Blood Defense Read online

  “What’s your defense going to be?”

  “Do you have an alibi?”

  Then, one lone voice on the fringe called out, “How come they didn’t let you surrender at the station?”

  I’d been walking behind the group of officers holding Dale, but now I stopped and turned to see who’d asked a sane question for a change. It seemed to have come from a tallish, slender guy with curly brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed since Kanye West dissed Taylor Swift at the Grammys. He was standing away from the crowd, off to my right. I fell back and waved him over. “Who are you?”

  He jerked back as though I’d slapped him. “Who are you?”

  Fair question. “I’m Dale Pearson’s lawyer.”

  “You got a card?”

  “Do you?”

  He paused, then reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a business card that said his name was Trevor Skotler and he was a contributing reporter for Buzzworthy. I recognized the name. It was an online news mag that was starting to seriously encroach on Huffpo and the Daily Beast. This could be useful. I gave him my card. Then I told him how they’d done an end run so Dale wouldn’t have a chance to surrender.

  “No shit.”

  “No shit. And they’ll be tossing Dale’s place pretty soon. My associate is going to be here to make sure they don’t play ‘Thrash This Pad.’ You going to hang around?”

  “For a bit.”

  “I’ll tell him to look out for you.” And I’d tell Alex to point it out to Trevor if he saw the cops step out of line. With a little luck, my new buddy Trevor might help me fire the first salvo in the war for juror sympathy.

  Off to my left, I saw one of the detectives put a hand on the back of Dale’s head, preparing to duck him down into the squad car. “I’ve gotta go.”

  TEN

  I followed the caravan that took Dale to the station to make sure there were no “accidents” during the booking process. Dale had buddies on the force, but this was sheriff’s territory. Dale was LAPD. There was no love lost between the two cop shops, so Dale couldn’t expect to get any sympathy here. And I’d be about as welcome as a parrot at a spelling bee.

  I sat in the waiting room, scrolling through my e-mail to distract myself while cops walked by, shooting me daggers.

  By the time Dale got through booking and into his orange jumpsuit, I’d read, dumped, or answered every e-mail, Twitter message, and Facebook note; watched all the latest bits on Funny or Die (using headphones); and checked out the clothes on the HauteLook, MyHabit, and Urban Outfitters websites.

  I watched the guards lead Dale into the attorney room, one on each side. Orange isn’t an easy color for anyone to work, but it was a real fashion “don’t” for Dale, and the monster lighting didn’t help. Neither did the shock of being on the wrong side of the handcuffs. The skin on his face looked like a deflated basketball, and his chest had the caved-in look of someone who was collapsing from inside. But he didn’t seem to have been knocked around. Not yet, anyway.

  The deputies walked him in, and he sat down heavily. He stared, slack-jawed, as they chained him to the floor and the table. “How’d the booking go? Any unnecessary roughness?”

  Dale was staring around the airless little room as though he’d landed on Mars. It took him a few seconds to focus. “Uh, no . . . no.”

  I leaned down to catch his eye and waited for him to look at me. “Listen to me. I want you to get this. If you’ve got any ideas about being some kind of martyr who covers for his buddies in the Thin Blue Line, send them to Warner Brothers. That crap only works in Hollywood. If anyone gives you a hard time—and I mean any kind of hard time, including not giving you enough bread to go with your gravy—you tell me about it. Got it?” He didn’t answer, didn’t even move. “Blink once for yes, twice for no.” Finally, he blinked. Once. “Good. Now let’s try this again. How did the booking go? Any damage I can’t see?”

  He shook his head. “What about bail?”

  Now I knew just how shaken up he was. He knew the answer as well as I did. “It’s a double. It’s a capital case. There is no bail.”

  Dale sighed and shook his head. “Of course.”

  “Now I’m going to remind you: no matter who it is, no matter what anyone says, no one here is your friend. No one. If you need to talk or even just vent, call me. If I can’t come, I’ll send Alex or Michelle. And if anyone wants to come visit, you send them to me first. I’ll vet them.” Dale looked confused. “Your case is going to be on every news channel, all day, every day. Your grandmother’s second cousin’s adopted nephew is going to be looking to cash in on you. Every ex-girlfriend, ex-boyfriend, ex–best friend—”

  “Okay, okay. I get the picture. I won’t talk.”

