Blood Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 1)

by Marcia Clark

  A police siren that’d been a distant wail was getting louder and louder. I glanced at my watch. Right on time. This was when our Barrios Van Nuys gang neighbors tended to get busy. Michelle looked out the window and shook her head. “Probably not a good time for us to be out walking around. I’ll order pizza.”

  The cops had found whatever they were looking for just a block away, and more were coming. It was getting too noisy to think. I closed my window and went back to work. When the pizza came, we took a break. I decided to keep going until Alex called. But midnight came and went, and I got no call. I went out to Michelle’s desk. “Did Alex text you?”

  “No.”

  I took out my cell and called Alex. The call when straight to his voice mail. It was twelve fifteen. “I don’t like this.”

  “Me neither. Let’s go.”

  I knew that Scott’s place was in an even lousier neighborhood than this one. I put my gun in my briefcase and we headed out.

  But I hadn’t even reached the freeway when my cell phone rang. I gave it to Michelle.

  She looked puzzled, but she took the call for me. “Yes, this is her phone. I answered because she’s driving.” After a pause she said, “I’m Michelle . . . yes, Michelle Fusco.” Another pause. “Oh my God. Yes, we’ll be right there. Thank you.”

  My stomach tightened as I took in Michelle’s stricken look. “What?”

  “Alex is in the hospital. Someone attacked him.”

  Panic filled my brain. “Where is he?”

  “He’s at Saint Vincent Medical Center.”

  I floored it. “What did they tell you? Is he going to be okay?”

  But Michelle didn’t have any other information. At that time of night, we could fly, and I took full advantage of it. We got there in twenty minutes flat. I parked in a doctor’s space, and we ran to the emergency room.

  Alex was in a bed at the far end. His left arm was in a sling, and his head was so heavily bandaged I could barely see his face. His eyes were closed. I looked up at his monitors. His heartbeat was slow but regular. I turned to go find a doctor, but Michelle grabbed my arm.

  She leaned down. “Alex? I didn’t quite hear you.”

  Alex’s eyes were open, but they were just slits, and he whispered through swollen, bloody lips. “Don’t tell. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “I went inside to look for the phone. Someone . . .” He stopped and tried to lick his lips. I grabbed a Kleenex, poured some water on it from a bottle on the table next to his bed, and gently patted his lips. After a few seconds, he said, “He was looking for Scott.”

  I poured some more water on the Kleenex and swabbed his lips again. “The guy who beat you up thought you were Scott?”

  “Yeah. When he saw it was me, he ran.” He closed his eyes, then slowly opened them. “No phone. Sorry.”

  “No. You don’t get to say that word. I do. I’m sorry. I should never have let you go out there alone. I’m so sorry, Alex—”

  A doctor walked up and pulled the curtain around the bed. “Are you Michelle and Samantha?” We nodded. “He’s got a few cracked ribs, a concussion, and his arm is sprained, but it’s not broken. He’ll be out of commission for a little while, but there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.”

  “Did you call his family?” Michelle asked.

  “Yes. His uncle is on the way.”

  I stared at his battered face. “When are you going to release him?”

  “If everything stays stable, probably tomorrow morning. I’d guess by about ten a.m. So if you two plan to take him home, come back then.”

  The doctor left. I sat down next to Alex’s bed. “I’ll take him back to my place—”

  Michelle shook her head. “And then what? You’re in trial. You can’t take care of him. He can stay with me—”

  “How is that any better? You’ve got to be in the office.”

  “I can forward the calls—”

  Our bickering got cut off by the arrival of Alex’s uncle—who made it clear that he’d be taking Alex home with him.

  Tomas Medrano looked like the kind of guy you’d be glad to have on your side. Height clearly ran in the family. He was more than six feet tall. But unlike Alex, he was barrel-chested and had thick, heavy features. Jutting cheekbones; a wide, broken nose; and heavy brows combined to make him look like someone you didn’t want to piss off. His biceps and thick hands said how much it’d hurt if you did.

  And when he said Alex would be staying with him, we didn’t argue.

  FIFTY

  It didn’t take long for rage to crowd out the sadness. Maybe Alex shouldn’t have broken into Scott’s place, but he’d only done it because that dickweed was jerking me around.

  Which made Scott the dumbest tool on the planet. Lesson numero uno if you’re a criminal: when you’re facing state prison, the one person you cannot afford to piss off is your lawyer. It was a lesson Scott was about to learn the hard way.

  The next morning, I made an early stop at Department 125. I told the clerk I needed to put Scott’s case on tomorrow morning’s calendar to handle some “serious discovery issues.”

  That left me with two minutes to get down to Department 106. The elevators were backed up, so I took the stairs and ran all the way. I knew Judge Traynor, AKA the Freight Train, wouldn’t hesitate to chew me out in front of the jury if I was late. I wound up huffing and puffing my way into court with just seconds to spare.

  I was still breathing hard when the bailiff brought out Dale. He looked at me curiously. “You jogging to court now?”

  I answered between breaths. “Just had another appearance up in Department 125. Had to take the stairs.”

  Dale raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should be jogging to court, then. You’re too young to be this strung out by a few flights—downstairs. You don’t smoke, do you?”

  I shot him a dagger. “No. I don’t smoke.” Dale looked relieved. I stared at him. “But I do shoot up. That’s okay, right?”

  Dale sighed and rolled his eyes. The bailiff stood up and announced the judge, and I quickly unpacked my briefcase.

  Zack was putting on his DNA witnesses today to prove that the scrapings under Chloe’s nails and the small blood swipe on her neck had come from Dale. The case was moving fast. Too fast. I needed to slow things down and buy myself some time.

