Blood Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 1)

by Marcia Clark

  It didn’t mean Ignacio was lying. But it might mean there were more problems in his past than Hank could find just by snooping around. I’d have to think long and hard about whether I wanted to use him. “Were you able to get any reports on Marc Palmer?”

  Hank tapped the file folder. “They’re all in there. I didn’t read it line for line, but I saw that the coroner called it an ‘inconclusive.’ He was a friend of Paige’s?” I nodded. “I don’t know what you’ll do with it, but it is interesting.”

  I didn’t know what I’d do with it, either. So far, it looked like nothing. “What about Scott Henderson?”

  Hank raised an eyebrow. “How’d you wind up with this guy? He looks like public-defender material to me.”

  “He might be doing me a favor. I need to make sure the favor is worth my time.”

  Hank paused for a beat, but when I didn’t elaborate, she continued. “He’s got two DUIs, one receiving stolen property that wound up getting dismissed for insufficient evidence, and one possession for sale of weed that got busted down to straight possession.”

  “Was he on probation when he got that last bust?” If he was, he’d probably do time on the probation violation no matter what kind of deal I made.

  Hank pulled out the rap sheet and studied it. “No. Matter of fact, he completed probation a year ago.” She looked up. “Not bad.”

  Scott’s rendition of his criminal history had been semi-accurate. Shocking.

  Hank’s phone rang. She looked at the screen. “Sorry, got to take this.”

  I gestured for her to go ahead and went out to the anteroom to give her privacy. She came out a minute later. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Thank you, Hank. I really appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure.” Hank headed for the door, then paused. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. That check I wrote for Naille’s defense . . . it hasn’t cleared yet. You lose it or something?”

  I shrugged. “Might’ve accidentally shredded it.”

  Hank shook her head, then gave me a smile. “Thanks.”

  I waved her off. She left and I got back to work. At six thirty, the intercom buzzed, and a voice that sounded like a high school girl’s said, “Scott sent me.”

  I got my gun and hurried out to Michelle. I whispered, “I’ll be right inside my office. Pick up your phone and dial 9-1. If anything looks funny, hit the other 1 and leave the line open. I’ll come out and hold them off.”

  Michelle nodded. I stood against the wall in my office and held my gun next to my chest with both hands. I heard her hit the buzzer. The door opened. A skinny, long-haired boy who looked about seventeen and a girl who looked to be maybe twenty walked in. They both bore a stunning resemblance to Scott. I checked their hands for weapons. I didn’t see any, but the girl had her right hand in the pocket of her hoodie.

  I came out with my gun behind my back just as Alex came out of his office. The two backed up and gave us wary looks. The boy spoke first. “Scott said to just show you the phone. He said you couldn’t have it yet.”

  I looked at the girl’s right hand and lowered the gun to my side. “Let’s see that hand. Slowly.”

  Her eyes got as wide as silver dollars when she saw my gun. She slowly pulled out her hand. Which was holding the cell phone. Alex and I moved forward. She took a step back. “D-don’t try anything.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We’re not trying anything. How can we tell if that’s the phone if you don’t let us see it?”

  It was a flip phone. She opened it, punched a couple of keys, and held it up so we could see the screen. It showed Chloe and Paige, their arms around each other, in glittery party hats that said HAPPY NEW YEAR! The girl lowered the phone, tapped another key, and held it up again. It showed Chloe lying on the couch, a script in her lap, her palm held out at the camera in a “Stop” sign. I recognized the couch as the one that’d been in their apartment.

  Screw these bullshit games. I should just take the damn thing. I had a gun and they didn’t. I took a step toward them, but the girl dropped the phone into her pocket, backed up to the door, and opened it. She was about to bolt. I couldn’t shoot her, and I didn’t want to get caught chasing her down the hall trying to tackle her. “Fine. But tell your brother if that phone isn’t on my desk the minute I substitute in, I’ll dump his case and tell the DA he did the burglary.”

  They nodded and ran out the door. I noticed they didn’t deny being Scott’s siblings. I went back to my office and put my gun away.

  Alex followed me into my office. “That was a flip phone.”

