Moral Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 2)

by Marcia Clark

  “Hey, Debbie. Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

  She looked annoyed. “I already told the cops I don’t know anything.”

  And they’d obviously left it at that. I kept my voice light. “But sometimes you remember different things when you hear different questions. Just a few minutes, I promise.” Debbie shrugged. I pulled out the small wooden chair that’d been parked in front of a small desk and turned it around to face her. “Has Cassie ever talked to you about feeling scared of anyone?”

  Debbie sighed, then lifted the remote and turned down the volume on the television. “She did at first. But not lately.”

  “Do you guys ever hang out?”

  She shook her head, her tone peevish. “She mostly sits in her room all day, watching TV.”

  “So you guys don’t do much talking?”

  “No.” An irritable look crossed her face. “You should ask my mom. She’s the only one Cassie talks to. Well, my mom and whoever Cassie’s texting constantly.”

  Hadn’t the cops taken her phone? Apparently not. “You don’t know who that is?”

  Debbie rolled her eyes and gave a petulant sigh. “When I asked her, she just said she deserved a little privacy, she had a lot to deal with, and went to her room.” Debbie finally clicked off the television and looked at me. “I know she’s been through such a horrible thing, and I totally expected her to be sad and crying all the time. But I never thought she’d be mean.”

  I was—and wasn’t—surprised by this. “Does she act like that a lot?”

  Now I could see that hurt, not irritation, was the real issue for her. “To me, yeah. Not to my mom.”

  I was fairly sure that Debbie was getting the snotty treatment because Cassie was jealous—probably as a rule—but now more than ever. “I’m sorry, Debbie. That’s a drag. All I can say is, don’t take it personally. People who go through terrible things can act mad so they don’t have to feel sad. Cassie doesn’t know what’s going to happen to her now. She’s really scared, and I think she’s coping by being angry at the whole world.”

  Debbie shrugged and traced the flower on her bedspread with her finger as she thought about that. “Makes sense, I guess.” After a moment, a worried expression settled on her face. “But she really leans on my mom a lot, and it’s wearing her down.” Debbie looked up at me, contrite. “I know it sounds terrible, but I hope Cassie’s relatives find a place for her soon.”

  “It doesn’t sound terrible. It sounds perfectly normal. And I’m sure they will. Cassie can’t stay here permanently.” I stood up, then thought of one more question. “Did it seem like Cassie was texting a guy?” I wasn’t sure how she could tell, but it was worth a shot.

  Debbie tilted her head to one side. “Kind of. Only because they’d go at it for a long time, and she seemed a little happier afterward.”

  “Did you ever see her with a boyfriend in school?”

  “I didn’t really see her much at all. I’m a junior. Cassie’s a sophomore.”

  And when I asked her about Abel, I got the same answer. It was interesting how segregated these kids were. I didn’t remember being roped off that way when I was in high school. But I wasn’t exactly representative of your average high schooler. And given the kind of shit I got into with the older kids—and a couple of teachers—it probably would’ve been better if there had been a little more division among the ranks. “Okay, thanks, Debbie.”

  She sat up and spoke with urgency. “But I hope she’ll be okay. I mean, I do feel sorry for her and all.”

  I gave her an understanding look. “I know.”

  I thanked Debbie and left her to the South Park rerun. I texted Alex that I was ready to go, and he texted me back that he’d decided to wait outside and save himself from bankruptcy.

  Barbara was in the kitchen, wiping down the counter with a paper towel. I told her I appreciated her letting me talk to Debbie. “Did you happen to notice that Cassie’s been texting a lot?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “A lot? No. I know she gets texts every day, but I assumed it was just her friends checking up on her, and I was glad.” She finished wiping the counter and threw the paper towel into the trash can under the sink.

  “So you don’t know who she was texting with?”

  “No, she’d always go to her room to answer them, and I never asked who it was. Didn’t want to pry.” Barbara paused. Her eyes filled with tears. “She seems so lost, so frightened. And who can blame her? If it were me, I’d be curled up under the bed.” She pulled a Kleenex out of her sleeve. “But Cassie’s such a sweet girl. Always telling me how she doesn’t know what she’d do without me, how grateful she is for all I’ve done for her—really to all of us for taking her in. Can you believe that? After all she’s been through, all she’s going through, and she manages to be thankful.” Barbara dabbed at her eyes.

