by Marcia Clark
PRAISE FOR MARCIA CLARK
Snap Judgment
“Samantha Brinkman, Clark’s flawed but sympathetic Los Angeles defense attorney protagonist, must deal with more than one explosive case in her highly suspenseful third outing . . . Clark keeps up the frenetic pace, but never allows the plot’s tricky developments to overwhelm her characterizations.”
—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
“A twisting plot informed by Clark’s legal know-how will keep readers turning pages.”
—Booklist
“Fans of Clark’s legal thriller series featuring defense attorney Samantha Brinkman will be pleased to learn that this third installment (after Moral Defense) continues to deliver fast-paced plotting and savvy style laced with a healthy dose of humor. Clark, once again, nimbly handles the warp and weft of her interwoven characters and story lines, knitting them into a satisfying conclusion that will leave readers eagerly anticipating another Brinkman episode.”
—Library Journal
“Marcia Clark has a proven talent for storytelling that transcends novels . . . and Snap Judgment, like her other books, masterfully illustrates that prowess. Propulsive plotting, visceral action, dexterous dialogue, and a palpable sense of time and place all conspire to make for an undeniably exhilarating read. And just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, she flips the script. If you haven’t yet become a convert for team Clark, you owe it to yourselves to do so. This is one pleasure that won’t leave you feeling the least bit guilty.”
—Criminal Element
“Snap Judgment sees the return of a terrific character in Samantha Brinkman. Marcia Clark renders the world of high-stakes law and flexible morals in perfect three-dimensional clarity.”
—Authorlink
“Marcia Clark certainly knows the ins and outs of the litigation business, and fans will be thrilled with this new mystery.”
—Suspense Magazine
Moral Defense
“Moral Defense by former Los Angeles prosecutor Marcia Clark has it all: a hard-charging lawyer heroine, tough-as-nails cops, realistic, yet somehow lovable ‘bad guys,’ as well as fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants pacing and page-turning twists.”
—Associated Press
“In Clark’s outstanding sequel to Blood Defense . . . [she] deepens her already fascinating lead, while adeptly juggling several subplots.”
—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
“This second in the Brinkman series (after Blood Defense, 2016) is a nonstop ride marked by legal and moral gray areas, with a cliff-hanger epilogue. Another Clark legal thriller that’s hard to put down.”
—Booklist
“A murdered family leaves only one survivor in this second roller-coaster case for Los Angeles attorney Samantha Brinkman . . . [The case] builds to a rare intensity.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Blood Defense
“Former LA prosecutor Clark kicks off a promising new series with this top-notch whodunit . . . Clark sprinkles jaw-dropping surprises throughout and impressively pulls off a shocker that lesser writers can only envy.”
—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
“On the heels of FX’s blockbuster television series American Crime Story: The People v. O. J. Simpson . . . Simpson prosecutor–turned-author Clark . . . launches a new legal thriller series. Unlike in her well-received Rachel Knight books, which featured an LA prosecutor, Clark’s latest calls on her earlier career as a criminal defense attorney to fashion protagonist Samantha Brinkman. VERDICT: Clark’s deft handling of her characters through a multilevel maze of conflicts delivers an exhilarating read.”
—Library Journal
“Clark, who served as a prosecutor for the trial of O. J. Simpson, clearly knows this world well. She has the most fun when she’s showing readers the world of celebrity trials, from the media circus, the courthouse crowds, the crazies, and the police to the inner workings of the trial itself. You’ll push yourself to finish the final pages just to keep pace with the defense team’s discoveries.”
—Associated Press
“Once again, Marcia Clark has reinvented herself—and the results are stellar. Her knowledge of the criminal justice system is unrivaled, as is her understanding of how the media influences public opinion of high-profile trials—and the actions of those involved. But the real magic of Clark’s writing is her dynamic, richly textured characters and the visceral, often gritty settings they frequent.”
—Hartford Examiner
ALSO BY MARCIA CLARK
FICTION
The Samantha Brinkman Series
Blood Defense
Moral Defense
Snap Judgment
The Rachel Knight Series
Guilt by Association
Guilt by Degrees
Killer Ambition
The Competition
NONFICTION
Without a Doubt (with Teresa Carpenter)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Marcia Clark
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542091176 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542091179 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542091152 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542091152 (paperback)
Cover design by David Drummond
First edition
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
The scene was idyllic. A clear sign that disaster was just around the corner.
For some reason, this time, I’d decided to ignore that universal truth.
