I try to stay calm. There’s no jury, my lawyer keeps reminding me, so all of Dekker’s wide-eyed performing won’t mean a thing in the end. The only person who matters—the one with my fate resting in her delicately manicured hands—is the judge, von Koppel, sitting six feet to my left at the central table at the head of the room.
I direct my answer to her alone, trying to keep my expression neutral and my voice even and resolute. “No. I had no idea—not until he confessed, after he cut a deal with you.”
Dekker quickly interrupts me. “Please let the record show, there was no deal, as the defendant implies. Mr. Dempsey volunteered new information that led to his charges being dropped, that is all.”
“Sorry,” I reply. “My mistake.”
It’s not. My lawyer told me to bring it up, to bring up anything that might make Dekker look biased, or corrupt, or just plain incompetent. Dekker narrows his eyes at me in a fierce glare, but I try to stay calm. I have to score what points I can, they told me over and over again. It may seem petty, like some silly game, but the rest of my life is on the line. If I can throw him off, even a little, it might make all the difference.
“Also, please note I object to the word ‘confessed’,” Dekker continues, still glaring. “Mr. Dempsey merely cleared up earlier inconsistencies in his testimony to police.”
“Noted.” Judge von Koppel sounds bored. I wonder if that’s a good thing or not.
“Now, Miss Chevalier,” Dekker turns on me again, this time with renewed determination. “Would you say you’re a jealous person?”
“No.”
“You weren’t possessive at all, of your relationships with the victim, or Mr. Dempsey?”
I say it again, calm and collected. “No.” My hands are folded in my lap, my legs crossed at the ankles. They coached me for hours about how to sit, how to speak, even how to take a sip of water.
“Not even a little?” Dekker keeps digging. “After all, teenage relationships can be stressful things. A whirlwind of emotions and new feelings.”
I keep my gaze fixed on him. “Not really. It was all pretty simple.”
“Simple . . .” Dekker goes over to his table and flips through some paperwork. “But what about the incident of the fifteenth of October?”
“I’m sorry—” I pause. “I don’t know what that is.” I look over to my lawyer, but he just shrugs.
“Then let me refresh your memory.” Dekker smiles. “October fifteenth, last year. You were involved in an altercation with a classmate, Lindsay Shaw.”
Lindsay, the queen bitch herself. My stomach drops. This can’t be good.
“Here’s the incident report from the school,” Dekker continues, “and Miss Shaw’s sworn statement.” He passes the pages up to the judge before turning back to me. “Miss Shaw says that you accosted her, during gym class, and accused her of flirting with Mr. Dempsey.”
This is what he looks so pleased about? I shake my head. “That’s not what happened. It was nothing.”
“Nothing? She says you threatened her, physically, and warned her to stay away from him.” Dekker continues, “Several witnesses confirm you attacked her, in a violent outburst, armed with a hockey stick.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I protest. “We were playing field hockey; we were on opposing teams. I tackled her, and then she tripped.”
“She tripped?” Dekker’s voice rises. “Miss Shaw was taken to the emergency room. She required six stitches to a wound on her cheek.”
I see the look on my lawyer’s face. “It was an accident,” I insist, my voice rising. “And I wasn’t jealous. She had it out for me, right from the start of school. Ask anyone, she was the one bullying me.”
“So she deserved it?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” I try to keep a grip, but Dekker keeps badgering me.
“So what really happened? You’ve said yourself, she was bullying you.”
“Yes, but—”
“She flirted with your boyfriend.” He doesn’t let me finish. “She taunted you, publicly, until you just couldn’t take it anymore. You attacked her—”
“Objection!” My lawyer leaps up. “Relevance? This is a schoolyard argument from almost a year ago—”
“I’m establishing the defendant’s state of mind under pressure,” Dekker calls back, “and her habit of violent outbursts.”
Judge von Koppel pauses. “Overruled. Continue.”
Dekker approaches me, but just as I’m bracing myself for more questions about the hockey incident, he gives me a sly smile. “Let’s leave your attack on Miss Shaw for a moment, and talk about the victim. We’ve heard from several witnesses that you had an unusually close relationship.”
I pause, regrouping. He’s trying to throw me off balance, I can see that—making sure I’m worked up about the Lindsay thing, so I’m still angry and frustrated when I talk about Elise. But I won’t fall for that trick. I take a breath, making sure I’m calm again before answering. “We were friends. That’s not unusual.”
“But you spent all your time together, to the exclusion of Miss Warren’s other friends.”
“That was her choice.” I give a little shrug. “She just preferred hanging out with me.”
“And that’s what you did together—hang out?” Dekker’s got that smug expression again, the one that sends a chill through me. “Tell us about it.”
I look to my lawyer again. “I . . . don’t understand.”
“What did you do together?” Dekker asks. “How did you spend your time?”
“Usual things,” I say carefully. “We would go shopping, to cafés, just hang out together, after school . . .”
“You went to bars together,” Dekker adds. “Out drinking. And to college parties, with older men.”
“Yes,” I admit, “but it wasn’t just us. We were a group, all year. Chelsea, and Max, and AK—”
“Yes, but you preferred to be alone with Miss Warren, didn’t you?” Dekker meets my eyes with that sly look of his.
I stare back, trying to figure out his game. “No. I mean, we were close, but I liked being with everyone.”
Dekker goes back to his table to rustle some more papers. “In their statements, both Melanie Chang and Chelsea Day, and several of your other friends, said that you and the victim would often sleep over at each other’s houses.”