“Yes. I think so.” Guilt ate at Hannah. Had she thought about Nia Jones once in the last couple of days? Nia Jones, who’d spent twenty-four years in prison and was facing eleven more? That wasn’t good enough. She would have to do something to move the case forward while she was stil in a position to do so.
“I’ve never liked the murder rule,” Sean said. “This idea that people should be ful y legal y responsible for acts they didn’t commit, or didn’t intend to commit. It undermines our whole concept of justice.”
“Hmmm.”
He glanced at her. “You don’t agree?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it’s a good idea to make people take responsibility for the consequences of their actions, even if those consequences are unintended, within reason. It’s al a question of foreseeability. If you could reasonably foresee that a death might result from your actions, or in, you know, the overal action you’re taking part in, like an armed robbery, for example, then you should pay the price.”
Sean grimaced. “When you put it like that it sounds okay. But the reality of the case law is that a lot of the time, felony murder is just another stick used to beat poor people. The kind of people who commit stupid crimes or get caught up in something bigger than themselves because they’re out of options.”
Hannah made a sound that could be taken for agreement. She didn’t agree with him and the part of her that wasn’t on a mission wanted to keep the conversation going. She had questions she wanted to ask him too—about why he had volunteered for the Project, what he real y thought about Robert Parekh, and why he was so convinced of Dandridge’s innocence—but questions from her would likely prompt questions in return and it would be much safer if she kept things light and simple. She al owed the conversation to peter out and used the quiet moments to think about the upcoming interview. It was incredible how convinced Camila had been that Neil Prosper would be useful, rather than detrimental to their cause.
Real y, there was no reason at al to think that he would be a good alibi witness for Dandridge. Even if Prosper claimed to have been with Dandridge al night the night of the murder, how useful would that evidence be now, eleven years after the original trial? It would be easy for the prosecution to paint Prosper’s abrupt departure from Yorktown in the worst possible light. Surely any objective per son looking at the facts would recognize that Prosper had to have been running from something. And yet Camila was clearly excited, Sean almost as positive, and even Parekh, who at least seemed to have some degree of skepticism about the situation, seemed to be hopeful overal . Why? Because they were al so genuinely convinced by Dandridge’s innocence that they couldn’t see any other possibility?
Or was it an intentional suspension of disbelief? Something like the mechanism defense attorneys adopted to al ow them to defend guilty or possibly guilty clients and stil go home and sleep at night. Either way, it was a weakness. Hannah sat and looked out of the window, and thought about ways that weakness could be exploited.
IT WAS THREE-THIRTY P.M. WHEN THEY PULLED UP OUTSIDE
6826 Alexander Road, Charlotte, North Carolina. Hannah looked down at the piece of paper in her hand, the one Beth Prosper had handed her a couple of days before, then looked back at the house.
“Jesus,” she said. She’d told Parekh that she’d looked the house up online, and she had, but as the house was on a private road she hadn’t been able to access any street-view photographs of the actual property, and she hadn’t been able to find any real estate photographs. She’d expected, based on the neighborhood, that the house would be expensive, but nothing had prepared her for the real deal. The house was set back among the trees, with a winding gravel drive. The facade of the house was al beautiful y painted plaster and high arched windows. She looked around. The neighboring houses were similarly set back and private.
“His sister, Sophia, said that he was cut off by the family?” Sean asked.
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
They got out of the car and walked down the drive. It was very quiet. They could hear only birdsong, and the sound of the gravel crunching under their feet. As the driveway curved around, they caught a glimpse of a gleaming swimming pool and a pool house to the rear of the house. They kept walking, reached the porch, and Sean rang the doorbel . They heard it ring inside the house and waited. But it was too quiet. The house felt like it was empty. They waited for a minute, then Sean tried the doorbel again. Stil no answer.
“What do we do now?” Hannah said.
“I guess we wait.”
They walked back down the drive. The air was cool and sweet with the smel of late-blooming flowers. Hannah thought about money as they walked. Thought about how it insulated you, wrapped you up in a bubble of beauty. Thought about what a person might do to stay inside that bubble. They reached the car and Hannah stopped with her hand on the door handle.
“I think I’m going to try the neighbors,” she said. “See if I can find out who owns this house. If it’s Neil Prosper, or someone else.”
Sean nodded. “That’s a good idea.” He looked around.
The first house was just as beautiful, as manicured and deserted as the Prosper house. The neighboring house to the left, however, was a little tired looking, a little more lived in. Hannah pressed the doorbel , but didn’t hear it ring, so she knocked loudly instead. The house was so big, the front door so solid, that it was hard to believe that the knock would be heard in any room but the entrance hal .
Hannah waited, tried again. Then stood back from the house and looked around. A moment later she heard footsteps echoing from deep within the house. A moment after that and the door was opened by a very thin, very old woman. She was dressed in an emerald-green cardigan over a silk blouse, and her gray hair was pinned back just so. Her pants were tailored gray wool, and her shoes the softest leather.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Hannah summoned her friendliest smile. “I’m so sorry to bother you,” she said. “My name is Hannah. I’m a student at the University of Virginia, and I’m just in Charlotte for the weekend. My dad asked me to look up an old friend of the family’s, and I was supposed to meet them at their home, but now I’m wondering if I got the address wrong.” She fished Beth’s piece of paper out of her pocket.
The old woman raised an eyebrow and the expression spoke volumes. She was a little suspicious, certainly, but mostly unimpressed at this, the latest evidence of a younger generation who could not be relied upon to keep their social engagements and maintain basic manners.
“Um . . . it’s 6826 Washington Drive,” Hannah said. “The Prosper family? Neil Prosper?”
“Oh no. We’re 6824, and next door belongs to the Swifts.
Johnathon and Amanda Swift.”
“Oh,” said Hannah, creasing her brow. “I think we might know them. Maybe that’s why I got the address wrong. Is that the Virginia Swifts? From Yorktown?”