There are ten rows for spectators. Half the rows are empty, the other half hold women with young children and a few scattered families like ours. Everyone, except us, is Black. At the defense table, DeFiore sits with a younger man, presumably his co-counsel. Heads bent together, the two men crack up. Their levity seems disrespectful, and I wonder if maybe Eleanor was right about DeFiore.
Billy is scheduled to appear first. But fifteen minutes later, we’re still waiting. From my bag, I pull out a pen and paper. Nate and I play Hangman. I solve the first puzzle （N A T E T H E G R E A T I S K I N G）。 Nate solves the next one （B I L L Y Q U I N N W A S F R A M E D）。
Eventually, a slender woman with a low ponytail rushes in. Wheeling a legal briefcase and carrying a stack of folders, she heads to the prosecution table. She’s wearing tiny glasses with cat’s-eye frames and an olive-green polyester suit. Her hem hangs down and skims her calves. In her dusty flats and pilled cardigan, she looks like she leads Bible study on Wednesday evenings. A bald giant follows behind her, also wheeling a briefcase. A burly bruiser with a thick neck and fleshy jowls, he’s talking quietly on his phone. According to the Bowtie, this is Bradley Anderson, the district attorney; the dowdy girl is Maggie Fleming, his deputy.
“We apologize for being late, Your Honor,” Fleming says, her voice just above a whisper. “We had a last-minute—”
“Fine, you’re here.” Judge McKay waves them to their table. “Sit down; let’s go.”
The prosecution and defense teams acknowledge each other with a perfunctory nod, and then turn to McKay, who opens the show. “What’s the case number?” he asks the bailiff, but before she can answer, he asks the DA if they’re set.
“Sure,” Anderson replies. “We’re ready whenever you are.” His casual tone surprises me.
McKay beckons Fleming up to the bench and says something inaudible. She nods. Meanwhile, DeFiore and Junior are conferring, as if they have nothing to do with the proceedings unfolding around them.
The side door opens, and a marshal steps into the courtroom, accompanied by a teenager wearing a brown prison jumpsuit, his head bent. His hands and legs are cuffed, forcing him to shuffle forward. When I hear Eleanor gasp, I look again and realize—my god—it’s Billy.
Billy scans the gallery. I want to shout, Elmo, Elmo, Elmo; it’s me; it’s Cassie! Beside me, Nate is restless. His calf bounces, and I nudge him to sit still.
Under the bright lights, my little brother seems younger and smaller than the last time I saw him. His hair has grown so long since Christmas that the edges curl against his collar. A sweep of bangs hides his eyes, giving him a fawnlike quality. “Let me see that page again,” McKay says to the DA. He seems oblivious to my brother, who waits politely for instructions. In the jumpsuit, with his unwashed, shaggy hair, Billy looks like a misunderstood bad boy in a teen movie, the rebel with a heart of gold.
“Okay, let’s move on,” McKay says, opening a folder. “William Quinn.”
The presentation from the DA’s office, though short, is harrowing. Fleming does all the talking, and despite her quiet voice, she is curt, brisk, and all business: William Matthew Stockton Quinn was seen forcibly having sexual intercourse with an unconscious woman. William Matthew Stockton Quinn is the son of extremely wealthy parents and has the means to flee. This is reflected in William Matthew Stockton Quinn’s detention scores. The way she keeps repeating William Matthew Stockton Quinn terrifies me.
Billy, meanwhile, is gripping the table, his knuckles white.
“Defense?” the judge says. “Can we hear from you?”
Standing up, DeFiore buttons his jacket over his ridiculous tie. His voice booms with the resonance of a Shakespearean actor. “My client is a Princeton scholar-athlete with a 3.8 GPA. He plans to be a pediatrician. He is a well-liked young man with a lifelong commitment to public service and a loving family who will vouch for him. This is my client’s only brush with the law. He has a prior relationship with his accuser that will bear on, if not mitigate, the DA’s charges. Moreover, it’s highly irregular for the State to request remand for a first-time offender.” DeFiore steps toward the bench. “Your Honor, we respectfully ask that my client be released on his own recognizance.”
When DeFiore finishes, the judge asks Mr. Quinn if he’d like to add anything. Stupidly, I turn to Lawrence, but McKay means Billy, who shakes his head.
“The court needs to hear a verbal answer, Mr. Quinn.”
Nate grabs my hand. We hold our breath. “Not guilty” has hard and soft consonants. For Billy, hard consonants—B, D, V, G, K, C—are the most challenging. He’ll repeat a G several times until he can hitch it to a neighboring vowel and make a full stop: g-g-g-g-guilty. With soft consonants—L, N, S, W—he’ll prolong the sound, pressing down with his tongue until he can release: lllllllove you, C-C-C-Casssssie.
I love you, Elmo. Just say it. Come on, Billy. Not guilty.
“Mr. Quinn?” the judge prompts.
Billy swallows. “Nnnnot, g-guilllltty.”
I exhale, and Nate drops my hand.
McKay reads back the transcript. He denies the State’s motion for detention. Prohibits Billy from excessive use of drugs, alcohol, social media, and pornography. Sets a curfew. Reiterates the terms of the restraining order. “You are not allowed to contact the accused or any witnesses.”
DeFiore asks, “Your Honor, can Billy return to Princeton to finish his classes and take his exams? The semester is over in six weeks.”
“Given the nature and severity of the accusation, I have to say no. He can work out an arrangement with the university to finish his classes or take a leave.” The judge looks at Billy. “Also, Mr. Quinn, you will be required to wear a monitoring device. If you go out of your designated area, or anywhere near the accuser, you will be taken back to jail until your trial. Do you understand the limits of your release and are you able to comply with all of them?”
DeFiore leans over, and whispers to Billy, who looks up and nods.
“Again, the court needs to hear your answer, Mr. Quinn,” McKay says.
“Y-y-y-yes. I c-c-c-can, Your Honor.”
“Fine, then. Pursuant to the laws of New Jersey, the next step is for the prosecution to determine if they want to take this case further. If so, it will be presented to a grand jury—”
“We do, your Honor.” Fleming jumps to her feet, raises her voice. “We have determined that this case has merit and sufficient evidence to pursue a conviction.”
“Then the case will proceed to the grand jury.” Judge McKay bangs his gavel, and just like that, my brother’s immediate future is sealed.
12
YEARS AGO, FOR A BRIEF PERIOD, ELEANOR WAS CONVINCED Billy’s speech impediment was psychosomatic. Despite hours of physical exams and pages of clinical assessments, she still lacked a definitive answer for why he stuttered. Why not Nate? What about Cassie? She took him to a psychiatrist who impressed upon her one fact: there is no reason. Billy stammers because he stammers. Nor was there a single reason for his childhood ailments. By his fifth birthday, Billy had been treated for illnesses ranging from ear infections to aortic stenosis. He didn’t speak until age three （Cass） or say sentences （Me and Cass read） or express complex thoughts （too tired to read me and Cass book） until nearly four. He spent an extra year in nursery school and didn’t start kindergarten until he was six.