When We Were Bright and Beautiful(90)

“I believe it,” I tell Nate for the third time. “I have reasonable doubt. I’d vote not guilty. But will the jury?”

“Why do you always do this, Cassie? Peter is doing great. Why can’t you be optimistic?”

“Why can’t I ask a question, Nate? Why do you always shut me down?”

It’s lunchtime. We’re in the conference room with DeFiore, Felicia, Abby, and Mitchell. Around us, the table is covered with piles of detritus: crumpled coffee cups, charging wires, balled-up napkins, and a week’s worth of newspapers and magazines. Everyone is scrolling through their devices. When the trial started, a prominent senator wrote an editorial that ran in the Washington Post, decrying young women who accuse men of rape when in fact it’s “just bad sex.” Since then, there’s been a flood of op-eds arguing for and against Billy Quinn. Guilty? Not guilty? Predator? Victim? At this point, it could go either way.

The room is quiet after my exchange with Nate. Our anxiety has spiked, and we’re all hunched over the table, scavenging the internet for gossip, commentary, debates—anything to allay our worst fears. In forty minutes, DeFiore questions his last witnesses. Tomorrow, Lawrence, Billy, and I testify. Then both sides give closing statements. We are, in fact, running out of time.





52


FRIDAY BEGINS JUST LIKE ANY OTHER DAY. WE’RE AWAKE, dressed, and outside the hotel with a half-hour to spare. Eleanor rides to court with the Bowtie, but that’s not unusual. In our car, Lawrence, my brothers, and I bark at each other, but that’s not unusual either.

When we pull into the parking lot, the phone rings. Lawrence hits speaker.

“Just a heads-up, I’m recalling Diana Holly,” DeFiore says. “So we probably won’t rest tonight.”

“Why?” Lawrence looks exasperated. “You said it was crucial to wrap up on Friday because next week is Thanksgiving.” Turning to me in the passenger seat, he widens his eyes: Can you believe this guy? Angling for peace, I offer a wan smile.

“I said it made sense strategically, Lar. Not that it was crucial.”

“You’re splitting hairs.”

“Let’s talk when you get here.” DeFiore signs off with a cheery “Chin up! End’s in sight,” to which Lawrence mutters, “Fuck you.”

“Come on.” I try to coax a better mood. “Give the guy a break.”

“I’ll give him a break when you give me one.”

Last night, Lawrence called from a bar a mile up the road. He wanted me to sneak out of the hotel and meet him. When I said no, he pelted me with: You’re selfish. You’re giving up on us. You, you, you.

“You owe me an apology,” I say. “That was unfair.”

“Forgive me.” He glances in his rearview mirror. I turn around too. My brothers are both wearing headphones, and Billy’s eyes are closed. Lawrence squeezes my knee three times. For. Give. Me.

I squeeze his: I. Will. Try.

Like I said, regular morning: same argument, same non-apology. But when we see DeFiore, I know something is very wrong.

“Good tidings, Quinn family!” he says, ushering us into the conference room. “Big day today! Big day!” His too-hearty hello is jarring. So is his territorial energy, the way he paces the perimeter of the table as if establishing dominance.

“Are you okay, Peter?” I glance at Nate. He’s acting strange, right?

Very, Nate agrees with his eyes. “Why don’t you take a seat, Peter?” He pats a chair.

“I’m fine,” DeFiore says. “I’m golden.”

“Where’s Felicia?” I try to block his path, but he does an about-face. It’s so obvious it’s comical.

He doesn’t answer. That’s strange. Why is he ignoring me? I’m DeFiore’s favorite Quinn. Even when there’s tension, he’s thrilled to see me. But today there’s nothing. No flattery, no leers, no pats on the back. Just a manic lawyer making what feels like a last-ditch Hail Mary.

DeFiore looks around. “Where’s Mrs. Quinn? Is she coming?”

“Here!” Eleanor strolls in, escorted by the Bowtie, who is dapper in a cashmere scarf and camel coat. “Apologies for being late. Horrendous traffic.” She turns to her husband. “Well, you know.”

“Actually, I don’t.” Lawrence’s voice is clipped. “We got here with time to spare.”

DeFiore cuts in. “Let’s get going, shall we?” He opens his arms. “So, Quinn family. Some news: Diana Holly’s testimony was not entirely accurate. We need to set the record straight.”

“About that dinner?” I ask. “In November?”

Again, he doesn’t reply.

“Peter? You’re asking about that night?”

Studying his phone, DeFiore nods. “Among other issues.”

I should feel vindicated. I was the one who told him Diana lied. Instead, I’m sweating. My twitchiness morphs from worry into alarm.

“Is this a good idea?” Nate asks. “You don’t want to look like a bully.”

“Oh, absolutely, Nate. The goal is to cast doubt on her credibility. We have an unimpeachable example. After, we’ll proceed as planned: Lawrence will testify, then Cassie, and we’ll finish up with Billy.”