Текст книги "The Last Alibi"

Автор книги: David Ellis

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

21.

Jason

After Shauna cross-examines Officer Garvin, Judge Bialek bangs a gavel and we are done for the day. Shauna didn’t spend a lot of time on the cross. Garvin was just the first responder to the scene; his testimony didn’t do much damage. Shauna only covered two topics. First, my demeanor, which Garvin had suggested was unreasonably calm—which would be translated by Roger Ogren in closing argument as “icy” or “cold-blooded.” “In your three years on the beat, you’ve encountered a number of people in stressful, upsetting situations, haven’t you?” Shauna asked the officer. “And people show grief in different ways, do they not? Some cry, some scream, some remain quiet, some have already cried before you arrived and appear calm by the time you see them.” Yes, yes, and yes, the cop agreed.

And second, the fact that I lawyered up right away, invoking my right to counsel at the first question Officer Garvin posed. The law says that you are entitled to counsel before interrogation by the police. Every American who has watched one evening of television knows that. But many, and maybe most, of those same Americans would infer guilt from someone who immediately invoked. So Shauna couldn’t let it go. “My client, Jason Kolarich, is a criminal defense attorney, is he not? And a criminal defense attorney would be expected to be very much aware of his rights, wouldn’t you agree? Does it seem unusual to you that a criminal defense attorney would follow the same advice that he gives to every single one of his clients, which is to confer with an attorney before talking to the police?” The last question drew an objection from Roger Ogren, which Judge Bialek sustained. That was fine by us. We just wanted the jury to hear the question.

“Meet you back at the Palace,” I say to my lawyers. “Get some decent food first.”

“What would you like?” Bradley asks me.

“Whatever. I don’t care.”

A sheriff’s deputy named Floyd takes me by the elbow and walks me out of the courtroom. Once in the waiting area behind the court, he handcuffs me, hands in front, and perp-walks me to an elevator, then to a bus waiting underground. I’m joined by seven other men, also standing trial today and headed to the Palace for the night. I’m one of only two white guys; the others are African-American or Latino. I’m the only one in a suit. Most of them are wearing expressions that tell me they have a pretty good idea how their cases are going to turn out.

The Alejandro Morales Detention Center was named after a congressman who represented this area in the eighties, one of the first Latinos ever to serve in Congress. The “Morales Palace,” less than a mile from the criminal courts, looks like an ordinary twenty-story concrete structure, save for the bars on the windows. It’s used these days primarily as a youth detention facility, but with our state and county governments in their ever-present state of fiscal Armageddon, and real estate at a premium, the segregated prisoners sometimes overflow here from the county jail.

Segregation is typically reserved for gangbangers and either cops or prosecutors who run afoul of the law and, for various reasons, might not fare so well in general population. I’m a two-time winner because I’ve prosecuted and defended some of the people inside, thus my private cell. For this last week, when I’m expected to need lots of time to prepare for trial, I’ve been granted liberal privileges with the meeting rooms to confer with my attorneys. And because these meetings could interfere with the regimented timing for meals, they even let my lawyers bring me something to eat, as long as it’s something the guards can open and inspect freely. Soup is out; sub sandwiches very much in. Every time I bite into a hoagie that Shauna brings me, I know that a correctional employee has already worked over every slice of turkey, lifted every tomato and pickle, searching for razors, needles, drug packets. I assume the guard is wearing a plastic glove while doing so. I prefer to imagine it that way, at least.

This evening, Shauna, Bradley, and I will go over the witnesses for tomorrow and finalize cross-examination questions. We will probably discuss, once again, whether I should testify, though I am certain I will.

Until then, I’m left alone in my deluxe penthouse, a ten-by-ten cell of concrete and bars, a stained and scuffed-up floor, a toilet with a broken seat, and a bed with a cushion an inch thick. Left alone with my thoughts, I’m taken these days to self-abuse. I don’t kid myself. I have nobody to blame for my predicament but myself.

Dr. Evans warned me about the dangers of taking OxyContin, and I assured him I was prepared for it. He asked me if there was a history of alcohol or chemical dependency in my family, and for some reason I lied and said no, said nothing about my father or my brother, Pete. He vigilantly monitored me over those first few months after the surgery, when the pain was sometimes teeth-gnashing, often searing needle-stabs, but again I assured him that I was sticking with the proper dosing regimen. “Yes,” I told him, “I’m taking them four hours apart. No,” I lied, “I don’t chew them up, I let them dissolve in my stomach.” I was cocky. I was a tough guy, and I could take as many pills as I wanted, as often as I wanted, without it becoming a problem.