  I nodded, but I had a feeling that being thankful, being grateful, was Cassie’s default mode. I told Barbara I’d be in touch and wished her a good night.

  When I got back in the car, I asked Alex whether he could get me Cassie’s cell phone records. “I want to find out who she’s texting nonstop. I’ve got her number.”

  Alex gave me a smug look. “Not a problem.”

  “And cell towers.” If I knew what towers were accessed by the calls, I’d also have some idea where that person was.

  “That might take a little longer.”

  FIFTEEN

  On the way back to the office, I told Alex about my freebie case—Kevin Hausch, the cop who’d been beefed for excessive force. “This should be quick and dirty. We talk to the alleged victim, poke holes in his story, persuade him to back off, and we’re out.”

  “And if he won’t?”

  “Then Kevin’s got himself a problem, ’cause he won’t have us.” I wasn’t just unhappy about representing a cop, I was also unhappy about wasting time on a freebie. We were doing better, but the bills were still coming in faster than the money, and it was about time to give Michelle and Alex a raise. And Deshawn’s hotel bill was climbing. I’d be maxed out in another week.

  Julio Valenzuela worked in an auto body shop on La Brea, in Hollywood. We decided it’d be best to drop in unannounced tomorrow.

  Alex merged onto the 101 freeway. “What’s our cover story?”

  “Let me think about that.” I would’ve posed as a lawyer who wanted to take his case, but since he’d made a point of telling Internal Affairs he’d shut down all the lawyers, I figured that wouldn’t be a winning gambit.

  It was after six o’clock by the time we got back to the office.

  I felt my cell phone buzzing in my purse as we walked in. I pulled it out and looked at the number. Niko Ferrell. He was the very definition of hunk. I’d met him when I stumbled into a Krav Maga class a few months ago. He was, of course, the teacher. Bald, with a trim beard and mustache and an incredibly lean, muscled body, he made all the women in the class—plus a few of the men—go slack-jawed when he walked in.

  But I’d gotten too busy and had to drop out after the second class. Niko had called to find out why I stopped coming and wound up asking me to have coffee with him. I didn’t even try to play it cool. So far, I’d only managed to squeeze in one early-morning coffee date on my way to work, but it’d been really fun.

  Michelle gave me a wise look. “You’re smiling. Who’s the guy?”

  I smiled some more. “Niko.”

  “The hottie with the body? You finally gonna go on a real date with him?”

  Alex put a hand to his chest. “Wait, I need to sit down.” He perched on Michelle’s desk. “A date? You’re actually going to do something human? I’ve got to see this guy.”

  I gave a little laugh. “You really do. He’s a work of art.” Should I take the plunge and see whether we could find enough to talk about to make it through dinner? I had no time or patience for even one more of those boring dinners with forced small talk and awkward silences. The last time I’d been stuck on one, I’d
gotten bombed on margaritas just to numb the pain. The ensuing hangover had convinced me life was too short for that much agony. So I wasn’t sure I wanted to risk it. This attitude might have something to do with the reason I was still single. “I’ll see. Maybe.”

  I went into my office and listened to his message. He had a deep, sexy voice that got me distracted, so I had to play it twice. He was asking about dinner at a Moroccan restaurant on Sunset. It sounded like fun. Fun. I couldn’t even remember what that was like. At least, not that kind. I called him back and got his voice mail. I hesitated. Did I really want to do this? Beep. Time was up. I gulped. And said I’d love to.

  With that daring, reckless move behind me, I got to work and sent Alex the paperwork and photos on Kevin Hausch’s case, then read through it all myself. I’d known Julio’s story would conflict with Kevin’s—but now that I’d read the reports, I saw that they were 180 degrees off. I’d be interested to see how it held up when Alex and I pounded on—uh, questioned him.

  At eight o’clock, Michelle stopped in to tell me she was leaving. I gave her a look of disbelief. “What, already?”

