“It’s Sunday, Lawrence,” I remind him.
“It doesn’t matter what day it is; anything can be worked out.”
“With the proper encouragement,” Nate adds.
“Whatever it takes.” He glances at my brother in his rearview mirror. “I would do the same for you.” He pauses. “So far, they’re charging Billy with aggravated sexual battery and suspicion of felony rape. But the clock hasn’t stopped. The cops are interviewing witnesses, looking at video footage, and photographing the scene. The more evidence they find, the more serious crimes they can add to his charges. Regardless, Burt is confident we’ll get the case tossed out way before that happens.”
“But if we don’t,” Nate says, “and Billy goes to prison, he’ll get ass-raped every night.”
“Nathaniel, that is not funny.”
“Dad, I’m not trying to be funny. If we go to trial, Billy is fucked. Can you imagine him on the stand, getting twisted up in his own words?” He shakes his head. “They’ll crucify him.”
7
AN HOUR LATER, WE’RE DEEP INTO NEW JERSEY. MERCER County is eighty miles south of the city, and a whole other world. We pass cow pastures, scarecrows, working farms, and long stretches of lush greenery before the view shifts to burned-out storefronts, abandoned churches, a derelict daycare center, and three grimy garages, one after the other. Soon, we’re in a shabby neighborhood that reeks of unpaid bills and impending foreclosures. The only sign of life is a large white woman wearing a puffy coat and flip-flops. Lounging on a stoop, she uses her feet to rock a stroller back and forth.
I watch Lawrence scan the streets. “This is it, I think,” he says. He makes a sharp right, and we head up a steep hill. There are Private Property signs warning us off, but he ignores them. We reach the summit, where there’s a parking lot cordoned off by long, greasy chains. Four police cars sit with their noses clustered together. The guard station is empty, and the grounds are as quiet as a graveyard.
Lawrence taps his horn. Nothing moves.
“Let’s go,” I say, growing uncomfortable. “We don’t belong here.”
It’s only been two minutes, tops, but Lawrence can’t wait. Leaning on his horn, he demands service with a long, loud, obnoxious blast.
“Lawrence, stop!” I grab his arm.
“If DeFiore is inside, I don’t want to miss him. Cassie, let go of me. Please.”
From the car, I have a partial view of the campus, which looks more like a rural community college than short-term housing for violent criminals. There’s a row of broken-down trailers and four low-rise brick buildings. Two men, one white, the other Black, wearing khaki jumpsuits push a laundry cart stamped with MCCF. But there’s no security—no men, no guns, no dogs. Just a faded sign that says Mercer County Correctional Facility half-hidden by a battered van with caged windows and muddy tires.
“This place is a dump,” Nate says, glancing at his father.
Lawrence doesn’t respond, although I can tell from the hard set of his jaw that what he sees is unsettling. He grew up in a place like this, a blue-collar town called Pittsfield in western Massachusetts. His father, a much-loved Irish tavern owner, died of cirrhosis of the liver when Lawrence was three. A year later, his mother sold the bar to pay off her husband’s debts then worked two jobs to put food on the table. Lawrence was expected to contribute, but when his silver tongue earned him a full ride to Groton, an elite prep school, she agreed to let him go. His mom had reservations, to be sure. She didn’t want her boy living away from home, much less among rich, spoiled snobs. What values might he learn? What bad habits? In retrospect, her concern is poignant, given that every aspect of his charmed life—career, home, wife, sons, me—can be traced back to Groton.
Despite his disadvantaged start, Lawrence flourished. After high school, he went to Columbia, also on scholarship, then spent years as a media consultant, advising political candidates on PR strategies. Lawrence’s genius is exploiting the space between fact-based truth and news-based reality, and he created successful campaigns for contenders in local races before advancing to state and national elections. Through Eleanor, he was introduced to the upper echelon of the country’s legal, business, and journalism communities, which helped him build a vast referral network.
And yet, for all his success, Lawrence is a humanitarian at heart. Losing a father so young left him with the persistent need to be loved and do good. So, he was lucky to find Eleanor, with whom he shares a social conscience that informs their life choices. About six years ago, Lawrence started to sour on politics. The country’s economic divide sickened him, but so did getting paid to write blustery speeches filled with false promises. When Eleanor encouraged him to switch careers, he decided to use his talent, experience, and influence to benefit those less privileged. I was still in high school when he created the first blueprints for the Stockton-Quinn Foundation, a private nonprofit devoted to wealth redistribution. His big idea is to pair corporate dollars with underserved communities and create social welfare programs at the neighborhood level. （I said it was a big idea, not a novel one.） Lawrence genuinely wants to help people; he also wants never to go back to Pittsfield. To see his youngest child locked up in the middle of nowhere must feel like a cruel twist of fate.
A sharp tap on Lawrence’s window startles me. I look up to see a Black man peering through the glass. He raps again, this time with the tip of his rifle.
“You’re on private property,” the man says. His grin is menacing, but it’s his teeth, broken and caked with yellow debris, that shake me up. Once again, I’ve underestimated the danger factor. Like Lawrence, I have blind spots where trouble seeps in. Next thing I know, I’m in over my head.
“Yes, sir.” Lowering his window, Lawrence offers a five-hundred-watt smile. “Good morning!”
“State your business.”
“We’re meeting my son’s attorney.”
“Now? It’s Sunday. No one gets in or out Sunday. Unless you have cause to be in my driveway you need to turn your vehicle around.”
“Dad, let’s go.” My brother is annoyed. “Cassie, tell him.”
“Give me a minute, Nate.” Lawrence starts to open the car door, but the guard lunges forward. “The fuck you think you’re going?”
Flustered, Lawrence holds up his hands in surrender. His voice drops conspiratorially. “Listen, my boy is inside. May I ask one question?” He hesitates, and for a horrifying second, I’m afraid he’s about to offer the guard a bribe—cash, his Mercedes, me.
Lawrence isn’t a foolish man, but he does act impulsively, and I can’t bear to watch. Until this weekend, our only experience with law enforcement has been speeding tickets （mine）， and a few driving citations （also mine）， including failure to wear a seat belt （true）， failing to yield （true）， and recklessness （untrue）。 Sure, there were dustups. In high school, Nate got caught “mischief-making” with toilet paper and shaving cream. Billy once threw a baseball glove so hard he bruised a kid’s head. But nothing serious and certainly nothing criminal.