When We Were Bright and Beautiful(87)

Eleanor finally speaks. “Lawrence, please.” Her voice is tight. “Shut the fuck up.”

The next morning, DeFiore stops by for brunch and a pep talk. Cross-examining Diana has revitalized him, and he’s full of enthusiasm in his Jets sweatshirt and grungy khakis. Digging into his French toast, he tells us to buck up. “We’re in the catbird seat, Quinn family. It’s the bottom of the ninth, we’ve got a man on second, a runner on third, and no outs.”

“At least you’re not overconfident,” I say.

DeFiore cracks a smile. “Hey, hey, hey.” He points his syrupy fork first at me, then at Lawrence. “Enough with the negativity. You need to shine, shine, shine come Monday. This is our last stand, my friends, our Battle of Little Bighorn, our Alamo—”

“Those were bloodbaths,” Nate says.

“It’s a metaphor, Smart Guy.” DeFiore swallows. “Okay, here’s what’s next. It took Anderson eight days to drag out his case, but I can wrap up in five. My goal is to finish by Friday, so the jury will appreciate our expediency.”

“Five days is impossible,” Lawrence says, and Billy rolls his eyes.

“It’s possible, Lar. We have half the number of witnesses. More importantly, Thanksgiving is the week after next, and McKay will sequester the jury after we rest. So, if we finish by Friday, they’ll take the weekend to deliberate then hand in their decision by Wednesday, latest, before the long holiday weekend.”

“How do you know this for sure?” I ask.

“Nothing is ‘for sure,’” he replies. “I’ve just seen patterns over the years. Juries will belabor a guilty verdict, especially if it means prison. But they’ll gladly vote ‘not guilty’ if it means we wrap up by turkey time.”

“Well, Peter. You’re the expert.” Lawrence’s contempt is obvious.

“You’re right, Lar,” DeFiore snaps. “I am the fucking expert. And as the expert, I’ve decided I want you, Cassie, and Billy to testify.”

“Not me?” Nate asks.

“Sorry, pal. Demographically, you and your brother are too similar.” He looks at Eleanor. “And you’re too biased.”

“You really think this will be over by Thanksgiving?” Billy asks.

“I do, Billy boy.” DeFiore clutches my brother’s shoulder. “All it takes is reasonable doubt. One questionable assertion, one conflicted juror, and boom-chicka-boom, you’re home free.”





50


ON MONDAY, WE’RE BACK IN COURT AT TEN O’CLOCK SHARP, raring to go. Word has spread that Deacon Porter, son of McClain Porter, may be testifying for the defense; and that McClain himself might appear. The gallery overflows with spectators, along with crowds of Billy’s supporters: boys he grew up with, athletes he competed against, classmates from Groton and Princeton. They are quiet and respectful, but excitement ripples through the air.

Across the room, Billy glows. Overcome by so many familiar faces, he can barely sit still. I recognize several and the sight of so many clean-cut, spit-polished males fills me to bursting. I’m so moved that when I spot Avery, I rush through the crowd and fling myself at her. “Thank you for coming,” I say, hugging her. “Wouldn’t miss it, Chickadee,” she says, hugging me back.

Today, the courtroom is filled with reminders of Billy’s affluence. But for once it’s a good thing. DeFiore has been hammering home Diana’s mercenary interests, so our family’s wealth is front and center in everyone’s mind. Most of Billy’s friends came with their mothers, who are equally well turned out in designer slacks, cashmere twinsets, and understated jewelry. Our circle radiates good breeding, civility, and money, money, money, which has the jurors starry-eyed.

Re-pressed and re-primped, DeFiore wastes no time getting started. He shoots his cuffs and turns to the jury. “Defense calls Deacon Abington Porter.”

Deacon moves to the witness stand with panther-like grace. As he gets closer, I do a double take. His resemblance to his brother Powell is uncanny now. Deacon’s shoulder-length hair has been sheared off, leaving him with a cap of blond curls. He’s replaced his glasses with contacts and removed the diamond stud from his ear. Wearing a sharp suit, silk tie, and lace-up wingtips, he looks handsome, well bred, and morally fit.

After Deacon is sworn in, DeFiore establishes that he is Billy’s best friend, lifelong confidant, and ersatz brother. “So, you’ve met Diana Holly?”

“Yes, my girlfriend, Channing, and I had dinner with her and Billy a few times.”

“What were your first impressions?”

“She was overly friendly, gushy, to me, but standoffish to my girlfriend. Chan can be intimidating to other women, though, so while I didn’t find Diana’s behavior unusual, it did surprise me. Billy hasn’t had too many girlfriends, so he probably didn’t see how rude she was. I would’ve preferred to see him with someone more mature and self-confident.”

“So, you didn’t like Diana?”

“I was disappointed Billy chose her. She kept calling him ‘Babe’ and touching him in an inappropriate way. We were in public, but she put her hands all over his body. I’m an easygoing guy, but this disturbed me. Once, Chan and I were so uncomfortable, we went home right after dinner instead of getting drinks with them at another bar.”