The Last Alibi

85

Shauna

10:00 A.M.

I open my eyes and roll my head over to my bedside clock and begin with panic-it’s ten! — my brain hardwired for work after two consecutive trials, month after month of seven-day workweeks. It’s a moment before it all returns to me: I’m off today, will probably be off for days, maybe the whole week, maybe the entire time that Jason needs before he goes to some professional clinic.

I rub my eyes and listen. The television is on in the living room, SportsCenter, I think, some animated guy talk. The scent of strong coffee.

It was a long night, like all of them have been since Jason started his recovery. Jason popping awake every couple of hours, hitting the floor for push-ups and sit-ups to combat the nervous energy, the itch, the cravings. Jason at six this morning, fists pumped in the air, Seven hours again! Seven!, celebrating his newfound tolerance, Seven is the new six! I watched him with my eyes half shut, dancing around like Rocky, knowing that in one hour he was going to be doubled over, grimacing from cramps and nausea.

I poke my head out of the bedroom. Jason is back to his exercise, push-ups on the floor. I take a quick shower, towel-dry my hair, and throw on a robe. It feels like a lazy Sunday morning.

When I get back to the living room, Jason is in a T-shirt and shorts, his laptop open on the floor. His eyes meet mine. “Not good,” he says.

“What? Another e-mail?”

He nods, pushes the laptop toward me. I sit down on the floor and read what’s on the screen. It’s a new e-mail from Alexa, sent an hour ago:

Tuesday, July 30, 9:01 AM

Subj: I REALLY wasn’t kidding

From: “Alexa M. Himmel” ‹AMHimmel@Intercast.com›

To: “Jason Kolarich” ‹Kolarich@TaskerKolarich.com›

Hi, there. Hope you’re well. I’m really concerned about the attached letter getting out. Maybe we can put our heads together and figure out how to prevent it. But if you keep ignoring me then I guess there’s nothing i can do. . .

‹ BAD.Letter.pdf ›

“There’s an attachment,” I say, my stomach swimming now.

“There sure is,” he says.

BAD Letter, I think. BAD, in all caps. A special meaning to a lawyer. The document pops up on the screen:

To: The Board of Attorney Discipline

Subject: Jason Kolarich, Attorney ID # 14719251

I am writing to report an attorney named Jason Kolarich, currently practicing at the law firm of Tasker and Kolarich. Jason has become addicted to a painkiller called oxycodone. It has hampered his ability to practice law, I fear to the detriment of his clients. He has lost a good deal of weight, and his behavior has become erratic. I am not a lawyer, so I don’t know if the drugs have stopped him from defending his clients properly. I don’t know if there are rules governing this, but I thought the state’s board that regulates lawyers should know about this.

More than anything, I think a client, before they hire a lawyer, should know if that lawyer is a drug addict.

I am afraid to sign this letter, but I hope you will look into it.

I look at Jason, who is staring passively at the ceiling.

“Isn’t she a peach?” I say.

“She’s hurting,” he says. “She’s hurting so much.”

I close up the laptop. “Do you think she’d do it? Send it?”

Jason gets up, stretches his arms. “Everything she said in that letter is true, Shauna. I hope I didn’t let any clients down. I don’t think I did. God as my witness, I don’t think I did. But I can’t know for sure. I’ll never know for sure.”

“Jason, this isn’t the time for self-reflection. This is the time for self-preservation.”

He scratches his hand and looks out the window. “I need to talk to her,” he says. “I need to go see her.”

“That’s what she wants,” I say. “Just call her.”

“No, I need to see her.” He shakes his head. “This has to be face-to-face.”