by Marcia Clark
Hausch drilled me with a death glare for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was contemptuous and threatening. “That asshole’s lying. I had nothing to do with it. So you can go pound sand, lady. I’m not paying you jack shit. Besides, who’re they gonna believe? Some dumb taco bender? Or a veteran police officer?”
I glared right back at him. “Slight correction: a veteran officer who’s already being investigated for possible ties to the MS-13.”
Hausch narrowed his eyes. “Does your daddy know what you’re up to?” He’d said it with a sneer, but I saw fear lying just beneath the bravado.
I gave him a steady look. “No one knows what I’m up to. But if you’re thinking about making a move on me—and I sincerely hope you’re not that stupid, because that would be depressing—I’ve got packages that’ll automatically go out to all the right places if I don’t show up for a certain call.” I let him absorb that for a moment. “Anyway, you want to roll the dice? Be my guest. Just remember, they don’t fall your way, you’ll die in prison.” I pulled out a slip of paper with a typed phone number. “I’ll give you forty-eight hours to decide what you want to do.” I looked at my watch. “It’s three thirty-four right now. That means two days from now, at three thirty-five, I’ll be sitting down with IA.” I threw a ten-dollar bill on the table and stood up. I pointed to his bulging gut. “And lay off the pasta. You’re not getting any younger.”
I walked out, the scalp on the back of my head tingling as I imagined his eyes shooting laser death rays behind me. When I got to my car, I called Dale and told him what I’d done.
He was a little less than pleased. “Are you out of your fucking mind?! He’ll sic the MS-13 on you—if he doesn’t get you himself!”
I had to make him see this was a win-win. “Hold on. Listen, if he pays, you bust him. If he makes a move on me, you bust him. If MS-13 makes a move on me, you get to bust them and him. There’re so many ways this goes right.”
Dale didn’t say anything, but I could hear him breathing. “Pack up right now. You gotta get out. You’re staying with me!”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll just go stay in a hotel for a few days. Lots of people around—”
“Tupac got killed in a hotel lobby.”
“In Vegas. Anyone could get to anyone in that place. I’ll do the Four Seasons. The MS-13 won’t be doing any drive-bys in Beverly Hills.”
Dale’s voice was exasperated. “How the hell do you know?”
I didn’t. It just felt like my odds were better there. “And if you want to get a room near mine, that’s fine.”
Dale was silent for a moment, but I could feel his frustration through the phone. “Where are you now?” I told him I was heading back to the office. “Okay, I’ll meet you there. We’ll take Alex and go to your apartment so you can pick up what you need for the next few days. And drive slowly. I want to get to your office before you do.” He ended the call.
Drive slowly. Like I had a choice. But I’d known that would be his reaction. In fact, I’d been counting on it.
Of course, Dale did get to the office before me, and when I walked in, I noticed the subtle signs that told me he might have already told Michelle and Alex what I’d done.
Michelle stood up, hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. “What the hell were you thinking? What is wrong with you?”
Alex was a little more conciliatory. “It was a cool move, Sam, but seriously, what happens if he doesn’t take the bait? You’re the one who said we don’t have enough to get charges filed. And he doesn’t have to do anything right now. Once you go to IA and tank Hausch, one of those bangers can come after you any time.”
I had an answer. “Once I tank Hausch, they have no reason to mess with me. It’ll be over.”
Michelle was still glaring at me. “Yeah, ’cause they’re all such rational thinkers.” She jerked her head toward Alex and drilled me with a look of fury. “And what are you going to do if IA doesn’t buy your story and Hausch gets off? You can’t stay in that damn hotel forever!”
Dale was leaning against the wall, arms folded, radiating a cold anger.
I stared them down. “I won’t need to. That asshole is going to drop a sack of cash in my lap, and I’ll be recording him.”
Michelle threw up her hands. “You’re hopeless—just friggin’ hopeless.” She flopped back down in her chair and hit a key on her computer. “I just sent you your phone messages. Oh, and your other exercise of great judgment—the Orozcos—want to come see you.”
