DeFiore’s immediate concerns are the EMT and hospital reports, neither of which he’s seen yet. However, he read the sheriff’s report, which describes Diana as “breathing but unresponsive.” This could pose a problem if the emergency techs and intake nurses offer corroborating impressions: an unresponsive woman cannot give consent.

“Still,” he says, “the State has to prove that Billy knew she was unconscious but had sex with her anyway. Which isn’t easy to do, not by a long shot. And from what I hear, the EMT report is a mess, and their eyewitnesses are recanting. Plus, the responding officers didn’t secure the scene, so their physical evidence is probably useless. But I’ll know more in another day or two.”

“Knock, knock,” Felicia Drake, DeFiore’s co-counsel, says as she slides open the glass door. “Sorry to be late. I couldn’t get off a call.”

DeFiore waves her in. “I was telling the Quinns about the sheriff’s report.”

“A shit show, right?” Felicia is a Jersey girl with thick ankles and a nasal voice. Her pouffed hair is dyed jet-black, and her eyeliner is applied with a heavy hand. “That report does us no favors. Hopefully, the others will say different. But don’t worry too much about it; we’re still sorting everything out.”

Eleanor looks at DeFiore, expecting him to contradict Felicia, or at least apologize for her bluntness. Instead, he nods in agreement.

“I wasn’t worried about it until you walked in, Felicia,” Eleanor says.

“I’d like to read the report,” Lawrence says. “Assuming it’s handy.”

“Trust me, Lar. You don’t. These reports are excruciating for family—on both sides,” he adds, as if we’ve forgotten that Diana has parents too. “The DA is presenting preliminaries to the grand jury next Wednesday. They’ll review the evidence to date and determine if it’s enough to indict. But our assumption is the case will be greenlit.”

“We should be at the grand jury,” Nate says.

“You can’t,” Lawrence says. “None of us can.” He looks at DeFiore. “Tell him.”

Felicia answers. “Sessions are closed. It’s just the prosecution and their witnesses.”

“But who’ll speak for Billy?” my brother asks.

DeFiore starts to reply, but again, Felicia answers. “No one. And the greenlight is a sure thing, not an assumption. Anderson wouldn’t call a grand jury unless he’s confident he can get a majority of votes in favor of indictment.”

Felicia is a female version of DeFiore, except the same qualities that I find oddly charming in him—large, pushy, bombastic—I find unforgivable in her.

“That’s not fair!” Nate blurts out. “What about Billy’s rights?”