The Verdict (Sweet Valley High Book 97) Read online

  THE VERDICT

  Written by

  Kate William

  Created by

  FRANCINE PASCAL

  Copyright © 2015, Francine Pascal

  Elizabeth entered the courtroom. With relief, she sank into a seat next to her father at a long, narrow table in front.

  Mr. Wakefield approached the bench, as did the district attorney who was arguing the case against her. Elizabeth watched the judge and the two lawyers converse in low tones. It's like a made-for-TV movie, she thought, feeling dazed and helpless. It's a movie and I've been assigned a part, but I don't have a script. I don't know anyone's lines. I don't know what's going to happen.

  Judge Baird struck her desk with a gavel. The sound echoed ominously throughout the courtroom; Elizabeth's heart jumped. Instantly, an expectant hush fell over the audience. "Court is now in session," the judge pronounced. Elizabeth closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself. This is it. . . .

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Preview: Love, Lies, and Jessica Wakefield

  Chapter 1

  "OK, Elizabeth. Take a deep breath and try to relax."

  Elizabeth Wakefield did as she was told even though she knew it wouldn't help. Her stomach was tied in knots and every muscle in her body was tense. How can I relax when the day after tomorrow I stand trial for manslaughter? she wondered, her blue-green eyes wide and blank as she stared at her attorney, who also happened to be her father.

  She gulped in some air and lifted her golden-blond ponytail off her neck. "That's good," Mr. Wakefield said. He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, then resumed pacing nervously in front of the sofa. "You know what I have to do in order to mount an effective defense on Tuesday," he began, keeping his voice low and soothing. "You know what you have to do. We need to piece together the complete story of what happened the night of the Jungle Prom."

  Elizabeth nodded, the knots in her stomach tightening painfully. "I know," she whispered and took another deep, shaky breath. I do need to remember, she told herself. If I don't want to be locked up in a juvenile home for months or even years, I have to remember!

  "OK, then. Let's try again. Tell me what you remember," her father urged. "Start at the beginning. Take your time."

  Tell me what you remember. . . . The words echoed in Elizabeth's brain. She'd heard them so many times before; so many people had used the exact-same words! The officers at the Sweet Valley police station after the accident, her parents, her older brother, Steven, the defense attorney her family had hired and then fired when he recommended that she plead guilty to the charges brought against her. "What happened that night?" they'd asked, over and over and over until she wanted to scream. "Tell me what you remember."

  "You were with Sam at the prom," Mr. Wakefield prompted his daughter.

  Elizabeth bit her lip. No, I was with Todd, she thought. But she had danced with Sam Woodruff, her twin sister's boyfriend, while Todd Wilkins, her own boyfriend, was off being crowned Prom King.

  "Sam and I were dancing," Elizabeth said aloud. "I remember that. . . ."

  "Good. And then you left the dance together," Mr. Wakefield continued. "Jessica and Todd both saw you go. You and Sam went to the parking lot and got into the Jeep. Do you remember that?"

  Elizabeth knew it must have happened the way her father described it. She and Sam must have gotten into the Jeep, and then she must have driven out of the parking lot and down the road. But she couldn't remember actually doing those things; it was always at this point that her memory grew fuzzy and dim.

  She shook her head. "No. I . . . I don't remember that part."

  Mr. Wakefield raked a hand through his dark hair. "You've got to remember something, Liz," he pressed, struggling to contain his frustration. "Can you remember when you and Sam started drinking? Or what caused you to drive off the road? Was there another car involved? Think, honey. Think hard. You've got to help me help you"

  Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, trying desperately to conjure up a picture of what had transpired that fateful night. In her mind's eye, she saw flashing lights and blood and shattered glass and crumpled metal. She heard the wail of sirens. But only because she knew what the scene must have been like. She couldn't remember it, but she could imagine it—too clearly.

  "I can't," Elizabeth whispered, curling her hands into tight fists. "I just can't."