Their timing was awesome. “When?”
Michelle gave me a weary look. “When they always do: now.”
“Tell them they can come in at five o’clock. We should all be back by then.”
Michelle glanced from Dale to Alex. “Wait, you’re both helping her move into the hotel now?” They nodded. She fixed me with a steely glare. “Then you get back here way before five. I’m not gonna be alone with those hyenas.”
Forty-five minutes later, I walked into my room at the Four Seasons.
I got the most basic room they had, and though it was small, it was still plush. The color theme was gold and beige, a large flat-screen hung on the wall opposite the grand-looking king-size bed, and I had a balcony that gave me a view of the city. If these were my last few days on the planet, at least I’d get to enjoy them in style.
Dale got a room across the hall from me and I checked it out. It was just like mine but without the view. That didn’t seem to bother him. He took in the amenities. “I should remember this place. Be nice to end a date here.”
I covered my ears. “Can you please keep that to yourself? Dad?”
Dale sighed. “Sorry.”
I headed back to my room. It was almost four thirty. I had to get moving. The Orozcos had no reason to harm Michelle, but logic and reason played such a small part in their lives. I hung up the clothes I’d need for court and left the rest for later.
I hurried back to the office and had barely dropped my purse behind my desk when the outer door buzzer sounded. Michelle called me on the intercom. I made sure my gun was within easy reach in the top left drawer, then picked up the phone. “Ready.”
I heard Michelle buzz them in and say, “She’s waiting for you in her office.”
I stood up. Ernesto appeared in my doorway and nodded. “Ms. Brinkman.” He took me in with flat eyes that I knew wouldn’t even blink if someone gutted me like a deer right in front of him. Over his shoulder, his son, Arturo, didn’t even bother to nod. He fixed me with his usual malevolent stare.
I gestured to the chairs in front of my desk and told the lie of a lifetime. “Gentlemen, it’s a pleasure to see you. I have news.”
FORTY
Dale followed me to court the next day and sat through my first three cases—all of them boring pretrial appearances. By the time the judge announced the afternoon recess, Dale was ready to blow his brains out.
My last appearance of the day—a probation violation hearing on a meth possession case—took a little longer than expected. At our last hearing, I’d almost persuaded the judge to reinstate Gracee Unger’s probation. But today, Gracee—in her infinite wisdom—showed up in court high as a kite, her eyes spinning around in her head like pinwheels.
I gave it my best shot, but the judge wouldn’t even let the DA respond to my plea to give her probation. He looked from my client to me. “Seriously, Ms. Brinkman? Even I can tell she’s speeding, and I’m a naïf when it comes to drugs. Probation is revoked. Defendant’s remanded into custody.”
As the bailiff approached to take her away, Gracee quickly leaned in and whispered, “Tell my mom to dump the stash.”
Her mom. Why was I not surprised? “Will do.”
Dale picked me up in front of the courthouse, and when he dropped me at Twin Towers, he said, “I’m driving you to your car, so text me when you’re done.”
I sighed, but Dale’s expression told me there was no point arguing. I amended my earlier thought that this would get old: it was alre
ady old.
When I walked into the lobby, I bumped into Tiegan, who was on her way out. She looked worried. “Hey, Sam. Cassie told me about that phone call with Waylon. How badly is it going to hurt her?”
I didn’t see the point in being brutally honest. Spilled milk and all that. It was what it was. “It’s hard to tell, but it sure doesn’t help.”
Tiegan sighed. “Cassie says she just wanted him to know it was okay to tell people. Do you think it’s true?”
“I really don’t know. But what matters is what the jury thinks, and that’s going to depend on how they come across when they testify. We’ll just have to wait and see. How was Cassie?”
“Pretty good, I thought, all things considered. She seems pretty optimistic.” Tiegan seemed relieved to be able to say that. “Well, if you need me for anything . . .”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
But when I saw Cassie, she didn’t look like she was “pretty good” at all. Everything about her sagged—her shoulders, her eyes, her mouth. She was slumped in her chair, and she picked up the phone as though it weighed fifty pounds.
