The Last Alibi

7.

Jason

Wednesday, June 5

“Nobody,” James Drinker says when he returns to see me the next day. “I can’t think of anybody who would have a grudge against me. I don’t know why someone would do this to me.”

He’s wearing a sport coat again today, over a plaid button-down tucked into blue jeans, highlighting his paunch. Still the disheveled mop of red hair, but he’s a bit less apprehensive, less guarded, today.

“Okay, listen, James,” I say. “We both know that this looks potentially bad for you. The police are going to link these two murders. It shouldn’t be hard for them to learn that you dated Alicia Corey or that you were friends with Lauren Gibbs, and even if they only figure out one of those two facts, they’re going to cross-reference all known acquaintances between the two victims. Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t knocked on your door yet. You with me so far?”

He’s listening intently but doesn’t seem particularly worried. Surely he’s already figured this out independently, but usually when clients hear their lawyer say it looks bad, they start to lose composure. We’re the people who are supposed to say, Don’t worry, it’s under control, I’m going to make it all better. When we say, It doesn’t look so good, they usually freak.

“I understand,” he says.

“Okay. Now. If you’re really i

I sit back in my chair.

“So is this a good use of my time?” I ask. “Or would we be better—”

“I didn’t kill those women,” he says. “I didn’t. I really liked Alicia, and Lauren was a friend of mine. I didn’t kill them. I don’t have a criminal record. I’m—I mean, I’m basically a good person. I’m—I mean . . .” He looks away. Some color reaches his goofy face. He’s almost like a cartoon character. “I know I’m . . . I’m unusual, I guess. Some people think I’m weird. I’m this big goofy guy. I mean, I’m a loner, pretty much.” His eyes return to mine. “I don’t matter to people, Mr. Kolarich. I’m nobody to them.”

A little heavy on the dramatic self-pity for my taste. A lot heavy. “James, I don’t care about any of that,” I say. “I’ll defend you whether you’re big or small. Whether you’re odd or normal.” Cue the music to “The Star-Spangled Ba

I smack my lips. Dry mouth again, the bile in the back of my throat, the slam-dancing going on in my stomach. I pull the Altoids tin out of my pocket and pop one in my mouth. I don’t know what the hell to make of this guy.

“Maybe the cops won’t even come talk to me,” Drinker speculates, a lilt of unwarranted hope in his voice. “Maybe they have other suspects.”

“They’ll talk to you,” I say. “And when they do, you tell them you want to talk to your lawyer before you answer a single question. You understand that?”

“Yeah, I got that. But maybe they won’t even talk to me. Seriously, that’s possible, isn’t it?”

I let out a sigh. “Sure, James. It’s possible.”

“Let’s do this, Mr. Kolarich. Jason. Let’s do this: Let’s hold tight. Let’s see what happens.”

Under the circumstances, that’s actually not a terrible idea. If there’s a guy in Drinker’s past, he’ll still be there when Drinker gets pinched.

But.

“James,” I say, “if this is really happening like we think, then this guy might not stop. He’s killing women and he might kill again. Someone else close to you. Or whomever. We should think about going to the police.”

He’s nodding along, but then he points at me. I don’t really like people pointing at me. “But isn’t that exactly what he wants me to do?”

This is all so odd. But he’s not wrong, I have to concede. What he’s saying is possible.

“Maybe do it anonymously,” I suggest. “An anonymous call to the tip line. There must be a tip line.”

“And say what?” Drinker shrugs.

I see his point. People close to James Drinker are dying—but it wasn’t James Drinker who killed them, I swear. And this isn’t James Drinker calling, either.

“I didn’t kill anybody, and I’m not going to jail because somebody’s trying to frame me,” he says. “There has to be another way.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m out of answers.

“Let’s hope he’s done,” Drinker says. “He might be done.”

“Okay. Okay, James.” There’s nothing else I can say. I can’t make him go to the police. And I’d be breaking my oath as an attorney if I called them myself. “Keep your eyes and ears open, James. And keep my business card with you at all times, just in case.”

He promises to do so. He approaches me and reaches over the table. I shake his hand. It is warm and moist.

He leans into me. “I hope I’m not nobody to you, Jason,” he says.

He gleefully bounds out the door, not waiting for an answer.

8.

Shauna

Friday, June 7

Jason and his private investigator, Joel Lightner, are sitting in my office. Lightner has his tie off and his collar open; his week is over. Jason is sitting on the couch in the back of my office, his left leg propped up.

“Come out with us,” Joel says. “We’ll have a few drinks, and who knows? You might finally decide to sleep with me.” Joel is twice divorced, now a committed bachelor and skirt-chaser. If he has sex half as often as he talks about it, his penis should be in the hall of fame.

“It’ll be fun,” Jason adds.

“Having drinks with you? Or sleeping with Joel?” I ask.

Jason likes that. He’s in a chipper mood, he is, a rosy glow to his cheeks. It’s getting harder and harder to predict his moods. A few nights back at di

“Come out with us, Shauna,” Joel says again. “You haven’t for a long time.”

That’s true; it was the trial. I sacrifice my otherwise diverse and stimulating social life whenever I get close to a trial date. That diverse and stimulating social life consists of di

I have become one of those women who hang out with men. I didn’t used to be. I had a pack of girlfriends, mostly from law school but some from college, whom I ran around with for years. What changed? Marriage. Kids. For them, not me. Nights out at the bars or poetry slams or concerts became quick happy hours before they had to get home, and even the full-scale nights out weren’t what they used to be, my friends yawning at eight-thirty, children-tired, or meeting up with their husbands later that night. And then I just got tired of the whole thing, these evenings out with women who were married with kids, who either talk about their kids endlessly (day care / soccer / Music Garden / Chinese lessons / Dora the Explorer) or, worse yet—much worse yet—catch themselves doing that and then realize it has the effect of leaving you out, and then they awkwardly stop, the needle screeching off the album mid-chorus, and there is an unstated (God, I hope it’s unstated) pact not to make Shauna feel worse than she probably already does, and someone forces out a painful segue—“So, Shauna, are you working on any interesting cases?”—and then you have two choices: (1) acknowledge it and say, “It’s okay, it doesn’t make me feel barren and unfulfilled and desperately lonely to hear you talk about your kids and husbands, now what was that you were saying about arts-and-crafts camp?” or (2) let them pity you and tell them about the interesting cases you’re working on.