  Probably by tomorrow he’d have his feet under him a little better, but right now, he was reeling. I wrapped it up by telling him we’d be working night and day on his case.

  “Thanks, Samantha.” He gave me a wan smile.

  I signaled the deputies that we were done, and they came to get him. As they led him out, he looked back at me. Most clients—even some of my gangbanger clients—get scared the first time they’re led away. Dale looked like a child lost in a department store. I gave him the most reassuring smile I could muster and called out, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I headed for the door, planning what I’d say to the press. It was time to start winning the hearts and minds of our jury pool. I’d planned to walk slowly when I got through the door so the reporters could catch up, but I didn’t have to worry. I couldn’t have missed them if I’d cut out of there at a dead run. A whole contingent was waiting by the exit, and they jumped me the moment I stepped out the door.

  “Ms. Brinkman, what’s your defense going to be?”

  “Are you going to try and get him a deal?”

  I recognized a few of the reporters from other court cases, and my new buddy Trevor from Buzzworthy.

  This was it. I planted myself in front of the microphones and put on my serious-but-not-scary face—a steady gaze with just a hint of upturned lips. “I have no plans to make any sort of deal in this case. Dale Pearson is innocent of these charges, and we look forward to the opportunity to prove that in a court of law.”

  One of the female reporters I’d seen around the courthouse called out, “Edie Anderson here for Channel Four News. Are you taking this to trial by yourself? Or will you be adding other lawyers to the team?”

  “I don’t plan to add any other lawyers to the team, Edie. You know what they say about too many cooks.” And Dale wasn’t a millionaire, so the only lawyers willing to jump in would just be publicity whores. They wouldn’t do any real work or give a damn about the case.

  I gave her a smile, and she grinned back at me. “Thanks, Samantha.”

  “My pleasure.” I stepped around the throng and headed for my car. A small group trailed behind me still shouting questions, but I just kept walking. No nods, no headshakes. I’d said what I wanted them to air. I didn’t want to give them any other choices.

  It’d already been a long day, and it wasn’t even half over. I had just fifteen minutes to get to Department 130, where I had a pretrial conference on a drive-by shooting. My client, Ricardo Orozco, a Grape Street Boy gang member, had opened fire on a house that was supposedly the home of the shot caller for the Southside Creepers, their archenemy.

  Except it wasn’t, and Orozco wound up killing a three-month-old baby and maiming a seven-year-old girl. I inherited the case from another lawyer who’d told the court he and Orozco had had an “irreconcilable breakdown in their relationship.” Translation: the lawyer hated him, and no amount of money was worth the grief. Or maybe Orozco had threatened him. But by that time the case had been lingering on the docket for almost a year, and Judge Mayer was desperate to get it off his desk. He begged me to take it. The unspoken quid pro quo was that he’d approve all my billings and throw some good cases my way. As Michelle put it, I couldn’t afford to say no.

&n
bsp; But it had taken just five minutes with Orozco for me to know it was a mistake. This shooting was so bad, even his fellow Grape Street bangers were ashamed. One was even quoted as saying it was “disgraceful.” But Orozco? At our first meeting, he’d looked at me with flat, dead eyes and said, “I didn’t do it. But I ain’t sorry it happened. That baby’d just grow up to be another Southside Creepers piece of shit. Oughta hang a medal on the dude who did it.” At our second meeting, he’d laughed about the little girl he maimed. “Man, you should see the way she stumble around. Little puta look like one of them damn zombies from The Walking Dead. Ain’t nobody ever gonna fuck her gimp ass.”

  Just breathing the same air as him turned my stomach. I’d tried to make a deal, but the DA told me not to waste my breath. He was going for life without parole. And now I had to give Orozco the bad news that there was no deal. Even worse news for me, because it meant I’d have to sit through a trial with this foul piece of swamp sludge. I told the jail deputy to stay close as I knocked on the door of the holding tank and braced myself for the face-off.

