I cannot believe I’m here. Up at school, I was able to distance myself from the case. I regained my sanity. I saw Eddie at the Neighborhood Café. I chowed down on Little Italy burritos. I swam every day. I bought textbooks, notepads, and brand-new pens. After a lazy, sluggish summer, New Haven is coming alive. Students are returning to campus, and by next week, the restaurants and bars will be packed. Seated in this freezing room with my cranky, fucked-up family, talking about my sullen brother’s rape trial, I resent being pulled back into this life, this mess.

“As I said, five years is the best offer we’re likely to get.” DeFiore’s cheeks are rosy with a soccer-field sunburn. He turns to Billy. “I am confident in my recommendation that you take it—and fast.”

I roll the word confident on my tongue. A confident man, a confidence man. Like Lawrence, DeFiore is confident people will listen when he speaks. His confidence inspires trust, a willingness to believe what he says despite evidence to the contrary. Also, like Lawrence, DeFiore repeats himself ad nauseum until it’s easier to give in than to continue arguing.

Billy’s case is taking a toll on my family. I see this every time I leave and come back. My parents and brothers are bedraggled and pasty like they haven’t seen daylight for months. Eleanor is fully made up, but the top button of her jacket is loose, and her stockings have a run.

“What are the terms?” Eleanor asks.

“Felony rape and assault of an unconscious person. In return, he’s offering five years in a level-two minimum-security facility. Billy will serve three years, less for good behavior.”

“What about the registry?”

“Yes, Eleanor; he’ll have to register as a sex offender. That’s non-neg—”

“No.” The word is out of her mouth before he can finish.

Lawrence looks at his wife. “Don’t be so quick.” He turns to Billy, places a hand on his knee. “What do you want to do, son?”

My brother shrugs. Mumbles a non-answer.

“Billy!” Lawrence is pissed. “We’re asking you a question.”

Raising his head, my brother glances at DeFiore. I can’t tell if he’s stoned and thinks he looks normal or if he’s intentionally moving in slow motion.

“Billy, listen,” DeFiore says patiently, “if we try this case and lose, you’re looking at twenty years in a level-five prison. Level-five is a maximum-security penitentiary. That means a whole different kind of life.”