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“You don’t think I thought about it before you asked? Look, when I got assigned this case, I figured she’d be guilty as sin. Didn’t even consider the possibility she didn’t do it. And I almost didn’t care. See, like most rational, thinking, breathing people, I hated Ronald Prine. The guy was a heartless prick who got off on ruining people’s lives. So before I even met Jackie, I was already planning a Robin Hood–like defense of justified homicide or temporary insanity or diminished capacity, that kind of thing. The prick ruined her life, she has a sick father, she snapped. You get that idea, right?”
“I do.”
“So that’s what I thought.”
“And what changed your mind?”
“Jackie. Look, I can be fooled by a charming client, no question about it. But this time? It’s not even a close call in my eyes. She didn’t do it.”
“How do you explain the evidence?”
“By ‘evidence,’ you mean the rifle and the threatening emails sent from her ISP?”
“Yes.”
Kelly Gallagher smiled. “That’s why you’re here.”
The guard gave them a wave.
“Showtime,” Gallagher said.
He got up first. Myron followed. When they entered the small interrogation room, Jackie Newton was already seated. Her eyes looked up at them, hollow from fear and lack of sleep. Perhaps Myron was projecting, what with knowing her story, but there seemed to be both disbelief and defeat in her face. She couldn’t believe where she was—and yet she also understood that life rarely worked out for someone like her. The world was capricious and random and cruel.
“Jackie, this is Myron Bolitar. He’s come on to help me with the case.”
She turned her eyes toward Myron. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to help?”
“I think you’re innocent,” Myron said.
Tears suddenly filled her eyes, like she’d been surprised by that. She held them back, wouldn’t let them fall. “And again I ask,” she said in a voice fighting to remain steady. “Why?”
“I owe you an explanation, but we don’t have time,” Myron said. “So let me just dive into this, okay?”
She glanced at Kelly Gallagher. He gave her a small nod.
“Go ahead,” Jackie said.
“Do you have an alibi for the time of the murder?”
“I was working.”
“Can your employer verify that?”
“You know I’m broke, right? I mean, I can’t pay you if—”
“I am not here for the money,” Myron assured her.
She looked wary. Understandable. People don’t do things out of the kindness of their hearts. That had been her life experience.
“I don’t have an employer per se,” she said. “My father is sick. I’m taking care of him, so I can’t work a regular gig. I hire myself out as a handyman mostly. Odd jobs via apps like TaskRabbit, that kind of thing.”
“And that’s what happened on the day of the murder?”
She nodded. “I got a job, yeah. It was to put together a kid’s cedarwood playset in a backyard for forty dollars per hour, maximum of three hours to do the job. That’s the deal I negotiated with the owner.”
