Lawrence speeds out of the tunnel so fast he almost loses control of the car. Do it, I think. Hit a wall, plow into traffic, immolate us all. But he’s not telepathic, and we reach the courthouse in record time. When he turns off the ignition, instead of offering optimistic platitudes, he tightens his scarf and barks, “Let’s go.”

As we exit the parking lot, I put my hand on Lawrence’s back, trying to comfort him. “Billy will be okay.”

“Cassie, for God’s sake,” he scoffs. “Do you see what’s going on here?”

Throngs of reporters are gathered on the street, surrounded by news vans and camera crews. As we approach the courthouse, we’re besieged by questions that sound like accusations. Mr. Quinn, will your son plead guilty? Mr. Quinn, is it true the DA has new evidence? Billy, look over here. Billy, this way. Billy, do you watch porn? Mr. Quinn, is your son a rapist?

“No comment,” Lawrence snaps, herding us up the steps and into the lobby.

“Porn?” Nate says, just as I ask, “What kind of new evidence?”

“Ignore them,” he tells us. “Keep walking. Do not turn around.”

A half-hour later the courtroom is filled to capacity. We arrived early, so we’re in the first row of spectators. The rest of the gallery is overcrowded, so people line up along the walls. From the corner of my eye, I spot a family that could be Diana Holly’s. I’ve never met them, but I’d guess it’s her mother, father, younger sister, and grandparents. Diana isn’t among them, which isn’t a surprise. DeFiore told us she can watch the proceedings on closed-circuit TV in another part of the building. If she is, I wonder if seeing her family so stricken makes her feel as though she’s viewing her own funeral. That’s what it’s like for us, like this is the end of everything, and we’re gathered here to mourn my brother.

Ahead of us, Billy sits next to DeFiore at the defense table. Today, my brother is wearing a navy suit instead of prison coveralls, so he looks less guilty than he did the last time we were here. But he seems stoned, and I wonder if, somewhere between the car and the courthouse, he took more Ativan. His eyes are lifeless, and his head lolls forward, as if too heavy for his neck.

“What’s wrong with him?” Nate’s jaw tightens. “Why is he drooling like a mental patient?”

“Keep your voice down,” Lawrence whispers. He keeps shifting in his seat until Eleanor grabs him. “Lawrence, please. Sit still.”