Try Fear - By James Scott Bell Page 0,32
talk to me, and answer my questions directly. And don’t lie, okay?”
“Why should I lie? Oh God…” He put his head down and into his cuffed hands.
“Easy,” I said.
“I can’t believe this is happening. Mom…” He looked up. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s at home, resting. I told her I’d come see her after this.”
Down went his head again.
“Eric, we need to talk about this. And I mentioned lying because almost all people in custody think they can do themselves some good if they cook the truth a little. You can’t. Are we clear on that?”
He looked at me and nodded.
“Did they ask you any questions?” I said.
“They asked me about a fight I had with Carl.”
“You had a fight with Carl?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, a couple of nights before he shot himself.”
“Can you be a little more precise, please? When exactly was this fight?”
He thought a moment. “Okay, maybe it was the night before.”
I closed my eyes. “Think before you answer, okay?”
“Sorry.”
“Having a fight the night before your brother is shot is a pretty significant detail, don’t you think?”
“It’s just a coincidence. We had fights before. Brothers have fights.”
“Did they ask you any other questions?”
“I stopped them and said I wanted a lawyer. Then I called my mom.”
“That was your first good move,” I said. “Tell me about this fight. Where’d it happen?”
“In a bar.”
“Did it get physical?”
“Almost. Mostly it was just yelling.”
“What bar was this?”
“A place in West Hollywood.”
“What’s the name of the place?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You said that a little too fast,” I said. “You start throwing out I can’t remembers like that, no jury is going to believe you. Or your lawyer, either.”
“I mean I can’t remember,” he said. “It was a funny-sounding name. I didn’t want us to go there, but Carl wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“All right, we’ll get the name later. What was the fight about?”
“It was about his drinking. And what it was doing to Mom. And about the people he was hanging with.”
“What people?”
“He was involved with some actor, a snot-faced kid. Arrogant. I didn’t like him. I can’t remember his name.”
“Anybody else?”
Eric looked at the ceiling. “There was that real conservative guy, Mr. Perfect Hair.”
“Morgan Barstler?”
“I think that may have been his name.”
“Anyone else?”
Eric shook his head. “That was it. But mainly it was about getting him to AA, and he needed to go, and how Mom was so worried about him all the time.”
“Where were you when your brother was killed?”
He started to open his mouth. Stopped. Looked down.
“What is it?” I said.
“It’s kind of hard for me to say.”
“You have to say.”
“I was sort of with someone.”
“Okay. Give me the who and the where.”
“It’s complicated,” he said.
“Let’s try to sort it out,” I said.
“I’m married.”
“That’s what’s complicated?”
“My wife, see, she’s not the most understanding, know what I mean?”
“Are you trying to tell me that you were with another woman when Carl was killed?”
“You’re pretty good at sorting things out.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“But my wife—”
“I’m not a marriage counselor, Eric. I’m a lawyer. My job is to represent you to the best of my ability, but I can’t do that if you don’t give up the very evidence that may lead to your acquittal. If you were with another woman, I want to know who she is, now.”
“That’s just the thing,” Eric said.
“Don’t tell me she was a pro.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Oh, I just thought of the absolute worst thing for you to tell me, that’s all.”
“But it’s true.”
“So your alibi witness is a hooker?”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s very bad,” I said.
“She’s not really a hooker,” Eric said. “More of an escort.”
“Ah, now that’s a relief.”
“But it’s true.”
“So is the fact that it’s very bad. A provider of sexual services is not exactly a great witness to put on the stand.”
“I don’t even know if I can find her again,” he said.
“Boy, this just keeps getting better and better.”
“I’m telling you the absolute truth!”
“How long were you with her?”
“A couple hours.”
“And what time was this?”
“Like nine or so.”
“Where?”
“Long Beach.”
Which is a good long drive from West Hollywood. “Did you use an escort service?”
“Kind of.”
“What does that mean?”
“I used a guy a bartender told me about.”
“You have the guy’s name?”
Eric looked at me hard. “You’re the man. I didn’t do this thing. You can get me off, can’t you?”
“I’m not representing you yet. There’s a conflict here. I repped your brother.”
“So?”
“You’re going to have to tell a judge that you want me to be your lawyer, and you don’t care about any conflict.”
“I don’t. I know