Part Three
Judgment
37
PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF NEW JERSEY V. WILLIAM MATTHEW Stockton Quinn begins this morning at the Mercer County Courthouse in downtown Trenton. We pull into a parking space a few blocks away, all five of us in the Mercedes, with Lawrence behind the wheel. Summoning his courage, he breathes in and squares his shoulders. “We’re here.” He shuts off the car then walks around to Eleanor’s side and opens her door. She offers her hand, his Queen.
Head high, Lawrence canvasses his surroundings. Today, he’s dressed for success, wearing a charcoal Brioni suit that accentuates his trim build. DeFiore didn’t want him or my brothers to wear sunglasses, so Lawrence’s face is bare. A stunning blue tie brings out his stunning blue eyes. His polished shoes tap on the pavement.
A security detail meets us at the corner. As we head up the street, we’re consumed by fear and doubt. But DeFiore insists appearances matter, so we raise our chins and stride forward. We move in a single scrum, flanked on both sides by bodyguards. On the next corner, we fall in with DeFiore, his defense team, and four uniformed policemen, who escort us the last few blocks to the courthouse.
It’s an overcast and blustery day, one that feels raw and damp, despite an absence of rain. The wind whips through the sky, lifting our hair and ruffling our clothes. My skirt flares up, exposing my thighs. Earlier, Eleanor chastised me for the length of my skirt. “Of all days, Cassandra? Everyone will be looking at you!” She was right, but I wore it anyway.
The wind makes conversation difficult, but soon I hear a low rumble that grows louder as we get closer. The interest in Billy’s case that dropped off after his arraignment has returned with a frightening intensity. His alleged crimes have hit a national nerve. Across the country, morning shows are airing segments. Trial reporters live-stream the play-by-play. Radio shows are inviting callers. Everyone has an opinion. Most of the coverage is, unfortunately, negative. Billy is called Pretty Boy Quinn, Rich Runner Rapist, Princeton Rapist. Even the papers of record, the New York Times and Washington Post, are embracing the rich rapist angle.
The crowd outside the courthouse is immense and deafening. Holding up signs—JUSTICE FOR SURVIVORS and IRRATIONAL, VINDICTIVE YOUNG WOMAN—angry females of all ages chant rapist, rapist, rapist, prison, prison, prison. Across the street, groups of burly men wear T-shirts that say THE REAL RAPE VICTIMS ARE THE FALSELY ACCUSED. Several link arms, forming a human chain, and shout innocent until proven guilty is an American right.
The press is here in full force too. A convoy of news vans block the curb. Reporters mill around the perimeter, bantering with each other as they check their phones. Several are filming lead-ins. One guy in his fifties wears a suit jacket, a tie, and faded jeans. “Tight as you can,” he instructs the cameraman. “Nothing below the waist.”
“It’s Billy Quinn!” someone calls out. “He’s here.”
Spotting us, reporters surge forward. They shout questions at Billy, each a variation on Are you a rapist?
Facing them, DeFiore holds up a hand. “Billy Quinn is innocent. He has taken and passed a polygraph test. We have no other comments at this time.”
The cops bark orders and push back the crowds. “Let ’em by. Move, move!”
We wind through a narrow channel of gawkers. It’s chaotic and claustrophobic, and I try to find Haggerty among the bodies. He hasn’t appeared since the day he ambushed me. For the past month, his lack of contact meant nothing; now, it’s a critical sign. If Haggerty shows up for Billy’s trial, it’s bad news. If he doesn’t, we’ll emerge unscathed.
As always, Lawrence leads the charge. He doesn’t answer any questions, but neither does he cower. He looks directly at the reporters. Come and get me, he taunts them. Give me your worst.
Trailing behind him, I marvel at his public persona. There’s a rise in his arches, a swagger in his hips; nothing to suggest that only a few hours ago, he was slumped on the edge of the bed, un-showered and unshaven, imploring his wife to give in.
Over the weekend, we checked into a swank hotel in nearby Princeton, our home away for the next three weeks. Earlier this morning, I was in my parents’ room borrowing toothpaste when Lawrence’s phone rang. The three of us froze.
Lawrence picked it up. “Good morning, Peter,” he said stiffly.
A giddy DeFiore boomed through the speaker. He had the DA’s final offer. “Anderson agreed to four years!” His voice made Eleanor flinch. In his excitement, he apparently forgot he was talking about prison. “Billy will be out in two, less with good behavior.”
Four years? Eleanor mouthed and shook her head, but Lawrence didn’t react.
She pointed to the phone. Her nails were painted a rose quartz pink to match her lips and cheeks. The custom-blended color, selected by our crisis consultants, is uncharacteristically soft, and makes Eleanor look like an entirely different person. Same with her hair color, which went from socialite gold to relatable honey. Along with newly cut bangs and a mauve cardigan—voilà!—a cold, inaccessible matriarch became a warm, sympathetic mom.
Lawrence leaned in, close to the phone. “We’ll take our chances in court, Peter.”
DeFiore pressed. “Lar, listen to me. I’m not fucking around. It’s a high-profile case, and they’ll make Billy pay for all the boys who got off easy. We’re looking at twenty years with no allowances. Your son won’t get out of prison until he’s forty, at the earliest.”
“Thank you, Peter.” Lawrence closed his eyes. “But no thank you.” His eyes were bloodshot. He reeked of last night’s gin. DeFiore had already hung up, but Lawrence still held the phone, ready to hit speed-dial and say he was wrong, we’ll take whatever pittance Anderson will give.
I started to speak when Lawrence interrupted me. “Sweetheart, look!”
Eleanor and I glanced up at the same time. Lawrence angled his phone, so we could both read the screen: “Rape Trial Kicks Off for Princeton Star Runner.”
The headline scared me. “Jesus,” I said. “It’s really happening, isn’t it?”
Eleanor scoffed. “Billy is innocent. He can’t plead guilty to something he didn’t do.”
“His innocence doesn’t matter,” Lawrence reminded her, “if DeFiore can’t persuade a jury of it. Eleanor, we have to consider the four years.”
“The stakes are high,” I added.
Eleanor studied us closely—first her husband, then me. “You two are in cahoots again? If you really feel that way, go home. I won’t have any negativity in court. Billy will be exonerated, and we will return to our lives.” She said this like it was a prophecy, but her sweet pink lips made it difficult to take her seriously.
On the other hand, maybe Eleanor is right. If appearances alone can determine the outcome, our side will win by a landslide. DeFiore’s team, along with our publicists and consultants, have coached us on what to wear, how to walk, when to sit, when to stand, when to ignore a question, when to respond, and what to say. Only the attorneys will be speaking today, but each of us is prepped and ready to achieve maximum positive impact.
Billy, for instance, strolls, hesitantly, on the balls of his feet, a sensitive young scholar, upset by all the attention. He is Eleanor’s son; and today, like her, he is unrecognizable. The astronaut headphones are gone, replaced by nerdy, black-rimmed glasses with non-prescription lenses. Thanks to a low-carb, high-protein diet, he’s twenty pounds lighter. Without the extra weight, his body is lankier and less physically imposing than at his arraignment. Wearing a fitted new suit and shiny leather shoes, my brother holds our mother’s arm, as if squiring her along a promenade. Beside him, Eleanor has on a nondescript tweed skirt suit and low-heeled pumps. Gigantic tortoiseshell sunglasses hide her eyes. Her hair is puffed-up from the wind. Earlier, she’d wrapped her head in an Hermès silk scarf to protect her blowout, but DeFiore nixed it the second he saw her with a gruff, “No, no, no. No way.”