  It was the truth. The last thing Elizabeth remembered with any distinctness was dancing with Sam at the Jungle Prom. She'd danced with happy abandon because she'd decided to drop out of the running for Prom Queen, letting Jessica win the crown and the trip to Brazil that both sisters had coveted and fought over. It had definitely been their worst battle ever, but out on the dance floor Elizabeth's reasons for wanting the Prom Queen title had simply fallen away. "I don't need to compete with Jessica," she remembered saying to Sam. "I like myself just the way I am."

  Her decision had just felt right. She and Jessica, while identical in looks, had very different priorities. Jessica was her happiest when at the center of attention, and Elizabeth was more of a behind-the-scenes kind of person. "I organized a great prom, but Jessica was born to be Prom Queen." Laughing, Sam had hugged her. He'd been a good friend to her, and she knew he'd loved Jessica dearly. And Jessica had loved him, too, so much.

  But she could only recall the dancing—Elizabeth didn't even remember leaving the prom with her sister's boyfriend, let alone driving away with him. And she couldn't remember losing control of the Jeep. Had she screamed? Had Sam? Had he died instantly, or had he suffered?

  Tears flooded Elizabeth's eyes. "I don't know how we got drunk, Dad, honest. I only remember the dance. I don't remember a single thing about the . . . the accident." She choked back an anguished sob. "I'm sorry. I'm just so sorry."

  For a moment, her father hung his head, his jaw clenched. Elizabeth knew that he, too, was struggling with frustration and despair.

  But Ned Wakefield wasn't going to give up. Lifting his eyes, he strode across the room to sit beside her. "We'll win this thing, Liz," he vowed, taking her hands in his. "If it's the last thing I do, I'll get you acquitted. I promise you."

  Elizabeth nodded, but in her heart she felt hopeless. Was there really anything anyone, even her devoted father, could do for her?

  Elizabeth's eyes flickered across the room as a shadow momentarily darkened the door to the hallway. She caught a brief glimpse of a slim, blond girl—her own mirror image—as Jessica passed by on her way to the staircase. Jessica didn't pause; she didn't even glance into the room.

  Elizabeth wanted to run after her, but she knew it wouldn't do any good. It's too late, she thought, and she turned her head so her father wouldn't see the tear rolling down her cheek. What is done cannot be undone. She had killed her sister's boyfriend. Jessica hated her for it, and would never forgive her. As for Todd . . . Another hot tear spilled from Elizabeth's eye. She'd lost him, too.

  I don't blame them for hating me. I'm poison. Evil. I killed Sam, and I've torn my family apart.

  Her own life, which had once seemed so perfect, was now completely shattered. Pretty, popular, talented Elizabeth Wakefield's world in the picture-perfect town of Sweet Valley, California, had turned into a living nightmare.

  Todd tapped the brakes of the black BMW, slowing as he coasted into the dimly lit pa
rking lot by the beach. As he pulled in, Todd saw that it was nearly deserted; there was only one other car parked at the far end. He recognized the car—she'd been driving her mother's since the Jeep got wrecked.

  Killing the engine, Todd climbed out of the BMW and walked with slow, purposeful strides across the parking lot. As he drew closer to the other car, the driver's side door opened and a girl in a leather jacket stepped out.

  For a moment, he could almost pretend. They looked so much alike. . . . She was five foot six and slender. The same breeze that stirred the grass on the dunes made her pale blond hair dance around her shoulders; in the moonlight, her blue-green eyes glimmered like jewels. As Todd approached, she smiled in shy welcome, a tiny dimple creasing her left cheek. Elizabeth, Todd thought, a hopeless longing filling his heart.

  But it wasn't Elizabeth.

  Todd took her hands in his and pulled her close, wrapping her in a protective embrace. "Hi, Jess," he murmured into her silky, blond hair.

  Later that night, Jessica lay on her bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and stirred the curtains at the open window. Other than that the night was quiet. . . dead quiet.

