Chapter 32 #2
“So there were things you could have missed?”
“I was paying attention to her.”
“But not the entire night. Not every second.”
“No,” Jenna says. “Not every second.”
“And when she said she was dizzy or tired—did you hear those exact words? Or is that how you interpreted her behavior?”
Jenna hesitates. “She used the word dizzy. She didn’t say tired out loud, I don’t think. But she looked it.”
“Right. So that part was your interpretation.”
“I know what I saw,” she says, a little harder now.
Jon David gives a soft, understanding nod. “I’m sure you believe that. But even honest memories can shift over time, especially when we want to protect someone we care about.”
He pauses for a moment. “No further questions.”
He returns to his seat. His silence afterward is louder than the words. I watch him, jaw set. He’s not attacking directly. Not yet. Just pulling threads. Enough to make the jury doubt the certainty they should have for a conviction.
And it could be working.
For now.
The bailiff calls my next witness.
A man in his fifties rises. He walks with the quiet assurance of someone used to being listened to. His posture is straight, his expression focused. When he reaches the stand, he adjusts the microphone with practiced ease.
I step forward. “Please state your name for the record.”
“Dr. Joseph Emerson.”
“And your profession?”
“I’m a board-certified medical toxicologist with twenty-three years of clinical and forensic experience. I’m the director of the toxicology department at Tulane University Hospital.”
The jury’s focus tightens. A man like this—experienced and composed—makes them sit up and listen.
“Dr. Emerson,” I say, “did you review the toxicology report for Emily Westbrook following the incident on April fourteenth?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And what did your analysis reveal?”
He adjusts his glasses. “The blood alcohol concentration was measured at 0.03 percent.”
“Can you explain what that means?”
“For an adult of Ms. Westbrook’s weight, that level is consistent with approximately one standard drink. However, the screening also identified the presence of flunitrazepam.”
I take a deliberate step closer to the jury. “And what is flunitrazepam more commonly known as?”
He glances toward them. “Rohypnol. It’s a benzodiazepine sometimes referred to in the media and clinical literature as a date-rape drug.”
The jurors react in small ways—straightening and exchanging brief glances.
“Doctor, what effects does Rohypnol have on a person?”
“It is a potent sedative-hypnotic. It causes significant central nervous system depression. Effects include dizziness, confusion, impaired motor function, slurred speech, and short-term memory impairment. At a sufficient dosage, it can render a person incapacitated.”
“And based on your review of Ms. Westbrook’s blood sample, would the symptoms described by eyewitnesses—loss of balance, confusion, fatigue—be consistent with the effects of flunitrazepam?”
“Absolutely,” he says.
I hold the jury’s gaze for a moment before asking the critical legal question.
“And in your professional opinion, could someone exhibiting the symptoms you describe—confusion, impaired motor function, incapacity to maintain balance—be capable of giving consent to sexual activity?”
“No. At that level of sedation and impairment, the individual would lack the cognitive and physical capacity necessary for valid consent.”
I pause, letting the weight of the answer settle in the air.
“Thank you, Dr. Emerson. No further questions.”
Jon David approaches the witness stand with the ease of someone accustomed to commanding a room.
“Dr. Emerson, you’ve testified to years of experience in toxicology. We’re fortunate to have that expertise here.”
Suck up all you like, JD. Facts don’t bend.
“You would agree that the effects of flunitrazepam can vary based on individual factors?”
“Yes,” Emerson says. “As with many substances, the effects can depend on the amount ingested, as well as factors like metabolism, body weight, tolerance, and whether other substances are present in the system.”
Jon David nods, turning so the jury can see him. “So, a person who ingests flunitrazepam might experience marked impairment… or, sometimes, mild effects such as drowsiness?”
“In theory, yes, dependent on dosage and individual factors,” Dr. Emerson says. “However, significant impairment is a documented outcome.”
Jon David’s voice stays steady, almost conversational. “And flunitrazepam, in addition to its pharmacological effects, can be administered in different contexts, correct? There are controlled uses for certain patients under supervision?”
Dr. Emerson hesitates before answering. “In some countries, yes. But in the United States, its clinical use is limited.”
Jon David leans on the railing. “Can someone take it voluntarily without someone else’s involvement.”
Dr. Emerson exhales. “Well yes. Like any other medication, it can be ingested voluntarily if a person chooses to take it.”
Really? This is the angle he’s choosing? She drugged herself?
Jon David lets that settle for a moment before delivering his closing line, aimed at the jury’s sense of uncertainty.
“Thank you for your clarification. No further questions.”