Before I knew it, four pills a day was six, then eight, then a dozen. Even after the pain in my knee subsided—maybe mid-March, definitely by April—I gradually needed more and more to feel okay, whatever okay meant. Then I found myself in Dr. Evans’s office on April 1—that’s right, let’s all say it together, April Fools’ Day—with my crutches, even though I no longer needed them, even though I was essentially pain-free, lying to him, telling him the pain was excruciating. “That’s . . . odd,” he said. “The healing has been remarkable. To still have this much pain . . .”

Then, wisely—and diplomatically, too, with that practiced bedside manner, never outright accusing me of lying—Dr. Evans switched medication on me, moving from the immediate-release oxycodone tablets to the ones you can’t chew up, the controlled-release tablets that dissolve into your bloodstream over hours, not minutes, before he took me off Oxy altogether a few weeks later. Suddenly, a guy who had never taken pain medication in his life before the knee surgery was scoring sheets of Oxy from a street merchant, a drug dealer named Billy Braden, one of my clients, no less. And still I needed more and more, building up a tolerance and never once considering stopping.

Funny, I can’t even remember how or when it happened, when the dam broke, when I crossed that line from patient to addict. I can’t identify a date or event or even a sensation, any moment when I said to myself, You have a problem, these pills are controlling you, not the other way around. But somehow it happened. In the blink of an eye, I went from taking OxyContin because it made my knee feel good to taking OxyContin because it made me feel good.

None of this would have happened otherwise. I would have handled differently that redheaded client who walked into my office and said he didn’t kill two young women. I wouldn’t have stayed with Alexa so long and allowed everything to happen. Shauna was right about her all along, but I was too high and too stubborn to listen. There were plenty of warning signs, not the least of which was the day that Alexa offered to be my alibi.

Well, it didn’t quite work out that way, did it? I sure could use an alibi now. But I’ve never offered one. The murder happened in my house, with my gun, and with no sign of forced entry.

I shudder out of my funk. Look forward, not backward, they told me in rehab, the lanky brunette named Mara who smelled of cigarette smoke and made you look her in the eye. Fix the problem.

It’s too late to fix most of the damage I caused. I hope it’s not too late to keep myself out of prison.

SIX MONTHS BEFORE TRIAL

June

22.

Jason

Saturday, June 15

I pop awake from a dream, some kind of a fairy-tale serpent with long fangs, loud hissing sounds, mortal danger, whatever. I am lying in the fetal position on my bathroom floor, and reality comes to me: sleeping at Alexa’s last night, ditching out on her when I couldn’t find my tin of Altoids, hailing a cab and racing back here. The crick in my neck causes a shiver of pain. My watch tells me it’s just past six in the morning. I’ve been home maybe two, two and a half hours.

I push myself off the floor and find the box of allergy medicine next to me, the sheet of pills sticking out halfway. I pop out a pill and chew it up while I scratch my knuckles, my fingers, my palms, in vain.

I head downstairs, thinking about how I bolted on Alexa last night after saying I’d spend the night. She might not be too thrilled with me. Maybe we’ll do something fun today.

I push a button to awaken my cell phone and notice, for the first time, a text message from Joel Lightner from sometime last night.

Your guy is for real, details if u want

Huh. So James Drinker checked out. Not what I’d call a shocker, but I really didn’t know if he was being straight with me about much of anything.

“So our James is for real,” I say to Lightner when he answers his cell phone. By answer, I mean he moans and curses.

“What fucking . . . time is it?”

“Time for you to wake up, princess,” I say. I’m feeling much better now, happiness coursing through me, fifteen minutes after I popped the little white tablet. “James Drinker is the real deal?”

It takes him a while. My guess is he was overserved last night. I hear yawning, grunting, throat-clearing, a sound like he’s fiddling with glasses, and then a heavy sigh.

“He’s for real, yeah. Weird, my guy says. Looks like that guy from MAD magazine on steroids, he says.”

“That’s him. Big dude with goofy red hair flopping around.”

