A sudden rustle of leaves startled her. The gate slipped out of her grasp, slamming shut behind her with a clang that sent birds flying into the overcast sky. Their panicked wings mimicked Rachel’s quickening heartbeat as she moved deeper into the cemetery. Tree branches interlocked into thick canopies, giving the place a dark soulfulness that might have been quaint under different circumstances.

The map flapped in her hands from the wind as Rachel walked along the cracked, cobbled path, trying to get her bearings. The crumbling ivy-covered gravestones were arranged in no particular order. The plots had been dug randomly in past centuries, before the practice of arranging the dead in neat, parallel rows. In the old days, the dead were buried in whatever patches of soil were softest and easiest to dig out. As a result, the cobbled path meandered unpredictably into a series of dead ends. Rachel had to retrace her footsteps more than once.

The map listed a trail of notable graves, all marked with numbers that corresponded to a short historical description. Among them was the grave of an eighteenth-century cabin boy who served on the pirate Blackbeard’s ship and was captured and executed for piracy. He was buried in a rum barrel in lieu of a coffin.

Farther along were graves of local figures, a senator, a nineteenth-century industrialist, and a cousin of the Wright brothers who’d invested in the aviators’ early aeronautical adventures. There was also a section from the Civil War that included the graves of eleven members of an all-black battalion of Union soldiers.

Rachel found a path that took her through a row of sycamore trees into the new section of the cemetery. It was a bleak stretch of identical rows of headstones, vastly different from the historic graveyard. The lawn was neatly mowed. The headstones were machine carved. There were no creepers, or overhanging oaks. It was orderly and sterile.

Wilting wreaths and flower arrangements lying on graves reminded Rachel that these deaths were still mourned by loved ones. A weathered teddy bear was propped on the grave of a stillborn child. A rusty train engine was perched on the tombstone of a young boy, its red paint peeling. The sky rumbled. Rachel looked up. Dark clouds were rolling in like waves about to crash.

Rachel hadn’t brought an umbrella. She hoped the rain would hold off until she left. She hastily followed the map until she found the row where Jenny Stills’s grave had been marked at the far end. She walked down the row until she reached two connected tombstones carved from a simple gray granite.

The dedications inscribed in the headstones confirmed at least some basic facts. Jenny, beloved daughter of Hope and sister of Hannah. Hope, beloved mother of Jenny and Hannah. One grave alongside the other. A mother and a daughter who died within three weeks of each other.

Fresh wild yellow daisies were scattered across both graves. Someone had been there recently. It must have been Hannah, thought Rachel. She squatted down to take a closer look and immediately noticed fading graffiti on the bottom of the headstone. She wiped off a thin coating of dirt until she was able to make out the faint outline of a word on Jenny’s tombstone: WHORE.

A cold chill ran through Rachel. Twenty-five years had passed and someone still went to the trouble of stopping by Jenny Stills’s grave, not to lay flowers but to insult her. To dehumanize her. Rachel had heard the same word used to describe Kelly Moore, the complainant in the Scott Blair trial. Would Kelly have to spend the rest of her life being smeared as well?

Rachel saw no other graffiti, although she did find a faded two-toned blue ribbon among old leaves piled up at the corner of Jenny’s grave. It was tied around a bouquet of flowers so desiccated that the dry petals turned into dust in Rachel’s hands when she picked it up. Attached to the ribbon was a water-stained card; the ink had run and the message was unreadable.

It began to rain. Lightly at first, and then with a ferocity that forced Rachel to run for cover. It felt as if the elements were pursuing her as she ran, deafened by the crackle of rain hitting hard, unyielding gravestones.

Rachel sprinted through the cemetery gate to her car. She clambered into the driver’s seat, dripping wet, still holding the ribbon and faded card from the old bouquet she’d found at the grave. She shoved them into her glove box.

The downpour was heavy as Rachel backed out. Yet through the thick relentless pelting of raindrops again her car, something caught her eye in the rearview mirror. It was a woman standing by the cemetery gate, watching her. When Rachel turned around for a better look, there was nobody there.

12

Guilty or Not Guilty

Season 3, Episode 4: Into the Night

I’m a visitor in this town. I don’t know anyone at all. So when I’m not working, I’m listening to local talk radio. It keeps me company. That and my calls to my producer, Pete, who, incidentally, for those who have written to ask, is on the mend. He should be out of the hospital very soon.

I miss Pete. It’s lonely being on the road without him. Local radio has become my companion. Pathetic, right? Aside from keeping me company, it helps me take the temperature of this town. I can tell you that it’s fever pitch ahead of the trial.

One theme that keeps coming up is opinions from some people—by no means all—suggesting that K kind of brought this on herself. Drinking. Hanging out with boys. You know, the usual BS we hear about rape victims. This is a small town and there has been lots of gossip about what happened that night. Lots of speculation.

Today I was at the supermarket to buy candy to feed that sweet tooth of mine. An argument broke out in the checkout line next to me over whether Scott Blair was guilty. And even if he was guilty—to quote the lady in front of me in the line—“whether his life should be ruined over one dumb night with a girl who knew what she was getting herself in for the second she got into his car?”

I managed to record part of the argument that broke out on my phone. I want to play it to you so you can get a sense of how the locals feel about this case.

“She was drunk. Means she couldn’t consent.”

That was from a mom with a toddler sitting in the back of a shopping cart.

“He was drunk, too. How could he know she didn’t consent if he was drunk? It goes both ways. Anyway, his life is ruined. What happens if some slutty girl tries to ruin my kid’s life by making stuff up?”

“Watch your mouth, mister.”

“Hey! You watch it.”

“If she says it happened, then I believe her.”

This was from the lady working the checkout.

It went on like that for a while until voices were raised so loud that the store manager threatened to call the cops. This town is so wound up about the trial that it will almost be a relief when it finally starts. Everyone has an opinion, but nobody seems to know any facts. So let’s talk about what did happen that night.

It was close to midnight when K entered that barren field of wild grass after being kicked out of Lexi’s party. The path was slick and muddy. It had rained earlier. K would have had to walk slowly so as not to slip.

The cold air might have sobered her. Perhaps enough to realize that it was a really bad idea, walking there alone. She probably considered turning back. In the same situation, I might have turned back. At least, the sober me would have turned back.

The drunk me, scared and humiliated, emboldened by alcohol, probably would have done exactly what K did. Yeah, if I think about myself in that situation, then I would have kept going. Turning back would have amounted to defeat. K wouldn’t have wanted to give Lexi the satisfaction.

At around the halfway point, K heard footsteps. Someone was running toward her. A tall, broad-shouldered man emerged from the dark.

Have you ever heard of the “fight-or-flight” response? It’s an instinct hardwired into humans to either fight or flee from danger. Except turns out that “flight or flight” isn’t the whole story.

Experts now know that when faced with extreme danger from which we can see no way out, humans freeze. Just like lizards freeze in the hope their camouflage will protect them from a predator. That’s why it’s now called the fight, flight, or freeze response.

So from what I’ve learned, K didn’t run. She didn’t hide. K froze. Right there on the path as the man came closer. When she saw his face, a rush of relief would have run through her. He was a familiar face, a senior from school with a nice-guy reputation.

Harris Wilson has darkish hair that flops over his forehead. That night, he wore a denim jacket over a gray T-shirt and black skinny jeans. According to a phone interview I did with him several weeks ago, he told K that she shouldn’t be walking there alone.

“And you should?” she responded.

“Probably not. I thought I’d keep an eye on you. Make sure you get home safe.”

“I don’t need company,” she replied. “It’s no big deal. You can go back if you’re scared.”