Moral Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 2)

by Marcia Clark

  The occupants of the next two houses had been home, but no one had seen any strange cars in the area. At the third house, a young mother with long blonde hair answered the door, a towheaded baby on her hip. She frowned when she saw us on her doorstep. “I’m not buying anything.”

  She started to close the door. Alex flashed his trademark smile. “We’re not selling anything. We just need a moment to talk to you about—”

  “I’m not joining your church, either.” She started to close the door again.

  I held up a hand and talked fast. “Wait! We’re not thumping any bibles. It’s about the murders. We just have a couple of questions—”

  She gave us an angry look. “And I don’t talk to reporters!” Slam!

  I took a step back. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a door slammed that hard in my face before.” Inside, I heard the baby start to cry.

  We headed back to the sidewalk and moved down to the next house. “Have I told you how much I love this part of the job?” Alex asked, his tone sarcastic.

  “I’m very glad to hear that, because we’ve got about twenty more houses to hit tonight.”

  Alex muttered under his breath as he rang the doorbell. This time, a boy no older than nine answered the door. He was wearing a dirt-smeared Little League uniform and socks, but no shoes, and he was chewing on a hunk of multigrain bread. A healthy choice. Maybe that was a good omen.

  I smiled at him. “Hey, slugger. Is your mom or dad at home?” I didn’t think he’d have been up late enough to see Tiegan’s car, but I wasn’t above asking him if no one else in the house panned out.

  He stared at us for a moment, then, still facing us, he yelled over his shoulder. “Mom! Some lady and some guy want to talk to you!” He waited one second, then bellowed over his shoulder again. “Mom!”

  The front door opened straight into the living room, and I could see that there was a tall glass of milk, now half gone, on the coffee table, and a pair of baseball cleats underneath it. The television was playing a Futurama cartoon. I deduced that the boy was currently the sole occupant of the living room. “If your dad’s here, we could talk to him until your mom’s ready.”

  The boy shook his head. “Dad’s not home yet.” He aimed his mouth over his shoulder. “Mom!” He took another bite of his hunk of bread and chewed as he looked from me to Alex and back again.

  Finally, a pleasant-faced—but harried-looking—woman rushed to the door, pulling off a pair of rubber kitchen gloves. “I’m sorry, what can I do for you? Are you collecting for something?”

  I shook my head and told the white lie we’d used before. I wasn’t in the mood for any more door-slamming tonight. “We’re helping with the Sonnenberg investigation, and we just wanted to show you a photograph.”

  She brushed her dark-brown hair off her face with the back of her hand and gave a disappointed sigh. “Oh, well, don’t bother. I didn’t see anyone.” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe that little girl did it.”

  It was too soon to start trumpeting the possibility that the little girl hadn’t done it. “We’re just asking about a car. Can I show you a photo?”

  She looked a little uncertain. “I’m not really good at cars.”

  “That’s okay. Just take your best shot.” I showed her the photo. “Did you happen to see a car that looked like this on the block that night?”

  She leaned closer and frowned at it. After a moment, her face showed mild surprise. “Actually, I think I did. I got home around one a.m. that night, and I believe I saw it heading in the opposite direction.”

  I asked whether she knew where the Sonnenbergs lived. She said she did. “Was it heading toward their house? Or away?”

  “Toward their house. I remember noticing it because I’m usually the only one driving at that hour. It’s a pretty quiet neighborhood.”

  I couldn’t believe it. A normal person and a great witness? We were on some kind of streak. But I had to make sure she was kosher. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but had you been out to dinner or something?” If she’d been out drinking, it’d dent her credibility.

  She rolled her eyes. “I wish. No, I’m a nurse. I was just getting home from work.”

  Booyah. Right in the middle of the ten ring. Just to see whether I could beat the odds to a pulp, I asked about her husband. But he’d been out of town.