  “Yeah. I would’ve thought she’d have something newer.”

  “Not if it’s a burner.”

  I stared at Alex. A burner is what you get when you want privacy, when you don’t want cell-phone records that show who owns the phone. You know, in case someone’s wife decides to check his cell-phone bill.

  FORTY-FIVE

  It took Michelle two days to get Scott’s case on calendar. I made sure to be in court early so I could work out a deal with the DA. I was anxious to get this over with. Dale’s trial was starting tomorrow, and I wanted to spend the day getting ready.

  But the courtroom was packed and Walt Carbahal, the senior prosecutor, had a line of lawyers waiting to talk to him. I sat down in the jury box and pulled out the police reports on Scott’s case. There wasn’t much to barter with. The traffic stop looked clean, the K-9 search was okay, and the cop read Scott his rights. The only thing I had in my favor was that a jury might think it was a waste of their time.

  A young guy with military-short hair, wearing a navy-blue suit that looked like it’d been his big brother’s, called out, “People v. Scott Henderson.”

  I held up my hand. “Over here.”

  He came over in quick, officious strides, a case file under his arm. “I’m Paul Wesson. I’ll be handling this case for the prosecution. I understand you’re substituting in?”

  Oh God, help me. A newbie. I should’ve said no and gotten the hell out of there. But I didn’t. I stupidly ignored my better instincts and introduced myself. “Shall we talk dispo? It’s only five grams and he doesn’t have a bad rec—”

  “I’m not interested in making any deals. Mr. Henderson has already had the benefit of too many deals. Unless he wants to plead to the sheet, we’ll have to set this case for trial.”

  I stared at him. “Seriously? Are you an intern or something?”

  Paul reddened. “No. I’m a deputy district attorney, Grade One.”

  Even worse. A baby DA who wanted to prove how tough he was. “Look, Paul. I know you want to make a good impression. Good for you. But no one’s going to thank you for taking up court time on a piddly case like this.”

  He straightened his tie. “I don’t consider a felony quantity of cocaine to be a piddly case. That’s how the drug trade proliferates, by us not taking these cases seriously enough—”

  “Then you’re going to have a long wait on your hands, because I’m starting trial on the Pearson case tomorrow.”

  Paul started to say something, but the judge called for the bailiff to bring out the custodies. After a case is sent out to a trial court, the only place to put inmates is in the jury box. So I got up and moved out to join the throng on the defense side of the courtroom.

  Scott smiled when he saw me, and I went over to give him the bad news. “We got stuck with a newbie DA who’s hot to go to trial.”

  He swallowed hard. “He won’t give me a deal? He has to! I can’t do time! I’ll die in there!”

  I was skeptical. “What, are you claustrophobic or something? ’Cause you’re certainly not big-time enough to have that kind of enemy.”

  Scott looked frantic. “I can’t be in there—”

  The judge called out, “People v. Scott Henderson. I understand Mr. Henderson has retained private counsel?”

  I moved back to counsel table thinking I could still bail on this case. But then I’d never know what was on that damn phone. “Yes, Your Honor
. Samantha Brinkman appearing for Scott Henderson.”

  Paul Wesson stood up. “Your Honor, I oppose this substitution. Ms. Brinkman just told me she won’t be able to take this case to trial for months. She’s on the Pearson case and—”

  The judge gave him a weary look. “Yes, Mr. Wesson. We all know what case she’s on. Don’t worry, I strongly suspect we’ll find something else to do in the meantime.” The judge gave me an imploring look. “Can’t we dispo this case? It’s five grams of cocaine.”

  “I tried, Your Honor. But Mr. Wesson seems adamant about taking this case to trial.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Walt watching us. When I glanced at him, I saw he had a mischievous grin. The evil douche had deliberately sicced his gonzo geek on me.

  The judge threw a glance at Walt and shook his head. “Ms. Brinkman, give us a time estimate on the Pearson case. A month? Two months? A year?”

