Jim risked it, he said, and went inside with Weir. There were five or six guys inside, Jim recalled, "and they're all, like, tripping and messed up."
"Jim, just go into that bedroom over there," Weir said, pointing, "and wait for me."
Jim walked in and began looking around for anything he could use as a weapon. There were no windows to jump out. Nothing, he said.
So he sat on the bed.
Weir entered a few minutes later. He sat. Opened his cell phone and dialed up a friend.
Come to find out, Jim was worrying for nothing. Apparently, cops had gone to Weir's house to question him about another matter entirely—a burglary. It had nothing to do with Marina's death.
To say the least, Jim was relieved.
"Jim," Weir said, "you gotta help me out, man. I was never there. You gotta tell the cops I was with you. They think I broke into this house."
"Sure, man, whatever you need." Jim was sweating. Shaking. He couldn't control his body.
"Let's just go get my sweatshirt, Jay. Let's get out of here."