  She rolled over, staring now at the illuminated numerals of the clock radio on her bedside table. Two o'clock in the morning. Will I ever fall asleep? Jessica wondered drearily. Every night it was the same. She tossed and turned for hours, and when she finally did doze off, it was even worse than staying awake. In her sleep the nightmares came—nightmares about the Jungle Prom and the Prom Queen's crown and the crash and the funeral, about Sam and Elizabeth and Todd . . .

  Sam . . .

  She turned over once more, threw back her covers, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I might as well get up," she mumbled to herself, slipping her arms into the sleeves of her terrycloth robe. "I'm going to be a zombie at school tomorrow, anyway."

  She padded out into the shadowy hallway. Elizabeth's bedroom door was closed and so was her parents'. All was dark and still.

  Downstairs, however, Jessica spied a glimmer of light coming from the kitchen. She found her mother sitting at the kitchen table, a needle and thread in her hand. "Hello, Jessica," Alice Wakefield greeted her daughter.

  "Can't sleep either, huh, Mom?" Jessica asked sympathetically.

  "Oh, no, I'm fine," Mrs. Wakefield said, bright and casual, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be sitting at the kitchen table in the middle of the night. She held up a dress shirt of her husband's that was missing a button. "I just wanted to take care of this mending."

  Jessica raised her eyebrows. "At two A.M.?"

  "There's no time like the present," Mrs. Wakefield chirped.

  With a shiver, Jessica turned toward the cupboard and reached for a glass. She couldn't stand to watch her mother cheerfully threading her needle, looking and acting like some kind of crazy lady.

  She's not crazy, Jessica told herself firmly as she poured some orange juice. She's just. . . upset. But Jessica knew it was more than that. Her mother was barely holding herself together these days, and with Elizabeth's trial only a day away . . . What if it pushed her right over the edge?

  Jessica glanced quickly over her shoulder at her mother, guilt piercing her heart. She knew that if she made up with Elizabeth, it would make both of her parents feel better, more optimistic. She knew how much her anger, her refusal to even speak to Elizabeth much less support and comfort her, upset them. And they didn't even know about Todd. . . . Jessica herself wondered how much her attitude toward her sister contributed to the fact that Elizabeth couldn't even get herself together enough to go to school. If I could just make a token effort, for them. . . . Couldn't I do that?

  For a moment, Jessica seriously considered the possibility. Then her eyes narrowed and her heart grew hard. For her mother's pain, she had nothing but pity. But when she thought about Elizabeth, about what Elizabeth had done . . .

  I can't forgive her, Jessica thought firmly. She took Sam away from me. She killed him. Nothing, nothing, nothing can ever make up for that!

  She sipped her juice, spilling some of it because her hand was shaking. Elizabeth was guilty—it was that simple. She was going to be put on trial and the judge would find her guilty, and as awful as that was for their whole family, it was the only conceivable outcome . . . the only fair outcome. Wasn't it?

  For a split second, a tiny measure of doubt flickered through Jessica's mind. Against her will, she envisioned herself at the prom. She remembered the boy from Big Mesa, Sweet Valley High's archrival school, sloshing a generous portion of alcohol into a paper cup. She remembered carrying the cup over to where Elizabeth had set her cup down, and pouring the alcohol into Elizabeth's punch. . . .

  With an effort, Jessica pushed the memory from her consciousness. It's not my fault. Elizabeth's the one who got in the Jeep with Sam even though she was too drunk to drive. She crashed. She killed him. Not me.

  "I was talking to your father before he went to bed," Mrs. Wakefield said conversationally. Jessica looked up with a start. "About Elizabeth's defense, and he thinks it would help if you—"

  Jessica felt her face flush with anger. "No," she broke in before her mother could finish.

  Mrs. Wakefield seemed to shrink back in her chair. "But, Jessica, if you would only—"

  "I said no!" Jessica cried, her voice loud and harsh in the quiet house. "I can't and I won't help, Mom. I won't help her. And that's final!"

  Slamming her glass down on the counter, Jessica bolted from the brightly lit kitchen into the dark hallway, leaving her mother behind.