“Yeah, apparently. Anyway, he reports to work at Higgins Auto Body every morning. He lives in that shithole building on Townsend and Kensington.” Another morning sound, like he’s stretching his sleepy muscles.

I’m on the floor now, doing my rehab. Ankle pumps, leg raises, knee bends. I’m supposed to do them for twenty to thirty minutes a day, three times a day, but I’m up to an hour each time. The knee is doing much better now. The knee is no longer the problem. I’ve graduated to bigger ones. Sometimes, like this moment, I actually admit it to myself, but it’s only after I’ve had a happy pill, experienced the euphoria. Oh yeah, when I’m high, I can be exceptionally candid with myself, I can scold myself and promise big things to come, down the road, a new path, no more pills, a fresh start—just not right now. Later. Sometime soon. Definitely soon.

“It’s six-thirty in the morning!” Lightner suddenly realizes. “Who calls somebody at six-thirty in the morning? On a Saturday?”

“I do, Joel. You were saying about your report?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“The report says I’m an asshole? I already knew that.”

Joel doesn’t sound amused. I hear the sound of glasses unfolding and making their way onto his nose. “He . . . fuck . . . I e-mailed this to you, but I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you, so I’ll just read it to you at six-fucking-thirty in the morning.” A loud sigh. Poor guy, he was sleeping. “Right, address checks out, employment checks out, no criminal record with a full workup, credit cards, checking account, never married, no kids, one brother, went to Princeton High but doesn’t look like he graduated, and he’s been a grease monkey ever since.”

He makes yet another morning noise. A new one. He may have broken wind.

“Did our grease monkey look like a serial killer to your guy?” I ask. “A butcher of women? A sociopath?”

“He didn’t say. Can I go back to sleep now?”

So James checked out. He is who he said he is. So far, everything he’s told me that I can confirm has been the truth. Maybe I was getting worked up for nothing.

“Sweet dreams, sugar pie,” I say, punching out the phone.

23.

Jason

Saturday, June 15

“Hey there.” Alexa shows up at my door ready to go in an ice-blue running shirt that matches her eyes, black shorts, and Nikes. What’s not to like about a sexy woman in athletic clothes?

I keep my tongue in my mouth and say, “Hey. Want to come in?”

“Sure.”

I grab the new running shoes I purchased at Runner’s High and lace them up. “That was fun last night,” I say.

“Good. I thought so, too.”

I focus on my shoes and wait for a shoe of another kind to drop. But it doesn’t. I look up at her. “Hey, sorry I bolted like that last night.”

“No worries.” She waves me off. “Nice house,” she says.

There’s not much to see in the foyer. I live in a typical city town house, at least in this neighborhood: narrow and vertical, three stories. Other than a small back room, the only things on the ground level are the foyer and staircase. Which, for the record, was murder when I had one knee that didn’t work.

“You want a tour, or do you want to hit it?”

“Let’s hit it,” she says. “I can have a tour later. If you play your cards right.”

Nice. Dangle a carrot in front of the man. Well played.

“Remember, all I can do is walk,” I remind her.

“I’ll try to slow down for you.”

Nice again. This one is going to keep me on my toes.

We head east and then cut up north to Ash, which will take us to the lakefront. It’s not quite as hot today, and the brisk lake winds provide even more relief. The sun is high, the birds are chirping, I’m getting a good sweat, the beach is filled with volleyball players, the promenade with runners and bikers and skateboarders, my knee doesn’t hurt at all, and I’m walking with a woman who gives men whiplash. The world is in balance. For another ninety minutes, that is.

“You thought I’d be pissed off that you left last night,” she says to me between breaths. We’re doing a decent pace for a walk.

“I wasn’t sure. I said I’d stay and I didn’t.”

“I don’t smother people,” she says. “That’s not how I roll.”

“That’s not how you roll, huh?”

“Not how I roll.” She’s rolling along quite well right now, I have to say. I’m tempted to tell her to slow down, but then I’d be admitting I can’t keep up, and that’s not how I roll.

We stop about two miles down, close to where we started our walk along the beach last night. We sit for a moment on one of the steps down to the beach.

“Is this okay for you?” she asks.

“Sure, great.”

“Don’t be a guy. You had knee surgery. It’s okay to say it hurts or we need to slow down or whatever.”

Actually, it feels better than I expected, so I get up and start the walk back home. She hops back up and joins me again.

“You are such a guy,” she says.

