It’s a choice, I remind myself. Loving him may not be but protecting him is. All I know is that it’s very hard not to move next to him. Impossible, almost. And this is only day five. How will I survive the rest of my life?
Lunch is delivered, eaten, and cleared away. One o’clock comes and goes. By two, I’m scared. Billy won’t survive incarceration. Like I told Haggerty, he’s softer than me and Nate, more likely to break. Maybe, given his background, they’ll let him work in the library, or better, in the clinic. I acknowledge the privilege he’ll bring to that situation, privilege that so few others hold. And yet, I am grateful for it. I hope beyond hope that his looks, money, race, education—any of it, all of it—will serve him as well in prison as it has in life.
At four-thirty, DeFiore’s phone dings. “It’s in.” He stands up. “Let’s go.”
Together, we head to the courtroom. Inside, everyone—McKay, Anderson, the jury—is already seated. We slip into our seats and hold our breath.
“Will the defendant please rise?”
Billy stands up.
“Has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?”
A woman with curly brown hair and a starburst broach on her lapel stands up. I thought I knew all the jurors, but I feel like I’ve never seen her before. It’s not a good sign. “Yes, we have, Your Honor.”
The bailiff hands the verdict to the judge who reads it silently then hands it back.
“He’s just a kid,” Nate whispers nervously. “Prison will destroy him.”
“He’s a grown man, Nate. He’ll adjust.”
“On the two counts of rape, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant . . . not guilty, Your Honor.”
“Hell no,” someone calls out. “Oh my God,” I say aloud.
“Silence!” McKay is pissed. “On the count of attempted rape, how do you find?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“On the two counts of felony sexual assault.”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Quinn,” McKay says, “you are free to go.”
I turn to Nate; he’s shocked too. “He’s free?”
60
LAWRENCE IS ARRESTED TWO WEEKS LATER. I WATCH IT ON the news, in the celebration room, on the widescreen TV. A reporter narrates as footage is aired of Lawrence standing on the sidewalk in front of his hotel. His hands are locked behind him. But his chin is up, his eyes are bright.
To the naked eye, he is a supremely confident man. On camera, you see this in the thrust of his chest, his optimistic grin. What you can’t see is the rot roiling below the surface. Funny, but watching him on-screen, I can’t see it either. I can almost forget it’s there.
Lawrence bends his head and Haggerty pushes him forward, into a waiting car. Then he’s gone.
A few days later, I text Haggerty:
Thanks for everything. You’re not such a shitty cop, I guess.
I’m a detective, Ms. Quinn. Your praise is humbling.
It’s Cassie. Maybe one day we can solve crimes together.
Cassie, I look forward to it.
*
No one is all good or all bad. You can love your father because he clothed and fed you, but you can hate him because he’s a man and tragically flawed. I love Lawrence in the childlike way that’s rarely questioned. The kind of love that’s involuntary, like breathing. The kind of love that’s impossible to stop even if stopping is the only way I’ll survive.
Lawrence was charged with statutory rape of a minor, along with other crimes related to me. Turns out Billy’s testimony, my conversations with Haggerty, and affidavits from Anton, Joey, and Maeve were enough to get a warrant. It’s unlikely the case will go to trial. Given the facts, and the havoc Eleanor can wreak, at some point soon he’ll make a deal. So, unlike his son, Lawrence is headed to prison. Upon his release, he’ll have to register as a sex offender.
I’m not sure that what Lawrence did was a crime, nor am I sure if he committed it alone. We fell in love together and with my full consent. Even if I was too young, as defined by an arbitrary law, I knew what I was doing. Men are men are men. Feral, submissive—it’s biology. I appealed to Lawrence’s baser instincts and got what I wanted.
And yet.
Recent developments suggest that the concrete pillar at my core has sustained a hairline fracture. After Billy was arrested, I saw cops everywhere. Now I see girls. Twelve-year-olds buying frozen yogurt with their moms. Thirteen-year-olds arm-in-arm on the street, laughing uproariously. The other day I walked past a playground and watched a group of girls huddled in the corner, smoking. They were fourteen, maybe fifteen, max. Their cigarettes were hidden, but smoke plumed in the air. Wearing plaid skirts and school blazers, with their yarn friendship bracelets, Converse high-tops, and swinging ponytails, they looked so childish, so blissfully unaware that I felt my legs give way and had to sit down. Then I started to cry.
The terms of Lawrence’s bail agreement prohibit him from contacting me. Even so, two weeks after his arrest, out on bond, he called me and my brothers and begged us to see him. Neither Nate nor Billy agreed, but after a week of yes-no-maybe-I-don’t-know, I said yes, okay, I guess.
Lawrence is living in a plush hotel near the Hudson River, far from the Valmont. We agree to meet on Monday afternoon in the lobby restaurant. At four, Nate walks me to the hotel entrance, but that’s as far as he’ll go.
“I can’t.” He gestures to the bar next door. “I’ll wait here.”
“I’ll be in and out in twenty minutes.”
“It not, I’ll come find you.” A promise and a threat. Nate knows that without it, I’ll waffle. I’ll stay too long. I’m not nearly as tough as I think I am.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.
“I’ll be here,” he assures me.
Lawrence is in the back, in a corner booth. It’s almost Christmas, and the walls are decorated with sparkly tinsel and blinking lights. Candles glow on the tabletops. It’s lovely and romantic, and yet, the room has an air of tragedy. Or maybe it’s just that this feeling is evoked in me when Lawrence lifts his head. “Cassie,” he says. His voice cracks.
“Lawrence.” Numbness permeates my body even as I start to tremble. What now? What next? Panting, I grab the back of a chair to steady myself.
A couple of years ago, Eleanor told me that when her parents reached the end of their lives, she was forced to think of them as strangers. She cared for them with the diligence of a loving daughter, but these cranky senior citizens, who barked orders and called her Eloise, weren’t her real mother and father. She said it was the only way she could handle her sorrow and absorb the enormity of what was happening to them, and to her. “They weren’t just dying,” she explained. “They were also leaving me behind.”
I study Lawrence’s face. He still has the same arrogant lift to his chin, the same chiseled jaw. But the light is gone. His skin is ashen. His blue eyes are cloudy. He’s a shadow of the man I knew.
“You look so beautiful.” His cheeks are wet. “My Forever Girl.” On the table, there’s a gift wrapped in elegant gold paper with a silk bow. He pushes it toward me.