Chapter 32
Laurette Devereux
They say justice is blind. I’m here to make damn sure she isn’t also deaf.
The clerk’s voice slices through the inaudible murmur of the gallery. “State of Louisiana versus Evan Lemaire.”
A ripple moves through the room. Jurors straighten. Reporters shift, phones gripped tight, thumbs poised.
Evan Lemaire lounges at the defense table as if he’s poolside instead of on trial for rape. Dark suit, expensive watch, posture soaked in entitlement. His smirk is slow and smug.
Beside him, Jon David oozes quiet confidence. Every gesture is polished, every glance deliberate. He adjusts his cufflinks, more concerned with them than the charges. To him, this isn’t a courtroom. It’s a stage.
I’m at the prosecution’s table—files aligned, posture sharp, every detail in place. He’s watching, but not with his usual charming smirk. Today, he’s still. Controlled. Waiting.
The judge enters, robe sweeping as she takes the bench. “Everyone, be seated.”
Chairs shift, the jury settles, and reporters edge forward. Across the aisle, Jon David leans toward Evan, murmuring something I can’t make out. Whatever it is, it earns a quiet chuckle.
I hold my gaze on them.
Let them laugh. The storm is coming.
I stand and step into the well. Every eye turns my way—jurors, courtroom staff, reporters. Even the defendant himself.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. On the night of April fourteenth, the defendant, Evan Lemaire, attended a gathering. Emily Westbrook was also present.”
I pause long enough for that fact to settle.
“During the evening, Ms. Westbrook consumed alcohol. The toxicology evidence you will hear shows a blood alcohol concentration consistent with one standard drink. However, the toxicology results will also show the presence of an additional substance.”
I let the word additional substance sink in.
“You will hear testimony from the medical examiner regarding the effects of that substance on the human body. You will hear from several witnesses who were with Ms. Westbrook that night.”
My eyes drift for a heartbeat toward Evan, reclining as though this were someone else’s trial.
“And you will be presented with evidence of what occurred next.”
I don’t say the word video yet because I don’t have to. I can already see the curiosity shift in the box.
“This case is not about regret. It’s about consent. Under our law, consent must be knowing, voluntary, and given by someone with the capacity to make that decision.”
My gaze settles back on the jury.
“The evidence in this case will show that Ms. Westbrook, at the time in question, lacked the capacity to consent. And the State will present proof that the defendant was, at all relevant times, aware of her incapacity.”
I let that stand.
“At the close of this trial, you will see that all allegations are supported by admissible evidence. Thank you.”
I return to my seat without looking at Jon David.
He rises with unhurried grace, his presence drawing the room’s attention. His smile isn’t wide—but exact, measured, and composed.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. We all have moments in our past that, in the cold light of morning, look different from they did in the heat of the moment. That’s human nature.”
His eyes flick toward Evan, and he doesn’t introduce him as a defendant. He introduces him as one of us.
“My client is an outstanding student,” he continues, each word chosen like a chess move. “A devoted son. A loyal friend. The sort of young man you'd trust with responsibility. Whose character, until now, has never been in question.”
He paces far enough to meet each juror’s eyes, as if inviting them into a private conversation.
“Now,” he says, softening his tone almost to conspiratorial warmth, “we’ve all heard the term misunderstanding. A word that doesn’t diminish harm but recognizes that interpretation and memory are slippery things. Especially when emotion is involved.”
He angles his head just enough to send a look my way. He used to do this when we were together, but the intention back then was entirely different.
“You’ll hear testimony about recollection. You’ll hear phrases like unclear, unreliable, difficult to pinpoint. But context, timing, and intention matters.”
A beat passes. Just long enough to let the implication settle.
“And I can’t help but notice how quickly this case made headlines. Sometimes public interest can create pressure to prosecute, to push forward, to paint a narrative. But your job isn’t to follow a narrative. Your job is to follow the facts.”
It isn’t an accusation. It’s a seed. A poisonous one.
A few jurors glance in my direction for a heartbeat.
“That’s not justice. It’s performance. And performance should never be mistaken for truth.”
He returns to his seat with a final, slow exhale.
I keep my expression smooth as stone. Because you don’t win this fight in the opening. It’s won in the evidence.
The clerk calls the first witness, friend of the victim. She walks to the stand with careful steps, hands clasped in front of her.
The bailiff administers the oath. She raises her right hand, voice steady but soft.
I step forward.
“Please state your full name for the record.”
“Mikayla Ann Carter,” she says.
“Ms. Carter, were you present at the gathering on April fourteenth?”