  I got her name—Allison Swanson—and all her contact information. “Allison, you’ve been a tremendous help. I so appreciate this.” I told her I’d give her statement to the detectives and that they’d call her right away. I gave her my most ingratiating smile. “And if you wouldn’t mind, when they call you, could you maybe put in a good word for me? It’d really help my chances in the department.”

  “I’d be glad to. Always happy to help a woman in a man’s world. What’s your name?”

  “Samantha. Samantha Brinkman. Thank you so much.” I couldn’t resist the chance to give Rusty my one-finger salute.

  We told her to have a great rest of the night, and she told us to do the same.

  When we reached the sidewalk, Alex raised his hand for a high five. I shook my head. “You know I hate those.”

  He dropped his hand down by his waist, palm up. “How about now? Come on, even you can’t miss that.”

  “Fine.” I dropped the back of my hand into his palm.

  But I wasn’t going to shove these witness statements in Rusty Templeton’s face just yet. They were a great start, but by no means were they proof positive that Tiegan had been in the house that night. A blue Toyota Corolla isn’t exactly a unique car. And even if it were hers, we still needed proof that she’d been inside the house—and in Abel’s room—that night.

  The prints would be the real deciding factor—assuming Tiegan hadn’t been in the house at some point before that night. And the location where the prints showed up would be key. It’d be one thing if her prints showed up on the coffee table in the living room. But it’d be quite another if Tiegan’s prints showed up on Cassie’s bedroom window—or in Abel’s room.

  For now, we’d just have to wait and hope the cops did their job and ran her prints. I had a good feeling about that. The threat of getting reamed on the witness stand can be a great motivator. And in Rusty’s case, I had a feeling he’d had some very up close and personal experience to draw on. He’d do the print run. I just needed to make sure I got the results sooner rather than later so I could start planning my next move.

  But we were riding high after scoring Allison Swanson. Even Stewart would come off well when we paired his testimony with hers. So I was in great spirits as we headed back to the car.

  Unfortunately, I made the mistake of checking my cell phone for messages. Michelle had left three urgent voice mails: “Sam, you need to call me.” That was at five p.m. “Sam, please call back right now.” That was at five thirty. “Sam! Where the hell are you? Call me!” That was at six. I looked at the screen. It was almost eight.

  I called her on her cell. When she answered, I said, “You’d better not still be at the office—”

  “I’m definitely not. The Orozcos were all over me. They called four times asking where you were.”

  What the . . . ? My chest tightened. I’d just given them one hell of a gift—a chance to get some payback they’d been wanting for a long time. Granted, it wasn’t the payback for Ricardo’s death, but still. It should’ve bought me a lot more time than this. On a scale of one to ten—ten being the worst news possible—this was a twenty-seven. “What’d you tell them?”

  “That you’d be back any minute. ’Cause, you know, that’s what I was led to believe.”

  I had to get rid of those jackals once and for all. “Do they want to come in?”

  “No, they’re coming in. Tomorrow morning, first thing. I plan to come in at noon.”

  Damn it. “Okay. Sorry, Michy. Come in whenever you want. I’ll be there by seven thirty—”

  “Make sure Alex is with you. Or Dale.”

&nbs
p; I promised her I would and ended the call. I told Alex about our new game plan for tomorrow.

  Alex didn’t seem at all perturbed. “Well, I do have a hot lead. I’ll work on it some more tonight. If I’m right, if that custody bus driver does have a cousin who’s a Southside Creeper, we might just have our man.”

  Something must’ve happened to make the Orozcos turn like this. They’d left my office happy after our last visit—as well they should have. Anxiety spread through my body like a thousand tiny knives. Even my hair hurt. I was out of time. There was no more mañana. I had to find a way to deal with this right now. In the meantime, I needed to pull Alex back. “Yeah, well, until we know for sure he’s our man, I can’t give his name to those piranhas.”

  “Understood. But you can tell them you’re making real progress.”

