Anderson holds up a photo. “I’d like to introduce Exhibit SE-33 into evidence.” He hands the photograph to the jury members, who pass it down the line. It’s the windshield of a car, shattered to bits. Glass is everywhere—inside the seat, on the pavement, across the hood. He places a poster of the image on an easel.

“Is this Billy’s Audi?”

“Yes,” Diana replies quietly. “That’s his car. That was his car, I mean.”

When McKay cracks his gavel, the sound is like a gunshot. “Let’s break for lunch,” he says.

47

I GRAB DEFIORE’S ARM AS HE WALKS OUT OF THE COURTROOM. “Can I speak to you? Privately? I promise it won’t take long.”

“Sure, Cassie. Always.” But he looks spooked, like he’s just witnessed a fatal crash. “I have to make a couple calls, and then I’ll come find you.” Patting my arm, he hustles away.

I stop in the ladies’ room where I run into Eleanor at the sink. It creates an optical illusion, as if there are four of us. “It’s warm in this building, no?” she says to my reflection.

“I guess” is all I can manage.

“I need water, Sweetheart,” she says, then touches up her lipstick, and snaps her bag shut. “I’ll get you some as well.” A marvel of tranquil restraint, Eleanor could be anywhere: a department store lounge, the lobby of a hotel or private club. That she happens to be in a federal courthouse, where her son happens to be on trial, a trial he happens to be losing, is neither here nor there. “You should eat something,” she tells me. “Dinner might be late this evening.”

Soon after, I’m sitting with Nate and Billy in our usual conference room. DeFiore has brought in an outside firm to consult on the case—never a good sign, according to Lawrence—and unfamiliar lawyers have been in and out all morning. The place is a disaster zone. Breakfast and lunch trays have been plundered. Ramekins of cream cheese and half-eaten sandwiches are drying out under the recessed lights. Dirty plates, soiled napkins, and empty chip bags litter the table. Laptops and iPads are plugged into walls, and cords are everywhere.

Wearing his signature headphones, Billy is sprawled in a chair with his eyes closed. Next to me, Nate holds out a bag of pretzels. Digging in, I take two and eat them, then go back for more.

“What’s bothering you?” He squints at his computer, reading the news. “I haven’t seen you eat a carbohydrate since the fourth grade.”

“Diana’s testimony shook me up.”

Glancing at Billy, Nate lowers his voice. “She’s a decent witness. I mean, she’s probably lying about everything. Still, I believe her.”