by David Ellis
“You watching the news?” Jason asks.
He knows I am. I’m a creature of habit.
The woman who was stabbed last night in her apartment is Holly Frazier, a young, attractive woman in the photo they put up over the anchorman’s shoulder. A grad student at St. Margaret’s. Midtwenties, looks like.
“What the fuck?” Jason mumbles. “What is it this time? Is she, what, James Drinker’s dog walker or something? His study buddy?”
“Ask him,” I say. “Let’s see if this is another coincidence.”
“I fucking will. Is this asshole playing me, Shauna?”
The notion is out there, of course. “But why would he?” I ask. “You’re his lawyer. Everything he says to you is in confidence. I mean, I hate to say it, but it’s possible he’s telling you the truth, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I guess.” He mumbles a few more curse words under his breath. “He said he couldn’t think of anyone who’d do this to him, who’d want to taunt him. Fuck with him.”
“So what?” I say. “It could be anybody. He cut somebody off in an intersection, somebody who turned out to be a sociopath, and he’s paying for it now.”
“C’mon, kid.”
“I mean, yeah, it’s far-fetched, but people are strange, Jase. They just are. Just because he can’t think of anybody who’d want to do him harm doesn’t mean there isn’t somebody.”
I know what Jason’s thinking. I know him better than he knows himself. He’s thinking about three dead women and wondering if there will be more. And wondering if his client, James Drinker, is the one killing them.
And wondering if that means he has to turn him in.
“Hey, sport,” I say. “I hate to be the voice of reason, but you can only turn him in for something you know he’s going to do. Not for something he already did.”
“Right, I know. I know. I can only turn him in if I know he’s going to commit a crime in the future, la-de-da-de-da.”
“That’s not la-de-da-de-da, kiddo. That’s your oath. And you don’t know that he’s killed anybody.”
“I got that part, Shauna. I’m clear on that.”
Snippy, snippy. So it’s Moody Jason this morning. Jason doesn’t like rules. He doesn’t like lines on the road and curbs and stop signs. He likes a fair result, but he doesn’t really care if he has to drive over a few front lawns to get there.
“Listen, Jase, if—”
“Hang on.”
“—you think about it—”
“Shauna, hold up. My other line’s ringing,” Jason says. “Ten bucks says I know who it is.”
“Monday morning, you start on Arangold,” I say to him, but he’s already hung up.
12.
Jason
Saturday, June 8
No caller ID on the other end. I kill the call with Shauna and answer before my voice mail snatches away the second caller.
“It’s James, James Drinker,” he says in a rushed voice. He has my cell phone number from the card I gave him. A defense lawyer has to give out his cell number. He needs to be reachable whenever. “I didn’t kill that girl on the news,” he says. “I don’t even know her.”
“Holly Frazier,” I say to him.
“Right. I don’t know her. Did they—They didn’t say she was stabbed multiple times, did they? They just said she was stabbed. So maybe it’s not the same guy.”
“James,” I say, “were you like Macaulay Culkin again last night?”
He lets out a loud, anxious breath, like he’s about to swallow his phone. “I was home by myself last night. But this time I went online and searched some news sites. And—and I called my mother from my landline. I—I’m doing this now, I’m making a record every time I’m home at night by myself. So I can prove I didn’t go out and kill anybody. That’s smart, right? It’s freakin’ crazy that I have to do that, but it’s smart, isn’t it?”
Outside my open window, a couple is pushing a stroller, enjoying a lazy Saturday morning. The air still has a hint of that morning cool, but it’s going to be oven-hot today.
“That’s smart, James. Very. Do you think you could supply me with that information?”
“Supply you with what?”
“That proof you were home last night. The phone call with your mother.”
“Why do you need that?”
“So I have it at the ready, in case the police start looking at you. While it’s fresh in our minds.”
“How do I prove to you that I called my mother? You mean phone records?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Or let me talk to your mother.”
“You want me to tell my mother that she needs to talk to a lawyer I hired so we can confirm that I didn’t murder somebody? Are you kidding me? It would kill her. She’s in a nursing home. It would kill her.”
“Well, then—”
“And why am I proving this to you, Jason? You’re supposed to be the one on my side.”
“I am on your side. I am. But I need the information to protect you.”
“You don’t believe me. You think I murdered that woman, don’t you?”
The truth is, I’m not sure I do think that. People get stabbed all the time in this city. This could be a domestic incident with an obvious suspect, a boyfriend or something. Jesus, am I getting soft? Did my time off unscrew the part of my brain that reminds me that I’m a defense lawyer, that I’m this guy’s warrior, that I’m the one person who holds steady against the tide of the full weight of the government and says, I’ll stand up for you?
“Let’s keep this simple, James, okay? You are telling me you called your mother. And you and I can agree that it would be a good idea for you to have that memorialized. In case the police ever come around. So, let’s just do that. Get me that phone record. Call the phone company, or maybe they have your calls online, whatever—get me the information. Okay?”
Silence at the other end. It sounds like this guy might be sobbing. Muffled noises, too hard to tell.
“And if I don’t?” he finally says.
