Anderson is describing every wealthy kid—every wealthy person—who’s ever lived. By his accounting, every single one could be a rapist. But then he says something that stops me cold.
“The State will show that Billy Quinn is hiding a secret. A secret he has harbored since childhood. This secret festered inside him for years. It made him isolated, self-destructive, and, as you will soon hear, extremely dangerous.”
I jerk my head up. What secret? I glance at Lawrence, but he’s bent over a notepad, scribbling like a madman.
“Because of this secret, the defendant has a fraught relationship with his family. He has no long-term relationships. He graduated from high school having experienced little intimacy with girls, despite his good looks and athletic success. Diana Holly was the first female he ever shared his secret with, except perhaps his sister.”
When Anderson pauses, everyone looks at me. He waits. I try to swallow but can’t.
“Diana was troubled by the defendant’s secret, but he made her swear never to repeat it. Or else, he said. Although Diana agreed, she also encouraged him to get help. When the defendant refused, she broke up with him, at which point he became frantic. He feared that if Diana revealed his secret, the fabric of his life would rip open. Would she protect him? Would she expose him? The defendant couldn’t risk it. Everything—his education, his future, his parents, his brother, his sister—depended on her silence. Soon, his fear turned into rage. He hunted her down, day after day. Begged her to stay with him. No, she replied. No. Leave me alone.”
I can’t believe the jury is buying this. But from the way they lean forward and their eyes track Anderson’s movements, it’s obvious they are, every single one.
The DA continues to talk, establishing the ways that Billy terrorized Diana, and which evidence the State will present to prove them all. A half-hour later, Anderson still hasn’t identified Billy’s secret.
“And then one fateful night,” he continues, “March 24, the defendant’s shame and fear overwhelmed him. On this night, Diana Holly invited the defendant to a party for a single reason. To tell him to stop harassing her and insist he get help, for his own sake. She believed it was a safe meeting place because people were around to protect her, including her best friend. Unfortunately, her plan was thwarted. When Diana talked to the defendant, he got angry. She pleaded with him, but to no avail. Thirty minutes later, she left. But the defendant followed her. And in a depraved act of rage, privilege, power, and violence, the defendant brutalized Diana Holly. He brutalized her while she was unconscious. When she couldn’t say no or defend herself. On this night, the defendant destroyed Diana Holly’s life. And for what?”
A long pause.
“For what?” Anderson asks again then answers himself. “For a secret.”
The jury is riveted; clearly, they want to hear Billy’s secret. Admittedly, a part of me does too. Instead, Anderson says, “Look at the accused. On the surface, he’s a handsome, ambitious young man. But inside, he’s deeply angry and deeply troubled. This man raped a young woman while she was unconscious, and, for all we know, has raped other girls and will continue to rape—”
“Objection!” Felicia Drake is furious. “Speculative and inflammatory!”
Anderson doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m discussing the evidence I’ll introduce during trial.”
Judge McKay brushes Felicia back. “This is an opening statement. I’ll allow it.” But he glares at Anderson. “Watch yourself. It’s only the first week.” Looking at his watch, he makes a decision. “We’ve been going for a couple of hours. Let’s break for lunch. We’ll resume at one.” He strikes his gavel.
Anderson relaxes. The timing pleases him. He knows that every single person in this courtroom is dying to learn Billy’s secret. But we all have to wait.
40
DEFIORE HAS RESERVED A MEETING ROOM FOR OUR FAMILY’S use during the trial. It’s in the building, on the same floor as the courtroom, and we congregate there during the break. The room is spare, with bare walls, a long conference table, and two credenzas. The table seats sixteen, so the five of us spread out on opposite sides. Menus are consulted, lunch is ordered. Soon, phones, laptops, iPads, charging cords, water bottles, tote bags, and notebooks are scattered everywhere.
I am so anxious I worry I’m having a stroke. Perspiration soaks through my blouse. What the hell is the secret? Booze? Billy’s never been a drinker. Weed? He doesn’t get high as often as I do; does that make me an addict too? Drugs? Money? Did Billy start gambling and not tell us?
I want to discuss Anderson’s statement, but don’t want to be the one to bring it up. I wonder if the DA knows about Marcus. Does it matter if he does? That’s my secret, not Billy’s.
Nate is sprawled across a chair, jacket off, tie unknotted, absorbed in his phone. His face has already started to shadow, and I bet DeFiore will tell him to shave again before the day is over. Next to him, Billy has donned his astronaut headphones and stares into space. His blue eyes are glassy and vacant, as if he’s been drugged.
I try to find a comfortable position. The leather chairs are plush, but nothing feels right. Why am I the only one freaking out?
“You kids okay?” Lawrence asks from across the room. He’s at the head of the table, the chairman of the board, with Eleanor, his trusted consigliere, by his side.
Do they know the secret? They’ve seen all the evidence. They must know what Anderson is referring to. I’m kicking myself for missing the last few months of war room sessions.
Lawrence’s shirtsleeves are rolled up. A sliver of light peeks through the blinds and highlights the dark hair on his forearms. I focus on them to help steady myself.
“We’re fine,” I choke out, just to fill the air with sound. “Curious about Anderson’s strategy. Some of his statements were very . . . I don’t know . . . provocative.”
“He’s making the whole thing up,” Eleanor says flatly. She’s gazing into a mirror, reapplying her sweet pink lipstick.
I can’t get used to her bangs; I startle every time I glance her way. A younger, gentler woman has replaced the Eleanor who raised me.
“Can he do that?” she asks. “Just pull facts out of the air?”
I assume she’s referring to the story about her depraved son raping his unconscious girlfriend until she adds, “Seven hundred million? Where did he come up with that? We’re nowhere near the vicinity.”
“We knew this would happen,” Lawrence announces. “They’ll say anything to malign us.” He makes it seem like he’s responding to Eleanor, but in fact, he’s sending me a message. We’ll be fine, kid. Trust me.
“So he’s allowed to lie?” Nate asks. “Are there, like, no rules at all? Why can’t Peter stop him? Or get the judge to stop him?”
“That’s not how trials work, son. But Peter will present our case, and when he does, he’ll make it right.” Again, he’s saying this to comfort me. But he still doesn’t mention the secret.
The food arrives, but no one moves. A platter of sandwiches sits on a rolling cart, along with a bowl of fruit, bags of chips, and a plate of brownies. Wrapped in plastic, everything looks revolting.