Haggerty doesn’t answer, instead he studies the Valmont. The building is the crown jewel of New York real estate, but any structure that stands for a century and a half will be leaky, drafty, and plagued by mold. Paying for upgrades is an expensive proposition, and while every resident has the means, none of them wants to open their wallets. This, by the way, is how the wealthy stay wealthy.
“This place has seen better days, Ms. Quinn.”
“Call me Cassie. We’re old friends. And you’ve seen better days, too. No offense.”
“Right for the heart.” He clutches his chest. “You have a tongue like a dagger.”
“So I’ve been told.” I pause, change the subject. “Rich people like old things, the older the better.” I wave at the Valmont. “It’s a funny thing about affluence, Detective. The real rich never talk about money or flash it around. The middle-rich, newly rich, and never-rich are the ones who need to show off.”
“Explains why Lawrence is such a peacock.”
“He’s not a peacock. The man has more money than he’ll ever spend.”
Haggerty laughs. “Lawrence has no money, Ms. Quinn. We both know that.”
“It’s Cassie. And what’s your problem with Lawrence?” I don’t give him a chance to reply, mostly because I’m not sure I can believe anything he says. “Well, I need to head out. Good talk, Detective.”
“I think you do want to talk, actually. You’ve been telling me about Marcus Silver since our very first conversation. I didn’t even have to ask. You dropped him on my doorstep like a cat drops a mouse.” His keys chirp, and a black SUV lights up. “See you soon, Ms. Quinn.”
32
THE FRIDAY BEFORE LABOR DAY, WE GATHER IN DEFIORE’S office. The place is deserted; he’s the only one working over the holiday weekend. He called us in because he thinks the DA’s latest offer is worth considering. My parents, in turn, summoned me. “You still owe us one visit,” Lawrence said. “I’m cashing in my chit.” I’ve already fulfilled my birthday obligation by coming home for steaks on the grill, lots of champagne, and presents in the celebration room. We tried to act joyous, but Nate got trashed, Billy was a bitch, and my parents bickered. Thankfully, I was too stoned to care. Today, I’m not stoned at all, and anxious to get this meeting over with.
“Let’s talk the offer through like adults,” DeFiore advises as we take our seats at the long conference table.
I cannot believe I’m here. Up at school, I was able to distance myself from the case. I regained my sanity. I saw Eddie at the Neighborhood Café. I chowed down on Little Italy burritos. I swam every day. I bought textbooks, notepads, and brand-new pens. After a lazy, sluggish summer, New Haven is coming alive. Students are returning to campus, and by next week, the restaurants and bars will be packed. Seated in this freezing room with my cranky, fucked-up family, talking about my sullen brother’s rape trial, I resent being pulled back into this life, this mess.
“As I said, five years is the best offer we’re likely to get.” DeFiore’s cheeks are rosy with a soccer-field sunburn. He turns to Billy. “I am confident in my recommendation that you take it—and fast.”
I roll the word confident on my tongue. A confident man, a confidence man. Like Lawrence, DeFiore is confident people will listen when he speaks. His confidence inspires trust, a willingness to believe what he says despite evidence to the contrary. Also, like Lawrence, DeFiore repeats himself ad nauseum until it’s easier to give in than to continue arguing.
Billy’s case is taking a toll on my family. I see this every time I leave and come back. My parents and brothers are bedraggled and pasty like they haven’t seen daylight for months. Eleanor is fully made up, but the top button of her jacket is loose, and her stockings have a run.
“What are the terms?” Eleanor asks.
“Felony rape and assault of an unconscious person. In return, he’s offering five years in a level-two minimum-security facility. Billy will serve three years, less for good behavior.”
“What about the registry?”
“Yes, Eleanor; he’ll have to register as a sex offender. That’s non-neg—”
“No.” The word is out of her mouth before he can finish.
Lawrence looks at his wife. “Don’t be so quick.” He turns to Billy, places a hand on his knee. “What do you want to do, son?”
My brother shrugs. Mumbles a non-answer.
“Billy!” Lawrence is pissed. “We’re asking you a question.”
Raising his head, my brother glances at DeFiore. I can’t tell if he’s stoned and thinks he looks normal or if he’s intentionally moving in slow motion.
“Billy, listen,” DeFiore says patiently, “if we try this case and lose, you’re looking at twenty years in a level-five prison. Level-five is a maximum-security penitentiary. That means a whole different kind of life.”
“Then don’t lose,” Nate says. “Last April, you wanted to go after Diana with both barrels. Now it’s okay if my brother gets locked up for five years? What happened to speaking out for all the innocent men caught in the system? Whose lives have been ripped apart by hysterical feminists and false accusations?” He turns to Billy. “You didn’t do it. Don’t let your lawyer fuck you because he turned out to be a pussy.”
“Nate,” Lawrence says. “Tone it down.”
DeFiore is unfazed. “I told you this before, Nate. But I’ll keep repeating it until it sinks in. A trial isn’t about innocence. It’s about what a DA can prove. And their evidence seems solid.”
Nate scoffs. “Jesus, Peter. A few months ago, their evidence was shit. It changes every day. Which is it? Solid or shit? Make up your fucking mind.”
“I said take it easy,” Lawrence snaps. “Or excuse yourself.” He apologizes to DeFiore.
“It’s fine, Lar. I understand his frustration.” DeFiore tries to explain. “The prosecution’s evidence is weak. But it’s solid enough to tell a believable story. They have credible eyewitnesses, CCTV footage, and corroborating reports. They have semen and vaginal tearing. They have interviews with the girl’s friends, family, and roommates. They all say the exact same thing.” DeFiore ticks off his fingers. “One, the girl broke up with Billy, which made him angry. Two, he stalked and threatened her on several occasions—”
“Peter,” Nate interrupts. “For God’s sake, he broke up with her—”
“Three, on the night in question, the girl blacked out and Billy raped her—”
“The hospital report was inconclusive—”
“And four, Billy shows no remorse.”
“What are you talking about? How is he not showing remorse?”
“I’m looking at him right now. Billy, sorry pal, but you do not look the least bit remorseful. You look like a privileged, pissed-off jock who’s never been told ‘no’ in his life.”
Billy’s head jerks up. “What the fuck? You don’t even know me.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Lawrence makes a patting gesture. “Let’s stay civil.”