When We Were Bright and Beautiful(29)

“I keep saying this.” Lawrence glances my way. “But they don’t believe me.”

“People never think it can happen to them until it happens to them.”

Lawrence opens his mouth as if to add something.

“What? Now’s the time to talk. Tell me everything. Secret meth addictions. Spousal abuse. I don’t care. Once the indictment comes in, you’re all fair game. So think about it, folks. Meantime, I need access to your finances. Income, investments, real estate—the works.”

“Absolutely,” Lawrence tells him just as Eleanor says, “That won’t be possible, Mr. DeFiore.”

He laughs. “I can see how this is gonna go. Mrs. Quinn, we can speak privately. Also, we have a freelance investigator, so you’ll need to authorize the funds to pay him.”

“Whatever you need,” Lawrence assures him.

“One thing you should do,” I cut in, “is load up your team with female lawyers.”

“You’re very smart,” DeFiore says. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Everyone tells me that.”

“Ask her about Yale,” Nate says. “No one is more impressed with Cassie’s brains than Cassie.”

As we stand up to leave, Billy says, “W-w-wait. I have to tell you sss-something. I quit running. I mean, competing. Last December.”

Lawrence looks at Eleanor. “Did you know?” She shakes her head.

“Why?” I ask. “You love running.”

“It was too much—Diana, school, tutoring. I told you this.”

“I thought you gave up Diana, not track.”

DeFiore lays a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “I’m glad you shared this. It’s just another detail we’ll add to the story.” He turns to the rest of us. “One last thing. This is the most important thing of every important thing I’ve told you. In the coming weeks, people will try to contact you—cops, investigators, reporters. Do not speak to anyone unless I’m there. No one. I cannot stress this enough: keep your mouths shut.”

*

That night, we celebrate Lawrence’s birthday. In the cab on the way to Reginald’s, our favorite restaurant on Madison, we make a pact to relax. For one night, no talk of lawyers, trials, or doomsday fears. We reminisce about our childhood birthdays: the time Nate lit a cherry bomb and blew up the cake, Billy peeing on my foot after a jellyfish stung me, sleeping outside in tents, our sacred days in Hawkins Cove. Later, at home, in the celebration room, Lawrence opens his presents (ties, books, more ties). Maeve brings out a black forest cake that says Happy Bday, love Eleanor + your 3 M’s. We sing off-key, lick frosting off our fingers, drink too much wine and for one brief shining moment, the world is ours again.





16


TURNS OUT LAWRENCE WAS RIGHT ABOUT THE MEDIA. A week later, when the grand jury votes for indictment, the press gets wind of the case. The hits start slowly—small mentions on a local blog, a brief mention in AM New York—then snowball. Six hours later, by the time the New York Times and Associated Press have gotten ahold of the story, my brother is everywhere.

Guilty, guilty, guilty, I can read between the reporters’ lines. Almost all the articles home in on his privilege, showcase his All-Ivy record (9.8 seconds in the 100-meter dash), and allude to unspecified “emotional problems.” Diana Holly, by contrast, barely registers. “Biology major,” the papers call her, adhering to the laws about not naming a rape accuser. “Women’s shelter volunteer. Exceptional student.” Worst of all, there’s no references to their prior relationship.

Enraged, I call DeFiore. “How can they do this? She was the one who harassed him. She invited him to the party. She forced herself on him.”

He’s unruffled. “Be patient,” he assures me. “Everything will come out at trial.”

Will it? I wonder. Everything?

DeFiore was right too. As we get closer to Billy’s arraignment on April 17, the hits multiply and metastasize, and we are deluged by reporters, bloggers, op-ed writers, columnists, and TV journalists. They phone, text, and email us. They contact family friends, relatives in far-flung locations, and acquaintances we barely know.

“Do not read the news,” he reminds us. “Do not talk to a soul.”

I can’t help myself. Scrolling through headlines, I spot one in Vanity Fair—“Ivy Runner Can’t Outrace Rape Charge”—and lose hours in a Google black hole. That I can’t set the record straight kills me. My desire to talk becomes a need, then an urge. I’m twitchy all the time from biting my tongue.

For the next three weeks, the five of us hunker down at home. Outside, reporters and paparazzi converge on the street, angling for pictures, sound bites, any bits of news. We hire a security detail, including a bodyguard for Billy. Soon, I’m climbing the walls. Anton sneaks me down to the parking lot in the super-secret staff elevator, and I escape to New Haven for a few days. My apartment is small: two bedrooms, one bathroom, and no furniture to speak of. But it’s private, quiet, and entirely my own. While I’m there, I make up missed exams, turn in late assignments, and try to pretend everything is fine, fine, fine. Before I leave, I drop off keys for the doorman, who’s promised to pick up my mail. “I’ll be back,” I assure him and reassure myself. “I still live here.”