  She deadpanned, “You’re such a riot.”

  “I know, right?”

  Michelle rolled her eyes. “And tomorrow we need to catch up on billing. The rent’s due next week. So we sit down at ten o’clock. No excuses.”

  I could feel the tension building in my chest. This was why fun was never on my radar. It wouldn’t fit in the budget. I held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor, I promise.”

  When I got home, I poured myself a healthy shot of Patrón Silver on the rocks. I’d gone ahead and splurged and bought a bottle. I took my drink out to the little balcony and gazed at the downtown skyline in the distance. From here, it looked like a real cityscape.

  I went back inside and turned on the television. The Usual Suspects was on—one of my favorite films of all time. When I finally put myself to bed, I thought I might be able to sleep in for a change. But when I woke up, it was still dark outside. I hate the lonely feeling of being the only one awake. It reminds me of my childhood—all of it. I tried to go back to sleep, but after fifteen minutes, I gave up and headed for the shower.

  I made it to the office by seven, with a tray of Starbucks coffees for us all. Mainly me. One for Alex, one for Michy, and two for me.

  Alex showed up at seven thirty, wearing a worn-looking blazer and slacks. Exactly what I’d have suggested. “Good choice. Have a coffee.” I’d worn an old brown skirt and my oldest black blazer. It even had frayed cuffs. I wasn’t hugely worried that Valenzuela would recognize me. The police reports showed that he’d been out of the country during Dale’s trial. But just to be on the safe side, I’d pulled my hair back and put on a pair of fake glasses with heavy black frames.

  He looked down at his suit with disgust. “It’s hideous. I had to borrow it from my cousin.” Alex scanned my outfit and circled a finger in the air. “And that’s unthinkable. Seriously, is this really necessary?”

  “Yes, it really is. We’re lowly civil servants. We need to look the part.”

  Michelle rushed in ten minutes later and grabbed a coffee without even saying hello. She took a long slug, then exhaled. “That is good. Very, very good.” She took in our outfits. “Wow, congratulations. You guys really managed to look like hell. You about to head out?”

  I nodded. “I’ll call you from the road if anything crazy happens. Otherwise, see you by ten.”

  The body shop where Valenzuela worked was just a few miles east of the office, but morning crosstown traffic being what it was, it still took us fifteen minutes to get there. Disco Auto Body was a dingy, grimy, little two-bay shop. An old—and I mean thirty or more years old—faded red Audi sat on blocks near the front of the lot. And in the far corner, next to a tent, there was a collection of husks of cars, body parts, and even the disembodied cab from an ancient Ford pickup truck. Judging by the multicolored patches on the inside of the tent, I imagined that was where they did their spray-painting.

  The service bays held the only cars that looked even remotely drivable: a beat-up black Mustang with the front bumper torn off in the first bay and a white Nissan Maxima with a smashed-in driver’s-side door in the second bay. The whole place smelled like heavy oil, grease, and chemicals so toxic they’d burn off your eyebrows. It was like a car hospital for the underprivileged. A wiry, Armenian-looking man in dark-blue overalls with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips was on the phone in the tiny, filthy office—which, of course, had the obligatory pinup calendar. Ms. March looked very fetching in her size DDDs and crotchless pink panties.

  Alex wore a stink face as he looked around the lot. “Do you see Valenzuela?”

  “Nope. And I don’t see any disco balls, either.”

  Alex gave me a puzzled look. I pointed to the sign. He rolled his eyes. I moved toward the office, thinking I’d ask about Valenzuela. Then I heard a toilet flush and saw a man who matched the photos Hausch had sent me coming out through a small door on the left, wiping his hands on a dirty paper towel. He was a little guy, about five foot six—my height—with slicked-back hair, eyes that sloped down at the corners, and heavy lips.

  I held my purse in front of me with both hands so I wouldn’t have to shake, and I went over to him. “Mr. Valenzuela?”

  He frowned at us and stopped just outside the office. He spoke with a heavy Spanish accent. “Yes. Who are you?”

