I shake mine back. “Guilty as charged, Counselor. I was gruesome.”
“Can we please focus on Billy?” Nate snaps. “He’s the reason we’re here, right?”
My brother is famished, which is clear from the way he rips open the plastic Saltine packets on the table with his teeth and devours the crackers, one by one.
I text him under the table: Sit up. Be nice. Act human. No joke.
His eyes shift from his phone to DeFiore. His face softens, tone shifts. “So, Peter,” he says amiably. “Tell us about Billy. Is he okay? We’re very concerned.”
*
Nate’s life’s ambition is to surf the Banzai Pipeline in Hawaii, where the waves run a hundred feet high. He loves the beach. He used to love sports, but then he went to boarding school. Now, he drinks a lot. He snorts cocaine, takes ecstasy, and smokes a ton of weed. He tries to cut back, though not very hard. If please, allow me is Lawrence’s personal brand, not trying hard is Nate’s. At Columbia, he had a negative GPA for two semesters. He transferred to Reed, then SUNY Binghamton, but gave up in the end. He has a similar job history. Nate’s longest stretch of employment was six months, including the time he tried, and failed, to intern for Lawrence. Our plan to join the foundation was predicated on me doing all the work, so when I took off, he didn’t see the point. One of the husbands in Eleanor’s set got Nate the position at Bessemer, and when he eventually quits, someone else’s husband will find him some other job at some other company. Or Lawrence will rehire him. Or he’ll go back to rehab. Or something. Nate doesn’t need a job because he needs the money; he needs a job because he needs a life. But he’s unwilling to feign interest in a phony career simply to fill up his days. So, he’s left with no purpose and nowhere to go. Other than surfing, Billy’s case is the first thing I’ve seen him get emotional about since he discovered Hawkins Cove, our childhood hangout in Southampton, when he was eight years old.
I can’t tell from DeFiore’s expression how much he knows about my brother, though I’m sure the Bowtie offered a preview. The Bowtie’s not a fan of Nate’s either. But he’s keen on Billy because Billy is Eleanor’s favorite.
“Incarceration is a shock,” DeFiore is saying. “But Billy’s holding his own. He isn’t bothering anyone. More important, no one’s bothering him. Which is good since he’s not getting out until he sees a judge. Apparently, he thought he’d be released today. That is not happening.”
“But Billy is innocent,” Lawrence says, looking stricken. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem?” Cocking his head, the lawyer gazes at Lawrence. “That’s not how things work, Lar. There’s a justice system. We have to act within its confines. Innocent boys go to prison every day—even white ones.”
“I realize that, Peter. Of course, I do. But I’m hoping we could, I don’t know, circumvent the . . . move things a bit faster. My wife is—”
He’s interrupted by the waitress, who sets down our food and asks if we need anything else. No, we tell her; all good. “Let me know!” Her eyes linger on Nate for a moment before she rushes off.
“We can’t circumvent anything,” DeFiore tells Lawrence. “The process is the same for everyone—slow and painful. In the morning, Billy will be transferred to the courthouse. He’ll appear before the judge. The DA will do his thing. We’ll do ours. Ten, fifteen minutes, tops.” He sits back. “So, as we discussed, I still have a lot to review but it’s unlikely I’ll recommend a trial—”
“This just happened, Peter,” Nate says. “How can you know what you’ll recommend?”
“Regrettably, Nate, your brother got himself in a shitty spot. In he-said/she-said situations, everyone’s a little bit innocent and little bit guilty. Lawyers hate these cases, especially in New Jersey, because plaintiffs have an advantage here. Plus, Mercer County is a political minefield.”
“What do you mean?” my brother asks, a challenge in his tone. Like Lawrence, he wants DeFiore to cut to the chase and set Billy free.
“Several years ago, the previous DA, a guy named Jameson Halliday, was charged with assaulting three female paralegals. This was right after Harvey Weinstein exploded, so his case got a lot of ink. On one side you had Halliday, an older man who wielded enormous power. On the other, you had a large contingent of vocal women with very real grievances.”
“Whose side were you on?” I ask.
“Great question, Cassie. I’ll plead the Fifth. Halliday was a manipulative asshole with a long, dirty history. But it was a hard case to prosecute. The evidence was weak. Two of the women made lousy witnesses. They ended up settling. It was the right call, but Halliday got off easy. Though he resigned and paid a hefty fine, he didn’t have to admit guilt or give up his pension. Everyone left the table unsatisfied.”
I snort. “But why would this one case—”
“The next DA comes in and cleans up. Doubles down on victim’s rights, reinstates rape shield protections, implements new sensitivity programs, et cetera. Now plaintiffs have an advantage here unlike any other county in the Tri-State area, maybe the whole East Coast.”
“And? What does this have to do with Billy?” Nate asks.
“The new DA, the one who will be prosecuting your brother, is Brad Anderson. He has a personal stake in this case.” DeFiore pauses. “His wife’s sister was Halliday’s accuser number one. Halliday retired to Boca Raton and plays golf every day. Meanwhile, Anderson’s sister-in-law suffers from crippling anxiety, and hasn’t worked in more than ten years. Anderson is rabid.”
The waitress offers coffee refills. DeFiore checks his watch, then nods. “One more cup, then I gotta hit the road.”
“Does this mean we won’t get the case thrown out?” Lawrence asks.
“Thrown out?” DeFiore squints at him and shakes his head. “No way. Not with Anderson. Not in this climate. Don’t get me wrong—I understand why Burt might have thought so. Given your son’s prior relationship with the accuser, this case looks like a non-starter, especially if Princeton can confirm the girl’s stalking and we can produce her texts. But we run into trouble with the eyewitness statements. They . . .” Trailing off, he looks down for a moment, and as I feel my impatience grow, it’s easy to picture DeFiore in a courtroom, pausing mid-sentence to heighten the drama. “Two young men saw them at the scene. Both in their twenties. Both college students and unknown to your son and the accuser. So they’re credible. And they both said the same thing: your son was assaulting a girl who appeared to be unconscious.”
“Objection!” I say. “No way.” Unconscious? According to Nate, Diana was hysterical. What else was lost in translation?
DeFiore turns my way. “Excuse me?”
“Diana Holly is a liar. The accuser—Diana Holly—she lies compulsively.”
“She used to sneak into Billy’s room when he was in class,” Nate adds. “He’d come back, and she’d pretend to be sleeping. Once he was so freaked out, he called 911. The police must have records.”