Day by day, hour by hour, DeFiore chips away at Diana’s testimony. By Thursday, he’s presented an alternative narrative. Billy, DeFiore tells us, is guilty of many things: poor judgment, insensitivity, selfishness, and terrible communication. The one crime he is not guilty of, however, is rape.

“I believe it,” I tell Nate for the third time. “I have reasonable doubt. I’d vote not guilty. But will the jury?”

“Why do you always do this, Cassie? Peter is doing great. Why can’t you be optimistic?”

“Why can’t I ask a question, Nate? Why do you always shut me down?”

It’s lunchtime. We’re in the conference room with DeFiore, Felicia, Abby, and Mitchell. Around us, the table is covered with piles of detritus: crumpled coffee cups, charging wires, balled-up napkins, and a week’s worth of newspapers and magazines. Everyone is scrolling through their devices. When the trial started, a prominent senator wrote an editorial that ran in the Washington Post, decrying young women who accuse men of rape when in fact it’s “just bad sex.” Since then, there’s been a flood of op-eds arguing for and against Billy Quinn. Guilty? Not guilty? Predator? Victim? At this point, it could go either way.

The room is quiet after my exchange with Nate. Our anxiety has spiked, and we’re all hunched over the table, scavenging the internet for gossip, commentary, debates—anything to allay our worst fears. In forty minutes, DeFiore questions his last witnesses. Tomorrow, Lawrence, Billy, and I testify. Then both sides give closing statements. We are, in fact, running out of time.

52

FRIDAY BEGINS JUST LIKE ANY OTHER DAY. WE’RE AWAKE, dressed, and outside the hotel with a half-hour to spare. Eleanor rides to court with the Bowtie, but that’s not unusual. In our car, Lawrence, my brothers, and I bark at each other, but that’s not unusual either.

When we pull into the parking lot, the phone rings. Lawrence hits speaker.

“Just a heads-up, I’m recalling Diana Holly,” DeFiore says. “So we probably won’t rest tonight.”

“Why?” Lawrence looks exasperated. “You said it was crucial to wrap up on Friday because next week is Thanksgiving.” Turning to me in the passenger seat, he widens his eyes: Can you believe this guy? Angling for peace, I offer a wan smile.

“I said it made sense strategically, Lar. Not that it was crucial.”

“You’re splitting hairs.”

“Let’s talk when you get here.” DeFiore signs off with a cheery “Chin up! End’s in sight,” to which Lawrence mutters, “Fuck you.”

“Come on.” I try to coax a better mood. “Give the guy a break.”

“I’ll give him a break when you give me one.”