Last night, my parents, brothers, and I left the courthouse in high spirits. After the long, tortured wait for the trial to begin, the end of day one brought relief. Finally, we said. The Bowtie booked a private room in a restaurant two towns over. All the men ordered prime rib, Eleanor and I shared a whole branzino, and everyone drank wine, so the evening had an air of triumph. We clinked glasses, toasting Billy and the absent DeFiore. For the first hour, it was fun to be together. But as dinner progressed, Lawrence and Nate drank too much, and Eleanor got annoyed. She’d insisted we not discuss the trial, but Nate, plastered, couldn’t help himself.

“Anderson is fucking up. Did you see his face when the judge kept overruling him? The jury can’t stand him. It’s so obvious.”

“Neither can McKay,” Lawrence added.

Nate lifted his glass. “Here’s to the DA going down in flames.”

This morning, Anderson assumes a folksy intimacy. To me, his performance feels forced, but the jurors eat it up. His burgers-and-beer comment earns him a hearty laugh. Clearly, his trial strategy is as complex and as nuanced as ours. How many times, I wonder, did he practice the button popping off his jacket before he got it exactly right? Who sewed it on just loosely enough?

“I appreciate you being here,” he continues. “Trials are long and tedious. Over the next three weeks, you’ll hear intricate testimony from lab techs, police officers, ER doctors, psychiatrists, and other forensic experts. If you’re anything like me, you may find it difficult to absorb so many technical details. But I encourage each of you to do your very best. Why? Because we’re here to get justice for Diana Holly, a courageous woman who was violated in the most depraved way. This trial will affect every woman you know, and lots of women you don’t. We are pursuing justice, which is an ideal this country was founded upon. So, your continued engagement is meaningful to Diana, to Mercer County, to the state of New Jersey, to the United States of America, and to our global community.”

The DA is so full of convoluted bullshit that no one is prepared for his sharp pivot.

“This trial is about rape.” His gray eyes harden into pieces of flint. “It’s not about sex. It’s not about relationships. It’s not about passion or love. This trial is about rage.” He waits a beat. “Privilege.” Another beat. “Power.” Another beat. “Violence.” Then he turns to Billy, takes him in. “Because that’s what rape is about: Rage. Privilege. Power. Violence.”

The courtroom is silent.

“Rage. Privilege. Power. Violence.”

A woman in the jury box coughs.