Upstairs, on the fourth floor, the scenery changes. The light is so bright I’m forced to squint. We walk down a long, noisy corridor, passing courtrooms on either side, each a private theater, with LCD screens advertising the presiding judge. Police stroll beside us, guns holstered but visible. Families sit on benches in groups of twos and threes; a disproportionate number are Black and Brown. Men wear oversized hoodies and heavy work boots; women are dressed for church in colorful blouses, flowing skirts, and gold chains. Huddled together, they look like small football squads listening to the quarterback—their lawyer, most often a white person in a business suit—call off the plays.

Heading to Courtroom 4L, we pass white lawyers shouting into phones, white lawyers holding shabby briefcases, white lawyers with thinning hair and poor diction. “They haven’t given us fuckin’ discovery, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not my fuckin’ problem. It’s your fuckin’ problem, asshole,” I hear one say as I move down the hall.

I feel absurdly white and absurdly wealthy, so white and wealthy I float above the bustle. But no one, not one of the Black men, the Brown women, or the white lawyers glance our way.

DeFiore and the Bowtie wait outside the courtroom, a study in opposites. DeFiore is a colossal, oily mess, wearing the same threadbare suit jacket as yesterday. He’s swapped a dingy button-down for the Jets sweatshirt and put on a tie, a long, red tongue that unfurls over his belly. Beside him, the Bowtie looks like a slender dandy who has time-traveled here from the Gilded Age. With his white handlebar mustache and infamous paisley neckwear, he’s Mr. Monopoly come to life.

“I have good news and not-so-good news,” DeFiore says quietly when we’re gathered into our own football huddle. “I saw Billy. He’s okay. He’s scared and angry but resolved to get through this.”

“How does he look?” Though I’m addressing DeFiore, the Bowtie answers.

“What are you expecting, Cassandra? Two black eyes and a bloody nose?” He chuckles, a sound that repulses me. “You watch too much TV, my dear.”

Given his age and ties to Eleanor, the Bowtie should be a kindly grandfather figure to me. Instead, he acts like I’m up to no good, sparking my deepest fear: I’m an interloper in my own family. Ever since he handled the estates of Eleanor’s parents, the Bowtie has slithered as close as he can, while forgetting the first rule of friendship among the monied class: hold your lane. Out of respect for Eleanor, I normally swallow my distaste. Not today.

“Excuse me, Burt, but my brother just spent two fucking days in prison. So I’m not asking for commentary on my television habits. I want to know how the hell he is holding up.”

“Cassandra!” Eleanor is mortified.