I gazed at the horizon, where a persimmon sun glowed at the edge of an azure sky, and a soft, tropical breeze wafted across my body. I trailed my hand through the warm, gleaming white s
and below my lounge chair and watched as Niko emerged from the water and moved toward me. His wet, muscled body sparkled in the dimming sunlight like a character in a Spanish telenovela. With a sigh, I closed my eyes and stretched my arms over my head.
Just your typical end of day at the most exclusive beach villa on Bora Bora. It was all so stunningly beautiful. So Hollywood perfect. So dream come true.
And so not me. I don’t do “vacays.” I’d never been on a vacation that took me any farther away than Santa Barbara—which is about an hour north of where I live in West Hollywood. And never for more than a weekend.
Then again, I’d never been in a relationship long enough to even consider spending that much alone time with anyone. I’m not sure how it happened.
True, Niko Ferrell checked a lot of boxes. Smart: check. Funny: check. Ambitious: check. Gorgeous: check. He’d achieved global fame—and banked a fortune in the process—by parlaying his skill as a martial artist (Krav Maga was a particular specialty) into an industry that included worldwide tours and master classes, videos, and inspirational speaking appearances. Right now he was in talks to put out a unisex clothing line and fragrance. Some people are just born with that combination of charisma, brains, good looks, and drive.
To put it mildly, this was definitely not my “type.” Generally speaking, I’m drawn to the kind of guy your friends—in my case my bestie, Michelle—warn you about. The guy who seems like a great catch—until you find out he’s either living off an ex-wife, living with an ex-wife, or living with the wife he just claimed was an ex. The kind of guy who gives your friends the golden opportunity to say, “I told you so.”
I met Niko three years ago, after a long self-imposed dry spell. I’d decided that romance just wasn’t my forte. At that point, he was still teaching locally, and his career was just starting to take off. I’d enrolled in—then immediately bailed on—his beginner’s class in Krav Maga. I loved the idea of being able to defend myself in case I’d forgotten my trusty Smith .38, but I just couldn’t commit to weekly classes. When I failed to show up for the next two sessions, Niko had called to find out why and then asked me to meet him for coffee to “discuss it further.” We’d been dating ever since.
The truth is, it wasn’t just my lack of commitment—I’d had to give up the Krav Maga classes. It’s tough to run a solo criminal law practice and find time to do anything else. I’d love to hire some actual associates for my firm, Brinkman & Associates, but they cost money.
Michelle, my BFF since seventh grade, who’s now my paralegal / bookkeeper / office manager—you get the picture—doesn’t buy it. She says an associate or two would pay for themselves in the time they’d save me by doing the scut work like writing motions, letters, and briefs. Time I’d be better off spending in scoring more clients. The truth—according to Michelle—is that I’ll never hire other lawyers because I’m a control freak who doesn’t trust anyone. This is not an entirely unfair assessment.
The only other member of Brinkman & Associates is Alex Medrano, my investigator—and former client. Alex got busted for “liberating” a couple of top-of-the-line BMWs from the dealership where he was working as a salesman. He managed to hack into the dealership’s database and “sell” the cars to two fictitious buyers, who conveniently asked that he deliver them himself. Alex’s skill with computers is nothing less than magic. Seriously, the man’s an artist. It was a sheer fluke that the cops caught him. I managed to get him a deal with straight probation on the condition he’d show the dealership how he’d done it. And then I’d hired him.
It was one of the smartest moves I’d ever made. After going through sixteen of your typical ex-cop, burnout case investigators, I’d landed someone who was a natural. And an amazing hacker. Doesn’t get much handier than that.
We were a small but mighty trio. I’m not one to brag, but the truth is, among the three of us, we’d done okay. Actually, a lot more than okay. We’d scored some major wins in some very big cases.
And now, after just ten years of practice, I’d become kind of famous. Not Instagram or Twitter famous—not an influencer (a label that makes the bile rise in my throat; whoever created it should be locked in a cage for life). But I was a regular on the cable-show circuit, a favored panelist and guest at symposiums, and I’d even been asked to give a commencement speech at my old law school. Which was a damn riot, since I’d barely ever shown up for classes.
But as a result of all this, I had more work than I could reasonably handle alone. Even with my usual all-night-and-all-weekend routine, I was getting backed up and bagged out. So as much as I hated to admit it, Michy was right. It was time to get serious about hiring at least one hungry, young lawyer who’d take a minimal paycheck in return for the experience of working with the sort-of-renowned attorney Samantha Brinkman, i.e., me.
So although I’d tried to avoid this vacation and insisted that Niko cut it back to five days instead of ten, it was exactly what I’d needed.
I felt a shadow block the sun as cold flicks of water dripped onto my face. I held up a hand. “Hey! Knock it off.” I opened my eyes to see Niko standing over me, shaking his wet head.
