“Of course. So many times, I’ve lost count.”

“And what about searching Internet servers for e-mail correspondence?”

“It’s a routine part of investigations, especially more recently, as Internet usage and e-mail have skyrocketed.”

“Is there any reason why this case would be any different in that regard?”

“No, not at all. And I guess that’s the point I’m trying to make. If I killed Alexa and was trying to cover it up, why would I lie about something that I knew the police would discover? Why would I say our relationship was just fine when I knew that she’d called me hundreds of times after the breakup, phone calls that I knew were on some provider’s records ready to be subpoenaed? When I knew there were e-mails out there that showed that our relationship had ended, and ended badly? I mean, if I’m a diabolical killer who carried out this crime and tried to cover it up, I’m the dumbest diabolical criminal who ever lived.” Jason opens his hands. “But I wasn’t thinking of any of that, because I wasn’t covering up any crime. I was just trying to show Alexa some respect.”

Good. That was almost verbatim how Bradley and Jason practiced it. I think it sounds reasonable, convincing. And if I find it convincing—knowing, as I do, that Jason had an ulterior motive for what he told Detective Cromartie in that interrogation—the jury might buy it, too.

Roger Ogren stands as Jason nears the end of his speech. “Your Honor, I’m trying to be patient, but I have to object to this speech and move to strike. This has moved from a direct examination to a summation, a monologue.”

The judge nods. “I’m going to overrule, Mr. Ogren. I understand your point, but this is the defendant testifying.”

That’s what Jason predicted the judge would say. Criminal defendants get more leeway when testifying in their own defense, with their liberty at stake and the Bill of Rights waving like the Stars and Stripes at its most magisterial.

“However, Mr. John,” the judge adds, “let’s resume the Q-and-A, please.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Bradley comes from a school where you thank the judge for everything she says to you, even if she just called you an idiot and held you in contempt.

“Next, Jason, let’s talk about one of your least favorite subjects: OxyContin.”

Jason smiles and grimaces at the same time. He takes the jury through the highlights, the knee surgery, the recuperation, ultimately the addiction. “You don’t admit it to yourself,” Jason says. “It’s happening right in front of your eyes, and a part of you knows it, but you make excuses to everyone around you and suddenly you’re believing those same excuses.”

Bradley nods. “Jason, did there come a time when you finally admitted the addiction to yourself?”

“Yes. It was the Friday before Alexa died.”

“Friday, July twenty-sixth.”

“Correct.”

“And how is it that you remember that date so clearly?”

“Because, for one thing, it was the day that Alexa and I broke up.”

“Can you explain how the one has anything to do with the other?”

Oh, does Roger Ogren want to object. He knows, I think, what Jason’s going to say, and he doesn’t want his victim getting trashed, an age-old tactic of the defense bar. But he’s also built his entire case around this relationship, this catastrophic breakup, and if he jumps up and keeps the jury from hearing something directly germane to that topic, he looks like he’s hiding something, like he’s afraid of some fact. That’s how I’d feel, at least, if it were me.

“I think, by the time it had reached that point, it was obvious to everyone close to me that I had a problem,” Jason says. “I’d lost a lot of weight, I was losing focus, I was moody all the time, I was really a completely different person. I think it was obvious to Alexa, too. It had to be. But she made excuses for me as much as I was making them for myself. In rehab, they call that person an enabler. And if I was going to beat this addiction, I couldn’t be with an enabler. I needed to break free of the drugs and break free of her. I needed people surrounding me who would say to me, Don’t take drugs, not, Here, honey, have some more.”

“You’re not blaming Alexa for your addiction?”

“God, no. The blame for my addiction falls on me and only me. All I’m saying is, I had to get out from under that spell. I had to win that fight or I’d lose my life. It really came down to that for me. It was going to kill me, sooner or later. And I needed people around me who would help me fight it. Alexa, for whatever reason, and she had a good heart deep down, but . . .” Jason shakes his head, like he’s reliving a sad memory. “She always told me it was okay to take the pills, it was okay to want to feel good. I needed someone yelling ‘Stop!’ at the top of their lungs.”

Bradley allows for an appropriate pause before he moves on.

“In any event, Jason, you and Alexa did break up in the days preceding her death.”

“Yes, we did. The previous Friday.”

“Friday, July twenty-sixth?”

“I guess that’s the date,” says Jason.

“I’d like to refer you to People’s Eighteen, Jason.” Bradley references the chart on the screen, previously set up. “This is a summary chart of Call Detail Records from that date, is that correct?”

“Yes,” he says. “You can see that on the CDR for that Friday, the phone calls begin happening in earnest at 2:47 in the afternoon. You can work back from that time. I went to her house at some time around one or so, give or take. I told her our relationship had to end, that I was going to get clean, and I wasn’t going to change my mind. She started calling me within the hour, and as you can see . . . she didn’t stop.”

“Did these calls go into voice mail, Jason? Or did you answer them and speak with her?”

“Mostly voice mail. I talked to her a couple of times. Not on Friday, I don’t think. But Saturday, I believe I answered one of the calls in the afternoon. I can’t be sure of which one.”

Bradley references the Call Detail Records for that Saturday. Like Friday, every call was less than a minute in duration, thus receiving the rounded-up 1 in the duration column.

“A short conversation, I take it? Less than a minute?”

“Very short,” Jason says. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had a bad breakup,” he says, ostensibly to Bradley but really to the jurors. “Whether you’re the one who breaks up or the one who got dumped, it’s an awful thing. So . . . on the one hand, I had to be firm, I had to let her know that we wouldn’t be getting back together. My life depended on that, I thought. But on the other hand, I’m human. I felt terrible about how things went with us. I knew she was hurting. So I just wanted to answer a call or two, not to give her false hope, but to let her know that I was sorry. Maybe give her a tiny pep talk, for lack of a better word. You know, ‘It will all work out, it will take some time but you’ll be fine,’ that kind of thing.”

“I see,” says Bradley. “Now, Jason, that Friday, and the next day, Saturday, and all of those days, what were you doing?”

“I was trying to wean myself off the painkillers,” he says. “I was trying to quit. It was . . . it was hell, actually. It’s physically painful, it’s mentally tortuous—I vomited, I cramped up badly, my skin burned—but I was dealing with it.”

“And were you dealing with this alone, or did you have any help?”

“Alone,” Jason answers. His eyes remain fixed on Bradley, deliberately avoiding mine. This was the subject of a heated debate, to say the least, Jason wanting to remove me entirely from the equation, pretending that I wasn’t with him during those initial days of his withdrawal, not wanting to risk the possibility that I might become a witness. You can’t be my lawyer and a witness, he said to me, stating the obvious. I need you as my lawyer.