  “I think three months should do it. So, June twentieth?” The clerk gave the thumbs up, and the judge okayed it. “And I’m asking that my client be released on his own recognizance. He’s got ties to the community, no history of violent crime—”

  Wesson jumped to his feet. “I object! He’s a drug dealer; that’s a major danger to the community, and—”

  The judge looked over his glasses at the prosecutor. “Mr. Wesson, we don’t even have enough beds to house people charged with murder. I think society will manage to survive if I release a low-rent drug dealer.” The judge looked at me. “I’m assuming he can’t make bail.” I shook my head. The judge banged his gavel. “Defendant will be released on his own recognizance. Next case.”

  Paul Wesson fumed and marched out of court. I went over to Walt, who was doing a bad job of suppressing a grin. “I’m so going to make you pay for this.”

  “Come on, it’s kind of funny.”

  “Yeah, and I’m laughing. Way deep down inside. Call off your boy wonder, Walt. I want straight possession for time served.”

  “Sorry, Brinkman. No can do. The boss says it’s a ‘must go.’” He chuckled.

  I glared at him and headed for the lockup. But one of us was happy. Scott was beaming. “Thanks for getting me out, Ms. Brinkman. You’re saving my life.”

  “That phone’s in my office within the hour. Got it?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll make the call as soon as I get back to Bauchet Street. You’re the best, man. I mean it.”

  I remembered a question I’d had. I glanced around to make sure no one was listening and spoke in a low voice. “What made you choose Paige’s apartment?”

  Scott stared at me for a moment, then licked his lips. “I . . . uh, I knew Chloe lived there and I figured she’d have good shit, ’cause she was, like, famous.” He snorted back some nasty-sounding phlegm. I leaned away.

  The bailiff called out, “Wrap it up; we’re moving ’em out.”

  I talked fast. “Listen, I’ll be setting pretrial dates so I can keep pressuring the DA to give you a deal. You’d better show up. I mean it; don’t be messing around. Be there and be on time. That guy wants your head on a spike. If you play it smart, I may be able to talk him down.” Truthfully, I didn’t like my chances. I just wanted to make sure Scott had plenty of incentive to behave.

  “You got it.” Scott gave another of his honking snorts.

  It made me wince. “That’s gotta hurt. You ever talk to a doctor about that?”

  “About what?”

  “Never mind.”

  I headed back to the office and told Michelle about my ordeal. “If Walt doesn’t make that little doofus back off, I might have to cut him.”

  “I’ll hold him down for you.” She shook her head. “That phone better be worth it.”

  I pictured Paul Wesson’s fierce glare. “I don’t know how it could be.”

  I went back to work, going over my questions for the jury and my opening statement. I kept looking at the clock, wondering where Scott’s minions were. When they still hadn’t shown up at six o’clock, I stomped out and fumed to Michelle. “He’s got to be home by now. Maybe I should go out there and remind him that I can get off his case as fast as I got on it.”

  “I wouldn’t get all twisted up about it yet. Scott’s a flake, and now that he’s out of jail, he’s in no hurry.”

  “Guess getting him out on OR wasn’t my smartest move.”

  “Probably not. But he still needs you. He’ll come through. Go home, have a drink, get some rest.”

  I started to head back into my office to take her advice, then paused. I hadn’t told her or Alex about my last visit with Dale and how he’d gone ballistic. But if I did, I’d have to explain what’d caused it, and that would mean telling them about Sebastian Cromer. I’d never told anyone about him before Dale. Not even Michelle.

  Back when we were kids and I was in the middle of the nightmare, I’d told her things were bad and that I hated Sebastian, but I was ashamed, so I’d never come right out and said what was happening. I’d blamed myself, figured it had to be my fault—that there was something wrong with me. And Celeste only reinforced that belief. I eventually got over that, but I never wanted to even think about it, let alone talk about it. So I’d never told Michelle the whole story.

  For some reason, I wanted to now. “You have plans tonight?”

  “Big ones. Wash my hair, rewatch some Mad Men episodes, do laundry. My life is very full.”

  “Mind if I tell you something? I mean ancient history, childhood stuff.”

  She gave me a curious look and sat down in front of my desk. “What’s up?”

  “Remember when we were in eighth grade and I was always in trouble?”

  “How could I forget? You made me hide your stash of Jack Daniel’s in my locker for a week. I was so paranoid I couldn’t sleep the entire time.”

