When We Were Bright and Beautiful(84)

Fuck her, I bet he’s thinking. Fuck her forever. Catching my eye, he pats my thigh. Then he squeezes my hand three times: I. Love. You.

I don’t respond. My own hand rests on my leg like a dead fish.

Anderson isn’t finished. One by one, he places a series of poster-sized collages on the easels. Each is made up of snapshots taken from the crime scene, the hospital, and the rape kit. The posters are graphic and difficult to look at. But the images are clear. Bruises on Diana’s arms, hips, and thighs. Bloody lacerations on her face. Cuts on her elbows. Welts on her back. Broken capillaries in her eyes. Again, a young woman, unconscious, on the grass.

These easels, starting with the punched walls and ending with the battered girl, tell the story of Billy Quinn and Diana Holly. The hard evidence is laid out chapter by chapter, image by image. While we study them, the courtroom swells with the truth of Billy’s anger: savage, destructive, indelible.

“I have no more questions,” Anderson says then turns to DeFiore. “Your witness.”

Anderson is gloating. Returning to his table, the DA moves with a brand-new nimbleness, as if a tremendous weight has been lifted, as if inside, he is nothing but feathers.





48


AFTER A BRIEF RECESS, DIANA IS CALLED UP AGAIN, SEATED, and reminded that she’s under oath. She looks wiped out, but I notice a glint in her eye. A small hint of steel that suggests she will not be defeated.

Rising from his chair, DeFiore buttons his jacket. “Ms. Holly, for the record, I represent the Defendant, Billy Quinn.” He steps forward. “May I ask you a few simple questions?”

“Yes,” she tells DeFiore quietly. “You may.”

“Thank you.” His voice, by contrast, is booming, and echoes off the high ceilings. “For the record, are you aware who my client is?”

When Diana’s eyes shift to Billy, DeFiore offers her a sympathetic smile. He has to tread lightly. Before the trial began, he explained that cross-examining a victim of sexual assault is a minefield. If he goes too far—too many intrusive questions, for instance, or too harsh a tone—the jury will side with Diana. Same if he doesn’t go far enough; her story will stand uncontested. He has to find inconsistencies in Diana’s story without calling her a liar; it means attacking her claims without attacking her.

The mood in the courtroom is tense. Stripped bare by Diana’s testimony, we’re raw and jittery. We sense drama afoot the way a dog’s panting portends a brewing storm. Recognizing this, DeFiore is tentative. His movements are languid. He smooths his hair. Removes his glasses. Then he begins. “Ms. Holly, earlier, you said that when you became aware of my client’s alleged porn addiction, it bothered you. Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“You also testified that porn permeated your relationship. That it was unbearable when my client’s compulsion interfered with his ability to perform. Is this also correct?”

“Yes. It was unbearable to be with a man who needed porn to . . . uh . . . function, basically.”

“Ms. Holly, are you against porn in general? Meaning, do you have a general objection to people watching pornography?”

“No, I’m not generally against porn.”

“And, in fact, you watched porn with Billy, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t watch porn before I met Billy, but yes, we did watch it together once in a while.”

“And did you enjoy it?”

“Objection!” Anderson calls out. “Relevance?”

“Sorry,” DeFiore says. “I’ll rephrase. You enjoyed seeing Billy happy, right?”

Diana looks at her hands. “Yes.”

“In fact, you and Billy watched porn at your suggestion, correct? For instance, when you realized he enjoyed porn, and, more to the point, porn enabled him to perform, wasn’t it your idea, not his, to position the computer next to the bed?”

“I wanted to be a supportive . . . I don’t know . . . partner . . .”

“Ms. Holly, please answer with a yes or no, and then you can explain. Again, wasn’t it your idea to position the computer on the desk?”

“Yes, it was my idea.”

“Would you say that porn enhanced your sex life?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“Let’s change the subject. Ms. Holly, you’re from Squirrel Hill, an expensive suburb of Pittsburgh, correct? Perhaps the most expensive. Is it fair to say your family has a lot of money?”

Diana grins for the first time. “Well, there’s money and then there’s money.”

The jury laughs. Diana must’ve picked up Eleanor’s catchphrase from Billy. If Eleanor recognizes it, she doesn’t show it. She stares ahead, brick faced.

DeFiore isn’t amused. “I’m not sure what you mean. Are you implying that your family is wealthy, but your parents—and you, I assume—have higher financial goals? Is that why they named you Diana and call you ‘princess’? For the Princess of Wales?”

“No. Lots of parents call their daughters ‘princess.’ It’s a term of endearment.”

“Did your family have royal aspirations? To be New York royalty, like, say, the Quinns?”

Diana chuckles nervously. “Of course not.”

“But they did encourage you to date my client so that you might benefit financially?”