Lightner knows every building in this city. It gets annoying.

“He says he’s a mechanic at Higgins Auto Body,” I say. I give him the address, but he probably already knows it.

“Okay. Okay. Basic background?”

“Yeah, is he who he claims to be, criminal background, vitals.”

“Photos? A day in the life?”

“Oh, don’t bother,” I say. “I just want to make sure this guy’s for real. I owe you one.”

“You owe me, like, fifty. Give me a day or two and you’ll know whether he’s for real. And get some sleep, wouldja?” he adds on his way out. “You look like shit.”

15.

Jason

Thursday, June 13

I rise with my client, Billy Braden, as the Honorable Donald T. Goodson enters the courtroom, stumbles on a stair, and tries not to look embarrassed as he takes his seat at the bench.

Billy releases a heavy breath. This is the ruling that will decide his fate. He looks older than his nineteen years, genuinely terrified. I consider mumbling words of encouragement, but there’s no point. We’re going to know soon enough. And it may not be the worst thing for him to have sweated out this whole thing. When I first met him, he was a cocky kid with his hair hanging in his face and one of these rich-kid senses of entitlement, the trust-fund baby who was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple. But he buzzed his hair before the hearing a couple of weeks ago, at my insistence, and coupled with his nice blue suit and tie, he actually looks like somebody who could make something of himself if he put forth even minimal effort.

“State versus William Braden,” the clerk calls out, as if there were any other cases up on the call.

Judge Goodson looks out at the attorneys but doesn’t greet us. That’s probably one of the reasons lawyers always give him low marks on the confidential evaluations that the bar associations pass around. If he would just show basic courtesy to the bar, they’d probably give him halfway decent marks, and he could have his own felony courtroom. But some people just can’t get past themselves.

The nausea announces its arrival inside me, weaving through my stomach and drifting upward. I take a shallow breath.

His Honor raises his glass and reads from a prepared text. “This matter comes before the Court on a motion to quash arrest and suppress evidence. The Court has heard testimony from the arresting officer, Detective Nicholas Forrest, and has considered written and oral arguments of counsel. The Court is now prepared to rule.”

Next to me, Billy Braden sucks in his breath and holds it.

“The Court finds that Detective Forrest lacked probable cause to arrest the defendant or to search him for the presence of illegal contraband. Thus, the arrest of William Braden is hereby quashed, and any evidence of the illegal narcotics obtained incident to that arrest is suppressed in any future prosecution of this matter. The Court is filing a written opinion today consistent with this ruling.”

Billy exhales, his posture easing with the flood of relief.

“Mr. Braden,” says the judge. Billy perks back up, back to military posture. “There is not a single person in this courtroom who doesn’t know that you had an eight-ball of crack cocaine on your person when you were arrested. You are free to go, Mr. Braden, because our Constitution is concerned not with individual cases but with the rule of law. It’s a crucial aspect of our system, but it is a technicality no less. You are a very, very lucky young man. I trust that I will not be seeing you back in this courtroom?”

Billy raises his hand as if he’s about to give sworn testimony. “I promise,” he says.

I wouldn’t put money down on that promise. I wouldn’t bet a used napkin. But for now, Billy has a new lease on life. His mother, Karen, gives me a big hug, and his father shakes my hand and covers it with the other. “We can’t thank you enough,” he says. “Really, Jason.”

“My pleasure.”

Billy and I clasp hands, and he does that bump-hug thing against my shoulder. “Hey, man,” he whispers, “I owe you big. Seriously. Fuckin’ seriously.”

“Glad to help, Billy,” I say.

He looks at me for a long moment, winks at me, smacks my arm, and leaves the courtroom with his parents.

16.

Jason

Friday, June 14

Alexa and I step down from the promenade along the highway and into the small park near the beach. We sit at one of the stone benches and remove our shoes and socks. I angle away from her, slip out an Altoid, and pop it in my mouth as I get to my feet.

“You’re sure this is okay?” she asks me.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I turn to her. She is in partial shadow, the overhead lighting catching one side of her face, the breeze off the lake playing with those straight bangs on her forehead. A beautiful sight. She even looks great in the dark. Better, actually—there is something about her that seems more at ease in the dark.

“Your knee,” she says. “It’s hard to walk in sand.”

“My knee’s fine.” That’s actually true. I can’t run or anything like that, but there are actually pockets of time now when I don’t even think about it in my daily routine, don’t even recite the words of caution before I stand up or hustle through a crosswalk.

I’m tired of even thinking about it. I want to take in the moment. Dinner at Schaefer’s, a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino—half a glass for me—and now a stroll along the lake.

As we walk down the sand to the shoreline, she takes my hand, ostensibly for support, but then she leaves it in that position as we walk. I’m not the most romantic guy in the world, I admit, but there’s something sweet and intimate about holding hands. Talia and I used to always say that we wanted to grow old together and hold hands walking down the beach. That memory, casually breezing through my brain, freezes me for a beat, but it doesn’t paralyze me like it did once upon a time. You just finally move on. You take steps: initial, gut-wrenching grief, then denial, then a dull ache that colors your world that will never, ever subside—and then one day it does; one day you look up and you realize it’s actually possible to move on.

Our toes sink into the wet sand. The lake is endless, alternately blue, black, even purple. The air is thick and damp. Around us is the gentle harmony of waves crashing ashore and vehicles whisking by at high speeds on the highway twenty yards to the west; there is something special about feeling like there is nowhere else in the world right now that you can hear what I’m hearing.

“This lake is why I moved here,” Alexa says. “For some reason, it makes me feel free.”

I know what she means. I live three blocks from the lake, a couple miles north of here. I always run along the water. My muscles are restless, yearning for the day when I can do it again, even as I’m unsure that day will ever come.

It’s not my only yearning. Our first date last weekend ended at Alexa’s door with a hug. Not even a kiss. She’s an old-fashioned girl.

“Do you miss being married?” she asks me.

That isn’t a question I expected. I spend my days being fast on my feet, ready for any challenge a witness or judge might hurl my way, but these simple personal questions always tie me in knots. But Mom always said, if you aren’t sure what to say, go with the truth.