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Howard opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. When he finally speaks, his words are careful, all soft edges against his teeth. “I believe Jimmy planted cocaine in my locker.”
Joel, his therapist, doesn’t visibly react. He can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing. His gaze is still trained on him, and he feels exposed, as if his bones were breaking through his skin. “When did this happen?”
“A couple of weeks ago, before our last appointment. I didn’t bring it up because I didn’t yet know what it was.” He clears his throat, fighting the urge to fidget like a child. “I had been golfing with my friend, Cliff - he’s a partner at a different law firm, we work together sometimes - at our country club. When we came back to our lockers, I opened mine and a small pouch of white powder fell out. At first, I had no idea what it was. I don’t do drugs, cocaine wasn’t even on my mind, I thought it was… I don’t know, sugar or something.” He tries to laugh, but it’s just an empty gust of air leaving his chest. “Cliff knew what it was, though. His son was an addict.”
Joel jots something down on his ever-present clipboard, his eyes flitting down briefly to survey his writing then return to his face. “How did Cliff react?”
“He, uh… He didn’t say anything outright, but it was clear he was disappointed.” An unexpected lump forms in his throat. He has known Clifford Main for the majority of his life; he had been good friends with his father. Cliff had probably seen his baby pictures. He didn’t consider him to be much of a parental figure - George Hamlin was the only person from whom he had ever sought praise, the only person he ever wanted to impress - but being judged by him stung. God, the look he had given him after was the look he usually reserved when speaking about Jimmy.
Joel pulls him out of his thoughts gently. “What makes you think Jimmy planted it?”
Howard blinks incredulously. “This is the same man who chucked bowling balls onto my property and damaged my car. The same man who paid two prostitutes to start a scene with me, which, by the way, Cliff was also party to. He’s trying to assassinate my character.” He’s proud of how his voice is strong and resolute, like he’s giving a presentation to shareholders.
But Joel, as he is wont to remind him, is not a shareholder, and remains as unreadable as ever. “Let’s assume Jimmy does have a motive, that he is trying to harm your reputation. How did he plant the cocaine? Do you have proof it was him?”
Chuck’s voice rises unbidden in his consciousness. My proof is having known my brother for his entire life. But even though Chuck was right - the man was almost always right - he knows that Joel wants something more concrete than ‘this is just who Jimmy McGill is.’ “At first I didn’t suspect it was him. I didn’t suspect anyone. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. It was like the packet materialized out of nowhere. But a week later I ran into a former client, Kevin.” He considers explaining how he only cut ties with his firm thanks to yet another one of Jimmy’s schemes, but if he explained every stunt he pulled, he’d be here all day. “He goes to the same club, and he said Jimmy was there that same day getting a tour. He warned management that he was nothing but trouble, so they asked him to leave and he made a huge scene, called Kevin antisemitic, or something.”
“Jimmy is Jewish?”
Howard is bemused that this is what Joel focuses on. “No, he’s not, but he practices under the name Goodman now, so.” He shrugs.
Joel takes a moment to finish his writing, and Howard fights the urge to lean closer and crane his neck, trying to make out the scribbled shorthand. “This Kevin - I’m assuming he’s had run-ins with Jimmy before.”
“Yes. I don’t know the specifics, but Jimmy’s -“ he pauses, the word uncomfortably large and jagged in his throat - “wife was his attorney up until recently, so, he definitely has experience with him.” He can’t forget Rich Schweikert approaching him in the courthouse, jovially asking if he had been invited to Kim and Jimmy’s wedding. He stared back at him with his mouth agape like a fool, to which Rich simply chuckled and patted him on the shoulder. Don’t feel bad, they didn’t tell me either. I’m guessing they eloped. They’ve never much been a fan of traditions, have they? There might have been a time where Howard would be elated for the couple, genuinely wishing them well, but after Chuck’s death and Kim giving him the cold shoulder - and not to mention several bowling balls and prostitutes later - he felt nothing but sickness in the pit of his stomach.
Joel surely senses his bitterness, but decides not to pry. “So, you have an eyewitness account that he was at your country club the afternoon this cocaine was planted in your locker. What happened after he made this scene?”
“He was escorted off the premises.”
