Spencer’s heart dropped like a stone.
The DA turned off the TV. “I will describe to you exactly what these girls did to Alison, which includes beating her to the point of knocking out her teeth and slicing her up so that she bled profusely. These were girls whose lives were on the rise. And yet, that wasn’t enough. What they wanted, what they craved, was getting Alison out of their lives once and for all.” He looked around at the courtroom with a triumphant and righteous smile. “Yes, we should be sympathetic that these girls had some near misses with Nicholas Maxwell. But we should blame the person who deserves it—Maxwell, not Alison. The girls should have listened to her pleas that she was innocent. But they are here because they didn’t, and it is up to you to make the right decision to convict them for their heinous, violent crime.”
He ended with a flourish of his hands. Spencer almost thought he was going to take a bow. She turned to her lawyer, horrified. “None of that is even true!” she whispered. “Can’t you, like, object or something?”
“Not during opening statements,” Rubens said through his teeth.
Then it was Rubens’s turn. He strode to the front of the courtroom, and then made his way to the jury box, smiling at them sheepishly. “Mr. Reginald paints a pretty picture,” he began. “And maybe it’s true. Some of it, anyway. Maybe Nicholas Maxwell coerced Alison. Maybe she isn’t guilty of as much as we think. But that’s not what the case is about. This case is about whether or not four girls murdered Miss DiLaurentis. And I’m here to tell you that they did not.”
There was a long pause. The jury shifted.
Rubens took a breath. “It’s not even clear, in fact, that Alison is dead.” The DA let out a guffaw. “Yes, some of her blood was found. And there is certain evidence that puts my clients in the same place where a murder may have occurred, though I certainly have theories about others who might have wanted Alison DiLaurentis gone and could have pulled off such a thing. However, we don’t even know if a murder did occur, and that her body is missing leaves a huge gap in this case. Mr. Reginald has told us one way to look at this story, and I will tell you another: These girls were set up by the very girl who we think is dead. She spilled her own blood. She pulled her own tooth. She cleaned up the mess with bleach, making it look like the girls were responsible. She faked her death and framed the girls because it was her perfect escape—for all we know, she is out there somewhere, enjoying her life, while my clients are on trial for their lives.”
Spencer’s heart thudded. So he was using their theory. She checked out the jury’s expressions. Most of them looked perplexed. The young woman Spencer had focused on earlier looked downright disgusted.
Rubens came to a stop by the judge. “I’m here to describe to you how that might have happened. And like Mr. Reginald said, it’s up to you to make the right call on what went on that night.”
There was a lot of shuffling and whispering. Spencer was dying to see Mr. DiLaurentis’s expression, but she was far too scared to turn around. Finally, the judge cleared his throat. “We’ll adjourn for an hour and then call the first witnesses,” the judge ordered. Then he stood and marched into his chambers.
Everyone else in the courtroom rose and filed out. Only Spencer remained seated, staring at her feet. She felt even more doomed than before. After a moment, she looked up and saw Hanna staring at her. “And so it begins,” her friend said softly.
“Yeah,” Spencer answered.
She wanted to reach out and touch Hanna. But she also felt so awkward . . . and drained . . . and totally not in the right headspace to make amends. So she stood abruptly from the seat and pivoted toward the center aisle. And just like that, even though she knew deep down she really needed Hanna, she walked off to seek a private refuge where she could process everything alone.
13
HOW TO PLAN A WEDDING IN FIVE DAYS
Hanna and Mike sat on the couch in Hanna’s living room, Hanna’s miniature pinscher, Dot, snuggling in Hanna’s lap. A woman named Ramona, who had angularly cut, ice-blond hair, harsh gray eyes, and high cheekbones, and was wearing a Chanel suit and very expensive-looking five-inch snakeskin heels, sat opposite them, a large binder on her lap. “Are you telling me,” she said in an intimidating voice, “that you want me to pull together an unforgettable wedding by the end of the week?”
Hanna swallowed hard. Maybe calling Ramona, who was supposed to be the best wedding planner in the business—she’d apparently arranged a ton of starlets’ nuptials all over the country—was a crazy idea. So, probably, was asking that she have it at Chanticleer, her favorite mansion on the Main Line. “I realize weddings normally take a while to plan,” she said meekly. “Is there anything you can do for us?”
“Oh, I can do anything you want,” Ramona said haughtily. “I’ve planned weddings with far less time. It just means we have to start now.”
Then she looked at Fidel, her gaunt, ponytailed, effeminate assistant who’d trailed in timidly behind her. He was twitching in the shadows, taking notes on an iPad. “Bring in the samples!” she boomed. Fidel skittered out the front door.
Hanna squeezed Mike’s hand. They were doing it. Really getting married. Sure, the wedding plans were a bit overshadowed by everything else going on, but Hanna was happy to have something good in her life to take her mind off all that, at least for a little while.
There was a swift knock on the door. Dot sprang up and started barking. “Entrée, you fool!” Ramona bellowed, and Fidel burst into the foyer pushing a wheeled clothes rack with one arm and balancing several white bakery boxes in another.