When We Were Bright and Beautiful(55)

“Peter,” Nate interrupts. “For God’s sake, he broke up with her—”

“Three, on the night in question, the girl blacked out and Billy raped her—”

“The hospital report was inconclusive—”

“And four, Billy shows no remorse.”

“What are you talking about? How is he not showing remorse?”

“I’m looking at him right now. Billy, sorry pal, but you do not look the least bit remorseful. You look like a privileged, pissed-off jock who’s never been told ‘no’ in his life.”

Billy’s head jerks up. “What the fuck? You don’t even know me.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Lawrence makes a patting gesture. “Let’s stay civil.”

“You people don’t get it,” DeFiore says. “Anderson will decimate Billy. They won’t just bring in witnesses from the scene. They’ll wrangle every person the girl has ever met to testify against him. They’ll say he is damaged, violent, and dangerous. They’ll paper the room with pictures of the girl’s face and body. They’ll go after him like rabid dogs. I’ve seen every piece of evidence. It’s enough to put him away for a very long time.”

“You told us that most of it is circumstantial or inconclusive,” I say.

“No, the sheriff’s and EMT’s reports are not inconclusive. They both say the girl was unconscious. She scored a thirteen on the Glasgow coma scale. Fully aware is fifteen.”

“But they can’t prove Billy knew it,” I say. “And we have evidence too: Diana’s texts, pictures of them kissing, the shattered Audi. You must’ve spoken to the insurance company. So why can’t you argue that Billy is a victim of a culture where accusations are no longer questioned? Where women’s feelings eclipse men’s civil rights? I mean, you’ll say it more eloquently, obviously, but isn’t that what you originally planned?”

“It’s risky, Cassie. Let’s say we argue three points. A passionate affair that ended badly. A consensual hook up between former lovers. And a rejected girl hell-bent on revenge. When we explain the blackout with binge drinking, it’s a plausible narrative. We chip away at the evidence, raise reasonable doubt, and end up with a hung jury. Then again, if we make the girl the aggressor and Billy the victim, we might alienate everyone. The press, the public, the court, not to mention the jury. He’s too rich and too handsome. People are already gunning for him.”

The room is quiet for several long minutes.

“Then focus on Billy,” Eleanor finally says. “On his prior hardships, his commitment to public service, his plans for medical school. He’s a good kid, Mr. DeFiore. Can’t you use that to his advantage?”

“If we talk about how good Billy is, Mrs. Quinn, then we also have to talk about where he came from. His values. Each one of you. We open the door for the DA to put the entire family on trial. If that happens, some of you will have to testify, which raises more problems than it solves. To a jury, family members are the least objective and therefore the least credible.”

“I thought you wanted us to testify,” I say.

“I did. Now I don’t.”

“Well, Mr. DeFiore, that’s what we want.”

“Put the family on trial, Mrs. Quinn, and it is open season on everyone.” DeFiore looks directly at me. Unafraid, I hold his gaze. He blinks first.

Eleanor doesn’t seem to notice. “Mr. DeFiore, stop finding reasons not to do your job. You won’t just focus on Billy, of course. You’ll also focus on the girl. Show the jury who she is too. She pursued Billy and pressed him for a commitment. She coerced him into attending the party. She took drugs. She drank too much, blacked out, and woke up confused. She blamed her mistakes on him to save herself embarrassment, and to hurt him for rejecting her. My son is a solid citizen. Look at all he overcame. Look at our family, how we took in Cassie, gave her a home and a family. She’s willing to testify. Aren’t you, Cassie? You’ll get on the stand and talk about your brother.”

“Of course, Eleanor. I’ll do anything for this family.”

“There are lots of risks in that approach, Mrs. Quinn.”

“We’ll take them, Mr. DeFiore.”

He appraises us, one by one. “If we do go to trial, it will take a lot to get ready. Not on my side—on yours. A trial is like a staged play in front of an audience. It happens in real time, so there’s no room for error. Each of you is part of the cast, even if all you do is sit in the gallery. You’ll be scrutinized as closely as the principal actors. You’ll need to work hard to prepare. Listen. Take notes. Rehearse. Follow directions down to the letter.”

“We’re up for it,” Nate promises. “Whatever we need to do.”

“Let me think about it.” Again, DeFiore glances my way, but I study my hands. I can barely sit still. The God-awful twitching is killing me.

*

On the way home, Lawrence and Eleanor are snapping at each other. Like a summer squall, the air in the car grows dark and foreboding then the skies split apart.

“I don’t appreciate the way you kept interrupting me, Eleanor,” Lawrence says sharply. “You may disagree, but at least let me finish my sentence.”

Eleanor glances out the window. Her eyes are hidden behind large sunglasses, but there’s the hint of a smirk on her lips. “Lawrence, I don’t appreciate you jeopardizing my son’s future.”