Joel lightly taps his pencil against his clipboard. It bothers him that he doesn’t write in pen, as though he’s worried he’ll make mistakes. “If he was escorted off the premises, then how did he have the opportunity to plant the cocaine?”
“I, uh…” Howard isn’t usually at a loss for words, except for when he’s in therapy, and if it’s anything that involves Jimmy. “He must have done it earlier on the tour.”
“Do the tours usually include a trip to the locker room?”
“I-I don’t know, probably. He could have asked to have been shown it.”
Joel’s gaze doesn’t waver, and Howard begins to feel like he’s being cross-examined. “Let’s say he asks to be shown the locker room. How would he know what locker is yours?”
“I-I’m not-“
“And your locker is, presumably, locked, correct? And you’d have the key.”
“That is true, but-“
“So how did he manage to track down your locker, break into it, and plant the cocaine, all while being accompanied by a guide?”
Howard feels like he’s falling from a great height, flailing mentally. “I don’t know how he did it. He could have cloned the key, or bribed the guide, or incapacitated his escort and broke into every locker one by one until he found mine. But I know he did it!”
He feels self-conscious about his outburst, because he knows he sounds like Chuck. And what had happened to Chuck? He was six feet under, charred to a crisp, having taken his own life after Jimmy ruined what was left of it. Yes, Howard had a role to play in his death as well, and it still keeps him up at night. It was the reason he started seeing a therapist in the first place. But for the moment he shoves that guilt to the side, blinded by his anger towards Jimmy. After all, he wouldn’t have done what he did if Jimmy didn’t torment his brother in the first place. Didn’t he force his hand?
Is he the new Chuck? Is Jimmy going to drive him crazy to the point he contemplates suicide?
Joel speaks to him with the same tone of voice you’d use towards a skittish animal. “Let’s assume that Jimmy did manage to plant the cocaine. Why would he do it?”
“To assassinate my character, as I already stated.”
“Yes, but why?”
Howard can’t stop his frustration from seeping into his voice. “Because I didn’t fight his brother when he told me not to offer him a job. Because he blames me for his brother’s suicide. Because I punished his wife for his fuckup, back when he was working for Cliff. Because he’s an overgrown child who throws tantrums when he doesn’t get what he wants. I mean, this is Jimmy McGill we’re talking about!”
Joel leans forwards, unperturbed by his tone. “Regardless of their validity, those are all reasons he could hold a grudge against you, you’re right. I can see an emotionally immature, bitter man throwing bowling balls at your car, and I can see him hiring prostitutes to harass you. But this? This is beyond a juvenile prank. This is premeditated, with many moving parts.”
Howard scoffs in disbelief, anxiety fluttering in his heart. “You don’t believe he did this. You think I’m crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Howard,” he says in an attempt to be soothing, but it just sounds patronizing. “I think you’re under a lot of stress, and you haven’t been sleeping well. Paranoia is-“
“I’m not paranoid!” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. “I know what this looks like,” he continues, much calmer. “I know what I’m accusing him of seems impossible, and it doesn’t make sense. But you need to understand. Jimmy’s sick.” His voice cracks on the last word. “He’s not right. There’s something wrong with him. He’s always been a bit… unstable, to say the least, but after Chuck…” His voice fails him, and he’s shocked to find his cheeks are wet. How long has he been crying?
Joel silently passes him a box of tissues. He pats his bruised eyes, dries his cheeks, sniffles pitifully. What a sight he must be.
After he collects himself, Joel at last speaks. “You’re worried about Jimmy.”
He wants to say no, that he doesn’t care, that Jimmy gets what he deserves, but he can’t deny it anymore. “Yes. The last time I saw him at the courthouse, he was… he was in a real bad way. He kept denying my accusations, calling me unhinged, then he exploded. He wasn’t making any sense. It was like he was possessed, yelling at me, following me as I ignored him and walked away. I was afraid he’d follow me all the way to my car.”
“Were you scared?”
“Yes. I mean, I didn’t think he would physically hurt me. I’ve known him for twelve years, and not once has he ever raised his hand towards someone. He just isn’t that type of guy. But I was scared because he needs help, Joel. He needs help badly.”
