When We Were Bright and Beautiful(70)

Nate knows about Marcus, I think. Though the thought has occurred to me before, countless times, at the moment it seems absolutely true.

“Who gives a shit,” we hear DeFiore say. “Fuck that guy. Tell him I said no way.”

As Lawrence gets up, Eleanor grabs his arm. “Let it go. Let’s just have a quiet lunch.”

“I don’t want to have a quiet lunch, Eleanor. I want to talk to Peter.”

She won’t release his arm, which surprises me. Why isn’t she up on her feet, berating DeFiore for letting this happen? Clearly, I’ve been out of the loop for too long.

Lawrence shakes her off. At the door, he motions to DeFiore. “We have questions.”

Standing up, Nate surveys the food. “There’s one turkey sandwich,” he tells Billy. “It’s yours.” Nate positions the sandwich, fruit, and pretzels on a plate with care, as if Billy has broken both arms and can’t feed himself. He spreads yellow mustard, not the spicy brown kind, on both sides of the bread. He opens the pretzels and shakes them out onto the plate. He sops up the juice from the fruit then sets the plate on the table, unfolds a napkin and fills a cup with Diet Coke. “Here you go, buddy.” He squeezes Billy’s shoulder. “You should eat.”

Billy nods. “Thank you.”

“I don’t like Anderson,” I announce, needing to speak. If I don’t, I’ll explode. “He’s a pompous jerk.”

My brothers exchange glances that say I am beyond stupid. “Well, okay, Cassie.” Nate sneers. “Thanks for the legal insight.”

DeFiore steps into the room. “Try not to worry about what you heard today. They’re going to say terrible things about Billy and about all of you. But our case is airtight.”

Since when? This morning, he was pushing us to quit. But now that the trial is underway, maybe there’s no room for doubt. DeFiore seems unfazed by Anderson’s statement, and I realize that having seen the discovery, he knew it was coming. This means all of them—Lawrence, Eleanor, Billy, and Nate—have already discussed it. The only one who doesn’t know is me.

“We’re going to be fine,” he adds.

This doesn’t pacify Nate. “Anderson lied. Is he allowed to do that?”

DeFiore bites into one side of a sandwich. Pastrami, tomatoes, and mustard leak out the other. He grabs a napkin, wipes his chin. “In the legal profession, truth is a malleable commodity. It can be molded, like clay, to mean what you want.”

“But then nothing means anything,” Eleanor says.

“He’s telling a story, Mrs. Quinn. We are too. The jury gets to decide which one is more plausible—and, in this case, more palatable. Anderson is a good lawyer. He knows which truths can be stretched. Witnesses, however, are under oath. Committing perjury is a crime. Don’t get me wrong, witnesses lie all the time, but we take everything at face value—unless it works to our advantage not to.”

“You still plan to put Billy on the stand, right?” Nate asks.

“I would like to, Nate, but only if I feel confident that he’s prepared. If not, Anderson will gut him. It only takes one stumble.” He and Nate glance at Billy, who is hunched over his food, headphones on, orbiting through space.

“We’ll get him ready,” Eleanor says, also looking. “Whatever it takes.”

“I knew this would happen,” Lawrence mutters. “I knew we’d end up here.”

“Lar,” DeFiore says evenly. “We haven’t ‘ended up’ anywhere. We’re still at opening arguments. You need to pace yourself, my friend. This is a marathon, not a sprint.”

Nate is preoccupied. “The jury needs to hear from Billy, especially if Diana’s testimony confirms all the bullshit Anderson is telling them.”

“This is what I meant, Nate, about witnesses being under oath.” DeFiore tries to explain. “Diana can’t just say whatever she wants. Anderson will coach her, sure. But she can’t make claims that are blatantly false—like she and Billy had no prior relationship, or that she was sober at the party. Right now, she’s protected by rape shield laws. We can’t talk about her drinking habits or prior boyfriends, anything like that. But if she makes a false statement, the shield laws change, and she opens the door to these discussions. That’s why, if you listen carefully to Anderson, you’ll hear very few facts. It’s all conjecture and pseudo-psychology. He doesn’t want his witnesses to say something we can prove false. Instead, he’s relying on made-up theories and big ideas, most of which are bluster. Happens all the time. The less evidence, the bigger the performance.”

Nate and Eleanor look skeptical.

“Sit tight. Our turn will come.” He addresses the room. “Anything else?”

“It’s such a cliché,” I blurt out.

“What’s a cliché?” DeFiore asks.

“The bullshit the DA is selling. Young man has problems. Problems lead to rejection, rejection leads to anger, anger leads to assault. This can’t be Anderson’s whole argument.”

DeFiore nods. “Sure it can. And if I were in his shoes, I’d do the same. Without much proof, he has to rely on a familiar narrative. He’s adding drama to ratchet up the stakes. But strip away the color commentary and it’s a story we know by heart.”