Shauna is going to argue that the prosecution plans to use my OxyContin addiction against me, and thus my addiction is fair game. Roger is going to say that there’s no actual proof of my addiction, certainly not at the time of the interrogation, unless I take the stand and testify to it. And Shauna will reply that I received treatment while in custody for my addiction, and she will call the counselors to the stand if necessary to lay the foundation, but she can’t believe Ogren will make her go to that trouble.
I think we’ll win the point, but just to be sure, we had Shauna ask the question first, so the jury would hear it either way.
Shauna makes eye contact with me as she leaves the conference, betraying no emotion but telling me it worked out for us. “Let me restate the question,” she says, reclaiming her spot in the center of the courtroom. “Detective, isn’t it true that at the time my client was speaking with you, he was under the influence of an addiction to a painkiller called OxyContin?”
Cromartie, of course, has had a long time to consider his answer. “I asked the defendant at the beginning of the interview if he was under the influence of any drugs at that time and if he was able to speak with a clear mind, and he said he was able to speak with a clear mind.”
A standard pre-interrogation question, to prevent exactly the type of cross-examination that Shauna is conducting now.
“You didn’t answer my question, Detective.”
“I think I did, Counselor.”
“Then let me ask it again, and the judge can decide. Detective, isn’t it true that at the time my client was speaking with you, he was under the cloud of an addiction to a painkiller called OxyContin?”
That’s three times she’s gotten to say it. And Ogren doesn’t object, because she’s not asking whether I admitted to being addicted at the interrogation-I didn’t-but whether it was true, regardless.
“I don’t know if he was or he wasn’t,” Cromartie says. “I asked him and he said no. That’s all I knew at the time.”
“I’m talking about what you know now, Detective. Are you telling this jury that, as you sit here today, you don’t believe that my client was suffering from an OxyContin addiction at the time you questioned my client? Is that really your testimony?”
“I didn’t say that. We’ve come to believe that the defendant did have that addiction, yes. It’s nice to hear you admit it. I didn’t realize you would.”
Nice jab. The addiction is the third rail in this trial. It plays a significant role in the prosecution’s narrative, a major piece of Roger Ogren’s story that ends with my killing Alexa. Given our choice, Shauna and I would have liked to deny the whole thing. But the problem is that I’ve been treated in jail for the problem, so I can’t really deny it. So instead, we’re embracing it, trying to make the most of it. Shauna will argue to the jury that I was impaired when I submitted to the interview with the police. It can explain some of the-ahem-ambiguities in my statements.
But it cuts the other way, too. It gives the jury a vision of me that is not flattering-out of control, desperate, irrational, quite possibly dangerous, capable of doing things that, ordinarily, would be beyond a well-heeled attorney. Picture those old meth commercials-This wasn’t supposed to be your life! — or the old egg-frying-in-a-pan, This is your brain on drugs ads.
Addiction freaks people out. It scares them.
And it makes it far, far more plausible to the jury that I killed Alexa Himmel.
FIVE MONTHS BEFORE TRIAL
July
42
Jason
Monday, July 1
My town house has shrunk in on me over the last thirty-six hours, since I paid the visit to James Drinker and found out I was chasing a ghost. I’ve kept Alexa away, ignored phone calls from Joel Lightner, secluded myself in my house to think.
Who is this guy? Who is this man who waltzed into my office in disguise, giving an alias, and telling me about dead women?
I think through every permutation and always come back to the same thing: I have history with this man. I prosecuted him. I prosecuted someone he cares about. Or I defended him, or someone he loves, with a result he didn’t like, and now he wants to blame the lawyer.
I’ve tried to create a list of every case where I appeared as counsel, but it’s impossible to get it anywhere close to complete. When you’re a prosecutor in a major system like ours, you start with small stuff, traffic and misdemeanor and drug courts. Then you do a stint in juvenile courts, where the records are sealed. Then you’re third-chairing bigger cases, and then after several years, you start handling your own major crimes.
I’ve prosecuted hundreds of people, probably thousands, each of whom has loved ones. The list of suspects is endless. And that’s only the ones I can remember. The county attorney’s office doesn’t keep a list of such things. And with all the courtrooms I bounced around, all the different kinds of cases, it’s impossible to come up with anything close to a complete list.
I need to talk to this guy. I need to search for clues. But I don’t have a phone number for him. He never gave me one and he always calls from an unknown number, probably one of those throwaway cell phones, ten bucks at a convenience store, another ten for a hundred minutes.
He probably knows I went to 3611 West Townsend, apartment 406, and accosted the real James Drinker on Saturday night. He probably knows I’m twisting myself inside out trying to come up with something to make sense out of all of this.
I remove an Altoid and chew it up. I’m not keeping track. I’ve been good, if that’s the word, about holding down these tablets to one every two hours. I think I’m off that now. I don’t know. I’m not focused. I’m wide awake but half asleep at the same time. I’m buzzing with adrenaline while dozing off. All color is muted, tamped down with gray. All lines are blurry and shifting.
Alexa sends me a text message at two o’clock-I’M OUTSIDE YR DOOR, PLS LET ME IN! — so I go downstairs and open up. She puts her hands on my cheeks and peppers me with kisses like a child, wraps her arms around me, reassures me that everything will turn out fine, just fine. I’ve given her the highlights of what happened, so she recognizes as well as I the emptiness of her words.
When my cell phone buzzes at close to three o’clock in the afternoon, I nearly come out of my skin. I’ve received plenty of calls, and every time, my nerves rattle and my stomach revolts. I’m dreading the very thing I want-a call from the mystery man.
I approach the kitchen counter with trepidation, looking at the phone and mumbling something when I see that word on the face of the phone: Unknown.
What an appropriate word for him.
“Jason!” It’s him. James Drinker, but not James Drinker.
I don’t say anything. This guy does everything for a reason. He has a reason for this call, too.
He chuckles, makes sure I can hear his amusement. Part of the game. “I guess we both know my name isn’t James Drinker. What would you like to call me?”
Asshole? Lowlife? Dead man?
“Your call,” I say.
“Ooooh. Maybe I’ll give something up, he thinks. Maybe I’ll give a name that will tip him off, he thinks.”
“Tell me why this is happening,” I say. “Tell me what you want. You want me to say I’m sorry for something I did? I’ll say it. But don’t take it out on innocent people. These women did nothing to you.”
“How do you know they did nothing to me, Jason? You don’t know that.”
“You said you didn’t know Alicia Corey or Lauren Gibbs.”
“That doesn’t mean they didn’t do something to me. People can be cruel to people they don’t know. In my experience, crueler than they are to people they know.”