  Except I’d already done that song and dance for them. I spent the rest of the evening trying to come up with variations on that theme that would sound different enough to back them off.

  By the time I unlocked the office the next morning, the best I’d been able to come up with was a vague reference to a deputy who worked in transpo who might be connected to the Creepers. But I couldn’t give them any specifics. Which meant I was in for big trouble. They wanted a head to roll. Now.

  Alex made a point of opening the door when they buzzed. I made a point of keeping my left hand just above the open drawer that held my fully loaded Smith and Wesson. When they walked into my office, I stayed seated so I wouldn’t have to move that hand.

  They didn’t even bother with hello. Ernesto lowered his solid frame into the chair in front of my desk, his eyes cold and hard. Arturo remained standing behind his father, his arms crossed over his chest, his hands tucked under his armpits. Fury swirled in the air around him as he fixed me with a stare that could melt iron. He took the lead. “We been talkin’ to someone who knows the clerk in that courtroom.”

  I thought my heart was going to burst through my chest. I did my best to stay cool. “Okay. So?”

  Arturo narrowed his eyes at me. “So the clerk says you were over by the bailiff’s desk that day.”

  I forced a patient sigh. “Arturo, the bailiff’s desk is two feet from where I sit at counsel table. I’m always over by the bailiff’s desk.”

  He took that in for a moment, but his expression didn’t change. “She said you wasn’t sitting. You was standin’.”

  I met his gaze, but it was so fiery, I had to let my eyes go out of focus to hold it. “I always have to stand when my client enters a guilty plea.” I shifted my gaze to Ernesto. He was as close as I could get to a reasonable mind. “Are you seriously accusing me of getting Ricardo killed? I’m the one who got him the sweetheart deal.”

  Ernesto stared at me for a long, very uncomfortable moment as I forced my eyes to stay on his. He finally gave a very small nod. “What you say makes sense. But we don’t know if maybe Ricardo hurt a person you care about. When it is personal, business is not so important.”

  I could answer this one truthfully. “Ricardo never did anything to me or anyone I know. Now, if we’re through with this . . . unfortunate mistake, I can give you an update.” I looked from Ernesto to Arturo. The latter threw out one last hair-burning glare, then gave me a curt nod. “There may be someone in transpo who has a cousin in the Creepers.” I fluffed it out a little but declined to give them any specifics.

  When I finished, Ernesto stretched his neck. It gave an audible crack. “Then we should have a final answer very soon.” He stood up.

  It wasn’t a question. It was an order. No answer required. But I nodded anyway, a lame effort to save a little face. I waited for them to move toward the door before standing and following them out. Alex, my guardian angel, was in the reception area. He watched them closely as he escorted them out. When he’d closed the door behind them, he said, “That was intense.”

  “You heard them?”

  He nodded. “I was standing right there.” He pointed to the wall just outside the door to my office. “They’re getting crazier by the minute. If you don’t mind, I’m going to stay on this full time until I have an answer for them. Whoever I land on, you’d better make sure the guy gets protection from the cops before you say anything to the Orozcos. He won’t last twenty-four hours.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I went back to my office and flopped on the couch to catch my breath. I was out of time and out of options. I had only one hope of getting out of this alive.

  I reached for my cell phone.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  It was almost seven thirty by the time Dale got to my apartment. When I’d invited him to dinner last night, we’d agreed on seven o’clock. He was apologetic. “Sorry. The traffic was—”

  I waved him off and stepped back to let him in. “Horrible. I know, there’s no good time to drive anymore. What’re you drinking?”

  “I’ll take a shot of tequila on the rocks if you have it.”

  “As a matter of fact, that’s what I’m having. I’m throwing steaks under the broiler, and I picked up a Caesar salad and mashed potatoes. Sound good?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  I nodded toward the couch in the living room. “Go sit down, I’ll be right there.”