I put the phone to my ear. “What’s wrong, Cassie?”
She stared down at the floor. A long moment passed before she answered. “Nothing.”
I peered at her, wishing for the thousandth time that I could see into her head. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me. Is this about your phone call with Waylon? Are you worried about that?”
Cassie shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
No, that wasn’t it. “Is anyone giving you a hard time in here?” Cassie slowly shook her head.
I took a few more runs at it, but finally, I had to give up. Obviously, something was bothering her. But it was just as obvious that she wasn’t about to share it. I told her I’d be back tomorrow or the next day. “If you decide you want to talk sooner, just call me. But don’t—”
“Yeah, I know. Don’t say anything about it on the phone.”
“Right.” At least the disaster with Waylon had taught her a lesson.
Dale drove me to my car. “That was fast.”
I told him about our visit.
Dale was unfazed. “Don’t you think she should be depressed? She might spend the rest of her life in prison. And she’s only fifteen.”
“True.” But I didn’t believe Cassie was focused on anything that realistic. Because like Dale said, she was only fifteen. No, it was something else. Something much more immediate.
Dale pulled up next to Beulah. “I assume you haven’t heard anything from Hausch?”
“Not yet. But he’ll call. He’s got until tomorrow afternoon.” But I didn’t think he’d push it to the last minute—whether he intended to kill me or pay me. “The second I hear from him, I’ll—”
“Yeah, you’d better, and I’m not kidding, Sam. The second you hear from him.” Dale looked me in the eye. “I’ll need time to get set up.”
We’d planned for me to meet Hausch in a public place—we were considering a couple of different shopping malls—and I’d have my recorder running in my pocket. I’d also leave my phone line open so Dale could monitor what was going on. He’d tapped a couple of friends, too, saying he needed help with a “personal security situation.” I didn’t know exactly what kind of story he’d told them, but that was his call. Dale’s plan was for me to meet with Hausch and record the conversation. If Hausch tried to buy me off, I’d give the signal, and Dale and company would move in and arrest him.
But I had a plan of my own.
I didn’t waste any time when I got back to the office. I woke up my computer and went to work on my time sheets. Ordinarily, I avoid that chore until Michelle puts a leash around my neck. But the bill I was racking up at the Four Seasons was a great motivator. I’d just finished and was about to pull up the trial brief I’d been slaving over when I got a call on the burner phone I’d bought the day before. My heart started to pound. This was it. I took a deep breath, blew it out, and answered in a strong voice. “Yeah?”
His voice was harsh. “Meet me in Echo Park by the pedal boats in one hour.”
Echo Park, where gangbangers roamed freely and there was a lake perfectly situated for a body dump. “You’re kidding, right?”
He spoke fast. “Come up with a better suggestion.”
“The Glendale Galleria, in front of the UNIQLO. One hour.”
If he refused, it’d be game over.
Hausch expelled a long, hot-sounding breath. “If I see anyone else, it’s off.”
“Likewise.”
The line went dead. I had no time to lose. I made the call, changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, and headed out.
FORTY-ONE
I scanned the area in front of UNIQLO. Hausch wasn’t there yet. The bench to the right of the entrance was up against a wall. I liked that. But there was a jewelry kiosk ten feet in front of it being worked by two bored, young salesgirls who stared out at the passing crowds. I didn’t like that. The fewer people who noticed Hausch and me, the better. I opted for the bench anyway. Sitting would give us a lower profile, and I had the security of the wall at my back.
But sitting also made me feel vulnerable. I tried to act casual as I looked around at the shoppers, checking for my backup. The problem was, I didn’t know what they looked like, and if they were any good I wouldn’t be able to pick them out.
I gave up on that and searched for signs of trouble, like the wrong kind of tats. The kind sported by the MS-13. The best defense is always self-defense. But as I zeroed in on the crowds, I realized I faced an overwhelming task. The tattoo craze was of epic proportion. Everyone—boys, girls, teens and older, people in their forties and fifties—had some kind of tattoo. Rainbows, hearts (so common it couldn’t possibly count as personal expression anymore), palm trees, eagles. It was a population of walking comic books. Me, I couldn’t stand the idea. Too much commitment.