  I gave him our fake names—Cheryl Heathman and Esteban Ibarra—and told him we investigated claims of excessive force for the State Department. He demanded to see our identification. We gave him our cards that showed we were liaisons for the attorney general’s Special Investigations Unit. It’s so cool what you can make on the computer. The cards even had a picture of the state seal—a nice touch, I thought. He studied the cards, then put them in his breast pocket. “What do you want to know?”

  The man in the office was still talking—loudly—on the phone and pacing around in circles. “Do you mind if we step away so I can hear you?”

  Valenzuela looked at me suspiciously, but he moved with us to the far side of the lot. Better. “We need to get your side of the story and make sure it’s been accurately reported by Internal Affairs. The officer says he stopped you for a broken taillight. Was your taillight broken?”

  “Sí. I was meaning to fix it, but . . .” He spread his hands.

  Kind of ironic that a body-shop guy couldn’t fix his own light. But they do say the cobbler’s kids go barefoot. “Then he says he saw a baggie with white powder under the passenger side front seat—”

  “No!” He shook his finger at us. “No, no! I don’t do drogas. That is a lie.”

  I pulled out a notepad and pretended to write down what he said. “The officer says that when he asked you to step out of the car, you were angry, and you behaved in a threatening manner.”

  “Otra vez, no!” He shook his finger at me again. “This policía lies! He told me to get out and I say why? I gave you my licencia, my insurance. It’s just a broke taillight. He open my door.” Valenzuela put a hand to the collar of his overalls and gave it a hard yank. “He drag me out the car. I fall down, and he kick me in estómago!” Valenzuela grabbed his stomach, red in the face. “Then, he put the handcuffs and throw me in his car. I hear him open his trunk, then he go to my car, and I see him bend down on passenger side. He make like he pull out baggie from there, but no!” He shook his finger again. “Is a lie!” He spit on the ground. “Mentiroso!”

  Alex whispered, “That means liar.”

  “Yeah, I got that.” I finished writing what he’d said and flipped the notebook closed and frowned. “May I call you Julio?”

  He narrowed his eyes and folded his arms, chest puffed out. “Okay.”

  He was still pretty agitated. If he was lying, he was awfully good at it. “Julio, what I don’t understand is why he’d do this to you. Are you dating his mother or something?”

  Julio muttered something that soun
ded a lot like “fuck his mother” in Spanish and spit out, “Because I look for my sister!”

  Huh? There was no mention of a sister in the reports I had. “What are you talking about?”

  Julio looked from me to Alex. “I try to tell one of these men in the oficina, but he tell me I’m loco.”

  And so, of course, the cop didn’t bother to write it down. It was just crazy talk. Not cool, but I could see it happening. “Please tell us about it.” I nodded toward Alex. “He speaks Spanish if you have any trouble.”

  Julio tilted his head and studied us for a moment, still a little suspicious. “My sister is . . . how you say? Wild girl. Not bad. She just make mistakes. She stole una cosa from a store in Arizona. I think she say it was color for the . . .” He pulled on his hair.

  “Hair dye?”

  “Sí. The court don’t want put her in jail, so they send her back to Guatemala. She call me from cell phone she borrow when they stop in Sierra Vista.”

  “Arizona?” Alex asked.

  Julio nodded. “She tell me they go to Nogales, then Mexico. She say she call me when she get into Mexico, but I wait two weeks and I don’t hear nothing. I call nuestra familia in Mexico, but they say she no come. So I think maybe she stay in Nogales. I go there; I ask for her. They tell me go to . . .” He turned to Alex and spoke in Spanish.

  Alex translated. “They told him to go to the station at the border checkpoint. Nogales PD.”

  “The policía I talk to there is very ugly—”

  Alex interjected, “He means nasty, not bad-looking.”

  I shot him a look. “Got it.”

  Julio continued. “He call me tonto, tell me no one can stay in Nogales. Everyone go to Mexico. He say my sister has to be in Mexico.” Julio clenched his jaw, then moved it from side to side. “I can’t do nothing, so I come back here the next day because I have to work. And that’s when this policía beat me and make up lies, put drogas in my car.”