“Oh.”
“So did you fire it again?”
“No.”
“That was the only time?”
“Yeah. What’s this about powder marks on my hands?”
“When you fire a gun, it leaves powder traces on your hand. A paraffin test can show that you fired one.”
Jeremy looked interested. “So if there’s no powder traces on my hands, it’ll prove I didn’t do it?”
“No, they’ll say you were wearing gloves.”
“Oh.”
“But it’s better than if there was, you got it?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s still bad. If it turns out it was your gun killed your uncle — and I’ll bet it was-you’re in deep shit. It was your gun, you kept it in your locker, your uncle winds up dead, you were seen with your uncle, the gun is found in your locker. Add that up and tell me how it looks to you.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“So you say. No one’s gonna take your word for that. We have to deal with the facts. Now if it was your gun did it, who could have done it but you?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Well, who has the combination to your locker?”
“No one.”
“No one?”
“Yeah.”
“Now that can’t be right.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause if it is, they got you dead to rights on a murder rap, and nothing I can do is gonna save you. So let’s think about that. Who has the combination to your locker?”
Jeremy frowned. “Shit, I don’t know.”
“Maybe you gave it to a friend or a relative.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Great. Well, maybe someone had to pick something up for you from school.”
“Not that I know.”
“O.K., we’ll do it another way. You got the combination written down somewhere?”
“Yeah.”
“Where.”
“Piece of paper.”
“I figured that. Where’s the piece of paper?”
“In my wallet.”
“You carry the combination to your locker around in your wallet?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s it say on the paper?”
“The combination.”
“I know that. What else. Does it say, ‘Jeremy Dawson’s locker combination?’”
“No, just the string of numbers.”
“Three numbers?”
“Yeah.”
“With dashes between ‘em?”
“Yeah.”
“And this was on a piece of paper folded up in your wallet?”
“Yeah.”
“So anybody looked in your wallet, they would find it.”
“Who’s gonna look in my wallet?”
“You tell me.”
“How the hell should I know?”
“You ever lose your wallet, you leave it lying around?”
“No.”
“You’re not bein’ much help.”
“What can I tell you? If I don’t know, I don’t know. There’s no way you can prove someone saw my wallet.”
“I know that. I can’t prove it. I have to raise the inference someone did.”
“What does that mean?”
“That it was possible. That it could have happened. You see?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, could it have happened?”
Jeremy thought a moment. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Good. You have some time to think, you try to figure out who, why, when, where. Now let’s talk about your uncle.”
“What about him?”
“You came to my office, asked me to get your uncle out of Bellevue.”
“Yeah. So?”
“That seemed a nice gesture for a high school kid. I remember what you said at the time. He wasn’t crazy, he didn’t belong there, you liked him, you wanted him out.”
“That’s right.”
“Is it? I could buy that before I knew who you are. Coming from a crack dealer, it sounds like a crock of shit.”
“Hey, man-”
“Do me a favor. Don’t ‘hey man’ me. I’m gettin’ really sick of it. Your uncle-he used to give you money?”
“Why?”
“Just answer the question. He used to give you money?”
“Yeah. I told you. He was a nice guy. He liked me.”
“But after he moved out, he didn’t see you, he didn’t give you money no more.”
“Yeah.”
“So, that must have been tough on a kid who likes crack. A kid who deals crack just to have some around. A kid who likes to be a big shot.
“And then your uncle gets locked up in Bellevue, and your relatives try to grab the cash, but they never treated you well and you know you’re not going to get any. And it occurs to you, hey, if you got your uncle out, he’d be very very grateful.”
Jeremy said nothing.
“Didn’t it?”
“What if it did?”
“Grateful enough to write a will?”
“Hey, man, that was a shock to me. I never even thought of it.”
“No, I’ll bet you didn’t. A spot of cash would have been a lot more handy.”
Jeremy looked at him. “Hey man, why are you doing this? You’re not my father, you’re my lawyer. We’re supposed to be discussing a murder rap.”
“That we are,” Steve said. “I’m just trying to get a message across to you, and I gotta hammer it, because frankly you aren’t that swift.
“Let me tell you something about murder trials. It’s not just the facts of the case. The prosecution’s gonna try to paint a picture of you for the jury. And they’re gonna have a lot to work with. The way I’m makin’ you sound-that’s nothing compared with what the prosecutor’s gonna do. Everything you ever did, they’re gonna paint it with a greedy, selfish motive. You don’t like how it sounds coming from me, think how it’s gonna sound coming from them. Think how’s it’s gonna sound to a jury.”
Jeremy looked at Steve defiantly for a few moments, then dropped his eyes to the floor.
“Now,” Steve said. “I gotta get the facts. I can raise an inference about the gun, but that’s all. If it’s your gun, it’s bad. Then we gotta concentrate on the alibi. Now, your alibi is a picture show and a soda shop where no one saw you.
“Let’s start with the picture show. You keep the stub?”
“No. Why would I do that?”
“Who cares why? The fact is, if you had it would help. I take it you didn’t?”
“No.”
“The ticket girl remember you?”
“No, why should she?”
“I don’t know. How many green haired customers you think she gets?”
“More than you’d think.”
Steve sighed. “You’re probably right there. Jesus Christ, I feel a hundred years old.
“All right, look. I’m gonna check your alibi out. Till I do, be damn sure you don’t mention it to the cops.”
Jeremy’s eyes shifted.
Steve winced. “Oh shit.”
Jeremy shifted in his chair.
“Damn it, you told me you didn’t tell the cops anything.”
“I didn’t tell them nothing important. But they were saying I was on the subway that night. All I said was I wasn’t.”
“I told you not to say anything.”
“I didn’t say anything. They just said I was on the subway, and I said no, I wasn’t.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“And then they wanted to know where you were?”
“Yeah.”
“And you told ‘em you were at the movies?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“If you really were at the movies, nothing. If you weren’t, you just slit your throat.”
“I was at the movies.”
“What was the name again?”
“What?”
“The name of the movie.”
“Heathers.”
“What’s it about?”
“What do you care?”
“What do you think?”
“I told you. It’s a teen comedy.”
“About what?”
“It’s about this crazy chick and this guy who talks like Jack Nicholson go around killing people and making it look like suicide.”
Steve looked at him. “That’s a comedy?”
“Yeah. It was funny.”
“O.K., I’ll check it out. Now, here’s what we’re gonna do. First of all, I’m going to waive extradition and get you transferred to New York.”
“Why would you do that?”
“In the first place, the cops got enough on you to extradite you anyway.”
“Oh.”