I’d argue if I could. The hike back is just as enjoyable. I miss adrenaline and sweat as much as I miss mobility. It’s nice to know I’ve turned a corner.

When we get back to my town house, we walk in silently and head up the stairs. The tour isn’t much of one. We skip the second floor, a typical open-floor layout of kitchen and great room, and head straight up to the bedroom. She smells like sweat, and her moist, salty skin tastes like it. I ease her out of her running shirt and shorts, leaving only a running bra and undies. All good. She goes to work on me and we saddle up for round two.

It’s better than the first time, as I expected, more familiar and decisive, less hesitant, and I let out a loud moan into her mouth, our teeth clacking, when it’s over. We lie exhausted, panting like animals, for a long time before she suggests a shower is in order. At first, I take it as an insult, but then I realize she’s talking about a shower for two.

When we have carefully ensured each other’s cleanliness—and that would include round number three, thank you—we collapse on the bed. We lie there quietly for a time, Alexa’s breathing dissolving into faint, rhythmic sighs. I ease my arm out from under her and walk to the bathroom. I open the cabinet beneath the sink, reach for the box of allergy medicine, and pop out a pill and chew it up. Then I cup some water out of the sink to swallow the granular remnants.

I rejoin her, trying to ease back into our position, but I awaken her. She adjusts herself so her head is on my chest, her fingers drawing on my abdomen. I close my eyes, and within minutes, the euphoria spreads through my veins.

“So you’re an old-fashioned girl,” I say. I’m wondering in what era they did some of the things we did in that shower.

“I am old-fashioned,” she says into my chest. “I want my man to be happy.”

“So I’m your man, am I?”

“If you’re okay with that. But if you aren’t, no problem. No pressure. Really.” She remains motionless, like she’s holding her breath.

I run my fingers over her back. My eyes dance beneath my eyelids. I am swimming in goodness.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m more than okay.”

24.

Shauna

Sunday, June 16

I fish around my desk looking for the transcript. “Where’s the Flynn dep?” I ask.

Bradley John is on the couch in my office reviewing another deposition. He’s been with us over a year now, and is four-plus years removed from law school. He may look like a teenage rock star with that goofy hair, but he works as hard as anyone I know. He works as hard as me.

“I have it on the system,” he says, gesturing to the laptop computer resting beside him. He looks up at me. “But you want a hard copy.”

He knows me well by now. Technology has created a sea change in the practice of law, but when I’m preparing for trial by reviewing deposition transcripts, I want them in my hand, with my notes scribbled in the margins and Post-it tabs sticking out everywhere.

“Jason would have a copy,” I say. I push myself out of my chair. My trial is about three weeks away, and I’m pretty much there in terms of the big-picture prep, but now we’re getting down to the microscopic level, the nuance. “And where is our Mr. Kolarich, I wonder?” I say aloud. Jason hasn’t been in the whole weekend. I know what he’d say: We have plenty of time. But I make mistakes when I rush things, and he probably does, too. We aren’t flying by the seat of our pants in this trial. Rory Arangold’s company is depending on it.

I walk down to his office, where the lights are off and Jason appears to be enjoying his weekend, unlike the rest of us. Now where would the Arangold files be? I dropped all of them in the corner by his fridge—

Oh. There it is. The entire stack of folders. Exactly as I placed them.

Jason hasn’t reviewed a single page.

I dial him on my phone. No answer. “Hey, tough guy,” I say to voice mail, “don’t know if you’re coming in today, Sunday, but I need to schedule a meeting this week with you and Rory Arangold. So hopefully you’ll be prepared by maybe Tuesday?” I think of ending the message there. But I don’t. “If you’re not able to work on this file, if you’re busy with other stuff or whatever, tell me now, Jase. Not the day before trial.”

I punch out and stare at those untouched files. He knows how important this is to me. He knows how nervous I am. Normally, he’d be right here with me, watching my back.

I let out a long sigh. He’ll be there. He’s just doing his typical procrastination. He’ll waltz in and he’ll decimate their expert.

“You okay?” Bradley is standing in the doorway.

“Oh, sure, sure,” I say. “Let’s get back to it.”

25.

Shauna

Monday, June 17

I shake hands with my clients, new owners of a single-family home on the city’s northwest side. They are beaming, excited about their new home and their family. He is an accountant and she’s an elementary school teacher with a bun in the oven, their first child, who is scheduled to arrive in this world in about six weeks.