I opt for avoidance. It’s becoming my specialty.
“One step at a time,” I say.
13.
Jason
Sunday, June 9
Late afternoon, I walk the four blocks to my favorite store on the near-north side to buy a new pair of running shoes. Yes, it’s early for me. I know that. But it’s symbolic. And anyway, I like to wear a new pair around for a few weeks before I start running in them. Just the smell of this place, the fresh rubber soles, brings something back to me that’s been missing. I’ll be training again within a few months.
It feels good just being inside the store, the signs for upcoming marathons and 10Ks, people going on about their PRs and training regimens. There are three employees working the store: a woman with blond dreadlocks tied loosely together in back; an older blond woman, closer to my age and more attractive; and a scruffy young guy.
I get the girl with the blond dreadlocks, the name Minnie on her name tag, dressed in running gear herself, an enthusiastic hard-core triathlete who is equally enthusiastic about my credit card. I buy a new pair of Brooks—I’m loyal—and new arch supports, two pairs of shorts, three tanks, two high-necks, nipple guards, gel packs, the works. I walk, not jog, around the store in the new treads. I’ve looked forward to this trip to Runner’s High all week, the idea of reentering that part of my world, but by the time Minnie is ringing me up at the register—$342.74 later—I’m feeling wrong again, irritable, jumpy, my hands itchy, my tongue thick and pasty, my stomach mumbling nasty thoughts. Outside, it feels like during the hour I spent in the store, someone cranked the furnace way up, the air choking my breath, the sunlight stabbing my eyes.
What are you thinking? You’re not going to be running anytime soon. You might as well have flushed that money down the toilet.
I get a bottle of water from the corner convenience store and take a couple of chugs. I pop an Altoid and chew it up, digging out every last granular m
orsel stuck in my teeth with my tongue. Head down, my eyes on the sun-bleached pavement, I cross the street to the west side, lean against a store window in the shade, and close my eyes.
A man passes me on the street and slows his pace, eyes on me, keeping them on me even when he has to crane his neck backward, a scowl on his face, a look of disgust, because he knows, it’s all over me, I’m transparent.
This was a bad idea, I tell myself. I can’t do this. This date with Alexa the court reporter. What the hell am I doing, thinking I’m in any kind of shape for a relationship with a woman?
Twenty minutes later, I’m seated at the outdoor café just a few blocks from my townhome, a place called Twist that I’ve wanted to check out since I moved into this neighborhood last winter. I arrived early and snagged a corner table outside, along the railing and looking out over the shopping district.
I see her first: Cleopatra in a blue summer dress. She has a sky-blue hair band, if that’s the word, tucking her dark locks behind her ears and fashionable sunglasses, Audrey Hepburn–oversized.
This was a good idea, I tell myself.
She seems very pleased to see me when I raise my hand. She waves back, kind of a cute little gesture, and then comes over and drops across from me.
“Hey there,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to come to this place.”
“Me, too. I’m glad we could do this.”
Ah, what a day, the full throes of summer (though it’s still technically spring), hot and humid but with a nice corner breeze—there’s no accounting for the wind patterns in our fair city—and a bustle of shoppers and people just wanting to be outside surrounding us.
Then she removes her sunglasses and the day gets better. Those liquid eyes, taking on the color of her sky-blue sundress. I love women’s eyes that change color.
“So, Jason Kolarich,” she says. “By the way, I never would have pronounced your name correctly if I hadn’t heard it used in court.”
I get that all the time. It’s a simple name, really. Kola, like the drink. Rich, like wealthy. “Most people say koh-LAR-ick, which sounds more like a throat disease than a last name.”
She likes that, which is important, because I can’t be with a woman who doesn’t appreciate my sense of humor. Not that I’m already planning a future with this one. I’m not into the future right now. I’ll settle for a decent present. It’s pretty damn decent right now.
“You were impressive in court,” she says.
“Yeah? I wasn’t sure you’d think so.”
She cocks her head. “Why not?”
“Oh, the race card. A lot of people find that offensive.”
“But I thought that’s why you did it,” she says. “You wanted him to run away from that accusation. Which he did. And that left him with not much to say. His point was, suburban kids go down there to buy their drugs, and he looked like a suburban kid. But once you equated that with being white, you were making it look like he was playing the race card. And once he backed off that, he didn’t have much to go on for why your client Billy was suspicious.”
Wow. That’s exactly what I did.
She raises her eyebrows expectantly and leans into me. “Pretty perceptive for a court reporter.”
“Pretty perceptive, period,” I say.
“But especially for a non-lawyer, right?” She leans back and smiles, like she zinged me. “Lawyers think that nobody’s as smart as they are.”
“That’s not true.”
“In my experience, it is.”
I think about that for a second, my brain swimming. “In mine, too, now that you mention it.”
She winks at me and something inside me reacts. Our drinks arrive. Normally, it would be straight vodka or a martini, but I can’t handle much booze these days, so I go with a Tanqueray and tonic that is certain to be watered down. Alexa has something in a martini glass with fruit and chocolate in it. We snack on some truffled popcorn that is wicked good. Good times.
