When We Were Bright and Beautiful(80)

*

On Thursday morning, the prosecution presents its final witness. Anderson announces her name in a game-show baritone. “The State calls Diana Angelina Holly.”

Excitement ripples through the gallery. She’s here? Heads swivel to Anderson, over to DeFiore, back to Anderson. Where? Where is she? Will we see her on video or in person?

“Your Honor,” Anderson says. “I beg the Court’s indulgence for another minute.” Apparently, his celebrity witness is MIA, because he’s gesturing to Fleming, who’s bent over her phone, texting like mad. “Excuse me for a second,” she says to McKay, pocketing her device as she speed-walks out. “I’ll be right back.”

While we wait, Anderson plods over to the defense table, where he blocks the jury’s view of Billy, as if building suspense. Since day one, DeFiore has reinforced the need for Billy to stay calm, especially when Diana is nearby. “The jury wants you to go ballistic. They want to see you melt down. If you do, it makes their job easier. I am begging you, Billy. Keep your cool, no matter what anyone says to you or about you.”

“Be a Sphinx,” Felicia Drake added. “Do not react.”

Billy has followed these instructions to the letter. Day after day, he listens intently and takes notes. He looks so engrossed even I forget he’s medicated. Every morning as we leave the hotel, he swallows a high-grade sedative. If not for the pill, he’d tap his pencil, squirm in his chair, and shift back and forth. Today, when he leans back, he looks serene, if semi-comatose. He has the faintest grin on his lips. I’ve seen this smile before, during races, right before he makes one last push and snaps the tape. It’s Billy’s tell, the way he unconsciously signals he knows he’s about to win.

The door swings open. Diana Holly appears. Backlit by the mid-morning sun, she strolls down the aisle like a pageant queen, escorted by Fleming. The courtroom is still. We hear the rustle of gauzy fabric and the squeak of patent leather as Diana approaches the bailiff and raises her right hand.

At the defense table, my brother has come to life. Briefly, he turns to his mother. His eyes are open and crazed with terror. He’s jiggling his foot. His face is bleached of color. His victory smile has vanished.

*

“Thank you for joining us,” Anderson says gently. For the past two weeks, the DA has moved through his interviews with swift efficiency—staccato questions, in-and-out, boom, boom, boom. Now, with Diana, he is slow and obsequious. “You have no obligation to be in this courtroom. That you are is a testament to your bravery and integrity.”

Diana nods. In my memory, she was small and pushy, with a pixie bob, a greedy personality and nonstop flattery. But today, I don’t see any of this. Diana Holly is a pretty girl. Her brown hair has grown out and falls in waves that frame her face. One side is held back by a tortoiseshell clip. She has round eyes and full lashes. She’s softer and more ladylike than I remember. On the other hand, she’s wearing a fluffy sweater over a rose-colored dress, so maybe that’s why. Or because she’s not wearing makeup. Mostly, Diana looks pale, sad, and exhausted. I’m sure she is sad and exhausted, considering what she’s been through.

Peeking at Eleanor, I try to get a read on her thoughts. She’s watching Diana, but her face, as always, is inscrutable. She, not Billy, is the Sphinx.

“So, tell us a little bit about how you came to know the defendant.”

“We . . . I . . .” Diana is trembling, and her voice is too low to be heard. McKay doesn’t ask her to speak up, though, so we’re forced to lean forward and strain.

She clears her throat. “Billy and I met in a lab at Sloan-Kettering. Cancer research—pancreatic cancer. Cellular studies.”

“Can you tell us about these studies?”

“Sure. Pancreatic tumors are encased in a thick protective tissue.” Finding her comfort zone, Diana relaxes. She raises her voice to an audible level. “We were looking at ways to collapse this cell barrier and make the tumors more susceptible to therapeutic drugs.”

“Is this what you want to do when you get out of school? Cancer research?”

“Not research, no. Oncology. I want to treat kids with cancer. Billy and I had this in common. We both want to work with children.”

“Were you surprised when the defendant asked you out?”

“I was. Billy could date anyone he wanted. He was very handsome—I mean, he still is.” Diana blushes, her bare cheeks turn scarlet. “It feels weird to talk about him when he’s sitting in the room.” She offers Anderson a sheepish smile. “I was surprised he was interested in me. Also intimidated.”

“Diana, you’re premed at Princeton University. You’ve won countless academic awards, including the Sloan-Kettering internship. Many people have testified at length about your achievements. Why would you, of all people, be intimidated?”

“I look great on paper.” Diana pauses. “Not even ‘great.’ Compared to my classmates, I’m average. But inside, I never felt smart enough. Or pretty enough. So I had to work feverishly to catch up. I studied all the time and got perfect grades. Picture a pudgy girl with glasses who hides in the library. A country mouse from Pittsburgh—not even Pittsburgh, a tiny town nearby. So yes, when he asked me out, I was overwhelmed. He was, he was . . . I don’t know . . . everything—”