On the tape, Jason’s voice is ambiguous. Shaky, but not distraught—not as distraught as I would have liked him to sound, but not nonchalant, either. Sad, maybe. Disturbed, but not unhinged. If you knew Jason, you could believe that this is him sounding upset, the stoic warrior trying to keep it together. The problem is, the jurors don’t know him. It is one of the many incongruities of the courtroom: People who are making a decision that could affect the rest of Jason’s life know him less than anybody he’s ever met.

The jurors listen with furrowed brows, some of their eyes closed, trying to envision the person delivering those words. The words of a distressed man? The words of a cold-blooded killer? My take is they could interpret this 911 call in whatever way necessary to suit their conclusions.

“I arrived just after midnight—I believe it was twelve-fifty A.M.—the first hour of July thirty-first,” says Garvin. “The defendant met me at the front door of his town house.”

The defendant, not Jason. Depersonalizing the adversary. Officer Garvin has been coached well.

“Describe what happened next, if you would, Officer.”

“The defendant led me upstairs to the second floor of his town house. He made me immediately aware of a Glock handgun that was lying on the floor next to a dead body in the living room. He said the weapon might be loaded, but he wasn’t sure.”

“Is this the weapon?” Ogren asks. From the evidence table behind the prosecution, Ogren removes the handgun. We have stipulated that this was the weapon Officer Garvin found at the scene. We have stipulated that it was the murder weapon.

And we have stipulated that, according to records filed with the state police, the owner of this handgun is Jason Kolarich.

Over the defense’s objection, which Judge Bialek already overruled prior to trial, Roger Ogren shows the officer a series of photographs laying out the scene on the second floor of Jason’s town house: the dead body with a single gunshot wound to the back of the neck, the handgun lying neatly nearby on the hardwood floor. Close-ups and faraway shots, angles capturing Jason’s kitchen and shots showing his large window overlooking the street, dark at that time of night.

“Once you determined that the victim was, in fact, deceased, and after securing the handgun, what did you do next, Officer?”

“I asked the defendant if anyone else was in the town house. He said no. I told him I wanted to search his person for other weapons, and he allowed me to do so. I found no weapons on his person. I asked the defendant for permission to search the remainder of the house, and he gave me that verbal consent. My partner, Officer Middleton, stayed with the defendant while I searched the remainder of the town house. I determined that nobody else was present in the house.”

“What happened next?”

“I read the defendant his Miranda rights and asked him if he could tell me what had happened.”

“And what—”

“He said he wanted to call his lawyer.”

“What did you do in response?”

“I ceased any questioning. I told him he was not under arrest and that it wasn’t the time for a phone call.”

That’s right. It wasn’t until nearly two hours later, at close to three in the morning, that Jason called me at my home. Three-oh-six in the morning, to be exact; I’ll always remember the time on the bedside clock. Shauna, he said to me, his voice calm but with a slight tremble, I’m being arrested for murder. Call Bradley John and have him meet me at Area Three.

Shauna, I’m being arrested for murder.

SHAUNA, I’M BEING—

“I radioed for detectives and tried to keep the scene as pristine as possible,” Garvin continues. “I directed the defendant to remain in the kitchen, where he sat in a chair while we waited for the police detectives. Detective Cromartie arrived about thirty, forty minutes later.”

Ogren pauses briefly for a segue. “Officer, can you describe the defendant’s demeanor during this encounter?”

Officer Garvin nods, ready for the question. “He was very compliant. He was able to speak clearly and intelligently. He seemed calm. No outbursts.”

“Was he crying?”

“No, sir. I didn’t see that.”

“Did he seem upset in any way?”

“Objection,” I say.

The judge allows the question. I scold myself for the objection. I’ve just highlighted the testimony, placed more importance on it. And since I did object, I should have at least done a speaking objection: The officer couldn’t possibly know if my client was upset, Judge.

Shit. That was a mistake. An easy one I fumbled. Get your head in the game, Tasker. This is the whole ball of wax.

“The defendant showed no outward signs of any emotion,” says Garvin. “He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t crying or shouting or moving. He was calm and quiet.”

“Thank you, Officer.” Ogren nods to Judge Bialek. “No further questions.”

21.

Jason

After Shauna cross-examines Officer Garvin, Judge Bialek bangs a gavel and we are done for the day. Shauna didn’t spend a lot of time on the cross. Garvin was just the first responder to the scene; his testimony didn’t do much damage. Shauna only covered two topics. First, my demeanor, which Garvin had suggested was unreasonably calm—which would be translated by Roger Ogren in closing argument as “icy” or “cold-blooded.” “In your three years on the beat, you’ve encountered a number of people in stressful, upsetting situations, haven’t you?” Shauna asked the officer. “And people show grief in different ways, do they not? Some cry, some scream, some remain quiet, some have already cried before you arrived and appear calm by the time you see them.” Yes, yes, and yes, the cop agreed.

And second, the fact that I lawyered up right away, invoking my right to counsel at the first question Officer Garvin posed. The law says that you are entitled to counsel before interrogation by the police. Every American who has watched one evening of television knows that. But many, and maybe most, of those same Americans would infer guilt from someone who immediately invoked. So Shauna couldn’t let it go. “My client, Jason Kolarich, is a criminal defense attorney, is he not? And a criminal defense attorney would be expected to be very much aware of his rights, wouldn’t you agree? Does it seem unusual to you that a criminal defense attorney would follow the same advice that he gives to every single one of his clients, which is to confer with an attorney before talking to the police?” The last question drew an objection from Roger Ogren, which Judge Bialek sustained. That was fine by us. We just wanted the jury to hear the question.

“Meet you back at the Palace,” I say to my lawyers. “Get some decent food first.”

“What would you like?” Bradley asks me.

“Whatever. I don’t care.”

A sheriff’s deputy named Floyd takes me by the elbow and walks me out of the courtroom. Once in the waiting area behind the court, he handcuffs me, hands in front, and perp-walks me to an elevator, then to a bus waiting underground. I’m joined by seven other men, also standing trial today and headed to the Palace for the night. I’m one of only two white guys; the others are African-American or Latino. I’m the only one in a suit. Most of them are wearing expressions that tell me they have a pretty good idea how their cases are going to turn out.

The Alejandro Morales Detention Center was named after a congressman who represented this area in the eighties, one of the first Latinos ever to serve in Congress. The “Morales Palace,” less than a mile from the criminal courts, looks like an ordinary twenty-story concrete structure, save for the bars on the windows. It’s used these days primarily as a youth detention facility, but with our state and county governments in their ever-present state of fiscal Armageddon, and real estate at a premium, the segregated prisoners sometimes overflow here from the county jail.