“Do you think he’s receiving any help?”
He snorts. “I doubt it. He told me he was going to see a shrink a while back, but if he did end up going, it sure hasn’t helped him. I talked to Kim - his wife - and I told her everything, but she, uh, wasn’t very receptive, to say the least.” She laughed at me.
“I see.” Joel tucks his pencil into the clipboard and gives Howard his full attention. “Would a man who behaves the way you say he does - breaking down in public, acting erratically, committing petty crimes - be capable of the scheme you had described to me?”
Howard looks at his loafers, feeling more lost than he’s ever felt before. “Jimmy’s clever. He’s much smarter than people give him credit for. And he’s pulled similar stunts before. But nothing to this extent. I mean, he’d need to know my schedule, know which locker is mine, and break in without getting caught… I guess he’s not in the right state of mind to do any of that.”
“Probably not,” Joel agrees.
“And it might not have even been coke.” He raises his hands from his lap, unsure what to do with them, ends up fluttering his fingers nervously. “Maybe my first guess was right and it was just sugar, or something harmless. It could have fallen out of my pocket, or been placed on the top of the locker by someone else and fell when I opened it. And Cliff assumed it was coke because he’s primed to see it, having gone through what he had with his son.”
His therapist nods. “Occam’s razor. The most likely solution is the simplest.”
“I… I think part of me wants to blame Jimmy for every bad thing that happens to me. It’s easier than accepting that sometimes bad things happen for no reason at all. I’m turning him into a scapegoat.” He’s on a roll now, revelations turning like gears in his skull. “Because of what happened with Chuck. Because…” He’s tearing up again, dammit. “Because even though we’ve talked about this over and over for months, I still blame myself for his death. And I think that maybe I want him to punish me. Because I deserve it.” He graciously accepts another tissue, dabbing at his face. “Maybe I really am crazy.”
“You’re not crazy, Howard.”
“I feel like I am, though. I’ve barely been able to sleep, my wife hates me, I killed my best friend-“ He chokes on a sob, his entire body trembling. He feels fragile and paper-thin, a leaf caught in a hurricane, going every way the wind blows. He no longer has any sense of direction.
He’s never felt so unmoored.
—
Howard used to love Summer evenings. He would sit on the balcony and read, tracing the sun’s sluggish descent, snacking with Cheryl on a platter of fruit and cheese. Now, he sits alone on his immaculately made bed in the guesthouse, resigning himself to another night of staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. He had made dinner, egg pasta in a homemade bolognese, but Cheryl never showed up, didn’t even text. He slid his plate into the trash and put the rest in the refrigerator, and has been moping ever since. He hadn’t even changed out of his clothes.
He imagines Chuck sitting alone in a darkened house, all the wires ripped out. Was this how he felt before he ended it? Did he plan it out, or was it a violent impulse? Did he die with a smile on his face, or was he laughing as the smoke blackened his lungs? Was he crying as the flames licked the walls?
He’s interrupted from his bleak reverie by his cell phone ringing. He pats the mattress, lifting up the sheets, until he realizes he never took it out of his pocket. He pulls it out, reads the caller ID. Cliff Main.
He breathes in for four seconds, holds it for four more, lets it out in a stagnant discharge. He flips the phone and raises it to his ear. “Howard Hamlin,” he says personably, like he doesn’t know who’s on the other line.
Cliff’s voice is hesitant and weary, crackling through the speaker. His reception doesn’t seem to be the greatest, but he can understand his words. “Hi, Howard. It’s Cliff.”
“You don’t usually call at this hour,” Howard hums. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine. Actually, I was calling to check in on you.”
Howard’s fingers dig into the sheets, pulling the edges up and over the corners of the mattress. They hadn’t seen each other much over the past week, but it’s normal for them to go many days without speaking. Had he heard something? Can people tell just by looking at him that he’s struggling? “I’m alright, I left work a bit early today to take care of a few things. But I’m all good, Cliff. No need to worry.” He smiles unconvincingly, as if the man could read his expression through the phone.
Cliff’s sigh is nothing more than a rush of static. “Are you sure? You can talk to me.”
