“How this epic story will end. Will Billy Quinn get acquitted? Finish school? Be a doctor?”

“Absolutely.” I don’t hesitate. “No question.”

“And you? What will you do?”

“Quit Yale. Be Amelia Earhart. Fly jets. You?”

“Big waves, baby. Ride the surf a hundred feet in the air.”

A knock on the door startles us.

“Oh, sorry.” It’s Lawrence, looking confused. “I thought you were alone.”

“Lawrence!” I shout. “Go away. This is Hawkins Cove. No parents allowed.” I crack myself up. Beside me on the floor, Nate eggs me on. “Sacred space, dude,” he tells his father. “You need to G-O, go. Kids only.”

“Sure,” Lawrence repeats, faking a smile. “I’ll leave you children alone.”

Seeing him relegated to the sidelines fills me with superhuman strength. Already giddy, Nate and I can’t stop laughing. Holding my stomach, I try to sit up. I should be nice, let Lawrence in on the joke. But by the time I can speak, he is gone.

43

DURING WEEK TWO, BOREDOM SETS IN. TIME STANDS STILL as Anderson and Fleming tag-team street cops, detectives, EMTs, pharmacists, and a slew of forensic experts who take us through sets of tedious and confusing scientific data. What does become clear, however, is that DeFiore underplayed the State’s evidence. They have more than enough, much of it troubling. Even so, most of the witnesses are older men who seem ill at ease out of uniform. Their bodies are unnaturally stiff, their answers overly rehearsed. They’re armed with props, all designed to situate us at the playground and break down the action in easy-to-follow steps. But Anderson moves through them too quickly. We’re shown maps, diagrams, blueprints, and timelines, one right after the other, in an avalanche of details. So, rather than being able to digest the most vital facts, we’re buried under minutia.