When We Were Bright and Beautiful(67)

“I appreciate you being here,” he continues. “Trials are long and tedious. Over the next three weeks, you’ll hear intricate testimony from lab techs, police officers, ER doctors, psychiatrists, and other forensic experts. If you’re anything like me, you may find it difficult to absorb so many technical details. But I encourage each of you to do your very best. Why? Because we’re here to get justice for Diana Holly, a courageous woman who was violated in the most depraved way. This trial will affect every woman you know, and lots of women you don’t. We are pursuing justice, which is an ideal this country was founded upon. So, your continued engagement is meaningful to Diana, to Mercer County, to the state of New Jersey, to the United States of America, and to our global community.”

The DA is so full of convoluted bullshit that no one is prepared for his sharp pivot.

“This trial is about rape.” His gray eyes harden into pieces of flint. “It’s not about sex. It’s not about relationships. It’s not about passion or love. This trial is about rage.” He waits a beat. “Privilege.” Another beat. “Power.” Another beat. “Violence.” Then he turns to Billy, takes him in. “Because that’s what rape is about: Rage. Privilege. Power. Violence.”

The courtroom is silent.

“Rage. Privilege. Power. Violence.”

A woman in the jury box coughs.

“The defendant, William Stockton Quinn, is a rich, privileged boy from a rich, privileged family. How rich? How privileged? His family has a net worth north of seven hundred million dollars. That’s equivalent to the combined wealth of the poorest quarter of the human race. Middle-class people—people like me, maybe people like you—can’t conceive of this much money. Or the kind of life this money provides. But that’s the only life the defendant has ever known. From the day he was born, he got everything he needed, anything he asked for. He attended a top boarding school, Groton. The best private college, Princeton. Were he not sitting in this courtroom, he’d be applying to the best medical schools, Harvard and Yale. Wherever Billy Quinn goes, doors fly wide open.”

Seven hundred million dollars? Where did he get that number? We’re probably at five, maybe six hundred, including CW’s money, which isn’t mine yet. Anderson’s estimate is a king’s ransom; a number so enormous it sounds mythical.

Visibly excited, Anderson bounces on his toes. He describes, in exaggerated detail, the symbols of our wealth: multiple homes, exclusive addresses, exotic vacations, luxury vehicles.

I watch Eleanor. Her body is stock-still, her face unruffled, but I know she is recoiling inside. To discuss money in such graphic terms is vile, like describing bodily functions. As for me, I listen carefully, respectfully. But I can’t grasp Anderson’s point. We are rich. We are gross. So what? Meanwhile, the audience hangs on every word. We may be loathsome capitalists, but indiscriminate spending is the ultimate aphrodisiac. One male juror is checking me out with newfound curiosity. I’d bet one of my many mythical stacks that hearing about my net worth gives him a raging hard-on.

“Me? I’m just a working-class kid from south Jersey,” Anderson continues. “Dad was an electrician. Mom was a nurse. We didn’t travel in the same circles as the defendant. We barely lived in the same hemisphere. But I was recruited to play football for Harvard, so I met boys like him in college. I considered some of them friends. We studied together, worked out, went to parties. I dated their sisters. All lovely, smart girls who made it clear that while I could certainly buy them dinner, we had no future. I would never visit their homes or meet their families. One girl told her friends I was NQOCD.” He looks at me, the defendant’s sister. “You know that expression? Not quite our class, dear.” As if amused by the memory, Anderson chuckles. “Boys like the defendant are handsome and fun-loving. They’re quick to pick up the tab and order another round. But they’re dangerous. Having grown up with everything, they want for nothing. They have no boundaries or limits. They’re used to everyone, parents, teachers, girls—especially girls—giving them whatever they want. But the penalty for failing to satisfy their whims is incredibly high. What they’re not given, they take.”

Bradley Anderson couldn’t be more transparent. By differentiating himself from Billy, he’s trying to make the jurors take sides. I’m nothing like this guy. In fact, I’m just like you, Juror Number Seven. I’m middle-class. I cheat on my diet. I watch sports on TV. So, if I can judge Billy Quinn, you can too. Go ahead. Judge him. Harshly. But Brad Anderson is lying. Not small white lies either. He’s telling whoppers.

“The defendant suffers from severe emotional problems.” (Lie.) “Early on, these problems were manifested in a childhood stutter.” (Lie.) “Now, he is plagued by unhealthy addictions, and an inability to have intimate relationships. Particularly those of a sexual nature.” (Lie.) “In grade school, the defendant’s volatile behavior disrupted the classroom. He was held back, which made him older and bigger than his classmates. He used his size as a weapon, bullying the other students until he was shipped off to boarding school.” (All lies.) “Over the years, the defendant became a lonely misfit, always on the outside looking in. He was easily angered and quick to hurt others. For a brief period, organized athletics offered an outlet. But in college, he was kicked off the track team. Why? Because he acted out in fits of rage and unpredictable physical violence. The same way he did when he was five years old.”