  I’d tuned the television to a music station that played a relaxing blend of soft rock and pop, and now I poured him a triple shot of Patrón Silver with as little ice as I could get away with. I needed him to be in a pliant mood. As I came in with our drinks, I saw that Dale was looking out at the view through the sliding glass doors. It was a clear night, thanks to the wind that’d kicked up again that afternoon, and the stars sparkled like flecks of silver in the night sky.

  I handed Dale his glass, and we clinked and said, “Cheers.” I sat down in the chair across from him and tried to act casual. But judging by the way he was studying me, I could see I wasn’t fooling him. I’d just decided to get down to business and tell him why I’d asked him over when he set down his drink and said, “Did you get a nice thank-you note from the Orozcos?”

  I tried to keep the shock off my face. How the hell had he figured it out? I put on a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

  Dale tilted his head, his eyes still on mine. “Are you really going to make me spell it out? I was hoping you’d show a little faith.”

  Now a sliver of anger pierced my facade. He was the last person who should be talking to me about honesty. “You mean, the way you trusted me with Jenny Knox?”

  Jenny Knox was a prostitute who’d threatened Dale’s teenage daughter, Lisa, nearly two years ago. Dale had snapped and killed her. The murder had gone unsolved until it’d surfaced during his trial. Dale swore he didn’t do it, but Alex found damning evidence that proved otherwise. I’d kept the information to myself to see whether Dale would come to me with the truth. But he’d kept the lie going for quite a while—right up until he’d realized that we had no chance at a relationship if he didn’t come clean.

  Now he was turning the tables on me, letting me know that he was onto me—and demanding that I tell him the truth. I got his point. Fair is fair. I’d demanded honesty from him, and now he wanted the same from me. But I’d never told anyone about my . . . extracurricular activities, and I didn’t like the idea of starting now. I wasn’t worried that he’d bust me. I’d covered my tracks well. I just really didn’t like having my hand forced this way.

  Dale had been watching me carefully. Now he took a page from my book. “Look, Sam, if we’re going to be in each other’s lives . . .”

  My exact words to him after he’d finally confessed to killing Jenny. And now I got the full picture. Dale had surmised this wasn’t just a social call, that I needed his help. The quid pro quo was clear: if I wanted his help, I’d have to give him the whole truth. The problem was, if I pulled this thread, Dale might be able to unspool everything else.

  And even if I found a way to prevent that, once I told him what I’d done, would he still want to be a part of my life? Dale w
as the closest thing to a real parent I’d ever had. Even though I still couldn’t bring myself to think of him as “Dad,” the connection had—surprisingly—come to mean something to me. I hadn’t realized that until just this moment.

  Dale spoke again. “Let me help you with this: I found out Alex was digging into the background of one of the missing deportees.”

  That told me I really had no decision to make. If Dale knew that, then he knew it all. “How?”

  Dale’s tone was ironic. “By accident. I’d called to give Alex some information on that custody bus driver whose cousin belonged to the Southside Creepers, and we got to talking.” Dale swept a hand toward me. “Your turn.”

  I took a deep breath, then exhaled. “That missing deportee was a cousin of the Orozcos—Arminta Juarez. I recognized the name because Ricardo had mentioned her to me during one of our interviews. She’d just disappeared at the time, and the police investigation wasn’t turning up any answers—which gave him yet another reason to hate los puercos. You guys.” Dale nodded. “So when I saw her name on the list of missing deportees, I realized I could buy myself some time with the Orozcos and take care of our Hausch problem in one fell swoop. So I told the Orozcos that Hausch was the one who’d sold her to the MS-13.” I’d expected that would generate enough gratitude to buy me at least another couple of months. And it probably would have if that damn clerk hadn’t opened her mouth.

  Dale didn’t seem particularly surprised. “So who’d you use for security when you met with Hausch? Orozco’s gang? The Grape Street Boyz?” I nodded. Dale looked me in the eye. “You cut me out so you could use the Orozcos to take care of Hausch your way.”