“I have to be there for Billy. He’s my brother, and my best friend. I’m not afraid.”
“Well, I am.” Lawrence’s eyes are clouded with concern. It’s like he’s seeing me across a great divide: already ravaged and beyond his grasp. “And you should be too.”
11
MERCER COUNTY CRIMINAL COURTHOUSE SITS ON THE corner of a busy intersection in downtown Trenton. It’s a nondescript four-story building that looks like a suburban medical center, and we pass by it twice until Nate calls out, “Over here! Guys, turn around.” Inside, armed guards are at the ready, and we have to step through a metal detector, but the lobby is as non-threatening as a dentist’s office.
Despite Lawrence’s continued rants about the predatory media, I don’t spot a single reporter, either on the street or in the building. Still, he scans the four corners, as if expecting a newscaster to leap out, wielding a microphone. He speed-walks ahead of us to the elevators; and then, as if realizing his mistake, doubles back to take Eleanor’s arm. Looking unhurried and serene, she swans across the lobby like it’s her own living room. There’s a stillness and grace to Eleanor I can never replicate, no matter how hard I try.
Seeing Lawrence so keyed up makes my own fear spike, but at the same time, I feel distant, as if all of this is happening to someone else entirely. Nate must see my bewilderment, because he takes my hand and propels me forward.
Upstairs, on the fourth floor, the scenery changes. The light is so bright I’m forced to squint. We walk down a long, noisy corridor, passing courtrooms on either side, each a private theater, with LCD screens advertising the presiding judge. Police stroll beside us, guns holstered but visible. Families sit on benches in groups of twos and threes; a disproportionate number are Black and Brown. Men wear oversized hoodies and heavy work boots; women are dressed for church in colorful blouses, flowing skirts, and gold chains. Huddled together, they look like small football squads listening to the quarterback—their lawyer, most often a white person in a business suit—call off the plays.
Heading to Courtroom 4L, we pass white lawyers shouting into phones, white lawyers holding shabby briefcases, white lawyers with thinning hair and poor diction. “They haven’t given us fuckin’ discovery, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not my fuckin’ problem. It’s your fuckin’ problem, asshole,” I hear one say as I move down the hall.
I feel absurdly white and absurdly wealthy, so white and wealthy I float above the bustle. But no one, not one of the Black men, the Brown women, or the white lawyers glance our way.
DeFiore and the Bowtie wait outside the courtroom, a study in opposites. DeFiore is a colossal, oily mess, wearing the same threadbare suit jacket as yesterday. He’s swapped a dingy button-down for the Jets sweatshirt and put on a tie, a long, red tongue that unfurls over his belly. Beside him, the Bowtie looks like a slender dandy who has time-traveled here from the Gilded Age. With his white handlebar mustache and infamous paisley neckwear, he’s Mr. Monopoly come to life.
“I have good news and not-so-good news,” DeFiore says quietly when we’re gathered into our own football huddle. “I saw Billy. He’s okay. He’s scared and angry but resolved to get through this.”
“How does he look?” Though I’m addressing DeFiore, the Bowtie answers.
“What are you expecting, Cassandra? Two black eyes and a bloody nose?” He chuckles, a sound that repulses me. “You watch too much TV, my dear.”
Given his age and ties to Eleanor, the Bowtie should be a kindly grandfather figure to me. Instead, he acts like I’m up to no good, sparking my deepest fear: I’m an interloper in my own family. Ever since he handled the estates of Eleanor’s parents, the Bowtie has slithered as close as he can, while forgetting the first rule of friendship among the monied class: hold your lane. Out of respect for Eleanor, I normally swallow my distaste. Not today.
“Excuse me, Burt, but my brother just spent two fucking days in prison. So I’m not asking for commentary on my television habits. I want to know how the hell he is holding up.”
“Cassandra!” Eleanor is mortified.
DeFiore steps in. “Folks, folks. Let’s focus. We don’t have much time. Cassie, your brother looks fine. Exhausted, petrified, but no dings.”
“So, what’s the not-so-good news?” Eleanor wants to know.
“The DA is going to argue against release.”
“What?” She turns to Lawrence. “What is he saying? They’re won’t let Billy out?”
“They won’t win,” Lawrence reassures her. “Peter and I discussed this yesterday.”
“No, of course not,” DeFiore agrees. “But their argument is meaningful. I don’t know what your husband has told you, Mrs. Quinn, but the DA has witnesses, two Princeton students who came upon Billy with the accuser. They’re alleging that she was unconscious, er, unresponsive, rather.”
“Unconscious?” Eleanor grabs Lawrence’s arm. “Did you know this?”
Nate and I stiffen; we keep our eyes locked on the floor. Oh Lawrence, I think.
“It’s a point of contention,” he says. “There’s no evidence—”
“No confirmed evidence,” DeFiore clarifies. “We’re still waiting. This is Billy’s first arrest. He is a model student. They have no legitimate reason to detain him. But Anderson will argue that he exhibited what they call ‘willful and depraved disregard for the girl’s welfare.’ He’s sending a message.”
“What kind of message?”
“Given the climate, the facts of the case so far, the press—”
“The press? There’s been nothing in the press,” Eleanor says, her pitch rising.
“After today, there will be, Mrs. Quinn. They’re going to use Billy. Make an example—”
“But what about the girl? What about Diana?”
A shadow crosses DeFiore’s face. Clearly, he wants Eleanor to let him finish a goddamn sentence, but for all the guy’s smarts, he doesn’t grasp that she’s paying him to let her speak. In fact, she’d much rather shell out three times his rate to a Park Avenue attorney who knew enough to shut his mouth when she’s talking, wipe his forehead, and buy a decent suit that fits. “What about Diana?” he asks wearily.
“Diana and Billy’s relationship? How does that fit in?”
“Right now, it doesn’t.” DeFiore starts to add something else then decides against it. Promising we’ll all talk soon, he disappears behind a concealed door.
Eleanor looks shell-shocked, and Lawrence tries to take her arm, but she shrugs him off.
“Billy will be fine,” the Bowtie murmurs as a sheriff opens the courtroom doors. Laying a protective hand on Eleanor’s shoulder, he maneuvers her inside. “As will you.”
Stepping forward, Eleanor maintains a safe distance from the rest of us, as if she’d just met us for the first time and wasn’t impressed.
*
Twenty minutes later, we’re seated in the gallery. Everyone is in place—judge, defense team, court reporter—except for the prosecution, whose table is empty. I take in the Honorable Charles McKay, our judge. He’s gray-haired, with deep-set eyes, unruly eyebrows, and a formidable frown. So far, he’s the most impressive man in the room, though this is probably because he’s on the throne, wearing robes.