  Orozco, his thick hair slicked back, dark and shiny with grease, was sitting on the bench in his cell. He leaned against the wall, his tatted arms folded across his chest, legs stretched out in front of him. His mouth twisted in a lazy sneer of a smile when he saw me. I motioned for him to come to the bars. Moving as though he had all the time in the world, he shuffled up and gave me a head bob. “S’up?”

  The sickly sweet smell of his hair goo made me breathe through my mouth. “The DA won’t deal. We’re going to trial.”

  Orozco tilted his head back and looked down his nose at me. “I don’t think so. When you last talk to him?”

  “Yesterday.”

  He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Go back and talk to him now. Tell him I’ll plead to ex-con with a gun, low term.”

  I stared at him, read the superior look on his face, the confidence in his voice, and put it together. “I’m assuming Castaneda had an accident.” Castaneda was the sole eyewitness. So much for witness protection. “That won’t help you. They’ll just read in his testimony from the preliminary hearing.”

  Orozco gave a derisive snort. “Castaneda ain’t got killed. He jus’ finally got his mind right.” He flicked his fingers at me, shooing me away. “Go on. Talk to your DA buddy.” Orozco turned and walked back to the bench.

  ELEVEN

  Orozco was right. Jerry Ratner, the DA on the case, was furious. “Problem is, Castaneda didn’t just say he wasn’t sure anymore. He fingered someone else who looks a lot like Orozco—and the guy doesn’t have an alibi.” Jerry threw the file on his desk. “Castaneda was practically the whole ball game.” Jerry peered at me. “I don’t suppose you’d know how Castaneda happened to have this epiphany?”

  “I don’t know any more than you do, but I can make the same guesses.” The only question was, how did those gangbangers find such a good fall guy for him to point to? But I didn’t think Jerry was in the mood to ponder it right now. “Look, it’s not my place to tell you how to do your job, but if you take this dog to trial, you’ll probably lose. Don’t you think it’d be better to let it get dismissed and refile when you get more evidence?”

  I was doing my job, taking care of my client, but I was also talking sense, and Jerry knew it. He looked miserable, but he nodded. “We’ve got him on the gun possession, though.”

  “He’ll plead for a county lid.”

  Jerry got red in the face. “One year? Fuck that.” But after a moment, he sighed. “Get him to take low term. He at least has to get state prison out of this. I’d rather dismiss than let him fart around in county jail for a year.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  As it turned out, it was an easy sell. Orozco preferred state prison to county jail. A lot of defendants did. Living conditions were better, and bangers like Orozco always had lots of familia there.

  When I walked into the courtroom, I saw that Randy was the bailiff on duty. I went over and handed him my cell phone. “You may as well take it now.” Somehow, my phone always seemed to ring when he was on duty. He took it away from me so often, I told him he should share the bill.

  Randy took my cell and dropped it on his desk. “Gee, Sam. If only there was a way you could stop that from happening.”

  “I know, right?” I shrugged. “At least this way we know I’ll be safe this time.”

  Randy pulled the lockup keys out of his desk. “Glad you’re taking a plea on Orozco. Can’t get that piece of garbage out of here fast enough.”

  As Randy headed to the holding tank, I glanced at his desk and noticed the custody assignment sheets. I quickly flipped through the pages. Then my phone lit up with a call. I didn’t recognize the number. Probably the press.

  Randy came out of the holding tank with Orozco and saw me at his desk. “What are you doing?”

  “Someone called; I was just trying to see the number.” I moved to counsel table and Orozco walked over, a shit-eating grin on his face. I turned away and opened my file so I wouldn’t have to talk to him. It’d be good to say adios to Mr. Orozco.

  Judge Mayer came out, and Jerry took the plea and waivers through gritted teeth. The judge gave Orozco an icy glare as he accepted them. With the exception of Orozco, there was no joy in Mudville. The judge pronounced the sentence of two years in state prison.

  “Your Honor,” I said. “My client would like a ‘forthwith.’”

  The judge nodded. “My pleasure. The sheriff’s department is to have Mr. Orozco transported to state prison forthwith.”

  When I got back to the office, Michelle was at her computer and Alex was reading over her shoulder. She looked up. “How’s Dale doing? And what happened with Orozco?”

