Sitting up, I run my fingers through my hair. The wind blew out my curls, leaving them long and unruly. Ignoring DeFiore’s instructions, I take off my sweater, and unbutton my blouse, exposing a hint of cleavage. Let them look, I think.
Most of the men on the jury appear to be in their forties, whereas the women’s ages are harder to gauge. There are twice as many men. According to Abby, who has studied jurors for thirty years, this is what we want. “Older males will see their younger selves in Billy. They’re tired of defending their behavior. When they were his age, it wasn’t a crime for boys to touch girls, et cetera. Women are less predictable. Some will love Billy and be put off by Diana. Others will identify with Diana and want to crucify Billy. Females are fickle creatures.” Today, Abby is wearing a dark blue Celine shirtdress and tailored jacket. She looks gorgeous. Nate shows her something on his phone, and they both cover their mouths, trying not to laugh.
Judge McKay is giving instructions. “I will not allow phone, laptops, or other devices. Any and all will be confiscated then donated to Legal Aid. Anyone caught posting photos of the jury, courtroom, defendant, or lawyers on social media will be held in contempt of court.”
As if on cue, a phone rings. McKay glances around, pissed. “Whose phone is that?”
It belongs to Bradley Anderson, the bald giant prosecutor. He’s on his feet, fumbling to shut it off. “I apologize, Your Honor.”
“DA Anderson, you understand these rules apply to you as well, right?”
“Yes, Your Honor. It won’t happen again.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, the rules of this courtroom are very important. If everyone adheres to the instructions you were given during voir dire, we will get along fine.”
The jury nods. They understand; they will follow the judge’s orders. A few exchange amused glances about Anderson’s faux pas. They have to take this trial seriously; shouldn’t the lawyers do the same?
Diana Holly’s family is here, positioned behind the prosecution, though she’s not with them. Just like at the arraignment, she never has to set foot in the courtroom. She can watch, and even testify, on closed-circuit TV. As the victim, she gets compassionate one-on-one assistance. An advocate from the DA’s office will accompany her through each stage of the proceedings, explain what is happening and why, and escort her （and her family） to a safe space if she feels overwhelmed. My brother, by contrast, is forced to sit here, in this courtroom, all day, every day, and face a public shaming. As the defendant, he has no one to hold his hand or pat his back. Forget justice. He’ll never be innocent, not inside this courtroom or out on the street, not after what Diana has done.
After a series of long interruptions, McKay finally reads the charges against Billy—two counts of rape, one count of attempted rape, and two counts of felony sexual assault, one where the victim was intoxicated, and one where the victim was unconscious of the nature of the act.
Immediately, all eyes shift in Billy’s direction. He sits up tall in his seat. He’s taking notes, an earnest student. When the judge finishes, Billy raises his head, acknowledging he heard what was said. Then he looks at the jury, as if to show them he’s not afraid. He’s been wrongly accused, and only wants the truth to come out. Felicia Drake reaches over and pats his arm.
“Your Honor.” Standing up, Anderson lumbers toward the bench. His gigantic size makes his movements feel aggressive. “Last night, we filed an amended witness list. We seek the court’s indulgence in allowing us to do so at this late hour.”
Before DeFiore can object, McKay says, “I will take up this matter at another time. Now, can we please get started?”
Anderson scowls, annoyed, it appears, by the judge’s ruling.
After a lunch break, the afternoon passes slowly. Along with additional instructions for the jury, there are many interruptions, including a boring back-and-forth between the attorneys about the State’s exhibits. At several points, the discussion gets heated; and when Anderson lashes out, McKay reins him back in. The room is filled with tension, and by the time five o’clock arrives, everyone is eager to go.
As the jury leaves, I notice them scrutinizing the red-faced Anderson with disdain. DeFiore has told us it’s foolish to read meaning into anything we see. “Juries are faithless. In the morning, they cheer you on. By the afternoon, you’re a pariah.” Still, Anderson’s demeanor rubs the jurors the wrong way, particularly the men.
This is significant, I can feel it.
39
THE NEXT MORNING, JUDGE MCKAY CALLS ON THE PROSECUTION to present opening remarks. Before he finishes, Anderson is already up on his feet and ready to go. He tries to close his jacket, but the material strains against his girth. A button falls off in his hand. The DA was already as solid as a tank, but in the months since the arraignment, he’s packed on ten, maybe fifteen pounds. While this isn’t much for his frame, like some ex-athletes, he’s added the bulk of the new weight in his gut. Anderson uses this fact to introduce himself.
“Would you believe this suit was too big last April?” He holds up the button for the jury, as if entering it into evidence. “My wife tells me to lay off junk food. She’s right. Trust me, my wife is always right.” Offering a sly grin, he pats his belly. “But I’ll get divorced before I give up burgers and beer.”
Last night, my parents, brothers, and I left the courthouse in high spirits. After the long, tortured wait for the trial to begin, the end of day one brought relief. Finally, we said. The Bowtie booked a private room in a restaurant two towns over. All the men ordered prime rib, Eleanor and I shared a whole branzino, and everyone drank wine, so the evening had an air of triumph. We clinked glasses, toasting Billy and the absent DeFiore. For the first hour, it was fun to be together. But as dinner progressed, Lawrence and Nate drank too much, and Eleanor got annoyed. She’d insisted we not discuss the trial, but Nate, plastered, couldn’t help himself.
“Anderson is fucking up. Did you see his face when the judge kept overruling him? The jury can’t stand him. It’s so obvious.”
“Neither can McKay,” Lawrence added.
Nate lifted his glass. “Here’s to the DA going down in flames.”
This morning, Anderson assumes a folksy intimacy. To me, his performance feels forced, but the jurors eat it up. His burgers-and-beer comment earns him a hearty laugh. Clearly, his trial strategy is as complex and as nuanced as ours. How many times, I wonder, did he practice the button popping off his jacket before he got it exactly right? Who sewed it on just loosely enough?
“I appreciate you being here,” he continues. “Trials are long and tedious. Over the next three weeks, you’ll hear intricate testimony from lab techs, police officers, ER doctors, psychiatrists, and other forensic experts. If you’re anything like me, you may find it difficult to absorb so many technical details. But I encourage each of you to do your very best. Why? Because we’re here to get justice for Diana Holly, a courageous woman who was violated in the most depraved way. This trial will affect every woman you know, and lots of women you don’t. We are pursuing justice, which is an ideal this country was founded upon. So, your continued engagement is meaningful to Diana, to Mercer County, to the state of New Jersey, to the United States of America, and to our global community.”