“We’re not all bad,” I promise her.
She waves me off while she sips her whatever-martini. “I didn’t say that. But the whole system is set up so that we need lawyers. Everything’s in code and so complicated that even a Rhodes Scholar wouldn’t understand it without a lawyer who got all the secret passwords in law school. And then you guys waltz around the courtroom in your fancy suits and feel so superior to the clients and spectators, like you’re Roman warriors in the Colosseum or something.”
I throw up my hands. “It’s a wonder you’d even date a lawyer.”
She drills a finger into the table. “You call this a date? No. If you want to date me, I want flowers and a white linen tablecloth, and you pick me up and open the door for me. This isn’t a date. This is just a drink.”
She winks at me again. A rosy flourish has gathered at her cheeks. The alcohol taking effect, that initial euphoric buzz. She can’t be much over a hundred pounds soaking wet, so her tolerance is probably low. I sit back and look up at the clouds, take in the flurry of tourists and shoppers and partiers around me.
“I Googled you, y’know,” she says.
“You Googled me?”
She shrugs. “A girl can’t be too careful these days.”
True enough. I don’t even want to ask what she found on the Internet.
“Football star with an attitude problem,” she says. “Big-time defense lawyer. Some people think you were the undercover lawyer in the thing involving Governor Snow. Oh, sure.” She nods. “I know all about you.”
“Did it mention I can juggle?”
“Nope.” She gives a grand shake of her head. “You can juggle?”
“Nope.”
She claps her hands together and laughs. This is going well, and I’ve hardly spoken. Maybe there’s a lesson there.
“Maybe I Googled you, too,” I say.
“Oh, wouldn’t that be exciting?” she says. “An only child, grew up in five different cities, went to three high schools, got an associate’s degree from Tripton Community College—Go, Trojans!—and now I lead the glamorous life of a court reporter, where I transcribe what other people say and sell their words back to them.” Her smile lingers for a while, and then she looks at me sheepishly. “I shouldn’t say it like that. It’s a good job. The hours are flexible, pay is decent, sometimes the stuff I transcribe is interesting. Your hearing was interesting, for example. You actually made me feel sorry for a rich suburban white kid.”
I finish my shitty drink. Alexa is still working on hers. Probably best I not get too far ahead of her on the drink count.
“Do you believe what you said in court?” she asks me.
I think about that. “That’s not a question I ask. I ask, can I sell it?”
“I know. But do you believe it?”
“I believe the cops saw this clean-cut white kid and thought he stuck out like a sore thumb in the Eagleton Housing Projects. They figured he had no business being there, except an illegal one. I’d have thought the same thing. I don’t blame that cop at all for what he thought. But the law says you can’t base probable cause solely on race, and the cop did. That’s the loose thread in their case, and my job is to find that loose thread, wind my finger around it, and yank and tug on it as hard as I possibly can.”
“Does it bother you?” she asks. “Getting guilty people off?”
I scrounge through the remnants of the truffled popcorn while I think that over. It’s a simple question, after all. The simplest ones are often the hardest. I go with the stock answer.
“I’m part of a system. A system that would be very scary indeed if someone didn’t stand up for the accused. If we just took the government’s word that someone is a criminal . . .” I raise my hand. “Someone’s gotta stand post at the wall.”
She watches me, like she’s waiting for more. But she doesn’t push. She smiles, nods, sips her drink, enjoys the breeze across her face.
Sometimes, I do not say. Sometimes it bothers me.
“So you’re an on
ly child,” I say, changing the subject.
She nods. “My parents married late. My mom was forty when she had me. Back then, forty was considered ancient to have kids. She said she didn’t want to push her luck and try for more kids.” She looks down, runs her finger over the rim of her glass. “They retired to Florida and died within a year of each other. Cancer, both of them.”
“I’m sorry.”
The waiter comes by and asks me if I’m having another. My eyes pass to Alexa’s.
“Well, we’ve had our one non-date drink,” I say. “Are you game for another?”
A pause. A momentary appraisal. I don’t know if she’s debating or if she’s just feigning reluctance to keep me guessing. I used to watch a suspect react to a question during an interrogation and I knew, I knew whether he was lying before he even spoke. I can look a client or a witness in the eye today and, nine times out of ten, I can read everything he’s thinking. But stick me at a table with a beautiful woman and it’s like I’m trying to decipher hieroglyphics.
“Give us a second,” I say to the waiter. “She’s trying to decide if I’m worthy.”
She laughs. The waiter leaves.
“You’re not trying to get me drunk,” she says. Part question, part flirtation. A certain part of my anatomy takes note. Jesus, how long since that happened?
“The thought never crossed my mind, Ms. Himmel.”
A smile appears and evaporates. “I should warn you that I’m an old-fashioned girl.”
“Good,” I answer. “Perfect. We’ll shake hands good-bye. I’ll let you in on the secret lawyer’s handshake.”
The smile returns. Sincere, I think, not just polite. But again—like translating an ancient Chinese scroll. For all I know, she thinks I’m a complete asswipe.