  The sun was just peeking over the edge of the horizon as the bus pulled off the highway into a small midwestern town. At the back of the bus, a teenaged girl sat slumped in her seat, her drowsy gray eyes turned toward the half-open window.

  Main Street, U.S.A., Margo thought with a disdainful yawn as she watched the tidy green lawns and white picket fences give way to a row of neat storefronts. What a snore. Thank God I don't have to live in a dump like this.

  No, she wasn't going to settle for some hick town in the middle of nowhere. She wasn't getting off this bus until it reached the end of the line. She was riding it all the way, all the way across the country to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, to paradise—to Los Angeles, and from there to Sweet Valley, California.

  "Sweet Valley," Margo murmured out loud. The words tasted good in her mouth. It just had to be a beautiful town, sweet and beautiful, full of sweet and beautiful people—nothing like the dreary, dead-end places she'd lived before. And once I get there, I'll be sweet and beautiful, too, Margo thought dreamily. I'll start my life over, and this time I'll be perfect, just like her. . . .

  She reached next to her for her shoulder bag, which she'd put on the empty seat in order to discourage anyone from sitting there. Pulling the bag onto her lap, she hugged it possessively. It held all her treasures, all she'd managed to acquire since she'd left Long Island after the fire. The antique jewelry she'd stolen from Mrs. Smith's safe, which she couldn't wait to pawn in California; a wad of cash from the old lady's purse from the bus station back in Cleveland; and the picture she'd torn from the same old lady's newspaper.

  The picture . . .

  Carefully, Margo removed the black-and-white newspaper photo from her wallet. The caption was torn off, as was the accompanying story. All that was left were the face and the name.

  But the face and the name were enough. They were perfect—she was perfect. Elizabeth Wakefield, Margo mused. Elizabeth Wakefield of Sweet Valley, California. A smile played on Margo's lips, a smile identical to that of the girl in the photograph. This is the only difference between us, Elizabeth Wakefield, Margo thought, twining a strand of her dark hair around her finger. Yours is blond and mine is black. The tiny dimple in Margo's left cheek deepened. The only difference. And soon . . .

  With a slow screech of brakes, the bus rumbled to a stop in front of a depot on the edge of town.
The driver stepped out to load some luggage, then reboarded along with three new passengers. Before Margo could again cover up the seat next to her, an elderly man settled into it.

  The bus lurched forward in a cloud of dust and exhaust. Margo shifted in her seat, turning her back to the old man and curling her body around her shoulder bag. Soon they were back on the highway, and as the bus picked up speed, she looked out the window at the farmland. In the warm, gentle light of dawn, the fields looked lush and green. But there were so many of them, and the land was so flat. Cornfield, cornfield, cornfield, Margo counted silently. How ugly. How monotonous.

  "Beautiful mornin'," remarked the old man next to her.

  Margo glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was sitting erect, his hands folded neatly on top of the cane that was propped between his bony knees, a brown paper bag resting on his lap. "Hmm," she mumbled, her tone anything but friendly.

  "Yep, it's a good year for growin' things," the man continued, cheerfully oblivious to her scowl. "The corn is as high as an elephant's eye," he chuckled. "You from around here?" he asked Margo.

  No, thank God, Margo felt like blurting out. So, shut up and leave me alone, you dried-up old fool!

  But she caught herself before the harsh words could escape her lips. Be careful—be very, very careful, she counseled herself. It wouldn't do to draw attention to herself, to provoke suspicion. She had to stay in control. If she didn't, someone might take a closer look at her. Someone might retrace her steps, back to the bus station and the old woman, strangled with her own scarf; back to the lake in Ohio and little Georgie Smith's drowned body; back to the looted safe in the Smiths' home; all the way back, even, to Long Island and the fire that had started mysteriously and consumed Margo's old foster home and the body of a small girl, her little foster sister Nina. . . .

  "No," Margo said out loud, her voice softer. "I'm not from around here. I'm from. . ." Not New York. Not Ohio. "From Pennsylvania."

  "And where are you going, er . . . ?"