Segregation is typically reserved for gangbangers and either cops or prosecutors who run afoul of the law and, for various reasons, might not fare so well in general population. I’m a two-time winner because I’ve prosecuted and defended some of the people inside, thus my private cell. For this last week, when I’m expected to need lots of time to prepare for trial, I’ve been granted liberal privileges with the meeting rooms to confer with my attorneys. And because these meetings could interfere with the regimented timing for meals, they even let my lawyers bring me something to eat, as long as it’s something the guards can open and inspect freely. Soup is out; sub sandwiches very much in. Every time I bite into a hoagie that Shauna brings me, I know that a correctional employee has already worked over every slice of turkey, lifted every tomato and pickle, searching for razors, needles, drug packets. I assume the guard is wearing a plastic glove while doing so. I prefer to imagine it that way, at least.

This evening, Shauna, Bradley, and I will go over the witnesses for tomorrow and finalize cross-examination questions. We will probably discuss, once again, whether I should testify, though I am certain I will.

Until then, I’m left alone in my deluxe penthouse, a ten-by-ten cell of concrete and bars, a stained and scuffed-up floor, a toilet with a broken seat, and a bed with a cushion an inch thick. Left alone with my thoughts, I’m taken these days to self-abuse. I don’t kid myself. I have nobody to blame for my predicament but myself.

Dr. Evans warned me about the dangers of taking OxyContin, and I assured him I was prepared for it. He asked me if there was a history of alcohol or chemical dependency in my family, and for some reason I lied and said no, said nothing about my father or my brother, Pete. He vigilantly monitored me over those first few months after the surgery, when the pain was sometimes teeth-gnashing, often searing needle-stabs, but again I assured him that I was sticking with the proper dosing regimen. “Yes,” I told him, “I’m taking them four hours apart. No,” I lied, “I don’t chew them up, I let them dissolve in my stomach.” I was cocky. I was a tough guy, and I could take as many pills as I wanted, as often as I wanted, without it becoming a problem.

Before I knew it, four pills a day was six, then eight, then a dozen. Even after the pain in my knee subsided—maybe mid-March, definitely by April—I gradually needed more and more to feel okay, whatever okay meant. Then I found myself in Dr. Evans’s office on April 1—that’s right, let’s all say it together, April Fools’ Day—with my crutches, even though I no longer needed them, even though I was essentially pain-free, lying to him, telling him the pain was excruciating. “That’s . . . odd,” he said. “The healing has been remarkable. To still have this much pain . . .”

Then, wisely—and diplomatically, too, with that practiced bedside manner, never outright accusing me of lying—Dr. Evans switched medication on me, moving from the immediate-release oxycodone tablets to the ones you can’t chew up, the controlled-release tablets that dissolve into your bloodstream over hours, not minutes, before he took me off Oxy altogether a few weeks later. Suddenly, a guy who had never taken pain medication in his life before the knee surgery was scoring sheets of Oxy from a street merchant, a drug dealer named Billy Braden, one of my clients, no less. And still I needed more and more, building up a tolerance and never once considering stopping.

Funny, I can’t even remember how or when it happened, when the dam broke, when I crossed that line from patient to addict. I can’t identify a date or event or even a sensation, any moment when I said to myself, You have a problem, these pills are controlling you, not the other way around. But somehow it happened. In the blink of an eye, I went from taking OxyContin because it made my knee feel good to taking OxyContin because it made me feel good.

None of this would have happened otherwise. I would have handled differently that redheaded client who walked into my office and said he didn’t kill two young women. I wouldn’t have stayed with Alexa so long and allowed everything to happen. Shauna was right about her all along, but I was too high and too stubborn to listen. There were plenty of warning signs, not the least of which was the day that Alexa offered to be my alibi.

Well, it didn’t quite work out that way, did it? I sure could use an alibi now. But I’ve never offered one. The murder happened in my house, with my gun, and with no sign of forced entry.

I shudder out of my funk. Look forward, not backward, they told me in rehab, the lanky brunette named Mara who smelled of cigarette smoke and made you look her in the eye. Fix the problem.

It’s too late to fix most of the damage I caused. I hope it’s not too late to keep myself out of prison.

SIX MONTHS BEFORE TRIAL

June

22.

Jason

Saturday, June 15

I pop awake from a dream, some kind of a fairy-tale serpent with long fangs, loud hissing sounds, mortal danger, whatever. I am lying in the fetal position on my bathroom floor, and reality comes to me: sleeping at Alexa’s last night, ditching out on her when I couldn’t find my tin of Altoids, hailing a cab and racing back here. The crick in my neck causes a shiver of pain. My watch tells me it’s just past six in the morning. I’ve been home maybe two, two and a half hours.

I push myself off the floor and find the box of allergy medicine next to me, the sheet of pills sticking out halfway. I pop out a pill and chew it up while I scratch my knuckles, my fingers, my palms, in vain.

I head downstairs, thinking about how I bolted on Alexa last night after saying I’d spend the night. She might not be too thrilled with me. Maybe we’ll do something fun today.

I push a button to awaken my cell phone and notice, for the first time, a text message from Joel Lightner from sometime last night.

Your guy is for real, details if u want

Huh. So James Drinker checked out. Not what I’d call a shocker, but I really didn’t know if he was being straight with me about much of anything.

“So our James is for real,” I say to Lightner when he answers his cell phone. By answer, I mean he moans and curses.

“What fucking . . . time is it?”

“Time for you to wake up, princess,” I say. I’m feeling much better now, happiness coursing through me, fifteen minutes after I popped the little white tablet. “James Drinker is the real deal?”

It takes him a while. My guess is he was overserved last night. I hear yawning, grunting, throat-clearing, a sound like he’s fiddling with glasses, and then a heavy sigh.

“He’s for real, yeah. Weird, my guy says. Looks like that guy from MAD magazine on steroids, he says.”

“That’s him. Big dude with goofy red hair flopping around.”

“Yeah, apparently. Anyway, he reports to work at Higgins Auto Body every morning. He lives in that shithole building on Townsend and Kensington.” Another morning sound, like he’s stretching his sleepy muscles.

I’m on the floor now, doing my rehab. Ankle pumps, leg raises, knee bends. I’m supposed to do them for twenty to thirty minutes a day, three times a day, but I’m up to an hour each time. The knee is doing much better now. The knee is no longer the problem. I’ve graduated to bigger ones. Sometimes, like this moment, I actually admit it to myself, but it’s only after I’ve had a happy pill, experienced the euphoria. Oh yeah, when I’m high, I can be exceptionally candid with myself, I can scold myself and promise big things to come, down the road, a new path, no more pills, a fresh start—just not right now. Later. Sometime soon. Definitely soon.