When We Were Bright and Beautiful(10)
Lawrence takes us through the past twenty-four hours. According to the Bowtie, although Billy struggled at first, he was respectful and compliant at the police station. He willingly gave a DNA sample and consented to a blood test and full-body search. “Burt said the detention center isn’t terrible—it’s not Rikers, thank God. But it’s concerning nonetheless. Billy is scheduled to appear before the judge tomorrow, but I’m hoping DeFiore can get him out today.”
“Why can’t he post bail?” I ask.
“No cash bail in New Jersey. It’s a vestige of prison reform from years back.”
“See, Cassie?” Nate sighs. “I told you there’s no bail. You never believe anything I say.”
Lawrence nods. “Nate’s right. Billy’s going to be assigned a score based on how likely he is to return for trial. For all we know, the DA will argue that our finances make him a flight risk. Either way, they can hold him for forty-eight hours. I don’t want him to spend one more night in that place.”
“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.