  I told her about Orozco and that Dale was shell-shocked. “It’s going to be rough on him in there. Did you happen to catch my news hits?”

  Michelle smiled. “Yep. You did great. Nice sound bites.”

  “Gracias. Has the DA sent over any discovery yet?”

  “No,” Michelle said. “But they sent over an e-mail confirming that the arraignment’s tomorrow at eight thirty. Want me to call?”

  “Don’t bother. They’ll give it to me in court.” I sat down on the edge of Michelle’s desk. “Alex, you check the girls’ Facebook pages, Twitter feeds, every site you can think of that’ll give us information on them, their friends, their family—you get the drift. Michelle, get us the contact information on where they worked: Paige’s restaurant, her modeling agency, and her agent, if she has one. And get Chloe’s studio people, her agents, managers—everyone who had contact with her.”

  I brought them up to speed on what Dale had told me about the girls. “So we’re looking for possible enemies, rivals, jealous exes. We want fall guys. Someone else we can point the finger at. I’m not sure we really want to find Mr. Perfect—”

  “Unless we can show he has no alibi,” Alex said.

  I pointed to him. “Exactly. We just need to find out who he is so we can check that out—”

  Alex had been taking notes on his iPad. “And I could start sniffing around Chloe’s studio to check into who her dealer might’ve been—”

  “Hold off on that for now. We don’t want to make any moves until we see some discovery and find out what we’re dealing with.” I headed for my office.

  “I hate to go all Fashion Police on you,” Michelle said. “But the press is definitely going to be in that courtroom tomorrow, right?” I nodded. “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”

  It sounds like a silly question. It’s not. The image is the message. I have to look successful, even a little flashy. Because if I look good, my client looks good—good as in “not like a murderer.” Also, I needed to steal focus from Dale. He’d be in his orange jumpsuit for this appearance. The less anyone saw of him looking like an inmate, the better. Especially since the victim’s side of the courtroom was going to be dazzling. Lots of celebrity supporters—some legitimate friends of Chloe’s
, some just looking for free camera face time. I had to give our side as much shine as I could to balance things out.

  “I figured I’d wear my usual: the black pencil skirt and the silk pinstriped blouse.” Skirt by Tahari, blouse by Calvin Klein. They were the only designer-ish clothes I had.

  Michelle nodded. “Good enough.”

  “Alex, did you get Dale’s suits and shirts?” Part of the reason I’d asked him to stay behind while the cops searched his house was to collect all the clothes we’d need to dress Dale up for his future court appearances. Alex nodded. “What do you think? Will they work?” After today, Dale had to look like a million bucks every single time the camera found him.

  “Not bad. He did pretty well for someone on a cop’s salary. I can work with it.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Dale had style.

  Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t a killer.

  TWELVE

  By the time I left the office at eight o’clock, I was bone tired. So it figured that the very last thing I needed was the first thing that happened. Beulah died on me. The yellow engine light went on three blocks from home, and she just stopped. There was a station a few blocks from my apartment where I could get her towed, but there was no way she’d be roadworthy by tomorrow morning. I called AAA to come get her. Luckily, the driver took pity on me and dropped me at my apartment.

  I slogged up the stairs to my tiny one-bedroom apartment. My building is small, just fourteen units on a hillside street above the Sunset Strip, but I scored a unit on the second floor that actually has a partial view of the city. There’s no elevator, no security, the carport is wide open to the street, and the washer and dryer are under the building in a dark little room where I just know I’m going to find a dead body someday. And someone’s always using the machines anyway, so I usually wind up at the local Laundromat. But for all that, it’s home. My little slice of heaven.

  I dropped my purse on the kitchen table and went to the refrigerator. It was slim pickin’s. Some dicey-looking cottage cheese, an apple, and half of the roast beef sandwich I’d bought at the courthouse snack bar. I took out the sandwich and ate standing up at the sink as I tried to figure out how I’d get to court tomorrow. I couldn’t ask Michelle to take me; she had to man the office. But maybe Alex? I didn’t know whether the Jetta he was driving now belonged to him, but it was worth a try.