When We Were Bright and Beautiful(63)

The story of Marcus + Cassie is a story of true love. It’s the story of a beautiful man’s beautiful voice; a voice that says, come be with me, come, Cassie. A voice I will follow to the ends of the earth then over the side. I wait and wait and wait, and now he is sliding into me, so strong and so hard. We are moving so closely. This is how you build a girl from the ground up, from the inside out; you give her a voice she can follow and then lead her forward. Wherever you go she is there because she is becoming a woman, she is becoming herself. I am coming, Marcus. I am, I am, I am.





Part Three


Judgment





37


PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF NEW JERSEY V. WILLIAM MATTHEW Stockton Quinn begins this morning at the Mercer County Courthouse in downtown Trenton. We pull into a parking space a few blocks away, all five of us in the Mercedes, with Lawrence behind the wheel. Summoning his courage, he breathes in and squares his shoulders. “We’re here.” He shuts off the car then walks around to Eleanor’s side and opens her door. She offers her hand, his Queen.

Head high, Lawrence canvasses his surroundings. Today, he’s dressed for success, wearing a charcoal Brioni suit that accentuates his trim build. DeFiore didn’t want him or my brothers to wear sunglasses, so Lawrence’s face is bare. A stunning blue tie brings out his stunning blue eyes. His polished shoes tap on the pavement.

A security detail meets us at the corner. As we head up the street, we’re consumed by fear and doubt. But DeFiore insists appearances matter, so we raise our chins and stride forward. We move in a single scrum, flanked on both sides by bodyguards. On the next corner, we fall in with DeFiore, his defense team, and four uniformed policemen, who escort us the last few blocks to the courthouse.

It’s an overcast and blustery day, one that feels raw and damp, despite an absence of rain. The wind whips through the sky, lifting our hair and ruffling our clothes. My skirt flares up, exposing my thighs. Earlier, Eleanor chastised me for the length of my skirt. “Of all days, Cassandra? Everyone will be looking at you!” She was right, but I wore it anyway.

The wind makes conversation difficult, but soon I hear a low rumble that grows louder as we get closer. The interest in Billy’s case that dropped off after his arraignment has returned with a frightening intensity. His alleged crimes have hit a national nerve. Across the country, morning shows are airing segments. Trial reporters live-stream the play-by-play. Radio shows are inviting callers. Everyone has an opinion. Most of the coverage is, unfortunately, negative. Billy is called Pretty Boy Quinn, Rich Runner Rapist, Princeton Rapist. Even the papers of record, the New York Times and Washington Post, are embracing the rich rapist angle.

The crowd outside the courthouse is immense and deafening. Holding up signs—JUSTICE FOR SURVIVORS and IRRATIONAL, VINDICTIVE YOUNG WOMAN—angry females of all ages chant rapist, rapist, rapist, prison, prison, prison. Across the street, groups of burly men wear T-shirts that say THE REAL RAPE VICTIMS ARE THE FALSELY ACCUSED. Several link arms, forming a human chain, and shout innocent until proven guilty is an American right.

The press is here in full force too. A convoy of news vans block the curb. Reporters mill around the perimeter, bantering with each other as they check their phones. Several are filming lead-ins. One guy in his fifties wears a suit jacket, a tie, and faded jeans. “Tight as you can,” he instructs the cameraman. “Nothing below the waist.”

“It’s Billy Quinn!” someone calls out. “He’s here.”

Spotting us, reporters surge forward. They shout questions at Billy, each a variation on Are you a rapist?

Facing them, DeFiore holds up a hand. “Billy Quinn is innocent. He has taken and passed a polygraph test. We have no other comments at this time.”

The cops bark orders and push back the crowds. “Let ’em by. Move, move!”

We wind through a narrow channel of gawkers. It’s chaotic and claustrophobic, and I try to find Haggerty among the bodies. He hasn’t appeared since the day he ambushed me. For the past month, his lack of contact meant nothing; now, it’s a critical sign. If Haggerty shows up for Billy’s trial, it’s bad news. If he doesn’t, we’ll emerge unscathed.

As always, Lawrence leads the charge. He doesn’t answer any questions, but neither does he cower. He looks directly at the reporters. Come and get me, he taunts them. Give me your worst.

Trailing behind him, I marvel at his public persona. There’s a rise in his arches, a swagger in his hips; nothing to suggest that only a few hours ago, he was slumped on the edge of the bed, un-showered and unshaven, imploring his wife to give in.

Over the weekend, we checked into a swank hotel in nearby Princeton, our home away for the next three weeks. Earlier this morning, I was in my parents’ room borrowing toothpaste when Lawrence’s phone rang. The three of us froze.

Lawrence picked it up. “Good morning, Peter,” he said stiffly.

A giddy DeFiore boomed through the speaker. He had the DA’s final offer. “Anderson agreed to four years!” His voice made Eleanor flinch. In his excitement, he apparently forgot he was talking about prison. “Billy will be out in two, less with good behavior.”

Four years? Eleanor mouthed and shook her head, but Lawrence didn’t react.

She pointed to the phone. Her nails were painted a rose quartz pink to match her lips and cheeks. The custom-blended color, selected by our crisis consultants, is uncharacteristically soft, and makes Eleanor look like an entirely different person. Same with her hair color, which went from socialite gold to relatable honey. Along with newly cut bangs and a mauve cardigan—voilà!—a cold, inaccessible matriarch became a warm, sympathetic mom.