Twenty minutes later, we’re seated in the gallery. Everyone is in place—judge, defense team, court reporter—except for the prosecution, whose table is empty. I take in the Honorable Charles McKay, our judge. He’s gray-haired, with deep-set eyes, unruly eyebrows, and a formidable frown. So far, he’s the most impressive man in the room, though this is probably because he’s on the throne, wearing robes.

There are ten rows for spectators. Half the rows are empty, the other half hold women with young children and a few scattered families like ours. Everyone, except us, is Black. At the defense table, DeFiore sits with a younger man, presumably his co-counsel. Heads bent together, the two men crack up. Their levity seems disrespectful, and I wonder if maybe Eleanor was right about DeFiore.

Billy is scheduled to appear first. But fifteen minutes later, we’re still waiting. From my bag, I pull out a pen and paper. Nate and I play Hangman. I solve the first puzzle (N A T E T H E G R E A T I S K I N G). Nate solves the next one (B I L L Y Q U I N N W A S F R A M E D).

Eventually, a slender woman with a low ponytail rushes in. Wheeling a legal briefcase and carrying a stack of folders, she heads to the prosecution table. She’s wearing tiny glasses with cat’s-eye frames and an olive-green polyester suit. Her hem hangs down and skims her calves. In her dusty flats and pilled cardigan, she looks like she leads Bible study on Wednesday evenings. A bald giant follows behind her, also wheeling a briefcase. A burly bruiser with a thick neck and fleshy jowls, he’s talking quietly on his phone. According to the Bowtie, this is Bradley Anderson, the district attorney; the dowdy girl is Maggie Fleming, his deputy.

“We apologize for being late, Your Honor,” Fleming says, her voice just above a whisper. “We had a last-minute—”

“Fine, you’re here.” Judge McKay waves them to their table. “Sit down; let’s go.”

The prosecution and defense teams acknowledge each other with a perfunctory nod, and then turn to McKay, who opens the show. “What’s the case number?” he asks the bailiff, but before she can answer, he asks the DA if they’re set.

“Sure,” Anderson replies. “We’re ready whenever you are.” His casual tone surprises me.

McKay beckons Fleming up to the bench and says something inaudible. She nods. Meanwhile, DeFiore and Junior are conferring, as if they have nothing to do with the proceedings unfolding around them.

The side door opens, and a marshal steps into the courtroom, accompanied by a teenager wearing a brown prison jumpsuit, his head bent. His hands and legs are cuffed, forcing him to shuffle forward. When I hear Eleanor gasp, I look again and realize—my god—it’s Billy.