David Ellis: The Last Alibi

And now: I look nice. Why would he say something like that? Men don’t just say things like that. They pretend they do, but it’s not true. There’s always a reason.

“Y’know, it’s possible Drinker really didn’t kill anybody,” he says, digging into his soup, a segue about as delicate as lifting the needle off a Metallica record mid-song. “This could end up being a really fun case.”

Well, he’s sure feeling better.

I get the waiter’s attention and nod at him. This is going to be an early night.

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 innocent of these crimes and you think you’ve been set up, then I can get to work on this for you. You’ll have to give me a retainer, and I can start spending it down and billing you by the hour, chasing after the person who is setting you up. I have a great private investigator, and I can do some things from here as well. But if I’m wasting my time, James, if I’m looking for someone who doesn’t exist, then I’m wasting your money. Money that you might need for me to defend you in court. If you run out of money-well, I don’t work for free. So what I’m saying is, we have to spend your financial resources in a smart way. I’ll take your case either way. But don’t send me on a wild-goose chase.”

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 Banner.” Jason Kolarich: Give me your tired, your weak, your big and goofy.

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.

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 dinner, he looked like he was going to toss his cookies, but then he perked up. This morning, walking in the door, he barely lifted his eyes off his feet, and now he’s wearing a stupid smirk. And I can’t get over the hair, curling out around his ears, bangs hanging across his face. Since college, it was always the high and tight. Who is this person calling himself Jason?

“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 dinner at a steak joint with Jason and Joel, who get drunk and insult each other, then heading to a bar where Jason and Joel get drunker and insult each other more and sometimes flirt with women.