“I did not want to trap him. You’re twisting my words.”
“And isn’t all your testimony today really due to the Quinns’ money? You took a self-guided tour of their landmark home, coveting their priceless artifacts, because you want that life, correct? And when Billy felt smothered, you panicked, didn’t you? Isn’t it true my client said he wasn’t ready to talk about the future? But you wouldn’t let it go, correct? You pushed harder. So, he told you about a prenup, hoping to deter you, correct? But it didn’t. Instead, you continued to press him on a commitment, correct?”
“Objection! Badgering the victim.”
“Your Honor,” DeFiore says. “The defense is allowed to explore whether or not the victim’s outcry is truthful, as well as any motivation she may have for her claim of rape.”
“I’ll allow it, but rephrase your questions, and move away from this portion.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Ms. Holly, in the previously identified texts, you remind my client that you love each other, and you beg him to ‘not do this,’ correct?”
“Objection to characterization of begging,” Anderson says.
“Overruled.”
“But he didn’t respond, which made you even more desperate. So you invited him to a party, where you could seduce him, correct? He didn’t want to come, but you kept pushing, correct? And when he finally showed up, you encouraged him to drink and smoke pot. And you drank so much you became uninhibited, correct? So uninhibited, you brought him to the playground and had sex with him. The same way you had all those other times, correct? But my client still refused to resume your relationship, correct? This hurt you, didn’t it? So you saw an opportunity. A nurse suggested you didn’t want to have sex, that you had been assaulted. And you thought, ‘I can make him pay for hurting me.’ So, you went along with the rape accusation. Yet the fact remains: there was no rape, correct? You drank until you blacked out. And you wanted to have sex because you wanted—”
“Objection!” Up on her feet, Maggie Fleming is railing, “Objection! The victim is clearly upset.” Meanwhile, Diana is sobbing. “No, this is not correct. Billy raped me. I said no.”
DeFiore is cool. “Your Honor, we are allowed to examine her motivations. However, we will stop for now. We have no more questions.”
McKay turns to Anderson. “Anything further from the State?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Anderson asks Diana to clarify her testimony about the night of the party. He moves slowly through his questions, but Diana is too shell-shocked to answer. Mumbling incoherently, she confuses the sequence of events, and contradicts herself a few times, muddying her earlier statement. “I don’t know,” she keeps repeating. “I don’t know.”
Finally, Anderson gives up. “No more questions, Your Honor.”
“You may step down, Ms. Holly,” the judge tells her.
Blinking, she appears confused. Step down? That’s it? I’m done?
“No more witnesses.” Anderson is not happy. “The State rests.”
“We’ll resume Monday with the defense,” McKay says. “Court dismissed.”
49
OVER THE WEEKEND, WE FEEL THE NEED TO COME TOGETHER as a family, even if no one says so explicitly. Friday night, we drive back to New York and sleep in our own beds. On Saturday morning, all five of us gather in the celebration room and spend the day there. We try to refrain from talking about the trial but it’s the only thing on our minds.
Toward dinnertime, Nate builds a fire. “Peter was a champ yesterday,” he says, adding paper. There’s a whoosh, and the blaze ignites. “His cross was amazing.”
The room fills with warmth. Moving closer to the hearth, I hold out my hands. “He definitely cast reasonable doubt. And raised a ton of questions.”
“So what?” Lawrence is adamant. “The girl was convincing.” Sipping scotch, he watches the fire crackle. “Those posters were very powerful. Peter couldn’t mitigate their impact, no matter what he said.”
“You’re wrong, Dad. He found every hole in her story.” Nate nudges me for support.
“I agree.” Personally, I think Lawrence’s animosity toward DeFiore has nothing to do with the lawyer’s performance. Lawrence can’t stand that every time he turns around, DeFiore and Eleanor are huddled together, freezing him out. “He raised a lot of good points.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lawrence repeats. “The evidence was solid and incriminating. Far worse than Peter let on.”
“So, you think Billy’s guilty, Dad?” Nate asks. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, Nathaniel. Of course not. But let’s not kid ourselves. Peter has to do a lot of damage control.”
“Shut the fuck up, Dad,” Billy snaps. “Why are you talking about me like I’m not here? You need to back off. Peter is doing a great job.”
Diana’s testimony has jarred something loose in Billy. He hasn’t said much, but last night, after the reporters dispersed around eleven-thirty, he went for a long run. This morning, he got up at the crack of dawn, lifted weights, showered, shaved, and cleaned his room. Now, he’s spoiling for a fight.
“I know you admire him, son. But I don’t think you understand what we’re up against.”
“What don’t I understand? The part where we let my lawyer do his job? Or the part where we listen to you, and I go to prison for the rest of my fucking life?”
“I wasn’t the one who hung you out to dry,” Lawrence says, looking at Eleanor. “We didn’t have to go to trial.” Of course it’s true that Lawrence didn’t want to go to trial. But it wasn’t about Billy. It was about Lawrence + Cassie.
Seated next to me, Lawrence’s body trembles with desire. He knocked on my door last night, late. He must have been desperate, knowing the whole family was home, but taking the risk, anyway. I pretended to be asleep, still angry with him. In a few days, I’ll ask about the video he showed me. He’ll offer a non-apology. If I did, I’m sure it was meant to be educational. I don’t remember, Cassie. It was so long ago. Regardless, I’m sorry if you misinterpreted my intentions. I’ll let him twist as long as I can. Then I’ll give in. Lawrence and I have a long history. We’re not together today, but tomorrow is tomorrow. There are thresholds you cross when you love someone. You make allowances. You forgive the unforgivable. You sacrifice yourself for his pleasure. Especially after all he has given you.
Eleanor finally speaks. “Lawrence, please.” Her voice is tight. “Shut the fuck up.”
The next morning, DeFiore stops by for brunch and a pep talk. Cross-examining Diana has revitalized him, and he’s full of enthusiasm in his Jets sweatshirt and grungy khakis. Digging into his French toast, he tells us to buck up. “We’re in the catbird seat, Quinn family. It’s the bottom of the ninth, we’ve got a man on second, a runner on third, and no outs.”
“At least you’re not overconfident,” I say.
DeFiore cracks a smile. “Hey, hey, hey.” He points his syrupy fork first at me, then at Lawrence. “Enough with the negativity. You need to shine, shine, shine come Monday. This is our last stand, my friends, our Battle of Little Bighorn, our Alamo—”