When We Were Bright and Beautiful(103)

DeFiore’s argument is equally persuasive. “We can never know what really happened inside the Quinn home, but our knowledge of this family’s struggles has no bearing on the charges against my client. It has no bearing on how you, members of the jury, should vote. What does bear on your vote, however, is the accuser’s integrity. Diana Holly is untruthful. We have seen this over and over. She is untruthful, relentless—and vengeful.”

DeFiore finishes by reminding the jury that the burden of proof lies with the State. They must prove without a shadow of doubt what happened between Billy and Diana on March 24. It seems like a tall order for any prosecutor, not just Anderson. I mean, how can any of us say for sure what happens between two people?

By the time both sides rest, it’s impossible to tell which way the jury will lean. For me, I know, unequivocally, what Billy is and what he isn’t. Billy is a rapist. Billy is my brother. Both statements are true.

*

The jury deliberates for twenty-four hours. On Wednesday at noon, Eleanor checks her watch. “Peter, you said a not-guilty would come fast.” She gives him a murderous look. “What’s the holdup?”

“Give it time, Ellie.” DeFiore is unfazed. The verdict will come when it comes. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. He has relatives visiting from Florida. He’s looking forward to turkey and all the trimmings, soccer with his girls, and a spate of new clients. He’s already told us we should hire a fresh set of eyes if there’s an appeal. Once the verdict is read, Peter DeFiore, Esquire, is finished with the Lawrence Quinns.

We’re in the conference room. If we do get a decision today, the five of us won’t be together again for a long time, if ever. Lawrence is at the other end of this mammoth, sixteen-chair table. The sight of him, alone and cast out, would break my heart if I let it. Except for “hello, how are you,” and “fine, how are you?” he and I haven’t spoken since last Friday, nearly a week ago.

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.