The guy from the American Embassy, Lee, is my only friend. He visits almost every day, bringing me mindless magazines and books to fill the empty hours, a new pillow to try to cheer me, and an old iPod loaded with songs he thinks I’d like, to drown the dark silence and screaming of my bad dreams. He gives me updates on the case, and Gates’s new ideas for trial strategy, going over my statements with me for hours and comparing them to the official police transcripts he managed to obtain from his new contact at the precinct. He listens patiently, taking notes, creasing his forehead in a thoughtful frown as he looks for any new angle or possibility to prove my innocence.
Could Tate have left the bedroom while I was in the shower? Did I mention to anyone else about Juan following us back to the house? What about Niklas—did he make any threatening comments, or jokes that could be seen as creepy and aggressive?
“Sometimes it’s not about proving you didn’t do it,” he tells me when I throw the pages down, frustrated after poring over Chelsea’s and Max’s and AK’s interrogation transcripts all week. “Sometimes, you just have to create reasonable doubt. They don’t have hard evidence,” he reminds me. “They just have circumstantial things, and Dekker’s wild theories. Beyond a reasonable doubt, that’s what they have to prove. But we won’t let them.”
I lean back in my seat, exhausted. I’m sleeping even worse now, every click and rattle echoing through the isolation wing. “How can you be so sure?”
Lee gives me a quiet smile, his brown eyes soft but resolute. “I just am.”
But I can’t accept that, not when it feels like everyone in my life has turned out to have some other agenda, a hidden reason for making me say or do what they want. “No, I mean it,” I tell him. “Why are you here? You said it yourself, the embassy doesn’t want anything to do with me. Aren’t you risking a lot, going against them?”
Lee looks down. “I guess I just want to help. You’re stuck in here alone, and what they’re saying about you . . .”
“Why don’t you believe them?” I ask, insistent. “Everyone else does, even people I thought were my friends. You don’t even know me, and you’re saying you believe me for sure.”
Lee pauses. He’s weighing something, I can tell, and when he looks up, there’s something tired in his expression. “My sister, this happened to her. Not murder,” he adds quickly. “Drugs.”
I wait, and after another moment, he explains. “She was backpacking down in South America after college,” he explains. “It was eight years ago. She wanted to see the beaches, and the jungle, Aztec ruins, you know?” He smiles faintly, and I can see how close they are, that affectionate sibling bond born of shared bedrooms and childhood fighting and all those other tiny moments that add up to something solid and unbreakable. “She was staying in youth hostels, met all kinds of people. They traveled together,” he continued. “And I guess someone slipped something in her bag, because they pulled her out of line in customs in Brazil, found close to half a pound of cocaine rolled up in one of her shirts. She never touched drugs,” he says, looking up at me, emphatic. “Barely even had a beer. I used to tease her, you know, because she was so straight-edge.” He stops, a shadow slipping over his face.
“What happened?” I ask, even though I already know it can’t be anything good.
He looks at the floor. “They charged her, locked her up in some hellhole prison. She didn’t speak any Portuguese, and my parents . . . It took them weeks before anyone let us in to see her. We got a lawyer, but the trial was a sham, and that much cocaine . . . They found her guilty of trafficking.” Lee says quietly. “Ten year sentence.”
My heart clutches in my chest.
“She was stuck down there for three years before we managed to get her out on appeal.” Lee meets my eyes, pained. “Three years in that place.” He shakes his head. “She’s back home now—she got married, had a kid. But, it changed her. She’ll never get those years back, all because they just washed their hands of her. Like she didn’t matter. Nobody fought for her.” He stops and looks away, embarrassed. “I guess, I figure if I can help stop that from happening to you . . .”
I swallow, chilled. “Thank you,” I say, my voice coming out a broken whisper. “For trying, for believing in me . . .”
