked way?”