He walks back to his seat, and I catch it. A flicker in the jury box. Unease. Not much, just a shift in posture, a glance exchanged. But it’s there.
They heard the science. They understand what Dr. Emerson laid out. But they also heard the seed Jon David tried to plant, subtle as arsenic.
The bailiff calls my next witness, and the jury straightens again.
Stephen Roberts enters the courtroom, a man in his early forties, navy suit, close-cropped hair, calm as a surgeon. He steps into the witness box, adjusts the mic, glances once at the jury, then at me.
“Please state your name and occupation for the record.”
“Stephen Roberts, senior digital forensics investigator with the Louisiana State Police Cybercrime Unit.”
Across the aisle, Jon David shifts. Not much, but I see the sharpening in his eyes.
“Mr. Roberts, were you assigned to examine the contents of a phone recovered during the investigation in this case?”
“Yes, ma’am. The phone was surrendered by a member of the fraternity.”
“And were you able to recover deleted content from that device?”
“Yes. Several files, including a video file timestamped the night of April fourteenth.”
A soft movement cuts through the gallery, a low rustle. The room breathes differently now.
“What steps did you take to verify the file’s authenticity?”
“We performed standard forensic protocol. Created a bit-for-bit image of the device, verified hash values before and after extraction, and conducted an integrity check. The metadata is intact with no evidence of tampering.”
I nod once.
“Your Honor, the prosecution moves to admit the video file into evidence as Exhibit 12 and requests permission to play it for the jury.”
The judge glances down, reviews the document briefly, and nods, admitting Exhibit 12. “You may proceed.”
The clerk dims the lights just enough to draw the room’s focus. My pulse ticks a steady, lethal rhythm as the screen flares to life.
The camera captures every second—the laughter, the voices, the casual cruelty of it.
On the monitor, Emily Westbrook is unconscious, unmoving. Her limbs are slack, and her head lolls to the side. Her dress is askew and disordered, the fabric bunched in ways no sober, coherent person would ever be.
The men in the room treat her like an object, an accessory to their amusement. They laugh and joke.
One voice says, “Bro, she’s out cold.”
A second says, “Dude, she’s not even blinking.”
And then Evan is there—smirking, hands on her hips, guiding her body. No concern or question of her well-being.
Their voices echo, casual and carefree. Like they don’t know they’re being watched, like they’re capturing a moment to keep—not evidence of a crime.
Then the frame holds just long enough for every person in that room to see exactly what he does to her.
And then—cuts to black.
Silence falls like a gavel. For a heartbeat, there is nothing but stillness.
A woman in the jury box wipes her eyes. Another juror presses his hand to his forehead, jaw clenched. A third juror stares straight ahead, expression blank, gone somewhere else.
No one talks, no one laughs, and no one looks at Evan.
Not now. Not after that.
“For the record, the victim is unresponsive. Incapacitated to the point of being unaware of her surroundings. There is no sign of consent. There is sexual intercourse while she could not respond or say no.”
I sit without glancing at Jon David.
Across the aisle, Evan’s expression is tight. No smirk this time, just thin, brittle stillness.
Jon David rises, face neutral, but I can see the calculation behind his eyes. Trying to assess the damage. Looking for any crack to exploit.
But the room has changed. The jury didn’t just see what happened. They felt it. And for the first time in this trial, the air is heavier with truth than doubt.
Jon David approaches the stand with a calm that reads more calculated than courteous.
“Mr. Roberts, just to confirm—you reviewed the metadata. Date, timestamp, duration of the file?”
“I did.”
“And you’re confident the video is authentic? Unaltered?”
“Yes.”
Jon David nods and turns toward the jury, his voice dipping into a quieter register.
“But you can’t tell us anything about what happened before the camera started recording.”
“No, sir.”
“You weren’t there. You don’t know what they said, whether there was any understanding between the parties.”
Roberts holds steady. “Correct. I verified the digital integrity of the file.”
“And you can’t speak to whether the events captured were part of a consensual encounter, however unconventional it may appear.”
My spine becomes rigid.
“Objection,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Speculative.”
The judge eyes Jon David. “Rephrase.”
He shifts, not missing a beat.
“Mr. Roberts, do you have any forensic evidence—any digital footprint—that confirms consent was not given prior to what’s seen in the video?”
“No, sir. There’s no record of that kind.”
“So you can’t rule it out either.”
“No. I can’t confirm or deny it.”
Jon David nods as if he’s just asking the obvious. Like this line of questioning is neutral. But I know exactly what he’s doing.
“No further questions.”
He turns and walks back to his seat, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. Because he didn’t need to prove anything.
Just plant the doubt.