Watching a trial unfold in real time is nothing like seeing one on TV. There’s no wrap-up commentary at the end of the hour. Instead, we suffer through stretches of testimony where the same point is made repeatedly. We hear two police officers describe, in painstaking detail, the patch of lawn where the alleged assault took place, including its square footage, soil density, grass height, and footprint patterns. Photographs of the tire swing are passed around, and entered into evidence, as are Diana’s dress, sweater, bra, ankle boots, and socks. Some of these photos have been enlarged to poster size. Anderson holds them up for the judge and jury—and the reporters in the gallery—then stacks them on easels where they sit until the witness is dismissed. But even if the pictures were interesting—which they’re not—how many shots of a lacy bra do we really need to see? Similarly, Diana’s underwear was missing from the scene, but what could’ve been a compelling set of questions flattens into a mind-numbing dissertation on chain of evidence. Briefly, a frisson of excitement is ignited when DeFiore suggests that Diana may have foregone underwear altogether (“What’s the expression? Commando?”). But the objection to his query is sustained, and the comment is stricken from the record.

A skinny, white-haired pharmacist catalogues every substance the couple consumed: beer, vodka, whiskey, Jell-O shots, and marijuana (strain: Sativa, Acapulco Gold). Then he recites how each one alters brain chemistry and bodily function. His testimony is jargon-heavy and impossible to follow. Nor can I figure out why McKay allows so many interruptions. DeFiore is constantly on his feet, objecting and requesting sidebars, which means every few minutes the action moves offstage while we’re left to figure out what’s happening.

“We’re doing great!” I told DeFiore at lunch after the pharmacist’s testimony. “You’re killing it.”

“Don’t get too excited,” he said. “Advantage is a pendulum. It swings both ways.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. Slowly but surely the State gains traction. To my horror, Anderson starts pulling Billy apart, one detail at a time. Surprisingly, the pivot point for his success turns out to be porn.

For the next two days, we hear a series of witnesses offer damning testimony, starting with a gangly IT expert who examined Billy’s electronics. Basically, he intimates, the defendant is a perverted porn addict. Eleven hours a week is considered compulsive for college-aged males. So my brother, who watches an average of eighteen hours a week, with a high of twenty-four, is a dirty, drooling lunatic who can’t keep his hands out of his pants.

“This is bullshit,” I murmur.

Nate nods. “But titillating.” Looking around, I see this is true. The jury is spellbound.

Lawrence overhears us. “Porn,” he whispers, disgusted. “Pseudo-psychology conjured out of thin air. This whole argument is repulsive.”

You’re repulsive.