“Let’s discuss the events that led to your arrest on the night that you were at Liv.” I open my file to the police report detailing the arrest and pick up my pen, ready to take notes.

Grayson still has the bottle of water in his hand. He screws the cap back on and leans back in his seat. “I’d had a hard day training,” he says, “so I went out with some buddies to let off steam. We ended up in Liv. We were drinking and having a good time. Then the cops showed up. I was searched and they found the drugs on me, and then I was arrested.”

“Okay, let’s start with the first part of the night. You say you went out—to some bars?”

“Yes.”

“Which ones?’

“Can’t remember.”

“Where did you get the drugs? Did you already have them before you left home, or did you buy them while you were out?”

“While I was out.”

I make note of that. “Which bar did you buy the drugs in?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” I ask, looking up at him.

“I don’t remember,” he says. His hand curls around the water bottle.

“Who did you buy the drugs from?”

He gives me a look and says, “A dealer.”

“And his or her name is…?”

“I don’t know,” Grayson says again, unscrewing the cap of his water bottle and taking another drink.

I watch him again with my attorney eyes and see how uncomfortable he looks right now. I know he’s at least looking at a big fine and all the negative publicity that goes with it, but there’s something else going on here. Something he’s not saying.

It isn’t my job to save Grayson from a guilty charge—it’s my job to give it to him. But I’m also not someone who will charge blindly. More than that, I like to know all the facts before I try someone. And I feel like I don’t know all the facts here. Grayson’s clearly hiding something.

“So, you’re telling me you don’t know the name of the person you bought that large quantity of drugs from?”

He lowers the bottle to the table, looks me in the eye, and says, “I told you, I don’t know. He was some guy in the club that I bought drugs from. End of story.”

“But you said you bought the drugs from a dealer in a bar, not the club.”

“Club, bar. They’re the same thing.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Whatever. Jesus. Look,” he says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. He stares me in the eye as if that will make me back off. “I was in a bar. I went up to the guy because I knew he was a dealer—”

“How did you know he was a dealer?”

“Because I just knew.”

“How?”

“Because he looked like a dealer.”

“He looked like a dealer? How do dealers look?”

“Jesus! I don’t know!” He’s getting flustered. And he’d only be flustered right now if he were lying.