Moral Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 2)

by Marcia Clark

  That made sense. “So you think he didn’t go after Cassie because he was pressed for time?”

  Emmons shrugged. “Or he didn’t know she was there. She never came out of her room.”

  “Sure would help if the mom made it,” Dale said.

  “Ya think?” Templeton had an exasperated look.

  I wasn’t sure how much help she’d be even if she did survive. “She got attacked from behind, right?”

  Emmons nodded. “Right. We’re hoping she got a look at him before she passed out.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that even if she did, with the kind of injuries she had, she might not remember what she saw. “So the door knock didn’t pan out?”

  Templeton shook his head. “Middle class suburban ’hood, after one a.m. No one saw or heard a damn thing.”

  I thought that was kind of weird. “On a Friday night? With a window broken out? You’d think at least some teenagers would be up.”

  Emmons shrugged. “It’s a pretty quiet town. And it’s not as though there were shots fired.”

  “So what’s your next step?” Dale asked. “You going to check out the rest of the family?”

  Templeton nodded. “We’ll look into the son and the dad, see if they gave anyone a reason to off them.”

  I wasn’t about to let them know it, but I was way ahead of them.

  When I got back to the office, Alex came out and sat on the edge of Michelle’s desk. His cologne wafted through the air. He always wore Acqua di Gio. It was wonderful. “I think I’ve found a little hint of something on Stephen.”

  I set down my briefcase on her desk. “What is it?”

  Michelle looked up from her monitor, annoyed. “Will you two get off my desk and go yammer somewhere else?” She pushed away my briefcase. “Or don’t you care whether your sentencing memo on Graveman gets done? ’Cause I’m good either way.”

  I grabbed my briefcase before it fell on the floor and motioned for Alex to follow me to my office. “She been like this all day?”

  Alex shook his head. “Worse.”

  Michelle folded her arms and glared at us. I wiggled my fingers at her and smiled. “Kidding.” We went into my office and closed the door.

  I plopped down on the couch. It was just a plain beige number I’d cadged at a low-end office-furniture warehouse, but it was a new, plush feeling to have a couch to lie down on, and I did it as much as possible. “So what’ve you got on the dad?”

  Alex pulled over one of the chairs that faced my desk and sat down. “I don’t know if this guy is going to qualify as an enemy who’d hate Stephen enough to kill the whole family, but it seems there was some kind of issue at work. Stephen got the guy fired, and the guy bitched about it like crazy on Glass Door.”

  Glass Door is a website where people can vent or crow—mostly vent—about businesses and bosses. I frowned. “Kind of don’t see how getting fired adds up to mass murder. Especially after he bitched about Stephen in public.”

  Alex gave a little smirk. “Where do you think the term going postal came from?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose. Anyway, the more you know . . . Got any idea how to flesh it out?”

  “I’ll have to social engineer it.”

  No one was better at working the phones and the people who answered them than Alex. “Sounds good.”

  “I also have some of Abel’s friends for us to talk to.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Hold off on them for now. I want to talk to Cassie first. See who she thinks knew him best.”

  And who liked him least.

  SIX

  I had to be in court for a hearing that afternoon. The cop who’d taken my client’s statement claimed he’d read him his rights. My client and his dim-witted cohort claimed otherwise. Even assuming everyone showed up on time and didn’t dick around with meaningless questions—which happens so seldom it’s frightening—the earliest I could get to Cassie would be four o’clock.

  As predicted, the cop was late, and the DA decided this was his career-making case. I didn’t get out of there till four thirty. I called Barbara Reeber and asked whether I could come by and see Cassie.

  “I’m okay with it, but I’m not sure about Cassie. She’s been holed up in her room all day.”

  “Why don’t I drop over and see? If she’s not in the mood, I’ll take off.”

  Barbara was good with that. On my way there, I wondered what kind of shape Cassie would be in. It was hard to imagine the kind of hell she had to be going through. When Barbara let me in, she said in a low voice, “I told her you were coming, and she didn’t seem to mind. But let me go get her.”

