The Last Alibi

52

Shauna

Monday, July 8

Team Arangold-me and Bradley plus the client-leaves the courthouse at two-thirty, having spent the last several hours arguing pretrial motions in advance of jury selection tomorrow morning. We are counting time by the hours now, and the tension is showing in all of us. We had a decent afternoon in front of Judge Getty, so we’re off to a good start, but you just never know with this stuff. Twelve people who know absolutely nothing about this case will hear from both sides and pick a winner. To call that prospect unsettling is an understatement of the highest order. The future of a family construction business hangs in the balance.

And yet.

And yet, as Bradley and I walk across the courthouse plaza toward our law firm, all I can think about is my asshole law partner. And that little Barbie doll of his with the Cleopatra haircut and the cute figure and stunning blue eyes.

“What do you think of her?” I ask Bradley. We’ve spent so much time together, going into battle on the Mariel trial and now this one, that a relationship has formed beyond the formal employer-employee framework-not that we were ever that formal to begin with.

“She’s hot,” he says.

“Okay, thanks, Bradley. That’s hugely helpful.”

“Should I assume, because you’re asking, that you don’t like her?”

I consider denying the charge, but he’s right-I wouldn’t be asking otherwise. “I’m just not sure that it’s a good fit. And I’m not sure Jason’s in a place right now where he can tell what’s good for him and what’s not.”

Bradley looks over at me, as if to comment, but doesn’t. He just mumbles a hmph of agreement, or at least not disagreement.

“Spill it,” I say.

“You’re very protective of him, is all.”

“So what if I am?”

“So nothing. I mean, he’s like that with you, too. If he thought somebody was going to do you wrong, he’d break him in half. You’re very important to him.”

“Not lately,” I say, surprising myself by the injection of self-pity, wishing I could snatch that embarrassing comment out of the air and shove it back into my big fat mouth.

We zigzag across an intersection, walking in shade now, a relief from the stifling heat.

“Let me ask you something,” says Bradley. “What did you think of Tori?”

“Tori? Oh, their relationship was a train wreck.”

“A train wreck in hindsight. But before that. What did you think of her?”

I release a sigh. “I didn’t like her much.”

“Okay. And what about Jason’s wife, Talia?”

“Talia was great.”

“Don’t just say that because she’s dead now. Forget the car crash, the whole tragic part. When she was alive and she and Jason were married-honestly, what did you think of her?”

The wound of that tragedy has scabbed over somewhat, but still hurts. Jason was in incredible pain, however he tried to conceal it, and therefore so was I. No matter what else. No matter how else I felt about that relationship.

The words come to me, but I bat them away, swat at them like a scary hornet.

I was jealous of her, I would answer if pressed.

“What’s your point, Mr. John?”

“You know what my point is. Nobody’s good enough for your Jason.”

“Now he’s my Jason? He’s not my Jason.”

We stop at another intersection. I look over at Bradley, who is smiling widely.

“Okay, have it your way,” he says. The light changes, and we move forward, on to our building, on to the last stages of trial preparation, on to another damn topic.