“Whatever it takes.” He glances at my brother in his rearview mirror. “I would do the same for you.” He pauses. “So far, they’re charging Billy with aggravated sexual battery and suspicion of felony rape. But the clock hasn’t stopped. The cops are interviewing witnesses, looking at video footage, and photographing the scene. The more evidence they find, the more serious crimes they can add to his charges. Regardless, Burt is confident we’ll get the case tossed out way before that happens.”

“But if we don’t,” Nate says, “and Billy goes to prison, he’ll get ass-raped every night.”

“Nathaniel, that is not funny.”

“Dad, I’m not trying to be funny. If we go to trial, Billy is fucked. Can you imagine him on the stand, getting twisted up in his own words?” He shakes his head. “They’ll crucify him.”

7

AN HOUR LATER, WE’RE DEEP INTO NEW JERSEY. MERCER County is eighty miles south of the city, and a whole other world. We pass cow pastures, scarecrows, working farms, and long stretches of lush greenery before the view shifts to burned-out storefronts, abandoned churches, a derelict daycare center, and three grimy garages, one after the other. Soon, we’re in a shabby neighborhood that reeks of unpaid bills and impending foreclosures. The only sign of life is a large white woman wearing a puffy coat and flip-flops. Lounging on a stoop, she uses her feet to rock a stroller back and forth.

I watch Lawrence scan the streets. “This is it, I think,” he says. He makes a sharp right, and we head up a steep hill. There are Private Property signs warning us off, but he ignores them. We reach the summit, where there’s a parking lot cordoned off by long, greasy chains. Four police cars sit with their noses clustered together. The guard station is empty, and the grounds are as quiet as a graveyard.

Lawrence taps his horn. Nothing moves.

“Let’s go,” I say, growing uncomfortable. “We don’t belong here.”

It’s only been two minutes, tops, but Lawrence can’t wait. Leaning on his horn, he demands service with a long, loud, obnoxious blast.

“Lawrence, stop!” I grab his arm.

“If DeFiore is inside, I don’t want to miss him. Cassie, let go of me. Please.”

From the car, I have a partial view of the campus, which looks more like a rural community college than short-term housing for violent criminals. There’s a row of broken-down trailers and four low-rise brick buildings. Two men, one white, the other Black, wearing khaki jumpsuits push a laundry cart stamped with MCCF. But there’s no security—no men, no guns, no dogs. Just a faded sign that says Mercer County Correctional Facility half-hidden by a battered van with caged windows and muddy tires.

“This place is a dump,” Nate says, glancing at his father.