  Barbara turned to head down the hall, but I stopped her. “Maybe it’d be better if I talked to her alone. She might be more comfortable if it’s one-on-one.” And I didn’t want Cassie to worry about what she said. If we were alone, I could promise her confidentiality.

  Barbara looked a little uncertain. “I guess . . . if that’s what Cassie wants.”

  I gave her a reassuring smile. “Only one way to find out.”

  Barbara led the way down the hall and stopped at the first door on the left. She knocked and said, “Cassie? Samantha Brinkman is here to see you.”

  Cassie’s voice floated through the door, weak and thin. “Okay.”

  Barbara opened the door. Cassie was sitting on her bed, her back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chin. The shades were drawn, and the room was fairly dim, but I could see that her eyes and nose were red and her face was splotchy. The air smelled salty, like freshly shed tears. I tried to give her a supportive smile. “Would you like to talk to me here in your room, just the two of us?”

  Cassie looked at Barbara uncertainly, then nodded. “Sure.”

  I patted Barbara’s arm. “I won’t keep her long.” Barbara clearly didn’t love the idea, but she left, and I closed the door behind her. “Before we start, I want you to know something. I’m a lawyer and you’re my client. That means everything you say to me is privileged, and I can’t repeat it to anyone. Ever. Got it?”

  Cassie tilted her head and paused briefly, then said, “Okay.”

  I sat on the rocking chair next to the bed. “What’s it been like staying here? From what I hear, you and Debbie weren’t that close.”

  Cassie swallowed and picked at a thread on the knee of her jeans. “You really can’t tell anyone what I say?”

  “I really can’t. Or I lose my bar card. That means I can’t be a lawyer anymore.”

  Cassie blew out a breath and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “It totally sucks. I mean, they’re nice to me and all, and I know they don’t have to do this.” She gave me a plaintive look. “But why couldn’t I stay with my friends? Tawny says her mom and dad would be okay with it.”

  “I’m not sure.” That’d been Tiegan’s call, but I didn’t want to hang her out to dry. “This is only temporary. We’ll figure something out.” It sounded lame, but I didn’t know what else to say. “How are you doing otherwise?”

  Cassie put her hands over her eyes. “I miss them all so much!” Tears rolled down beneath them, and she bit her lip. After a few moments, she collected herself and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “You know I was adopted, right?” I nodded. “I was in a horrible foster home before they adopted me. I still remember how happy I was when Mom and Dad took me out of there. And they . . . they told me if they hadn’t, probably no one would ever have adopted me.”

  They did what? Why on earth would they say a thing like that? I was glad the room was dark. I tried to keep my voice even. “I guess you were pretty grateful to them.”

  “Totally. Mom always used to say how lucky I was.”

  Again, why? Why say a thing like that? But I’d caught a hint of an edge in Cassie’s voice. “That must’ve sucked, to always have to be saying you’re grateful for something most kids take for granted.”

  Cassie stretched out her legs and stared at her feet. “Yeah, it kind of did. But she w
asn’t trying to be mean. I know she loves me.” She gave me a tiny, tremulous smile. “I’m so glad I get to talk to you.”

  Her situation was different from mine. By the time I was Cassie’s age, I’d long since faced the fact that Celeste neither loved nor even liked me. But I could definitely relate to her. “Me, too.”

  She spoke in a soft voice. “But what was really hard was when I wanted to find out who my birth mother was. She got so upset. She was like, ‘We’re your family. Your birth mother never gave a damn about you. Why do you care about her?’ I told her I was just curious, you know? Like, where did I come from? Did I have brothers or sisters somewhere? I tried to tell her that it didn’t mean I didn’t love her and think of her as my mom, but . . .”

  It seemed to make her feel better—or at least distract her from her misery—to talk about her problems as the adopted kid. I finished the thought for her. “But she didn’t get it.”

  Cassie shook her head. “And she didn’t get how hard it was for me with other kids. Everyone could always tell I was adopted. I don’t look anything like them.”

