When We Were Bright and Beautiful(9)

“Get in the car, Cassie!” Lawrence shouts. “I don’t want to miss this guy.”

“Why are you yelling? Nate isn’t even here yet—”

As I say this, my brother grabs me from behind. “Princess Pickle,” he says, lifting me off my feet in an iron grip. “So kind of you to honor us with your presence.”

Nate is a brawny bear with Lawrence’s wavy black hair and his own perpetual five o’clock shadow. He’s our family’s Lost Boy, funny and cynical, but in no hurry to grow up. At the same time, he’s surprisingly self-aware for a twenty-five-year-old man whose only true ambition is to surf the world’s biggest wave.

“Any news about Billy?” he asks me. “I hope he survived the night. Pretty boys don’t fare well in prison.”

“Don’t say prison. Or jail. According to Lawrence, it’s a detention center. Soon, he’ll have us calling it a spa.”

“Tomato, tomahto. Ass rape is ass rape. Just thinking about it makes me jittery; I had to take a Xanax this morning to take the edge off. Tell you what, Princess. You ride shotgun, and I’ll sit in the back like someone’s grandma.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He knocks my shoulder with his own. “I’m relieved you’re here. Dad’s been off his nut. I can’t handle him by myself.”

“Let’s go!” Lawrence’s tone is clipped. “You two can talk in the car.”

I climb into the passenger seat, but Nate is greeting Anton with a bro-man handshake routine. Although my brother’s closeness with the staff drives Eleanor up the wall, her disapproval only encourages him to keep it up.

Finished, he opens the back door and slides into the car. “Favorite and firstborn reporting for duty, sir.”

Anton leans into my open window. “Have a safe trip,” he says to Lawrence, who offers a terse “thank you” before pulling away. Lawrence’s snappishness is shockingly off-brand. He’s the quintessential clap-your-back, introduce-you-around, buy-you-a-drink kind of guy. But I know Lawrence intimately; and he is far more worried about Billy than he wants to admit.

*

We travel in silence. Everyone is preoccupied, and Lawrence’s lousy mood clouds the air. Eventually, when we emerge from the Lincoln Tunnel in New Jersey, he turns toward me. “What were you and Anton talking about?”

“Nothing. ‘Have a good day; you too.’ That was our entire conversation.”

“Did he say anything about Billy?”

“Of course not.” I stare at Lawrence, but his eyes are hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. “Why would you ask that?”

“The man is always around. I’m just curious what he’s heard, what people in the building might know.”

“He’d never talk to me about Billy. Even if he knew—which I assure you he doesn’t. Give the guy a break; he’s just doing his job.”

“Why are you so protective of Anton Rivera?”

“Why are you so suspicious of him?”

Learning forward, Nate sticks his head between us. “Oh boy, have I missed the sweet sound of your bickering.” He snatches my purse off my lap. “Got any food? I’m starving.”

“Hey, that’s mine!”

Before I can grab it back, Nate pulls out a tampon, which he unwraps and jams into his nostril. “Excellent for nosebleeds.” He bobs forward and I take a swipe at his face, but he’s too quick.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Lawrence says, but he cracks his first real smile of the day. “Hands on your own bodies.” His eyes flash my way. “I’m sorry, Cass. I don’t mean to snap. At you or Anton. I’m just worried about Billy and pissed off at the world.”

“I understand. You’re forgiven. Now tell me what happened.”

“I already told you everything,” Nate says.

“Which is why I want to hear it again, including what this new lawyer said.” I look at Lawrence. “What’s his name?”

“Peter DeFiore. No frills, big reputation. His claim to fame is defending men accused of rape or assault. But not high-profile cases. The ones you never hear about.”

“And? What does he think about Billy’s chances?”

“Not great. He said nine times out of ten, cases like ours—where it’s one person’s word against another—are settled out of court. He’s upfront about the fact that he tries to steer clients away from jury trials, even when the evidence is clear. The outcomes are too unpredictable.”

Nate sneers. “So he’s pussying out even before he meets us?”

“He was talking in generalities, Nate. When I told him about Billy, and his relationship with the girl, he perked up. So that’s good,” Lawrence says, but he grimaces.

“What’s with the face?” I ask.

“DeFiore said that anyone who hears about Billy’s case will assume he did it. His exact words to me were ‘The second you started talking, the word guilty rang in my head.’”

“That’s bullshit,” Nate says. “No decent lawyer would say that. I hate this guy already.”

“Your mother felt similarly. DeFiore is coarse, but I appreciate his bluntness and can overlook his bad manners. More important, we need him more than he needs us.”