  “You drank some of it.”

  She laughed. “Hey, I needed to calm down.”

  “I guess you were entitled.” I smiled briefly. “Anyway, I thought I should tell you why I was such a . . . mess.” I told her about Sebastian, about my mother, about all of it. When I finished, Michelle had tears in her eyes.

  “I knew something was going on at home, but jeez, Sam.” She shook her head. “I had no idea it was that bad.” Michelle sighed. “Though, now that I think back on it, it all fits. Why didn’t you tell me? My folks would’ve taken you in.”

  “Celeste would never have let me do that. It’d make her look bad.”

  Michelle had a disgusted look. “You’re right. It’s always all about her. You know, I used to get the feeling she was jealous of you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It was just a feeling I got whenever she was around. And now I know I was right—and I know why. She didn’t snag Sebastian. You did. He didn’t want her. He wanted you. With her ego, I bet that really chapped her ass.”

  “That’s so gross I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Anyway, I don’t think she’s jealous anymore. She’s gotten a little more human—or at least better at imitating one—since she married Jack.”

  “Yeah, he’s a good guy.” Which was just a fluke. Celeste had gone looking for money and accidentally fell on a guy who happened to be decent. “Anyway, I told Dale about it.”

  Michelle’s eyes got wide.

  “He lost it completely.” I told her about his meltdown.

  She sank down in her chair and shook her head, her expression sad. “It’s so strange. He’s the perfect dad in so many ways. And if he’d been around, he would’ve shut Sebastian down in a heartbeat. But then there’s this other side.”

  I nodded. “Jekyll and Hyde was a true story, after all.”

  FORTY-SIX

  We packed up and I went home. I made myself go to bed at eleven, but I was so keyed up I didn’t manage to fall asleep until one a.m. Good news: I didn’t have the dream. Bad news: I only got about five hours of sleep.

  But I still woke up wired. I always do when I’m in trial. It doesn’t matter how late I stay up or ho
w much I drink. I pop out of bed like someone zapped me with a Taser.

  I tanked up on coffee anyway. The adrenaline wouldn’t last all day, and I needed to be sharp. I was about to start the hardest part of the case: picking the jury. It’s an old saying that you win or lose your case during jury selection. But for a change, that old saying is absolutely true. And I think of it as a game of trying to catch the liars. Not necessarily deliberate liars. Most people who say they won’t hold it against your client for being a gangbanger or a drug addict—or a cop—really mean it. They’re wrong, but they’re not lying.

  Others really are just flat-out lying. Either because they want to get off the jury or because they want to get on.

  In a case like this one, there’d be a lot more of the latter. Some because they hope to sell their story later; others because they want a front-row seat to the biggest show in town.

  Don’t get me wrong, the fact that some people want to be on a jury doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad news. But I have to dig a little harder to figure out how they really feel about my client, because they’re more likely to lie about it.

  I put on my only good suit, which was starting to show signs of serious wear and tear around the seat and elbows. But it was my good-luck charm, my confidence armor. I was just finishing my usual bowl of oatmeal when Xander called to tell me he was downstairs. A jolt of adrenaline made my stomach lurch. I dumped out the bowl, grabbed my briefcase, and headed out, heart pounding, brain running two hundred miles an hour. This was it.

  I slid into the backseat.

  Xander smiled into the rearview mirror as he pulled away. “Big day! You nervous? I sure would be.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  I always had first-day-of-trial jitters. But they’d be gone once we got down to business.

  My cell phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out and saw that the caller ID said BLOCKED. I knew who that was. I let it go to voice mail. When I checked the message, I found out I was right. It was Celeste. I clicked off and deleted the message the moment I heard her say, “Samantha.” I didn’t need this right now—or ever. I could tell by her tone that this message would be like all the rest. This was the fourth time she’d called me since I told her not to call me anymore, and her messages were always the same: she ordered me to call her back “immediately,” said I was a “thoughtless ingrate” who didn’t appreciate all she’d “sacrificed” for me, and accused me of being a “disappointment and a spiteful, terrible daughter.”