  That was certainly true. Cassie was medium height, a little on the tall side, blonde, and blue-eyed. The Sonnenbergs were all on the short side, with dark hair and eyes. “How did you get along with Abel?”

  Cassie bit her lip. “We had some . . . issues. He was jealous because he thought Mom and Dad did too much for me, that they were always bending over backward for me.”

  “Was he right?”

  “No!” Cassie stopped and took a deep breath. “I don’t know why he thought that. I just hoped he’d get over it and move on. Like maybe when we got older, he’d stop being so jerky and we’d be friends. I’d have a big brother to hang out with.” Cassie put her hands over her eyes again. “Now I’ll never get to!” Her chest heaved with silent sobs.

  I felt awkward; I didn’t know what to say. “I’m so sorry, Cassie.”

  Finally, she dropped her hands to her lap. Her eyes were red, but there were no tears. Probably all cried out. She leaned against the wall again, pulled her knees back up under her chin, and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Can I ask you a question?” I nodded. “Barbara said that they arrested a guy.”

  “Not exactly. They detained him for questioning. But they don’t think he’s involved.” At least, not yet. Cassie looked disappointed. I didn’t blame her. I was, too. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “About the . . . ?”

  “No. You’ve had enough of that, I’d guess.” Cassie gave me a grateful look. “Do you know who Abel used to hang out with?”

  Cassie frowned. “I know a few guys, I think. We really don’t . . .” She paused and swallowed. “I mean didn’t hang together.” Cassie took a deep breath. “He used to hang out with Tommy Dearfield a lot. And maybe Eric Asner.”

  I pulled out my pocket-size notepad and wrote down the names. “What about enemies? Did he have problems with anyone?”

  Cassie thought about it for a moment. “I know there was a girl who got into a fight with him at a party.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I think her name is Janessa . . . I can’t remember her last name.”

  “Not a problem.” The first name might be distinctive enough to get us there.

  Cassie tilted her head and peered at me. “You think somebody did this because of Abel?”

  “I’m just looking into all the possibilities.” Emmons had said the killer probably chose his room to break into because it was the best point of entry, since his window faced the backyard. But all avenues had to be explored. And although Templeton had said they’d be looking into the possibility that Abel or Stephen had been the target, they were busy running down the skinhead angle right now. So for the moment, I figured I’d have the field to myself, and I wanted to make the most of it.

  “But what about that guy I saw running away? They’re saying he was probably one of those skinhead gangbangers. You think Abel was involved with those guys?”

  I wasn’t sure whether she knew her mother had been targeted. If not, I sure didn’t want to be the one to tell her. I dodged the question. “Not so far. But I’m sure the cops will find out.”

  Barbara knocked on the door, then opened it. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s time for dinner. You’re welcome to join us, Sam.”

  I stood up. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you, but I’ve got to head back. Cassie, remember: You can call me whenever, okay?” She nodded.

  It was after six by the time I left, and the freeway was still a bumper-to-bumper nightmare. There was no point in going back to the office. As I inched along the 405 freeway, I thought about Cassie and how, in some ways, I identified with her. Was it just because of our messed-up childhoods? For some reason I didn’t think so. It felt deeper than that. I tried to figure out what it was about her that resonated, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  I gave up and thought about what Paula had said to Cassie, telling her how lucky she was and that no one else would’ve adopted her. What the hell was up with that? It sure didn’t fit with the caring, kind Paula people had described. I wondered whether maybe Cassie had exaggerated. She obviously had abandonment issues; who wouldn’t, with her childhood? Maybe those issues had colored her memory, filtered innocuous comments through a damaged lens. I’d had a couple of clients who’d been adopted, and I knew how common it was for them to have serious, sometimes debilitating feelings of worthlessness. For my clients, those feelings had run deep enough to land them in prison. But if Paula really had said those things to Cassie, she was either an incredibly insensitive jerk or she was an emotional sadist. And I wondered about the rest of the family; what was the story with the dad or Cassie’s brother, Abel, who’d gotten into a fight with that girl . . . Janessa?

