When We Were Bright and Beautiful(76)

A skinny, white-haired pharmacist catalogues every substance the couple consumed: beer, vodka, whiskey, Jell-O shots, and marijuana (strain: Sativa, Acapulco Gold). Then he recites how each one alters brain chemistry and bodily function. His testimony is jargon-heavy and impossible to follow. Nor can I figure out why McKay allows so many interruptions. DeFiore is constantly on his feet, objecting and requesting sidebars, which means every few minutes the action moves offstage while we’re left to figure out what’s happening.

“We’re doing great!” I told DeFiore at lunch after the pharmacist’s testimony. “You’re killing it.”

“Don’t get too excited,” he said. “Advantage is a pendulum. It swings both ways.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. Slowly but surely the State gains traction. To my horror, Anderson starts pulling Billy apart, one detail at a time. Surprisingly, the pivot point for his success turns out to be porn.

For the next two days, we hear a series of witnesses offer damning testimony, starting with a gangly IT expert who examined Billy’s electronics. Basically, he intimates, the defendant is a perverted porn addict. Eleven hours a week is considered compulsive for college-aged males. So my brother, who watches an average of eighteen hours a week, with a high of twenty-four, is a dirty, drooling lunatic who can’t keep his hands out of his pants.

“This is bullshit,” I murmur.

Nate nods. “But titillating.” Looking around, I see this is true. The jury is spellbound.

Lawrence overhears us. “Porn,” he whispers, disgusted. “Pseudo-psychology conjured out of thin air. This whole argument is repulsive.”

You’re repulsive.

I glance up. When our eyes meet, my face registers for him. For the past seven months, Lawrence has been distracted; or maybe it started earlier, when I jetted off to school the year before. Though he looked at me, it was clear he wasn’t seeing me. Before that, he was always aware of my presence. There was a pulse in the air, a live wire joining his body to mine.

Now I feel like we’re reconnecting again, which makes me unreservedly blissful. At the same time, I hear the type of porn Billy was watching before the party on March 24. “The defendant focused on subjects like Gangbang, Hardcore, and Dominance,” the IT guy says. He gets nervous, starts spelling out words he’s unable to say. “Videos called U-g-l-y B-i-t-c-h Gets F-u-c-k-e-d and Drunk Girl Gets a Mouthful.”

Fear blooms in my chest. My heart starts to race. You’re repulsive. A man’s hand reaches down; I see a flash of naked skin. Blue sheet with tiny pink flowers. A patch of wiry hair.

“You okay?” Lawrence’s whisper is thick with emotion. “Sweetheart?” His hand reaches down, he touches my own naked skin. Every nerve feels electrified. “Cass?”

My chest flutters. A cyclone whips up inside me. Dizzy, I shake with its force.

“Fine,” I say.

I’ve split. One me is here. The other has taken off. Calm down, I coach myself. Slow and steady. Just breathe. My head is buzzing. Light flashes in my eye.

“Fine, fine, fine,” I assure Lawrence. “I swear.”

Next up is Dr. Helmsley Fordyce, renowned psychiatrist, porn expert, Cambridge scholar, and Harvard professor whose bona fides make even Eleanor sit tall and take notice. Dr. Fordyce is a silver fox, a charismatic man in his sixties with a plume of gray hair and a British accent that makes him sound simultaneously wise and ironic.

After offering a lengthy intro and résumé, Anderson digs in. “Dr. Fordyce, what can you tell us about men like the defendant who start watching porn at a very early age?”

Dr. Fordyce nods. “Approximately seventy-three percent of males who start watching porn before age ten are more prone to erectile dysfunction than males who start watching when they’re older. Similarly, of these men, sixty-eight percent admit to having negative feelings toward women. And ninety percent admit to harassing, abusing, and committing acts of violence, specifically against women.”

“Ninety percent,” the DA says. “Ninety percent of young men who watch porn admit to committing acts of violence against women.”

“Objection!” DeFiore shouts.

I know these numbers are bogus. Statistics can be skewed up, down, and sideways. They cast no light on Billy’s guilt. And yet, the audience is buying it. Fordyce’s voice is melodious, his affect persuasive. His material is provocative, and he’s meting it out in bite-sized bits that leave us craving more. “Porn contains disturbing messages, overt and subliminal. Kids—I’ll say ‘boys’ because, statistically, the population skews male—are repeatedly shown, for instance, that no doesn’t mean no. Instead, by pushing, trickery, or physical violence, women can be persuaded, or forced, to perform desired sex acts.”

Here, Anderson makes a brilliant move. He invites Fordyce to step down, and then returns to the rape so he can illustrate, in cold hard facts, the connection between porn and violence. He recalls, at a rapid-fire clip, the eyewitnesses, detectives, EMTs, and hospital personnel who saw Billy at the crime scene or examined Diana right after. One by one, the witnesses testify that the defendant was out of control, that Diana was unconscious, and that Billy knew this but penetrated her anyway. The Glasgow coma score—13 out of 15—is raised no less than seven times. Pictures from the physical exam—bruises, lacerations, swelling—are admitted into evidence and published to the jury. One of the boys who helped tackle Billy asserts that my brother, who was looking into Diana’s eyes while he was on top of her, seemed aware of her condition. During his cross, DeFiore forces the kid to admit that the playground was dark, and he has no idea what he saw, but it’s not enough to mitigate the damage.