“Thanks for everything, Shauna. This was so easy.”

“Best of luck to you.” I walk them out of the title office, where the house closing took place. House closings are no fun, but once you learn how to do them, they’re easy, and it’s a steady stream of income in small bites that helps the firm keep motoring.

I put them in a cab, the husband in his suit, the wife in her maternity outfit, her stomach protruding, and watch them drive away. Someday, maybe, I think. But, as my mother always gently reminds me, the window is closing.

Our firm is just a few blocks away. I enjoy being outside, even for a brief walk, having lost most of my weekend at the office. When I get in, Marie hands me some messages and a couple of letters she’s put on letterhead for me. Marie functions as our legal secretary and receptionist. Both Jason and I can type, so we can share a secretary, and Bradley John is more proficient on the computer than all of us combined.

“Is Jason in?” I ask.

“Just got in.”

It’s mid-afternoon. He just got in? Maybe he had court. It’s not my job to keep tabs on him. But it is my job to make sure he’s pulling his weight on Arangold.

I walk down the hallway to his office and, just before I stick my head in, I hear Jason’s voice. “I’ve got tar on my feet and I can’t see,” he says. “All the birds look down and laugh at me.”

And then I smell smoke—or not smoke, but—

I poke my head in and see Jason shaking a lit match and tossing it into a styrofoam cup. He is startled when he sees me, but then he smiles at me.

“What the hell are you doing?” I say.

He chuckles and spins in his chair.

I’ve got tar on my feet and I can’t see . . . All the birds look down and laugh at me.

“Just keeping myself awake,” he says.

“You’re just keeping yourself awake by lighting a match until it burns your fingers? That’s why your fingernails are black?”

“Relax, kid.”

“And what were you saying? Is that—Was that from ‘Let Me In’?”

He wags a finger at me. “Good memory. I heard it on my way in,” he says. “Stuck in my head.”

“That’s not a happy song, Jase.”

He shrugs. “Okay, next time I’ll whistle something more upbeat. Would that please you? How about something from Mary Poppins?”

I raise my eyebrows.

“What?” he says. “Don’t look at me that way. Since when have we limited our R.E.M. repertoire to happy songs?”

I raise a hand. “Okay, fine. Fine. It’s perfectly natural that you’re sitting here in the middle of the day in your office, setting your fingers on fire—”

“I’m not setting them—”

“—and singing a song about suicide.”

“—on fire, first of all. And second of all, you like the song, too. I listened to Monster on the way in to work, that’s all. Jeez.”

Enough. Surrender. I look at my watch. “I have to jump on a conference call with Rory Arangold,” I say. “Did you get my voice mail?”

Jason seems to appreciate the segue, but not so much the new topic. “I did, yeah. I did.”

“And? Are we a go on Arangold?”

“Yeah, sure.” He gives me a wide smile. “I’m on it. I’ll start on it today.”

I eye him with suspicion, not trying to hide it. But he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes drift to the window and he smiles again, even chuckles to himself.

“Are you . . . drunk?” I ask.

He waves me off. “Just high on life.”

Yeah, right. The day that Jason Kolarich is high on life is the day that gravity ceases to exist.

“Okay, sport. If you’re sure. Want to get dinner tonight?”

He shakes his head. “Can’t do it, girl. Got plans.”

Jason and I have had our moments, so I’m entitled to a little ambivalence when a woman enters his life. And make no mistake, a woman has entered his life. Whenever he gets vague about his personal life—Got plans, he said—it means it’s somebody he cares about.

“Do tell,” I say.

“That court reporter? Alexa? Nice girl, it turns out.”

I saw her briefly when she stopped in a couple of weeks ago. She was striking, as I recall. And Jason, the bastard, is tall, dark, and handsome, even if he doesn’t realize it. And what court reporter personally delivers a transcript? So I guess it isn’t a grand surprise that there were fireworks.

“That’s nice to hear,” I say. I start to leave, but look back in at him. “Seriously, you’re—you’re okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine. No worries.”

He’s not fine. But I don’t comment further. Anytime I get near the subject, he swats my hand away.

You’re not his mother, I keep reminding myself. I’ve got a client and three lawyers holding on a conference call right now, waiting for me, so that will have to do for the time being.