But the real shocker today is DeFiore, who looks like a bona fide attorney. He must’ve booked a session with the crisis consultants, too, because his gray suit is tailored with knife-sharp creases. His shirt is white, free of stains, and neatly pressed. Gold cuff links add panache. A pair of half-glasses are perched on his nose. Does he wear glasses normally? I don’t remember. Either way, he’s a man to be reckoned with.

Months ago, DeFiore explained how visuals are as critical as the legal arguments. Which is why Felicia Drake, not Mitchell Manzano, is acting as co-counsel. By positioning Felicia next to Billy, the jury will see him interact positively with a less attractive woman. Beside my naturally elegant brother, Felicia looks ungainly and matronly. Today’s walk from the parking lot has loosened her chignon, and her face is moist with perspiration. Her suit jacket is too snug; from behind, her bra lines are visible. With every hand on his shoulder or pat on his back, she’s putting on a subtle but effective show for the jury as they file in, one by one.

The jury box is to the left of the bench. Soon, eight men and four women fill the twelve seats. Most bend their heads, but a few crane their necks and gawp, as if dazed by the lights. The majority sport weekend gear: jeans, sneakers, and puffy vests. DeFiore told me that as the defendant’s sister, roughly the same age as Diana, I will get scrutinized without pity. The jury will wonder about my relationship with Billy, what kind of influence I had growing up, how my presence in the family shaped his views of women, sex, and relationships. “You are supportive and demure,” DeFiore said. “That’s what we need to see. Supportive. Demure.” He gave me a once-over. “To the extent that you can.”

“Meaning what?”

“You ooze sex, Cassie. Don’t look surprised, or pretend you’re offended. It’s a compliment. But button up your sweater and cross your legs at the ankles. Like a lady,” he added, glancing at Eleanor. “Like your mom.” When he said this, Eleanor caught my eye, and we both made a face.

Sitting up, I run my fingers through my hair. The wind blew out my curls, leaving them long and unruly. Ignoring DeFiore’s instructions, I take off my sweater, and unbutton my blouse, exposing a hint of cleavage. Let them look, I think.