“Yes.”
I nod, pacing with purpose. “Can you describe for the jury what you observed that evening, especially regarding Emily Westbrook’s condition?”
Mikayla looks toward the jury and back at me. “Emily was fine when we first arrived. Her normal self. We talked with some friends, and she had a glass of wine. She was laughing, just like everyone else.”
“What kind of change did you notice in her behavior?”
Mikayla’s brow draws together, as if replaying the moment in her mind. “After a while… she seemed different. Way more than tipsy. She was slurring words and unsteady on her feet after only that one drink. At one point she needed help to get from one place to another.”
There’s a brief pause, long enough for the jury to absorb it.
“Did you see Ms. Westbrook have anything else to drink that night?”
“No,” Mikayla says. “She had only one glass of wine. That’s all Emily ever has. More than that gives her a headache the next day.”
I give her an assuring nod. “Thank you, Ms. Carter. No further questions.”
I step back to my seat.
Jon David rises with unhurried grace, one hand adjusting his jacket button.
“Ms. Carter, you mentioned having a drink yourself that night?”
“Yes.”
His smile is faint. “Only one?”
She hesitates. “Two, maybe three.”
“Two, maybe three.” He lets the words linger a moment. “Wine?”
“Yes.”
“The same wine as Ms. Westbrook?”
“Yes.”
He nods as if that confirms something only he can see. “And a lot of people attended the party?”
“Yes.”
“People coming and going, glasses moving around?”
“I guess.”
He pauses, gazing at her for a beat. “Would it be fair to say it wasn’t easy to keep track of every detail?”
Mikayla shifts in her seat. “I was watching her.”
“But not her glass, correct?”
“No, not the whole time.”
“So it’s possible that someone else could’ve handed her another drink? Or she could’ve picked one up without you noticing?”
“I don’t think she did.”
“But you can’t say for certain. Yes or no?”
Mikayla hesitates. “No.”
Jon David offers a sympathetic nod. “And you mentioned she seemed off. Do you remember the exact moment that started?”
“Not the exact moment.”
“Just a general impression?”
“Yes.”
He paces a single step. “And you were drinking too. So it’s fair to say the night was a little… blurry? Hazy in parts?”
“Not blurry,” Mikayla insists, but her voice has thinned. “Some of it, maybe.”
Jon David doesn’t push the word again. He lets it hang in the jury’s mind, quiet and poisonous.
“No further questions,” he says, returning to his seat.
I call the next friend, Jenna Blaylock. The way she twists her hands in her lap betrays her nerves.
“Ms. Blaylock, you also attended the gathering on April fourteenth?”
“Yes.”
“And did you arrive with Ms. Westbrook?”
“We met at the party. I got there a few minutes after she did.”
“And what did you note about her condition that night?”
“She was fine when I got there. She was standing with a group of friends. We talked for a bit. She joked about how she was nursing her one glass of wine.”
I nod. “And did her behavior change?”
“Yeah. Pretty quickly, actually. Maybe twenty or thirty minutes in, she started acting… off. At first it seemed like she was tipsy, swaying a little, slower to respond. But it wasn’t only that. Something was wrong.”
“Can you describe what you mean by off and wrong?”
“She wasn’t tracking conversations. She kept blinking as if the lights were too bright. And when she tried to walk, she stumbled. I had to help her.”
“Did she say anything about how she was feeling?”
“Yes. She said she was dizzy. Kept saying she felt weird and needed to lie down.”
I let a beat pass before nodding once. “Was that typical for her?”
“Not at all,” Jenna says. “One glass of wine wouldn’t hit her like that.”
I meet her gaze. “Thank you, Ms. Blaylock. No further questions.”
I return to my seat.
Jon David rises. He moves with that same unbothered rhythm. Easy. Confident. Familiar.
“Ms. Blaylock,” he begins, tone cordial, “you and the victim are friends?”
“Yes.”
“Close?”
“Yes.”
He offers a sympathetic smile. “That can make things complicated, can’t it? Watching a friend go through something painful?”
Jenna’s posture stiffens. “It’s awful.”
“Of course,” he says. “But memory can be tricky when emotions are running high.”
“I remember what I saw.”
“I’m sure you do. But you testified she seemed off about twenty to thirty minutes after you arrived. You didn’t check the time?”
“No.”
“So your estimate is based upon a guess?”
Jenna nods. “I suppose so.”
“And the party was active. Crowded. People moving around. Music playing?”
“Yes.”
He cocks his head. “Would it be fair to say the environment was… distracting?”
“It was a party.”