When We Were Bright and Beautiful(75)
“No what, Ms. Franklin-Wallace?”
“Four drinks each.” She pauses. Her eyes dart from DeFiore to Fleming and back to DeFiore. “And two shots of whiskey.”
“Two shots total?”
“No.”
“No what, Ms. Franklin-Wallace?”
“Two shots each.”
“So, to restate: by the time my client arrived, Diana had consumed four vodka tonics and two shots of whiskey. In your opinion, how did the alcohol affect her?”
“She was relaxed.” Liza’s face relaxes too. “We were dancing. We laughed a lot. She was happy. Upbeat.”
“Anything else? Loopy? Forgetful? Excited to talk? What’s the word? I can’t remember. It means free, but that’s not it. Unconfined?” DeFiore fumbles but smarty-pants Liza is all too eager to help.
“Uninhibited?” Liza’s hand flies to her mouth.
DeFiore nods. “Yes, thank you. Uninhibited. Diana was uninhibited. So, to restate: by the time my client arrived, Diana had consumed four vodka tonics and two shots of whiskey. She danced. She laughed. She was happy, upbeat, and uninhibited.” He looks at the gallery then the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I was—”
McKay says, “You may step down, Ms. Franklin-Wallace.”
A gratifying day’s end. DeFiore has accomplished his goal: cast doubt on Diana’s version of events. Haggerty hasn’t shown up, another positive sign. Adjourned until Monday, we pile into our cars and return to New York.
*
“Busy, Princess?” Standing at my bedroom door, Nate holds an ancient Scrabble box. “Want to hang out?”
I take out my earbuds. “I haven’t played in forever.”
“We can play Scrabble. Or . . .” He flips open the lid; inside are two joints.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re lying on my carpet, studying the ceiling.
“I still can’t get over the size of this room.” Nate exhales a plume of smoke. We watch it dissolve into nothing. “You were so spoiled.”
He is correct. A room fit for a princess. Bedroom, office nook, walk-in closet, and a bathroom suite that could house a family of four. It was lonely though. Still is, sometimes.
“Nate, it’s been twenty years. Let it go.”
Moments pass. How many is anyone’s guess.
“So, what do you think?” he asks eventually.
“About what?”
“How this epic story will end. Will Billy Quinn get acquitted? Finish school? Be a doctor?”
“Absolutely.” I don’t hesitate. “No question.”
“And you? What will you do?”
“Quit Yale. Be Amelia Earhart. Fly jets. You?”
“Big waves, baby. Ride the surf a hundred feet in the air.”
A knock on the door startles us.
“Oh, sorry.” It’s Lawrence, looking confused. “I thought you were alone.”
“Lawrence!” I shout. “Go away. This is Hawkins Cove. No parents allowed.” I crack myself up. Beside me on the floor, Nate eggs me on. “Sacred space, dude,” he tells his father. “You need to G-O, go. Kids only.”
“Sure,” Lawrence repeats, faking a smile. “I’ll leave you children alone.”
Seeing him relegated to the sidelines fills me with superhuman strength. Already giddy, Nate and I can’t stop laughing. Holding my stomach, I try to sit up. I should be nice, let Lawrence in on the joke. But by the time I can speak, he is gone.
43
DURING WEEK TWO, BOREDOM SETS IN. TIME STANDS STILL as Anderson and Fleming tag-team street cops, detectives, EMTs, pharmacists, and a slew of forensic experts who take us through sets of tedious and confusing scientific data. What does become clear, however, is that DeFiore underplayed the State’s evidence. They have more than enough, much of it troubling. Even so, most of the witnesses are older men who seem ill at ease out of uniform. Their bodies are unnaturally stiff, their answers overly rehearsed. They’re armed with props, all designed to situate us at the playground and break down the action in easy-to-follow steps. But Anderson moves through them too quickly. We’re shown maps, diagrams, blueprints, and timelines, one right after the other, in an avalanche of details. So, rather than being able to digest the most vital facts, we’re buried under minutia.
Watching a trial unfold in real time is nothing like seeing one on TV. There’s no wrap-up commentary at the end of the hour. Instead, we suffer through stretches of testimony where the same point is made repeatedly. We hear two police officers describe, in painstaking detail, the patch of lawn where the alleged assault took place, including its square footage, soil density, grass height, and footprint patterns. Photographs of the tire swing are passed around, and entered into evidence, as are Diana’s dress, sweater, bra, ankle boots, and socks. Some of these photos have been enlarged to poster size. Anderson holds them up for the judge and jury—and the reporters in the gallery—then stacks them on easels where they sit until the witness is dismissed. But even if the pictures were interesting—which they’re not—how many shots of a lacy bra do we really need to see? Similarly, Diana’s underwear was missing from the scene, but what could’ve been a compelling set of questions flattens into a mind-numbing dissertation on chain of evidence. Briefly, a frisson of excitement is ignited when DeFiore suggests that Diana may have foregone underwear altogether (“What’s the expression? Commando?”). But the objection to his query is sustained, and the comment is stricken from the record.