Next to me, Nate looks like a younger, stiffer version of Lawrence in his own bespoke Brioni and silk purple tie. Among us, he’s been the hardest to prepare, mostly because he’s so furious—about the trial, the press, Diana Holly. I’ve missed most of the rehearsals, so I hadn’t realized he’s also still furious at me. We’ve barely spoken since the end of the summer, when he stormed out of the bar. When we do, our interactions are largely transactional （“What time are we leaving?” “I don’t know, ask Dad.”）。 I think he’s pissed off that I bailed on the war room sessions. Or maybe he’s pissed off that I failed to convince Lawrence to back off the plea. Or maybe it’s just easier to stay angry at me. Either way, I’m giving him a wide berth.
DeFiore and his associate Mitchell Manzano （sexy and trustworthy in glasses） are behind us, along with a shocking number of women. By my quick count, there are seven females on our team: DeFiore’s partner Felicia Drake, jury consultant Abby Friedman, two interns, and three women I’ve never seen before. For all I know, they were hired as extras just for the optics. Everyone is tastefully dressed, tastefully coiffed, and tastefully accessorized with sensible heels, leather totes, and chunky gold jewelry. Lost among the women is the Bowtie, unable to hide his displeasure. Last night, he chauffeured Eleanor to the hotel and expected to escort her up the avenue this morning. DeFiore said no way. “I don’t care who’s angry at who. The Quinns drive together, walk together, and sit together. Lawrence, I want you on Eleanor’s right. Billy, you’re on her left. Nate and Cassie, you’re closely behind. Burt, I have no idea why the fuck you’re here, so find a place in the rear. Listen up, Quinns. You’re a happy fucking family. Try and look like one.”
As we head up the steps and into the courthouse, it’s pandemonium. The cops try to keep order. Reporters surround us, thrusting cameras in our faces. We’re being jostled and yelled at. Nate’s eyes are wide in alarm. “Jesus,” he mutters. “This is bad.” I’m shaking with terror.
“Hang in there, kids,” Lawrence tells us. Speaking robotically, he fixes his eyes on a point in the distance. But I know every line of his face, every muscle in his jaw. Eleanor’s decision to proceed with this trial is killing him. “She’s impossible” he says to me at every turn. “But she’s my wife.” It’s how he apologizes.
As we head through the lobby, Lawrence grabs Eleanor’s hand. For a second, I think he’s going to bring it to his lips. Instead, he squeezes it three times. Eleanor squeezes back three times, and I wonder what it means.
“It’s freezing in here,” I say, rubbing my skin.
“Want my jacket?” Lawrence asks, holding it out.
I nod; and when he drapes it across my shoulders, he pats my upper arms. We exchange smiles as we stop at the elevator. To the crowd, he’s a loving father reassuring his frightened daughter. Don’t worry, Honey, we’ll be okay. Promise? Promise.
Today’s arrival is one of the trial details that DeFiore has choreographed down to the minute. Our entrance is his opening statement. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Ignore what you’ve read; forget what you know. Here, for your consideration, are the Lawrence Quinns. Well dressed. Well mannered. Female friendly. Approachable. Undaunted. We are a united front. We are New York royalty. We are the all-American dream.
38
“ALL RISE!”
The midsized courtroom is filled to capacity. People are lining the walls. Every row in the gallery is occupied. As Judge Charles McKay steps out of his chambers and approaches the bench, everyone jumps to their feet. Conversations cease. The mood turns somber.
I’m standing with my family in the first row of spectators. We’re directly behind Billy, Felicia, and DeFiore, who are at the defense table. It’s a frustrating setup. Billy’s back is to us, so we can’t see his face unless he leans back or turns around. The best we can do is gauge how he’s feeling from the tension in his neck and shoulders. We’re too far away to pat his arm or whisper encouragement—not that we would. DeFiore told us to sit still and shut up, no matter what happens. Our seating assignments were equally specific. The Bowtie is at the end of the row, on the aisle, with Eleanor situated to his right. Lawrence is on Eleanor’s right, I’m next to Lawrence, Nate is on my right, and Abby Friedman is next to Nate, at the other end of the row. We’ll return to these positions every day until the trial ends.
McKay settles in. Today, his hair looks freshly shorn and his crazy eyebrows have been trimmed. When he turns to the gallery, his face is solemn.
“Be seated.” He looks at the attorneys. “Does either side need to address anything before I call the jury?”
“Nothing from us, Your Honor,” says Bradley Anderson from the prosecution table. Seated beside him, his deputy Maggie Fleming shakes her head.
“Nor us, Your Honor,” DeFiore says.
The judge turns to the sheriff, who says, “All rise for the jury.”
I’m not a reverential person, but this collective show of respect humbles me. A jury trial is a meaningful event, one that will decide the rest of a young man’s life. Apparently, the officers of the court feel similarly. At Billy’s first appearance, the prosecutors walked in late while DeFiore and Mitchell yukked it up. Today, lawyers on both sides sit up straight, ties adjusted, skirts smoothed.
But the real shocker today is DeFiore, who looks like a bona fide attorney. He must’ve booked a session with the crisis consultants, too, because his gray suit is tailored with knife-sharp creases. His shirt is white, free of stains, and neatly pressed. Gold cuff links add panache. A pair of half-glasses are perched on his nose. Does he wear glasses normally? I don’t remember. Either way, he’s a man to be reckoned with.
Months ago, DeFiore explained how visuals are as critical as the legal arguments. Which is why Felicia Drake, not Mitchell Manzano, is acting as co-counsel. By positioning Felicia next to Billy, the jury will see him interact positively with a less attractive woman. Beside my naturally elegant brother, Felicia looks ungainly and matronly. Today’s walk from the parking lot has loosened her chignon, and her face is moist with perspiration. Her suit jacket is too snug; from behind, her bra lines are visible. With every hand on his shoulder or pat on his back, she’s putting on a subtle but effective show for the jury as they file in, one by one.
The jury box is to the left of the bench. Soon, eight men and four women fill the twelve seats. Most bend their heads, but a few crane their necks and gawp, as if dazed by the lights. The majority sport weekend gear: jeans, sneakers, and puffy vests. DeFiore told me that as the defendant’s sister, roughly the same age as Diana, I will get scrutinized without pity. The jury will wonder about my relationship with Billy, what kind of influence I had growing up, how my presence in the family shaped his views of women, sex, and relationships. “You are supportive and demure,” DeFiore said. “That’s what we need to see. Supportive. Demure.” He gave me a once-over. “To the extent that you can.”
“Meaning what?”
“You ooze sex, Cassie. Don’t look surprised, or pretend you’re offended. It’s a compliment. But button up your sweater and cross your legs at the ankles. Like a lady,” he added, glancing at Eleanor. “Like your mom.” When he said this, Eleanor caught my eye, and we both made a face.