“I’m sure.” He swallows thickly. He must have seen or heard something. Had someone spotted him driving home from therapy, tears coursing down his cheeks? “Everything’s fine, honestly.”
He’s greeted by judgmental silence. His heart does a backflip in his chest.
“Cliff, did something happen?”
It takes a long time for Cliff to respond, but he can hear rustling that tells him he’s still on the line. “Look, Howard, I really don’t want to do this. But I saw you downtown today.”
His lungs ache, his blood turning to ice in his veins. “When was this?”
“Around one.”
One? That was when he was in therapy. He must have seen his car in the clinic lot, must have realized he was going to a shrink. “Oh, yes, I had an appointment. I’m seeing a… doctor.” He’s told some people he was seeing a therapist - including Jimmy, in the hopes it would encourage him to see one too - but it felt almost shameful to admit this to Cliff.
“A doctor, huh.”
He tugs at his suddenly too-tight collar, his skin damp with sweat. “Cliff, I don’t know what you’re getting at. What exactly did you see?”
“More than enough to know you need help, Howard.”
“What-“ This doesn’t make any sense. “I don’t understand. I’m getting help.”
“Are you? Because driving recklessly and throwing a sex worker out of your car in the middle of a busy street doesn’t look like someone who’s getting help.”
“I- I’m sorry, what?”
“I saw it happen. Right outside of Limonata.”
Bile rises in his stomach. “Cliff, I don’t know who that was, but that wasn’t me. I was at an appointment. I wasn’t even headed in that direction!”
“I know what I saw, Howard. There’s not that many people who drive a Jaguar with a Namasté license plate.”
No. No, no, no. There’s no way this is possible. He was in therapy, crying his eyes out. This doesn’t make any sense. Is Cliff crazy? Is he himself crazy? Did he hallucinate the entire appointment? What was going on?
“Cliff, you have to believe me, I was on the opposite end of town, I-“
“I wasn’t the only witness, Howard. Kim Wexler saw it too. You need to get help. I went through this once with my son. I’m not going to watch this take you, too. Please, Howard… Hello? Howard? Are you still there?”
The phone falls from his hand, clattering to the floor, Cliff’s desperate tone just barely audible, but he can’t make out the shape of his words. The confusion and fear and shame that was swirling in his stomach condensed into a ball of red hot rage.
He runs, skidding in the hallway in his loafers, nearly face-planting on the marble floor. He wasn’t the most athletic guy in the world, but if someone timed how long it took him to dash from his bedroom to his driveway, crashing to a halt against the bumper of his Jaguar, he was sure it would set a world record. He clumsily paws the key out of his pocket and opens the door, collapses in the driver's seat, out of breath and slightly dizzy.
Jimmy McGill was certainly clever, and nobody ever accused him of not being a hard worker. But there was no way he could have done this - because of course he had done this - without leaving behind proof, an accidental calling card. Nobody was that perfect. Not even Kim Wexler.
She’s in on it, you fool, he never could have pulled this off alone-
He checks the positioning of his seat, scours through his CDs, climbs into the backseat. He checks for stains, cigarette ashes, a broken loafer clasp, tears in fabric, misplaced sunglasses. Anything at all that would prove he’s not going crazy, that would prove to Joel that he’s not insane.
And that was part of the scam, wasn’t it? The crimes had to be so perfect, so impossible, that nobody would believe him. Just as nobody could believe Jimmy planting cocaine in his locker under constant supervision and without a key, nobody could fathom Jimmy stealing his car, driving across town, and kicking a prostitute to the curb. It was meant to make him question his own sanity.
How the fuck did he do it?
They, Howard, don’t forget Kim, don’t forget that she hates you too-
There. A pitiful clump of brown hair. Too dark to be his, too light to be Cheryl’s.
It wouldn’t hold up in court. Even if it did, he’d slither out of accountability. He’d find a way to turn the tables, make himself the victim, Howard the fool.
But he knows. He knows the truth. And he won’t stop until everyone else does, too.
In the morning, he’ll phone up a PI. In a week, he’ll send Jimmy staggering home with bruised ribs and blackened eyes. In a month, he’ll draw his last breath with a bullet in his head.
But tonight he is blissfully ignorant as he plots his revenge.