He laughed. “We need to get going. Dinner’s in half an hour.”
I took his outstretched hand, and we headed back to the villa.
Half an hour later, I was dressed in a gauzy white caftan, my hair wild and untamed on my shoulders. I decided I could really get used to this whole “going native” thing. As I joined Niko on the patio of our private pool, I mentioned the possibility of making it a ten-day trip after all.
He stared at me. “Wow.” He paused. “Wait, now I get it. You packed your laptop, didn’t you?”
“Nope.” I didn’t feel the need to tell him Michy had snatched it out of my suitcase when my back was turned. I smiled as I took in Niko, who looked particularly amazing in his flowing white cotton pants that were tied just below a perfect six-pack—which was visible because he’d left his shirt unbuttoned. I pointed. “They’re going to throw money if you go out like that.”
He gave a half smile. “There is no ‘they.’ It’s just us.”
“So we’re staying in?”
Niko shook his head and put an arm around my waist. “Come on.”
He led me out to the private beach, where a table surrounded by torches was set for two. A barefoot waiter stood at the ready and asked for our drink orders.
It was like something out of a fairy tale. A French Polynesian fairy tale. I ordered my new favorite drink: tequila with lime juice, shaken over ice and poured straight-up, like a martini.
“I’ll have the same,” Niko said. He ordered us bonito fish in coconut milk for appetizers.
When the waiter left, I stared out at the placid lagoon. It must’ve shown on my face that I was feeling a little sad coming to the end of this idyllic time, because Niko smiled and reached across the table for my hand. “If you really mean it, I can try and reschedule the jet to pick us up next week.”
Yes. We took a private jet. It’s disgusting. I know. I pondered the possibility of another five days. Five more gentle, languid days of sunning, snorkeling, and tequila-and-lime cocktails on the beach. I wasn’t sure I could make it work. But I never like to run from a challenge. The waiter came back with our drinks. I raised my glass. “Okay, let’s give it a shot.”
Niko’s smile was a little disbelieving, but he raised his glass, and we clinked. “Here’s to words I never thought I’d hear you say.”
I laughed with him. It was . . . so perfect.
Until we were in the middle of the main course—a delicious French Polynesian specialty, grilled tuna in Taha’a vanilla sauce—when the manager of the hotel hurried over to Niko. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, Monsieur Ferrell. But you have an urgent call from someone named Thomas Brewster. He asks that you call him as soon as possible.”
Niko thanked him and said he’d make the call from his cell. His expression was worried as he brushed the napkin across his mouth and stoo
d up. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’d better jump on this.”
I nodded. Tom—one of Niko’s longtime friends—wasn’t the type to get worked up for no reason. If he was calling Niko during one of his rare vacations, it wasn’t because he had a flat tire. “Want me to go with you?”
“No. Whatever this is, I’m sure it won’t take long. Stay, finish your dinner.”
Niko dropped his napkin on the table and headed to the room.
I wanted to finish eating, but I was too nervous. In situations like this, my mind always reaches for the very worst. Tom was in jail. His wife had been diagnosed with cancer. Their children had been killed in a school bus accident. Or, more likely, a school shooting.
Niko was back before I could get any further. His features were drawn, his voice tight. “My mother . . . all my friends . . . they’ve been wiped out.”
I stared up at him. “What do you mean?”
“Gold Strike Enterprises. The company I invested in last year. The one I told everyone was a sure thing.”
Then I remembered. It was a high-flying investment firm that promised—and, from what I’d seen, delivered—big dividends with a short turnaround. Niko had met one of the owners when he was in London teaching a master class. He’d persuaded Niko to invest in Gold Strike, and in the past six months, Niko had made more than half a million with them.
And now, suddenly, they’d gone belly-up. It was a shocker, to say the least. “Are you wiped out?”
Niko gripped the back of his chair. “No. I’ve probably lost a lot, but I sold off a bunch of my shares a few weeks ago. And I have other income streams. I’ll be okay. But my mother . . . she invested everything she had, her whole life savings.” He shook his head, his face a frozen mask of shock. “Tom just came from her house. He said she looked bad. Really bad.” Niko swallowed. “She’s had such a hard life. Her health has never been great. And now this. I don’t know how she’ll . . .” He stopped and pressed his lips together for a moment. “She refused to let me support her. That’s why I told her to invest in Gold Strike. I thought she’d finally get enough money to live the good life she deserved.” Niko looked at me with tears in his eyes. “Instead, I’ve ruined her.”
I grabbed his arm. “Stop. You couldn’t have known this would happen.”