Lee manages a smile, reaching again for the files. “Back to work,” he says, as if embarrassed by his confession. “I was thinking, we should try to do something about all these biased reports on the news shows. I know your old lawyer didn’t want you making any comment, but right now, you’re getting slammed, and I don’t like how it might look to a judge. Maybe we should do an interview,” he suggests, “here in prison. Pick an American network, let you tell your side of the story.”
I hear his words but they barely register. Instead, I’m still caught in the horror of his sister’s story. A girl like me, a case like mine—far from home, adrift in a foreign legal system—and she was found guilty. Abandoned. Left to rot.
Ten years.
Even six months in this place has been unbearable, but year after year after year stretching into the distant black future . . . ?
Now, for the first time, I wonder if this is how my mother felt. If cancer was her prison; the chemo treatments, torture.
I understand it.
I would rather die.
THE INTERVIEW
“Just lift your head, just a little more . . . okay, perfect.”
A bright bulb flashes in my face, blinding me, and the woman holding a gadget near my face takes another reading. “Less on the blues,” she yells across the room at the guy fixing the lighting rig. “Let’s try it again.”
Another light flashes, this time leaving dark circles hovering in the air in front of my eyes. I blink, disoriented. The woman clicks again and then nods briskly. “Okay, we’ve got it! Don’t move.” She directs that last part to me, before hurrying away.
I look around. Where would I even go? I’m sitting in the prison cafeteria, except the plastic tables and mealtime madness is gone, replaced with chaos of a different kind. Spotlights, sound cables, boom mikes and cameras: the room is a flurry of noise and activity, and it’s all I can do after so many silent, still days just to watch, drinking it all in. People, regular people, chatting brightly, checking clipboards, scurrying around with papers and coffee cups and reels of cable. I feel like my mind just got an electric shock, jolted awake after so many weeks spent numb and drifting, asleep.
“Let me give you a touch-up.” The makeup lady materializes, holding a tray of pots and brushes. She’s already spent thirty minutes dabbing at me with foundation and mascara, now she dips a blusher brush into some loose powder and dusts at my face. “I know it seems like a lot,” she chats, smiling and friendly. “But these lights get crazy hot; we don’t want any shine.”
I smile back hesitantly. For all the bustle and activity, most people have stayed away from me: orbiting at a safe distance, as if I’m surrounded by an invisible forcefield. I guess a prison jumpsuit and handcuffs will do that to you. I’d hoped I’d be getting regular clothes, like the ones I wore for my hearing, but the show insisted on keeping me in my prison gear—and filming in here, with the wire visible on the window, and metal bars instead of walls. They want to show the reality of my everyday life, they told Gates and my dad, but if that was true, we’d be filming the interview in my isolation cell: crammed into the tiny room with the camera guy balancing over the steel open toilet.
“Are you nervous?” the makeup lady chats, still dusting powder on my face. I nod, embarrassed. “Don’t be,” she reassures me. “You’ll do great. Just keep looking at her, and try to ignore the cameras.”
“Don’t cover her bruises!” A sharp Southern voice cuts through the noise, and suddenly, there she is, striding toward us on blue patent heels, a paper bib fixed around her neck, and curlers still resting in her blond bobbed hair.
Clara Rose.
On TV, she’s larger than life, but in the flesh, she’s short: tiny and compact in a bright
pink Chanel suit and blue eye shadow. “I told you, nothing on the face,” she scolds the makeup lady, snatching the brush away. “She’s been rotting in jail the past three months, not competing in the Junior Miss America pageant.”
The makeup woman cringes and quickly begins blotting at my face. Clara looks at me and suddenly breaks into a wide, honey-sweet smile. “Anna, it’s so great to finally meet you,” she coos. “And thank you so much for agreeing to take part in this. You’ve been so brave; it’s time America got to hear your side of the story.”
She holds out her hand, and reluctantly, I shake it. “Thank you for having me,” I reply politely.
