Our eyes lock. Years of memories flash between us. I feel my chest ache.
I haven’t seen Avery in a long time. We grew up together. As little kids, we rode horses and had sleepovers; as tweens, we got manicures; as teenagers, we learned how to drive. In high school, Nate threw parties when our parents were out of town. Avery and I drank, smoked, and flirted with older boys. It was fun and decadent—though for me, short-lived. Eventually, Marcus got in the way, and Avery and I stopped being best friends, or friends at all. Both of us acted badly, but I acted worse.
Outside, the night air is cool. I return to myself. I’m ready to talk, but Avery murmurs a quick goodbye, and walks away.
“Avery! Wait up!” Powell calls out. “Great seeing you, Cass.” He leans in to dust my cheek with his lips. “Elmo will be fine,” he whispers. “Trust me.”
Trust him? I roll my eyes. When I step toward my car, I see a ticket on my windshield, a gift from the cops. Bent fuckers, all of them.
17
APRIL 17 TAKES FOREVER TO COME, BUT WHEN IT DOES, IT’S too soon.
We drive to Billy’s arraignment in thunderous silence. We’re all furious—at Diana Holly, at the press, at the New Jersey courts, at each other. In the back, wedged between Nate and me, Billy is wearing enormous white headphones. With his eyes closed and head bobbing, he looks like an astronaut receiving orders from Mission Control. His doctor prescribed Effexor to help lift his mood, and Ativan to help him sleep. It’s hard to know if they’re working since Billy hasn’t uttered a full sentence in days. Mostly, they make his movements slow and sluggish. Before we left, I dry-swallowed an Ativan, just to dull the edges. Nate swallowed two, so the Three Musketeers are three blind mice, three zombies, three junkies.
Lawrence speeds out of the tunnel so fast he almost loses control of the car. Do it, I think. Hit a wall, plow into traffic, immolate us all. But he’s not telepathic, and we reach the courthouse in record time. When he turns off the ignition, instead of offering optimistic platitudes, he tightens his scarf and barks, “Let’s go.”
As we exit the parking lot, I put my hand on Lawrence’s back, trying to comfort him. “Billy will be okay.”
“Cassie, for God’s sake,” he scoffs. “Do you see what’s going on here?”
Throngs of reporters are gathered on the street, surrounded by news vans and camera crews. As we approach the courthouse, we’re besieged by questions that sound like accusations. Mr. Quinn, will your son plead guilty? Mr. Quinn, is it true the DA has new evidence? Billy, look over here. Billy, this way. Billy, do you watch porn? Mr. Quinn, is your son a rapist?
“No comment,” Lawrence snaps, herding us up the steps and into the lobby.
“Porn?” Nate says, just as I ask, “What kind of new evidence?”
“Ignore them,” he tells us. “Keep walking. Do not turn around.”
A half-hour later the courtroom is filled to capacity. We arrived early, so we’re in the first row of spectators. The rest of the gallery is overcrowded, so people line up along the walls. From the corner of my eye, I spot a family that could be Diana Holly’s. I’ve never met them, but I’d guess it’s her mother, father, younger sister, and grandparents. Diana isn’t among them, which isn’t a surprise. DeFiore told us she can watch the proceedings on closed-circuit TV in another part of the building. If she is, I wonder if seeing her family so stricken makes her feel as though she’s viewing her own funeral. That’s what it’s like for us, like this is the end of everything, and we’re gathered here to mourn my brother.
Ahead of us, Billy sits next to DeFiore at the defense table. Today, my brother is wearing a navy suit instead of prison coveralls, so he looks less guilty than he did the last time we were here. But he seems stoned, and I wonder if, somewhere between the car and the courthouse, he took more Ativan. His eyes are lifeless, and his head lolls forward, as if too heavy for his neck.
“What’s wrong with him?” Nate’s jaw tightens. “Why is he drooling like a mental patient?”
“Keep your voice down,” Lawrence whispers. He keeps shifting in his seat until Eleanor grabs him. “Lawrence, please. Sit still.”
A side door opens. The same judge, Charles McKay, enters the courtroom. We rise. Sit. Wait. Wait. Wait some more. Soon, the movie begins, and there’s action, dialogue, and atmospheric texture, but I’m too anxious to listen, too strung out to hear. I’ve already seen this show; it ends with our hero falling off a cliff.
When McKay lists Billy’s purported crimes, I snap to attention.
“Mr. Quinn, you are indicted on five charges, including two counts of rape, one count of attempted rape; and two counts of felony sexual assault, one count where the victim was intoxicated, and one where the victim was unconscious of the nature of the act. To these five counts, how do you plead?”
My stomach clenches as I wait for him to speak.
Suddenly, Lawrence grabs my hand and squeezes it. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, out of the blue. “Live the life you want, Cassie. I won’t hold you back. I love you, kiddo.”
My chest catches. My lungs expand. “Me too. I love you too.”
Together, we hold our breath.
Billy stands up tall, thrusts out his chin, and says, “Not”—he swallows hard—“guilty”—swallows again—“ssss . . .” There’s a delay, but it’s brief. “。 . . sir,” he says, with extra emphasis.
As I exhale, I feel Lawrence do the same. Drenched in sweat; I’m spent. “Thank God that’s over,” I say with relief.
“Over?” He starts to laugh, loudly. He sounds like a maniac. “This has just begun.”
18
TIME PASSES. DAYS BLEND TOGETHER. SOON, A MONTH goes by. My prep classes are over, and while I’m no more proficient in Arabic than when I started, at least I’m done. My next hurdle is deciding where to live until school starts in September. My choices are New York with my family, New Haven alone, or Southampton, occasionally with Nate but mostly alone.
Billy has no such choices. After he was formally indicted, Princeton asked him to withdraw, and then banned him from campus until his case is settled. Although he can reapply, prevailing wisdom says he won’t be readmitted. No college wants an accused sex offender among their community—even if he’s exonerated. So how and if Billy can finish his degree remains to be seen. Moreover, medical school is likely out of the question. Again, he can apply. But the internet is all-knowing and everlasting. A quick search for “Billy Quinn” already yields too many hits for an admissions board to ignore. So, it’s not just Billy’s education that’s been derailed; it’s his whole future, along with his health and emotional well-being.
The trial is set for October 30, and until then, Billy is required to wear his monitoring bracelet, report to a probation officer, and, somehow, get through each day. Eleanor has plans to take him to a host of therapists and wellness workers, along with the psychiatrist he’s already seeing, but I know my brother, and he’ll refuse anyone he has to talk to for more than five minutes.
For the next five months, we’ll work with DeFiore’s team on Billy’s defense. DeFiore will continue to press us to plead out. We’ll continue to say no, absolutely not; and then as the trial gets closer, we’ll say maybe. Like Billy, we have to stay optimistic and resolute, which becomes increasingly difficult with each passing day. Reporters continue to reach out in surprising ways and at unexpected times. “No interviews,” DeFiore reminds us. But it’s so hard to stay quiet when the story they’re telling is based on lies.