Viewpoint #4

Assignment: Write a one-page sketch, consciously using first person central intelligence. For those of you who actually read this stuff, I am sorry to keep jerking you around with the viewpoint. The exercise comes first. It's hard to fit it into my cliched plot. Hard but fun.

“Fred, you are about the stupidest—I don’t want to get involved here. You have totally screwed yourself now.” I had just arrived at Fred’s place. Krystal was passed out on the couch, an open bottle of whiskey on the coffee table.
Fred ignored my protests. I stood in the middle of the room with my hands in my pockets watching my old friend frantically gathering Laina’s clothes and toiletries. I knew their marriage had been rocky recently, Laina was a jerk, but then….
I sighed. “If she keeps a diary, throw that in the suitcase.”
“Are you kiddin? Laina with a diary, that’s a laugh.” Fred grunted as he zipped up the suitcase full of Laina’s junk.
“I’m not kidding, it’s the way all wives get back at their husbands. Don’t you remember when they read Nicole Simpson’s diary in court?”
“You go find it then. I’m busy.” He rustled around in the closet and brought out a clothes bag, the kind used for suits.
I retreated to the bedroom, opening side-table drawers and exploring the crevices around the bed. Why did Fred have to call me anyway? I mean, yeah he’s helped me destroy some evidence in my time, hell even tamper with a few witnesses maybe, but never a body. And none of that stuff was really “unethical” because it wouldn’t have affected the outcome of the case. Just moved things along better. I’m the kind of lawyer who gets things done, not like those blowhards who stand around arguing for days or waste time researching stuff. I’m a street lawyer. Not like that poser Grisham wrote about, I come from the street and ain’t going back. Am not. Damn. Grammar sucks.
There was a slight gap between the mattresses at the foot of the bed. Bingo. I pried a slim hardcover volume out. Flipping through the pages, I knew I had found it. As I walked out into the living room with my trophy I realized that if I ever was in Fred’s position, I’d call me too.
“What’s your plan, genius?” I asked him as I tossed the diary on the lumpy suit-bag he was zipping up. It slid off at a crazy angle.
“Well now. I was thinking we could take all this and dump it in the bay. Just a couple of buddies going fishing.”
I scratched behind my ear. “What’s your story going to be when people ask where she went?”
Fred looked blank. Apparently the author had written herself into a corner.