“I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to sit down earlier,” she says, and beams at me with dazzlingly white teeth. “But I’m sure we’ll— Kenny, no!” She suddenly barks, looking up at where the lighting guy is fixing the lamps. “What did I tell you about washing me out with the yellow?” She strides off toward him, her stilettos tap-tapping on the dull linoleum floors.
I exhale slowly, watching her walk away. It wasn’t my choice: to do the interview, or that it be broadcast as a special extended exclusive edition of the Clara Rose Show. After all the things she’s said about me, I figured she would be the last person we’d go to, but Lee argued that was the exact reason we need her to do the profile. All of the news channels back home are painting me in a bad light, but Clara’s the worst, hammering her cold-blooded killer theories almost every night of the week with so-called experts and Akshay’s swaggering guest spots. If we can get her to at least present the possibility that I’m innocent, then maybe people will sit up and start paying attention: petition the American government to get involved, put pressure on the Dutch to throw out the case.
It’s a long shot, I know, but they say it could make all the difference. Dekker has been playing the press like a pro—“leaking” photos of me out partying, slipping them information about Elise’s body, the beach house, Tate’s affair. He holds court on the front steps of the precinct, talking about justice, and morality, and how he won’t let outsiders ruin the peaceful tranquility of his home island. I’ve sat here in prison, silent, for long enough. Now I need to tell my side of the story.
“You ready for this?” Lee comes over with Gates, who looks bewildered at all this activity.
I take a deep breath. “I guess.”
“Just remember what we talked about,” Gates adds, serious. “Take your time, speak slowly, and ask for breaks if you feel overwhelmed. They’re going to edit this together later, so it’s fine to stop and then start again, if you get flustered.”
“And don’t be afraid to show your feelings,” Lee interrupts. “She’s been trying to paint you as this robot, a sociopath, and we know that’s not true. It’s okay if you need to cry.”
“But don’t get angry,” Gates is quick to caution. “Don’t raise your voice, or ask about her coverage, you need to keep this focused on the facts. What happened to Elise, what Dekker’s doing to you now.”
I nod again, already worn-out.
“You’ll do great,” Lee reassures me, squeezing my arm in a comforting gesture. “We believe in you.”
I smile back, glad that he’s here. With Dad still gone in Boston, Lee and Gates are my only link to the outside world, the only people on my side.
“All righty.” The older producer guy reappears. “We’re good to get started. Mr. Gates, why don’t you and your friend come watch from the hallway, where we have the monitors set up?”
Lee looks to me. I nod, “It’s okay, I’ll be fine.”
“Like I said”—he pats me again—“just tell the truth.”
They follow the producer out, and soon the mess of cables and stands has been tidied to the back of the room, leaving an unobstructed view from the cameras past the lunchtable I’m seated at, back through the bars of the entrance and down the prison hall. Somebody fixes a tiny microphone to my jumpsuit collar and positions the extra boom mike overhead. Then Clara takes a seat beside me, her hair now perfectly styled; her lipstick bright. She’s checking note cards, her lips moving as she murmurs under her breath.
“Sound good?” she asks in a regular tone.
“Check!” Comes the reply. I blink, but the lights are dazzling, and as hot as the makeup woman told me they’d be.
“Just ignore the cameras,” Clara tells me with that same honey-sweet tone. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes: they watch me, shrewd and darting. “And try not to mumble. Speak clearly, or we’ll have to retake the shot.”
I feel my nerves kick, a flutter in my stomach.
“Are we ready?” The voice comes again. “Okay, rolling in three, two, one . . .”
Clara’s face smoothes. She faces the camera, somber and caring. “Tonight, we take you behind the scenes of the notorious Aruba Correctional Institute to bring you an exclusive interview with Anna Chevalier. Locked up, far from home. Accused of her best friend’s murder. We get a glimpse into this young woman’s mind, and ask the questions that need answering, right here on the Clara Rose Show.”
