*
“Busy, Princess?” Standing at my bedroom door, Nate holds an ancient Scrabble box. “Want to hang out?”
I take out my earbuds. “I haven’t played in forever.”
“We can play Scrabble. Or . . .” He flips open the lid; inside are two joints.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re lying on my carpet, studying the ceiling.
“I still can’t get over the size of this room.” Nate exhales a plume of smoke. We watch it dissolve into nothing. “You were so spoiled.”
He is correct. A room fit for a princess. Bedroom, office nook, walk-in closet, and a bathroom suite that could house a family of four. It was lonely though. Still is, sometimes.
“Nate, it’s been twenty years. Let it go.”
Moments pass. How many is anyone’s guess.
“So, what do you think?” he asks eventually.
“About what?”
“How this epic story will end. Will Billy Quinn get acquitted? Finish school? Be a doctor?”
“Absolutely.” I don’t hesitate. “No question.”
“And you? What will you do?”
“Quit Yale. Be Amelia Earhart. Fly jets. You?”
“Big waves, baby. Ride the surf a hundred feet in the air.”
A knock on the door startles us.
“Oh, sorry.” It’s Lawrence, looking confused. “I thought you were alone.”
“Lawrence!” I shout. “Go away. This is Hawkins Cove. No parents allowed.” I crack myself up. Beside me on the floor, Nate eggs me on. “Sacred space, dude,” he tells his father. “You need to G-O, go. Kids only.”
“Sure,” Lawrence repeats, faking a smile. “I’ll leave you children alone.”
Seeing him relegated to the sidelines fills me with superhuman strength. Already giddy, Nate and I can’t stop laughing. Holding my stomach, I try to sit up. I should be nice, let Lawrence in on the joke. But by the time I can speak, he is gone.
43
DURING WEEK TWO, BOREDOM SETS IN. TIME STANDS STILL as Anderson and Fleming tag-team street cops, detectives, EMTs, pharmacists, and a slew of forensic experts who take us through sets of tedious and confusing scientific data. What does become clear, however, is that DeFiore underplayed the State’s evidence. They have more than enough, much of it troubling. Even so, most of the witnesses are older men who seem ill at ease out of uniform. Their bodies are unnaturally stiff, their answers overly rehearsed. They’re armed with props, all designed to situate us at the playground and break down the action in easy-to-follow steps. But Anderson moves through them too quickly. We’re shown maps, diagrams, blueprints, and timelines, one right after the other, in an avalanche of details. So, rather than being able to digest the most vital facts, we’re buried under minutia.
Watching a trial unfold in real time is nothing like seeing one on TV. There’s no wrap-up commentary at the end of the hour. Instead, we suffer through stretches of testimony where the same point is made repeatedly. We hear two police officers describe, in painstaking detail, the patch of lawn where the alleged assault took place, including its square footage, soil density, grass height, and footprint patterns. Photographs of the tire swing are passed around, and entered into evidence, as are Diana’s dress, sweater, bra, ankle boots, and socks. Some of these photos have been enlarged to poster size. Anderson holds them up for the judge and jury—and the reporters in the gallery—then stacks them on easels where they sit until the witness is dismissed. But even if the pictures were interesting—which they’re not—how many shots of a lacy bra do we really need to see? Similarly, Diana’s underwear was missing from the scene, but what could’ve been a compelling set of questions flattens into a mind-numbing dissertation on chain of evidence. Briefly, a frisson of excitement is ignited when DeFiore suggests that Diana may have foregone underwear altogether （“What’s the expression? Commando?”）。 But the objection to his query is sustained, and the comment is stricken from the record.
A skinny, white-haired pharmacist catalogues every substance the couple consumed: beer, vodka, whiskey, Jell-O shots, and marijuana （strain: Sativa, Acapulco Gold）。 Then he recites how each one alters brain chemistry and bodily function. His testimony is jargon-heavy and impossible to follow. Nor can I figure out why McKay allows so many interruptions. DeFiore is constantly on his feet, objecting and requesting sidebars, which means every few minutes the action moves offstage while we’re left to figure out what’s happening.
“We’re doing great!” I told DeFiore at lunch after the pharmacist’s testimony. “You’re killing it.”
“Don’t get too excited,” he said. “Advantage is a pendulum. It swings both ways.”
Unfortunately, he’s right. Slowly but surely the State gains traction. To my horror, Anderson starts pulling Billy apart, one detail at a time. Surprisingly, the pivot point for his success turns out to be porn.
For the next two days, we hear a series of witnesses offer damning testimony, starting with a gangly IT expert who examined Billy’s electronics. Basically, he intimates, the defendant is a perverted porn addict. Eleven hours a week is considered compulsive for college-aged males. So my brother, who watches an average of eighteen hours a week, with a high of twenty-four, is a dirty, drooling lunatic who can’t keep his hands out of his pants.
“This is bullshit,” I murmur.
Nate nods. “But titillating.” Looking around, I see this is true. The jury is spellbound.
Lawrence overhears us. “Porn,” he whispers, disgusted. “Pseudo-psychology conjured out of thin air. This whole argument is repulsive.”
You’re repulsive.
I glance up. When our eyes meet, my face registers for him. For the past seven months, Lawrence has been distracted; or maybe it started earlier, when I jetted off to school the year before. Though he looked at me, it was clear he wasn’t seeing me. Before that, he was always aware of my presence. There was a pulse in the air, a live wire joining his body to mine.
Now I feel like we’re reconnecting again, which makes me unreservedly blissful. At the same time, I hear the type of porn Billy was watching before the party on March 24. “The defendant focused on subjects like Gangbang, Hardcore, and Dominance,” the IT guy says. He gets nervous, starts spelling out words he’s unable to say. “Videos called U-g-l-y B-i-t-c-h Gets F-u-c-k-e-d and Drunk Girl Gets a Mouthful.”
Fear blooms in my chest. My heart starts to race. You’re repulsive. A man’s hand reaches down; I see a flash of naked skin. Blue sheet with tiny pink flowers. A patch of wiry hair.
“You okay?” Lawrence’s whisper is thick with emotion. “Sweetheart?” His hand reaches down, he touches my own naked skin. Every nerve feels electrified. “Cass?”
My chest flutters. A cyclone whips up inside me. Dizzy, I shake with its force.
“Fine,” I say.
I’ve split. One me is here. The other has taken off. Calm down, I coach myself. Slow and steady. Just breathe. My head is buzzing. Light flashes in my eye.
“Fine, fine, fine,” I assure Lawrence. “I swear.”
Next up is Dr. Helmsley Fordyce, renowned psychiatrist, porn expert, Cambridge scholar, and Harvard professor whose bona fides make even Eleanor sit tall and take notice. Dr. Fordyce is a silver fox, a charismatic man in his sixties with a plume of gray hair and a British accent that makes him sound simultaneously wise and ironic.