But overwhelming as it was, I couldn’t stop trying to scope out every exposed arm, leg, chest, and head. And in my hyperaware state, all the sights, sounds, and smells screamed at me. The candy-apple-red banners strung from the ceiling announcing a sale on Blu-Ray players at Electric City; the cobalt-blue blouse of the Asian mother who was carrying a baby in a front pack; the canned pop music playing an old Backstreet Boys song, “Quit Playing Games (With My Heart)”; the thrum of what felt like a thousand people talking, babies wailing, and the smell of an amalgam of colognes and cinnamon buns and hot dogs.
As I peered closely at the people moving around me, the effort of sussing out every tat I saw was making me dizzy. A chunky man in sagging jeans and a white tank top stopped at the kiosk in front of me. I thought I noticed a Jesus Christ tattoo on his arm—a favorite of the MS-13—and my heart gave a loud thump. But the words under the bearded figure turned out to be RAYMONDO R.I.P. My head swam with relief.
A young girl clung to a bald guy’s arm that was inked with a spiderweb. That was definitely a gang tat. My heart gave another hard thump. I studied him carefully as they approached, trying to see whether he glanced my way. Sweat trickled down into my bra. But they walked past without a hint of interest in me.
As the minutes ticked by, I was feeling more and more light-headed. I had to force myself to breathe so I wouldn’t faint.
I checked my watch. Hausch was ten minutes late. Was he bailing on me? Or was he getting his people into position? The lunacy of my plan was suddenly—and very painfully—clear. Dale had been right: there were so many ways this could go so very wrong. I should pull the plug; this was too insane even for me. I stood up.
And at that moment, Hausch came lumbering toward me with his bearlike gait. He was wearing a black parka and khakis. My eyes bounced everywhere as I checked the area around him. He seemed to be alone. My head was buzzing with the struggle to see and hear everything at once. I expected him to be carrying some kind of bag, but there was nothing in his hands. A serious I’m-about-to-die feeling of dread spread through me. Then a completely differ
ent reason for fear occurred to me: Could this be a reverse sting? Had he reported me for blackmailing him?
I thought fast. I could say that I’d planned to sting him. That I’d never planned to keep the money. Or I could just say that he was lying. That I was here to tell him that I couldn’t represent him anymore because I felt he was involved in criminal activity, i.e. the disappearance of Julio. Something like that.
When Hausch got within ten feet, I motioned to the bench. I sat back down and felt the bench sag under his weight as he joined me. I kept my eyes on his hands. “And?”
He said in a flat voice, “Nice to see you.”
Was he making this look good in case someone was watching? Or was he buying time to get his bangers into position? “Likewise.” I felt another rivulet of sweat drip down my chest.
His right hand slid inside his parka. I stiffened. He wouldn’t shoot me here; he’d never get away with it. Should I run? Scream? But a second later, his hand came out. It was holding a gift-wrapped box, about ten by five inches. He handed it to me and forced a smile that looked like a death rictus. “This is a onetime thing.”
Relieved to some degree, I took the box, thinking it seemed awfully small. “If it’s all there.”
“It’s all there.” He gave me a murderous look. “And if I ever see you again, you’d better run.”
Hausch stood up and headed for the exit on the right. I pulled out my cell phone and made the call. “The Glendale Boulevard exit.”
Only now did I spot my backup, as they headed out behind him.
I waited for a few moments to see whether anyone was following them or watching me. When I was as sure as I could be, I got up and headed for the exit on the left. As I scanned the crowds for any sign of trouble, the skin in the middle of my back itched with the fear that a knife or bullet was about to plunge into it.
When I made it to my car, I finally let myself exhale.
But I kept my eyes on the rearview all the way back to the hotel, and I practically ran to the elevator. The moment I got to my room, I took off my jacket, turned off my recorder, went to the bathroom, and threw up.