“It’s freezing in here,” I say, rubbing my skin.

“Want my jacket?” Lawrence asks, holding it out.

I nod; and when he drapes it across my shoulders, he pats my upper arms. We exchange smiles as we stop at the elevator. To the crowd, he’s a loving father reassuring his frightened daughter. Don’t worry, Honey, we’ll be okay. Promise? Promise.

Today’s arrival is one of the trial details that DeFiore has choreographed down to the minute. Our entrance is his opening statement. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Ignore what you’ve read; forget what you know. Here, for your consideration, are the Lawrence Quinns. Well dressed. Well mannered. Female friendly. Approachable. Undaunted. We are a united front. We are New York royalty. We are the all-American dream.

38

“ALL RISE!”

The midsized courtroom is filled to capacity. People are lining the walls. Every row in the gallery is occupied. As Judge Charles McKay steps out of his chambers and approaches the bench, everyone jumps to their feet. Conversations cease. The mood turns somber.

I’m standing with my family in the first row of spectators. We’re directly behind Billy, Felicia, and DeFiore, who are at the defense table. It’s a frustrating setup. Billy’s back is to us, so we can’t see his face unless he leans back or turns around. The best we can do is gauge how he’s feeling from the tension in his neck and shoulders. We’re too far away to pat his arm or whisper encouragement—not that we would. DeFiore told us to sit still and shut up, no matter what happens. Our seating assignments were equally specific. The Bowtie is at the end of the row, on the aisle, with Eleanor situated to his right. Lawrence is on Eleanor’s right, I’m next to Lawrence, Nate is on my right, and Abby Friedman is next to Nate, at the other end of the row. We’ll return to these positions every day until the trial ends.

McKay settles in. Today, his hair looks freshly shorn and his crazy eyebrows have been trimmed. When he turns to the gallery, his face is solemn.

“Be seated.” He looks at the attorneys. “Does either side need to address anything before I call the jury?”

“Nothing from us, Your Honor,” says Bradley Anderson from the prosecution table. Seated beside him, his deputy Maggie Fleming shakes her head.

“Nor us, Your Honor,” DeFiore says.

The judge turns to the sheriff, who says, “All rise for the jury.”

I’m not a reverential person, but this collective show of respect humbles me. A jury trial is a meaningful event, one that will decide the rest of a young man’s life. Apparently, the officers of the court feel similarly. At Billy’s first appearance, the prosecutors walked in late while DeFiore and Mitchell yukked it up. Today, lawyers on both sides sit up straight, ties adjusted, skirts smoothed.