The Last Alibi

1

Jason

Judge Judith Bialek, from her bench overlooking the court, peers down over her glasses at the defense and prosecution. Until now she has been businesslike, efficient, carefully instructing the twelve jurors and three alternates as to their duties in this case. But this particular case gives her pause, as she is familiar with the parties and tries to emit some kind of acknowledgment of this fact: a grim smile, lips tucked in, a brief nod in the direction of the defense table.

“Please remember, above all,” she says, “that the defendant has pleaded not guilty, and he is presumed not guilty unless proven otherwise beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Everybody knows that, of course. You’ve only made it as far as Judge Bialek’s courtroom if you’ve uttered those two words: Not guilty. Not guilty by reason of insanity. Self-defense, maybe. But always Not guilty!

How many times I’ve stood in a courtroom like this one, the grand, ornate walnut molding and finishes, the overdone lighting, the walls practically bleeding with the fears and horrors they’ve absorbed during the seven decades that this building has stood. Not guilty are the only words the exhausted and terrified defendants utter prior to trial, but so many more lie just beneath the surface, at the backs of their throats, yearning to gush forth: I didn’t do it. I was set up. This is all a misunderstanding. It’s not like it seems. I’m not a criminal. Please, please, before this goes any further, just please hear me out!

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve stood here. Over three hundred cases, if you count everything from third-chairing a trial to being the top dog, while I was prosecuting. Nearly fifty cases, surely, as a defense lawyer, standing next to a weak-kneed defendant watching the machinations of the criminal justice system begin to churn against him, the enormity of what is happening crashing down upon him-the judge in a black robe, the steely prosecutor, the sheriff’s deputy waiting to handcuff him, the United States flag waving over a courtroom of the public, spectators watching him stand accused by the government, peering at him with a combination of morbid curiosity and vicarious thrill.

“We will now hear opening statements from the prosecution. Mr. Ogren.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Roger Ogren is a lifer at the office, probably close to twenty-five years in by now. I knew him when I was there. I was surprised, in fact, to learn that he was handling this case. And I was unhappy, too. This is a man who has seen everything, who is surprised by nothing.

He is slim, unusually so to anyone who knows him, after a long illness that many thought would end his career. No longer fitting into his old suits, Roger is wearing new stuff, fashionable threads his wife must have picked out.

As Roger Ogren approaches the podium to address the jury, Shauna Tasker very subtly places her hand over mine. I turn and offer a grim smile. Shauna is my law partner. She is my best friend.

And for this trial, she is my lawyer.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Ogren, “we are here today for one reason and one reason only. This is a murder trial, and the defendant is Jason Kolarich.”

Ogren turns and points his finger at me. I always advise my clients to be ready for that, to have earnest, nonthreatening looks on their faces, and to return the stare. I now understand just how difficult it is.

And again I hear the cries of the thousands who have sat in this chair, their silent, desperate wailings: It wasn’t me. They have the wrong guy. You don’t understand what happened, just let me explain, please don’t do this to me!

But I say none of those things. I just look at the jurors with my I didn’t kill anybody face-yes, I practiced before a mirror-searching their eyes, wondering what it is they are seeing in me.

I will probably testify. When I do, I’m not sure it will be convincing enough to establish reasonable doubt. I’m not sure it will do more good than harm.

I’m only sure, in fact, of one thing: When I testify, I will not tell the truth.