*
Back in court, Diana completes her testimony. For the balance of the afternoon, we marinate in Billy’s anger. His explosive anger. Shocking anger. Destructive anger. My brother, William Matthew Stockton Quinn, a young man of many dimensions—athlete, scholar, volunteer, brother, son—is reduced to only one: rapist. A note replayed so many times and so perfectly pitched that by the time Diana finishes, I don’t understand how Billy can be allowed to leave this building. We should hang him from the rafters and watch him swing.
Diana remains tearful. “The breakup was bad. But the aftermath was worse.”
Next to the jury box, two easels hold posters we’ve already seen: the fist-sized holes in Diana’s dorm room and the shattered windshield. Now, as she describes Billy’s escalating aggression, Anderson presents a third poster. Exhibit A-21 is a cell phone screenshot with a series of texts:
We’re not finished.
You can’t tell anyone.
Do not do this, Diana. I WILL NOT LET YOU.
You’ll ruin our lives.
It’s not true. Nothing you’re saying is true.
Yes, Diana confirms, I did receive those texts from Billy. Yes, he harassed me. Yes, he threatened me. Yes, I was frightened. You fucking bitch, he kept saying. You can’t do this. Yes, I worried for my safety. So, I invited him to a party. Yes, I believed I’d be safe. Yes, I realize now this was foolish.
“Why didn’t you tell your parents?” Anderson asks. “Or go to the police?”
“I considered it. Several times. But I was afraid of what might happen.”
“To you?”
“Yes. But also to him. Billy behaved badly, but he’s not a bad person. If I involved the police, he would’ve been suspended or expelled. He couldn’t apply to medical school or be a doctor. He’d lose his whole future, and it would have been my fault.”
“What happened when the defendant showed up at the party?”
“I’m ashamed to say I don’t remember much.” Diana exhales. “Except for a few images, most of my memories are fragments.” Her voice is raspy. “Excuse me.” She sips her water.
“Take your time,” Anderson coaches. “We’re in no rush. We know this is difficult.”
Diana’s hair has come loose from her clip. She brushes it away with her fingers. “Before Billy showed up, I was nervous. I had a few drinks, but I’m sensitive to alcohol. One glass of wine makes me tipsy. Before I knew it, I was very, very drunk.”
“Do you remember texting the defendant before he arrived?”
“No.”
“Do you remember kissing the defendant after he arrived?”
“No. We went alone to a bedroom to talk privately. I remember kissing there.”
“Did you tell the defendant you wanted to have sex?”
“I don’t know. I do remember Billy pulling down his pants, but not being able to get an erection.”
“Why do you remember that?”
“Because he went ballistic. He started yelling, called me a ‘fucking bitch.’ I think he was afraid I would tell people.” She steals a glance at Billy. “I never would’ve told anyone.”
“Is that why you left the party?”
“Yes. I told him we were finished. ‘I don’t love you anymore,’ I said.”
“Did he follow you?”
“Yes, he did. And we ended up at the playground.”
“And you started kissing again?”
“Yes.” Diana’s eyes well up. “We were kissing again. All of this is hazy, but I remember saying ‘No, Billy. I don’t want to do this.’ After that, it goes black. Next, I’m waking up in the hospital. My body ached and I had a cut on my head. I was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants I’d never seen before. My socks and bra were missing. The nurse told me I’d been assaulted. She had to do a rape kit. I couldn’t believe it, but knew it was true.”
“How did you know it was true?”
“I told him ‘no.’” Diana clears her throat. “I said ‘No, I don’t want to do this. Get off me.’” She starts to cry again, but this time makes no noise. “I said no,” she whispers.
Lawrence was right, I decide. We should’ve taken the four years.
The courtroom is silent. In front of me, at the defense table, Billy is shaking his head, but whether it’s because he’s horrified by his behavior or appalled by Diana’s lies is unclear. He just seems flattened.
Lawrence is next to me; Eleanor is on his left. They sit rigidly, actively not touching. With their earlier argument unresolved, anger wafts off their bodies like fumes. Under normal conditions, Lawrence would’ve been down on his knees, begging for her forgiveness. Instead, his jaw is set and he’s grinding his teeth with indignation. He’s furious at Eleanor for not taking the deal.
Fuck her, I bet he’s thinking. Fuck her forever. Catching my eye, he pats my thigh. Then he squeezes my hand three times: I. Love. You.
I don’t respond. My own hand rests on my leg like a dead fish.
Anderson isn’t finished. One by one, he places a series of poster-sized collages on the easels. Each is made up of snapshots taken from the crime scene, the hospital, and the rape kit. The posters are graphic and difficult to look at. But the images are clear. Bruises on Diana’s arms, hips, and thighs. Bloody lacerations on her face. Cuts on her elbows. Welts on her back. Broken capillaries in her eyes. Again, a young woman, unconscious, on the grass.
These easels, starting with the punched walls and ending with the battered girl, tell the story of Billy Quinn and Diana Holly. The hard evidence is laid out chapter by chapter, image by image. While we study them, the courtroom swells with the truth of Billy’s anger: savage, destructive, indelible.
“I have no more questions,” Anderson says then turns to DeFiore. “Your witness.”
Anderson is gloating. Returning to his table, the DA moves with a brand-new nimbleness, as if a tremendous weight has been lifted, as if inside, he is nothing but feathers.
48
AFTER A BRIEF RECESS, DIANA IS CALLED UP AGAIN, SEATED, and reminded that she’s under oath. She looks wiped out, but I notice a glint in her eye. A small hint of steel that suggests she will not be defeated.
Rising from his chair, DeFiore buttons his jacket. “Ms. Holly, for the record, I represent the Defendant, Billy Quinn.” He steps forward. “May I ask you a few simple questions?”
“Yes,” she tells DeFiore quietly. “You may.”
“Thank you.” His voice, by contrast, is booming, and echoes off the high ceilings. “For the record, are you aware who my client is?”
When Diana’s eyes shift to Billy, DeFiore offers her a sympathetic smile. He has to tread lightly. Before the trial began, he explained that cross-examining a victim of sexual assault is a minefield. If he goes too far—too many intrusive questions, for instance, or too harsh a tone—the jury will side with Diana. Same if he doesn’t go far enough; her story will stand uncontested. He has to find inconsistencies in Diana’s story without calling her a liar; it means attacking her claims without attacking her.
The mood in the courtroom is tense. Stripped bare by Diana’s testimony, we’re raw and jittery. We sense drama afoot the way a dog’s panting portends a brewing storm. Recognizing this, DeFiore is tentative. His movements are languid. He smooths his hair. Removes his glasses. Then he begins. “Ms. Holly, earlier, you said that when you became aware of my client’s alleged porn addiction, it bothered you. Is this true?”