We’re in the conference room. If we do get a decision today, the five of us won’t be together again for a long time, if ever. Lawrence is at the other end of this mammoth, sixteen-chair table. The sight of him, alone and cast out, would break my heart if I let it. Except for “hello, how are you,” and “fine, how are you?” he and I haven’t spoken since last Friday, nearly a week ago.

It’s a choice, I remind myself. Loving him may not be but protecting him is. All I know is that it’s very hard not to move next to him. Impossible, almost. And this is only day five. How will I survive the rest of my life?

Lunch is delivered, eaten, and cleared away. One o’clock comes and goes. By two, I’m scared. Billy won’t survive incarceration. Like I told Haggerty, he’s softer than me and Nate, more likely to break. Maybe, given his background, they’ll let him work in the library, or better, in the clinic. I acknowledge the privilege he’ll bring to that situation, privilege that so few others hold. And yet, I am grateful for it. I hope beyond hope that his looks, money, race, education—any of it, all of it—will serve him as well in prison as it has in life.

At four-thirty, DeFiore’s phone dings. “It’s in.” He stands up. “Let’s go.”

Together, we head to the courtroom. Inside, everyone—McKay, Anderson, the jury—is already seated. We slip into our seats and hold our breath.

“Will the defendant please rise?”

Billy stands up.

“Has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?”

A woman with curly brown hair and a starburst broach on her lapel stands up. I thought I knew all the jurors, but I feel like I’ve never seen her before. It’s not a good sign. “Yes, we have, Your Honor.”

The bailiff hands the verdict to the judge who reads it silently then hands it back.

“He’s just a kid,” Nate whispers nervously. “Prison will destroy him.”

“He’s a grown man, Nate. He’ll adjust.”

“On the two counts of rape, how do you find?”

“We find the defendant . . . not guilty, Your Honor.”

“Hell no,” someone calls out. “Oh my God,” I say aloud.

“Silence!” McKay is pissed. “On the count of attempted rape, how do you find?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“On the two counts of felony sexual assault.”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Quinn,” McKay says, “you are free to go.”

I turn to Nate; he’s shocked too. “He’s free?”

60

LAWRENCE IS ARRESTED TWO WEEKS LATER. I WATCH IT ON the news, in the celebration room, on the widescreen TV. A reporter narrates as footage is aired of Lawrence standing on the sidewalk in front of his hotel. His hands are locked behind him. But his chin is up, his eyes are bright.