  There definitely was more to this than met the eye, but that was nothing new. Even the most mundane liquor-store robbery has a few layers beneath the pointed gun and the emptied cash register. But I had the feeling this one was more layered than most.

  As I pulled off the freeway, I got a call on my cell phone. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let it go to voice mail. When I listened to the message, I was so light-headed with relief that I had to pull over and park the car. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

  It was Deshawn. He was alive. So far.

  SEVEN

  I called him back and asked him how he was doing.

  He huffed. “How the hell you think I’m doing? Runnin’ for my life is how I’m doin.’ Leo’s people be lookin’ for me everywhere. You got my money?”

  I deduced that Leo was the drug-dealer-slash-nemesis. “I’m sorry, but no. Not yet.” I told him about my idea to put him up in a hotel for a little while.

  He sounded suspicious. “Where?”

  Seriously? He was getting picky at a time like this? “Anywhere you think they won’t look for you. But the budget’s tight, and you may have to be there for a couple of weeks, so be reasonable.”

  A few seconds passed. I heard car horns blasting in the background, then he asked, “How about Oxnard?”

  “Kind of far north for you, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. For Leo, too. He stays down in Riverside.”

  Good thinking. I told Deshawn I’d set him up. “But go easy on the room service, will ya? This is going to max out my credit card.”

  He huffed. “How come I wind up with the broke lawyer? I thought y’all were s’posed to be rich.”

  Yeah, me, too. We ended the call, and I hooked him up with a room at the Stay Inn. Which I hoped he’d take as a game plan. Then I texted him the information and told him to get up there ASAP and that I’d be in touch. It was just a temporary fix, but at least he was safe for now.

  I called Alex when I got home. “Want to go see new sights, meet new people, expand your horizons?”

  He saw right through me. “You mean door knock the crime-scene neighborhood? Didn’t the cops already do that? The book says that’s the first thing—”

  “I’m g
oing to buy every copy I can find of that damn book and burn them.” Alex, being the driven Type-A that he was, had decided to compensate for his lack of experience as an investigator by reading every book on the subject he could get his hands on. But he’d found his bible in one book in particular, The Professional Guide to Private Investigation. And no matter how many times I threatened to smack him in the head with it, he kept citing crap like this at me. “Did that damn book tell you how often the cops find no one home and move on? Or how often they just walk away when someone says, ‘No hablo inglés,’ even when it’s obviously bullshit? Or that some folks just prefer not to talk to cops?” A lot more of them preferred not to talk to defense lawyers, but that was beside the point.

  “Okay, okay. When?”

  “Tomorrow. Late afternoon.” That way we’d catch the kids and stay-at-home parents and still be around when people got home from work.

  “Dress code?”

  I’d taught him that. Dress for your audience; make them feel at ease. If you’re talking to a bunch of stoners, don’t show up in a three-piece suit. “Dress shirt and jacket, no tie. We’re going for middle class, suburban. And don’t forget your recorder.”

  Lesson number one when doing witness interviews: never do it alone. If a witness takes the stand and decides to “forget” some juicy nugget from our interview, I can’t testify about what he really said. Lawyers can’t testify in their own cases. But Alex can.

  And the recorder stays hidden because it’s just for my own benefit. I always make a show of taking notes in front of the witness, but I can’t do a good job of questioning if I’m constantly scribbling.

  Also, if I decide to call the witness, I have to turn over those notes to the prosecution. So I don’t necessarily write everything down. It’s a nifty little trick, but it only blindsides the prosecutors who don’t talk to the witnesses before they take the stand. It always amazes me that there are prosecutors who don’t interview their witnesses ahead of time—some because they’re lazy, others because they’re afraid it might look like they’ve coached the witness. I say, talk to your witnesses, squeeze them for every last drop of information, and don’t worry about that coaching nonsense. It’s more important to know every inch of your case, and it avoids nasty surprises. As far as I’m concerned, putting any witness on the stand without knowing exactly what he’ll say is as dumb as it gets.