Next to me, Nate looks like a younger, stiffer version of Lawrence in his own bespoke Brioni and silk purple tie. Among us, he’s been the hardest to prepare, mostly because he’s so furious—about the trial, the press, Diana Holly. I’ve missed most of the rehearsals, so I hadn’t realized he’s also still furious at me. We’ve barely spoken since the end of the summer, when he stormed out of the bar. When we do, our interactions are largely transactional (“What time are we leaving?” “I don’t know, ask Dad.”). I think he’s pissed off that I bailed on the war room sessions. Or maybe he’s pissed off that I failed to convince Lawrence to back off the plea. Or maybe it’s just easier to stay angry at me. Either way, I’m giving him a wide berth.

DeFiore and his associate Mitchell Manzano (sexy and trustworthy in glasses) are behind us, along with a shocking number of women. By my quick count, there are seven females on our team: DeFiore’s partner Felicia Drake, jury consultant Abby Friedman, two interns, and three women I’ve never seen before. For all I know, they were hired as extras just for the optics. Everyone is tastefully dressed, tastefully coiffed, and tastefully accessorized with sensible heels, leather totes, and chunky gold jewelry. Lost among the women is the Bowtie, unable to hide his displeasure. Last night, he chauffeured Eleanor to the hotel and expected to escort her up the avenue this morning. DeFiore said no way. “I don’t care who’s angry at who. The Quinns drive together, walk together, and sit together. Lawrence, I want you on Eleanor’s right. Billy, you’re on her left. Nate and Cassie, you’re closely behind. Burt, I have no idea why the fuck you’re here, so find a place in the rear. Listen up, Quinns. You’re a happy fucking family. Try and look like one.”

As we head up the steps and into the courthouse, it’s pandemonium. The cops try to keep order. Reporters surround us, thrusting cameras in our faces. We’re being jostled and yelled at. Nate’s eyes are wide in alarm. “Jesus,” he mutters. “This is bad.” I’m shaking with terror.

“Hang in there, kids,” Lawrence tells us. Speaking robotically, he fixes his eyes on a point in the distance. But I know every line of his face, every muscle in his jaw. Eleanor’s decision to proceed with this trial is killing him. “She’s impossible” he says to me at every turn. “But she’s my wife.” It’s how he apologizes.

As we head through the lobby, Lawrence grabs Eleanor’s hand. For a second, I think he’s going to bring it to his lips. Instead, he squeezes it three times. Eleanor squeezes back three times, and I wonder what it means.