“She is lying. That story about dinner. I was there. Billy didn’t get up, not once. I mean, it’s a small detail but it’s not true.” I pause. “We’re losing, Nate.”

Out in the hall, Lawrence and Eleanor are arguing. This is a new development; until now, they’ve never argued publicly. Nate puts in earbuds, but I move closer to the door. “It’s a bloodbath,” I hear Lawrence say. “Let’s take the four years.”

Eleanor scoffs. “There is no ‘four years.’ That deal was off the table when the trial started. You know this, Lawrence. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“This is your fault, Eleanor. I wanted to take it.”

“Folks!” DeFiore is pissed. “Knock it off!”

Lawrence apologizes, but Eleanor is quiet. I hear the tap of her heels as she walks away, and wait for him to chase her. Instead, he steps into the conference room. “Whoa!” he exclaims, looking around. “You kids must be starving. You seeing this, Peter? Even Cassie is eating!”

Ignoring him, I turn to DeFiore. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

He shakes his head. “No one is fucked. We’re right where we want to be.” He tries to sound reassuring but his eyes dart all over the room. “We still have our whole defense—” Mid-sentence, he pivots. “You had something to tell me, Cassie?”

“She’s lying,” I say. “About the dinner in November. Billy never left the den.” I remind him of that evening, the parts Diana left out: how I bumped into her in the hall, the way she was ogling our house, the vase, my comment, her embarrassment, their rushed departure.

“Yeah, I know.” Browsing through emails on his phone, DeFiore is only half-listening. “Eleanor also told me Diana is lying. No need to worry, though. We’ve got this covered.”

“What does that mean? How is this covered?”

DeFiore has moved to the lunch trays, where he picks over the small bits of crusted bread that remain. Chewing thoughtfully, he’s somewhere else, far away from the trial, away from the Lawrence Quinns, away from this whole sordid mess.

* * *

Back in court, Diana completes her testimony. For the balance of the afternoon, we marinate in Billy’s anger. His explosive anger. Shocking anger. Destructive anger. My brother, William Matthew Stockton Quinn, a young man of many dimensions—athlete, scholar, volunteer, brother, son—is reduced to only one: rapist. A note replayed so many times and so perfectly pitched that by the time Diana finishes, I don’t understand how Billy can be allowed to leave this building. We should hang him from the rafters and watch him swing.

Diana remains tearful. “The breakup was bad. But the aftermath was worse.”