When We Were Bright and Beautiful(20)

“Cassandra!” Eleanor is mortified.

DeFiore steps in. “Folks, folks. Let’s focus. We don’t have much time. Cassie, your brother looks fine. Exhausted, petrified, but no dings.”

“So, what’s the not-so-good news?” Eleanor wants to know.

“The DA is going to argue against release.”

“What?” She turns to Lawrence. “What is he saying? They’re won’t let Billy out?”

“They won’t win,” Lawrence reassures her. “Peter and I discussed this yesterday.”

“No, of course not,” DeFiore agrees. “But their argument is meaningful. I don’t know what your husband has told you, Mrs. Quinn, but the DA has witnesses, two Princeton students who came upon Billy with the accuser. They’re alleging that she was unconscious, er, unresponsive, rather.”

“Unconscious?” Eleanor grabs Lawrence’s arm. “Did you know this?”

Nate and I stiffen; we keep our eyes locked on the floor. Oh Lawrence, I think.

“It’s a point of contention,” he says. “There’s no evidence—”

“No confirmed evidence,” DeFiore clarifies. “We’re still waiting. This is Billy’s first arrest. He is a model student. They have no legitimate reason to detain him. But Anderson will argue that he exhibited what they call ‘willful and depraved disregard for the girl’s welfare.’ He’s sending a message.”

“What kind of message?”

“Given the climate, the facts of the case so far, the press—”

“The press? There’s been nothing in the press,” Eleanor says, her pitch rising.

“After today, there will be, Mrs. Quinn. They’re going to use Billy. Make an example—”

“But what about the girl? What about Diana?”

A shadow crosses DeFiore’s face. Clearly, he wants Eleanor to let him finish a goddamn sentence, but for all the guy’s smarts, he doesn’t grasp that she’s paying him to let her speak. In fact, she’d much rather shell out three times his rate to a Park Avenue attorney who knew enough to shut his mouth when she’s talking, wipe his forehead, and buy a decent suit that fits. “What about Diana?” he asks wearily.

“Diana and Billy’s relationship? How does that fit in?”

“Right now, it doesn’t.” DeFiore starts to add something else then decides against it. Promising we’ll all talk soon, he disappears behind a concealed door.

Eleanor looks shell-shocked, and Lawrence tries to take her arm, but she shrugs him off.

“Billy will be fine,” the Bowtie murmurs as a sheriff opens the courtroom doors. Laying a protective hand on Eleanor’s shoulder, he maneuvers her inside. “As will you.”

Stepping forward, Eleanor maintains a safe distance from the rest of us, as if she’d just met us for the first time and wasn’t impressed.

*

Twenty minutes later, we’re seated in the gallery. Everyone is in place—judge, defense team, court reporter—except for the prosecution, whose table is empty. I take in the Honorable Charles McKay, our judge. He’s gray-haired, with deep-set eyes, unruly eyebrows, and a formidable frown. So far, he’s the most impressive man in the room, though this is probably because he’s on the throne, wearing robes.

There are ten rows for spectators. Half the rows are empty, the other half hold women with young children and a few scattered families like ours. Everyone, except us, is Black. At the defense table, DeFiore sits with a younger man, presumably his co-counsel. Heads bent together, the two men crack up. Their levity seems disrespectful, and I wonder if maybe Eleanor was right about DeFiore.

Billy is scheduled to appear first. But fifteen minutes later, we’re still waiting. From my bag, I pull out a pen and paper. Nate and I play Hangman. I solve the first puzzle (N A T E T H E G R E A T I S K I N G). Nate solves the next one (B I L L Y Q U I N N W A S F R A M E D).

Eventually, a slender woman with a low ponytail rushes in. Wheeling a legal briefcase and carrying a stack of folders, she heads to the prosecution table. She’s wearing tiny glasses with cat’s-eye frames and an olive-green polyester suit. Her hem hangs down and skims her calves. In her dusty flats and pilled cardigan, she looks like she leads Bible study on Wednesday evenings. A bald giant follows behind her, also wheeling a briefcase. A burly bruiser with a thick neck and fleshy jowls, he’s talking quietly on his phone. According to the Bowtie, this is Bradley Anderson, the district attorney; the dowdy girl is Maggie Fleming, his deputy.

“We apologize for being late, Your Honor,” Fleming says, her voice just above a whisper. “We had a last-minute—”

“Fine, you’re here.” Judge McKay waves them to their table. “Sit down; let’s go.”

The prosecution and defense teams acknowledge each other with a perfunctory nod, and then turn to McKay, who opens the show. “What’s the case number?” he asks the bailiff, but before she can answer, he asks the DA if they’re set.

“Sure,” Anderson replies. “We’re ready whenever you are.” His casual tone surprises me.

McKay beckons Fleming up to the bench and says something inaudible. She nods. Meanwhile, DeFiore and Junior are conferring, as if they have nothing to do with the proceedings unfolding around them.