Wait, no! That’s not true. Billy never got up—not once. And I remember this because, like Diana, I was tracking his every move. I watched him come into the house and take off his coat; I waited for him to hug me. Instead, he brushed by me, and guided Diana down the hall. “Billy!” I called out. “No hello?” Diana said hi, but he kept walking, tossing off, “Oh, hey, Cassie,” over his shoulder. Later, we were in the den: Billy, Diana, Eleanor, and me. Billy was being very cold, and I tried to make conversation, but he barely acknowledged me. So I went to find Lawrence, who was in the celebration room, and let him know Billy and Diana had arrived. When I walked out, I ran into Diana, who’d been peering into random rooms, gawking at their size. She was holding a vase, but upside-down as if checking for a manufacturing label. “I’m sorry,” she said, startled. “I didn’t know you were here.” I didn’t care about the vase, but I was stung by Billy’s shitty treatment. I made a nasty crack, and I think Diana was embarrassed because she wouldn’t look me in the eye. “I’m so sorry,” she kept repeating then rushed off. When I got back to the den, she was tugging on Billy’s hand. “Babe, I don’t feel well. Babe? Do you mind if we head out early? Babe?” The whole thing was fucked-up and rude.
“And then what happened?” Anderson is asking Diana.
“I broke up with him. I mean, it took a few weeks, but eventually I told him it was really over.”
“And how did he react to that?”
“Badly. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” She shakes her head. “I went to his dorm room to tell him, and when I started talking, he picked up his baseball bat. I got scared. Honestly, this was unusual. Billy has never hurt me, not physically. But the bat freaked me out. ‘Billy,’ I said. ‘I wish you’d put that down.’”
“Did he?”
“No. He just kept smacking the thick part against his hand, in this menacing way. I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept talking. I told him I cared about him and didn’t want to hurt him. But we couldn’t see each other anymore. At first, he didn’t reply, so I thought he was okay. But then he blew up. I mean, he was a maniac, yelling and swinging the bat. Not at me, at the furniture. Then he ran out to the parking lot behind the dorm and started bashing in his own car.”
Nate nudges me and whispers, “Do you believe this? Why would he do that?”
Anderson holds up a photo. “I’d like to introduce Exhibit SE-33 into evidence.” He hands the photograph to the jury members, who pass it down the line. It’s the windshield of a car, shattered to bits. Glass is everywhere—inside the seat, on the pavement, across the hood. He places a poster of the image on an easel.
“Is this Billy’s Audi?”
“Yes,” Diana replies quietly. “That’s his car. That was his car, I mean.”
When McKay cracks his gavel, the sound is like a gunshot. “Let’s break for lunch,” he says.
47
I GRAB DEFIORE’S ARM AS HE WALKS OUT OF THE COURTROOM. “Can I speak to you? Privately? I promise it won’t take long.”
“Sure, Cassie. Always.” But he looks spooked, like he’s just witnessed a fatal crash. “I have to make a couple calls, and then I’ll come find you.” Patting my arm, he hustles away.
I stop in the ladies’ room where I run into Eleanor at the sink. It creates an optical illusion, as if there are four of us. “It’s warm in this building, no?” she says to my reflection.
“I guess” is all I can manage.
“I need water, Sweetheart,” she says, then touches up her lipstick, and snaps her bag shut. “I’ll get you some as well.” A marvel of tranquil restraint, Eleanor could be anywhere: a department store lounge, the lobby of a hotel or private club. That she happens to be in a federal courthouse, where her son happens to be on trial, a trial he happens to be losing, is neither here nor there. “You should eat something,” she tells me. “Dinner might be late this evening.”
Soon after, I’m sitting with Nate and Billy in our usual conference room. DeFiore has brought in an outside firm to consult on the case—never a good sign, according to Lawrence—and unfamiliar lawyers have been in and out all morning. The place is a disaster zone. Breakfast and lunch trays have been plundered. Ramekins of cream cheese and half-eaten sandwiches are drying out under the recessed lights. Dirty plates, soiled napkins, and empty chip bags litter the table. Laptops and iPads are plugged into walls, and cords are everywhere.
Wearing his signature headphones, Billy is sprawled in a chair with his eyes closed. Next to me, Nate holds out a bag of pretzels. Digging in, I take two and eat them, then go back for more.
“What’s bothering you?” He squints at his computer, reading the news. “I haven’t seen you eat a carbohydrate since the fourth grade.”
“Diana’s testimony shook me up.”
Glancing at Billy, Nate lowers his voice. “She’s a decent witness. I mean, she’s probably lying about everything. Still, I believe her.”
“She is lying. That story about dinner. I was there. Billy didn’t get up, not once. I mean, it’s a small detail but it’s not true.” I pause. “We’re losing, Nate.”
Out in the hall, Lawrence and Eleanor are arguing. This is a new development; until now, they’ve never argued publicly. Nate puts in earbuds, but I move closer to the door. “It’s a bloodbath,” I hear Lawrence say. “Let’s take the four years.”
Eleanor scoffs. “There is no ‘four years.’ That deal was off the table when the trial started. You know this, Lawrence. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“This is your fault, Eleanor. I wanted to take it.”
“Folks!” DeFiore is pissed. “Knock it off!”
Lawrence apologizes, but Eleanor is quiet. I hear the tap of her heels as she walks away, and wait for him to chase her. Instead, he steps into the conference room. “Whoa!” he exclaims, looking around. “You kids must be starving. You seeing this, Peter? Even Cassie is eating!”
Ignoring him, I turn to DeFiore. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”
He shakes his head. “No one is fucked. We’re right where we want to be.” He tries to sound reassuring but his eyes dart all over the room. “We still have our whole defense—” Mid-sentence, he pivots. “You had something to tell me, Cassie?”
“She’s lying,” I say. “About the dinner in November. Billy never left the den.” I remind him of that evening, the parts Diana left out: how I bumped into her in the hall, the way she was ogling our house, the vase, my comment, her embarrassment, their rushed departure.
“Yeah, I know.” Browsing through emails on his phone, DeFiore is only half-listening. “Eleanor also told me Diana is lying. No need to worry, though. We’ve got this covered.”
“What does that mean? How is this covered?”
DeFiore has moved to the lunch trays, where he picks over the small bits of crusted bread that remain. Chewing thoughtfully, he’s somewhere else, far away from the trial, away from the Lawrence Quinns, away from this whole sordid mess.