The Last Alibi

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.