• • •
The questions are simple, at first. We go over the same things I told Dekker in my interrogations. The background for our trip, how we spent those first few days on the island, when we finally realized something was wrong and found the body that night. I pick my words carefully, hesitant at first, always reminding myself that Clara’s warm sympathy is an act for the cameras, not any real concern.
“And your time here in prison?” she asks, furrowing her brow. “I can see, you’ve had some problems.”
I touch my face automatically. “I was attacked,” I say softly. “It’s . . . hard. My dad, he does what he can to come visit, but, being alone all this time . . . I just want to go home.”
Clara nods. “Now, can you talk about Elise at all? I know there have been lots of rumors, that the two of you were fighting, that you had a destructive friendship . . .”
“It’s not true. We—we were best friends,” I tell her. “We did everything together, and yes, we had some disagreements, but they were over little things.”
“Like what?”
“Just, girl stuff, you know?” I shrug. “She was always borrowing my clothes and then not giving them back, that drove me crazy. And she hated it when I would use her makeup without asking.”
“But what about her relationship with Tate Dempsey?” Clara asks, inching forward in her seat. “She was going behind your back with your boyfriend.”
“I didn’t know,” I say firmly.
“But if you had?”
“I didn’t.”
“But now that you do . . .” Clara changes tack. “How do you feel about it? What would you say to her?”
I blink a moment, thrown. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“You haven’t thought about it?” she presses me. “You’ve been here, locked in prison for two months now. What would you say to Tate, if you had the chance? He hasn’t come to see you, has he? Why not?”
“I—”
“Cut!” The voice comes from behind the bank of dazzling lights.
Clara snaps her head around. “What the hell’s the problem?”
The producer comes rushing forward. “Nothing about the Dempsey boy, his lawyers made it clear.”
“Are you kidding me?” Clara exclaims.
He shrugs helplessly. “You know what we went through with the libel writ. I can’t take the risk; they’ll have us back in court.”
She rolls her eyes, smoothing back her hair. “Fine. Do I need more powder? Debbie?”
The makeup artist trots back over with her brush, but I stay focused on the brief conversation I just overheard. Libel? Back in court? Is this why Tate’s barely been mentioned on Clara’s show? I always figured it was strange. After all, he’s the one person who admitted to lying, and to being back at the house with Elise that afternoon, but he’s still barely had a bad word said about him in the press. And this must be why. The Dempsey money has bought him
his privacy; Ellingham working round the clock to protect the family’s good name.
But not mine.
“Okay,” Clara waves the crew away and turns back to me. “Let’s pick it up.”
The camera man silently counts down, and Clara brightens on cue. “We’ve seen a lot of, well, I’ve got to be honest with you, pretty troubling photos over the last few weeks. You girls out partying, drinking. What do you say to claims you led Elise astray, and pulled her into this dangerous behavior?”
I take a deep breath. “It’s not true. We . . . liked to go out together, to parties, like most of the other kids in school—”
“But this wasn’t just your regular sleepover, good, clean fun,” Clara interrupts. “There was drinking, college boys . . .”
“We went out,” I admit, “And maybe, we went down some bad roads, but that was Elise. She . . . loved to have a good time. She was the outgoing one, you know? She was always looking for an adventure.”
“So she was the one initiating the drinking, the drug-taking . . .”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” I stumble over my words, “I just . . . It wasn’t one-sided, like people are saying. She did bad stuff too, it wasn’t all my idea.”
“So what would you tell her parents, if you had the chance?” Clara leans in again. “What would you say to these fine folks, who’ve lost their daughter in the most tragic, violent way?”
I blink. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you try?” Clara urges gently.
I slowly turn, and look at the camera, at the empty gaping lens, with its distant reflection of myself. I open my mouth, hesitant. “I . . . I’m sorry, that’s she’s gone. There’s not a single day that goes by that I don’t . . . that I don’t think about her.” I can feel myself choking up, the glare of the lights hot on my face, Clara’s expression so fixed and hungry. But all I can think about is Elise dancing around the kitchen in the beach house that day, bright and free and alive.