When We Were Bright and Beautiful(64)

Lawrence leaned in, close to the phone. “We’ll take our chances in court, Peter.”

DeFiore pressed. “Lar, listen to me. I’m not fucking around. It’s a high-profile case, and they’ll make Billy pay for all the boys who got off easy. We’re looking at twenty years with no allowances. Your son won’t get out of prison until he’s forty, at the earliest.”

“Thank you, Peter.” Lawrence closed his eyes. “But no thank you.” His eyes were bloodshot. He reeked of last night’s gin. DeFiore had already hung up, but Lawrence still held the phone, ready to hit speed-dial and say he was wrong, we’ll take whatever pittance Anderson will give.

I started to speak when Lawrence interrupted me. “Sweetheart, look!”

Eleanor and I glanced up at the same time. Lawrence angled his phone, so we could both read the screen: “Rape Trial Kicks Off for Princeton Star Runner.”

The headline scared me. “Jesus,” I said. “It’s really happening, isn’t it?”

Eleanor scoffed. “Billy is innocent. He can’t plead guilty to something he didn’t do.”

“His innocence doesn’t matter,” Lawrence reminded her, “if DeFiore can’t persuade a jury of it. Eleanor, we have to consider the four years.”

“The stakes are high,” I added.

Eleanor studied us closely—first her husband, then me. “You two are in cahoots again? If you really feel that way, go home. I won’t have any negativity in court. Billy will be exonerated, and we will return to our lives.” She said this like it was a prophecy, but her sweet pink lips made it difficult to take her seriously.

On the other hand, maybe Eleanor is right. If appearances alone can determine the outcome, our side will win by a landslide. DeFiore’s team, along with our publicists and consultants, have coached us on what to wear, how to walk, when to sit, when to stand, when to ignore a question, when to respond, and what to say. Only the attorneys will be speaking today, but each of us is prepped and ready to achieve maximum positive impact.

Billy, for instance, strolls, hesitantly, on the balls of his feet, a sensitive young scholar, upset by all the attention. He is Eleanor’s son; and today, like her, he is unrecognizable. The astronaut headphones are gone, replaced by nerdy, black-rimmed glasses with non-prescription lenses. Thanks to a low-carb, high-protein diet, he’s twenty pounds lighter. Without the extra weight, his body is lankier and less physically imposing than at his arraignment. Wearing a fitted new suit and shiny leather shoes, my brother holds our mother’s arm, as if squiring her along a promenade. Beside him, Eleanor has on a nondescript tweed skirt suit and low-heeled pumps. Gigantic tortoiseshell sunglasses hide her eyes. Her hair is puffed-up from the wind. Earlier, she’d wrapped her head in an Hermès silk scarf to protect her blowout, but DeFiore nixed it the second he saw her with a gruff, “No, no, no. No way.”

Next to me, Nate looks like a younger, stiffer version of Lawrence in his own bespoke Brioni and silk purple tie. Among us, he’s been the hardest to prepare, mostly because he’s so furious—about the trial, the press, Diana Holly. I’ve missed most of the rehearsals, so I hadn’t realized he’s also still furious at me. We’ve barely spoken since the end of the summer, when he stormed out of the bar. When we do, our interactions are largely transactional (“What time are we leaving?” “I don’t know, ask Dad.”). I think he’s pissed off that I bailed on the war room sessions. Or maybe he’s pissed off that I failed to convince Lawrence to back off the plea. Or maybe it’s just easier to stay angry at me. Either way, I’m giving him a wide berth.

DeFiore and his associate Mitchell Manzano (sexy and trustworthy in glasses) are behind us, along with a shocking number of women. By my quick count, there are seven females on our team: DeFiore’s partner Felicia Drake, jury consultant Abby Friedman, two interns, and three women I’ve never seen before. For all I know, they were hired as extras just for the optics. Everyone is tastefully dressed, tastefully coiffed, and tastefully accessorized with sensible heels, leather totes, and chunky gold jewelry. Lost among the women is the Bowtie, unable to hide his displeasure. Last night, he chauffeured Eleanor to the hotel and expected to escort her up the avenue this morning. DeFiore said no way. “I don’t care who’s angry at who. The Quinns drive together, walk together, and sit together. Lawrence, I want you on Eleanor’s right. Billy, you’re on her left. Nate and Cassie, you’re closely behind. Burt, I have no idea why the fuck you’re here, so find a place in the rear. Listen up, Quinns. You’re a happy fucking family. Try and look like one.”

As we head up the steps and into the courthouse, it’s pandemonium. The cops try to keep order. Reporters surround us, thrusting cameras in our faces. We’re being jostled and yelled at. Nate’s eyes are wide in alarm. “Jesus,” he mutters. “This is bad.” I’m shaking with terror.

“Hang in there, kids,” Lawrence tells us. Speaking robotically, he fixes his eyes on a point in the distance. But I know every line of his face, every muscle in his jaw. Eleanor’s decision to proceed with this trial is killing him. “She’s impossible” he says to me at every turn. “But she’s my wife.” It’s how he apologizes.

As we head through the lobby, Lawrence grabs Eleanor’s hand. For a second, I think he’s going to bring it to his lips. Instead, he squeezes it three times. Eleanor squeezes back three times, and I wonder what it means.