  Zack had warned me that he was going to make a motion to get Jenny Knox’s murder into evidence when he finished his DNA witnesses. If the judge let that in, it was game over for us. And I wasn’t sure Ignacio would be able to sell Dale’s alibi. What Alex had said about him, as well as what Hank had dug up on him, worried me. I had to find more backup for his testimony—or at least make sure there wasn’t something really ugly in his background that’d shred his credibility. And now that Alex was laid up, I had to do my own digging. So I’d prepared some lengthy cross-examination for the DNA witnesses to try and stall the motion for a couple of days.

  But for a change, I got a break. Zack had decided to do a whole dog and pony show, starting with, “What is DNA?”

  By the end of the day, it looked like someone had blown sleeping gas through the air vents. The whole courtroom was fighting to stay awake.

  I could tell the judge wanted to throttle Zack. But I wanted to send him a bottle of Patrón Silver. And that went on until Thursday—when I had my appearance on Scott’s case. I told Judge Traynor I had another appearance Thursday morning, so we’d have to start late. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t say no.

  When I walked into Department 125, I saw that my nemesis, Paul Wesson, was fired up with righteous indignation—which was just what I’d expected. And counted on. The judge called the case of People v. Scott Henderson. “Ms. Brinkman, you put this case on calendar for a motion to suppress. Do we have the defendant?”

  I shook my head and cast a worried look behind me. “No, Your Honor. I called him several times and left messages, but he hasn’t responded. I even had my investigator go to his residence. It
appears he hasn’t been there since his OR release.”

  The pit bull was practically gnashing his teeth. “This is exactly why I opposed his release, Your Honor! I ask that his OR be revoked and that a bench warrant be issued forthwith!”

  The judge raised an eyebrow. “Counsel? Any reason why I shouldn’t make that order?”

  I gave a fake deep sigh. “None that I can think of, Your Honor.”

  He banged his gavel. “OR is revoked; bench warrant to issue forthwith—”

  Paul interrupted. “I’d ask that you make this a no-bail order, Your Honor!”

  The judge looked at me again. “Seems a bit extreme. Counsel?” I shrugged. “I’ll set bail at one million for now. That should be sufficient. The bailiff will notify you when the defendant is picked up.”

  I smiled at Paul. “Have a great day.”

  He frowned at me, confused. I was still smiling as I headed downstairs. The payback wheels were in motion. What a nice way to start the day.

  And another stroke of luck was waiting for me. Zack came over as I was unpacking my briefcase. “I hate to do this to you, but I left out a whole area on contamination. I’m going to ask to reopen direct.”

  I pretended to be annoyed. “How long will it take?”

  “A while. I probably won’t finish until around two or two thirty.”

  Perfect. I shrugged. “It’s not like I have a choice. But thanks for telling me.”

  And as it turned out, his estimate had been light. Zack didn’t finish until the end of the day. Tomorrow was Friday; the court was dark. That gave me three days. It wasn’t nearly enough time, but every extra minute meant another chance for something good to happen.

  At the very least, I figured I’d get my hands on Scott. I’d given the bailiff every single bit of information I had on him. And sure enough, Friday morning at eleven thirty, I got the call. Scott was in custody. They were bringing him to court to reset bail and pick our next court date.

  I gave Michelle the good news. She set her jaw. “What’re you going to do to him? It’d better be horrible.”

  I stared at her. “Seriously? You’re worried I might be too nice to the little peckerwood?”

  Michelle shook her head. “Really, what is wrong with me? I don’t know what I was thinking.” She sighed. “Anyway, make sure you get back by two thirty. Orozco’s coming in.”

  My gangbanger Ricardo’s father. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  I nodded. “Got it.”

  I headed to court with a little over a quarter of a tank of gas. I’d make it there, but I probably wouldn’t make it back. Michelle had forbidden me from using credit cards. But I had no choice. It was either use my gas card or leave Beulah on the street and take the bus home. That potential new computer-fraud client was looking like a better idea by the minute.

  When I got to court, I told the bailiff I needed to see my client.

  “Scott Henderson’s yours?” I nodded. “He’s pretty freaked out.”

  “He giving you guys problems?”

  The bailiff rolled his eyes. “He won’t shut up. He’s bitching and whining like a little tweeny whose mommy won’t let him go to the One Direction concert.”

  I smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.” When Scott saw me, he ran to the front of the cell and gripped the bars. “You’ve got to get me out of here!”

  “Is that right?”

  “Look, I know I fucked up! I meant to get you that phone. But I had to lay low for a while. I’ve got some people—”

  “Who’re after you. You owe them money.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Because thanks to you, my investigator is in the hospital.”

  His eyes got big. “Oh shit. He was staking my place?” I nodded. Scott hung his head. “That’s fucked up.”

  “You’re about to be just that. And I assume whomever you owe has connects in Men’s Central.”

  He swallowed and nodded. “Are you going to dump me?”

  “No.” A surprised smile trembled on his lips. “I’ll be your lawyer until death do us part.” I gave him a cold stare. “Which also happens to be when I’ll announce ‘ready’ for trial. And I think your bail’s going to have to stay at one million. As an officer of the court, I had to tell the truth about how you dodged my calls and never showed up at the address you gave me. So I’d advise you to make some friends. You’re going to be there awhile.”

  The tremulous smile faded as comprehension sank in. “No! Please! You can’t do this to me! I’ll give you the phone, I promise! I can get it to you in one hour—no, less!”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you promise? Well, that’s a different story. I mean, why wouldn’t I trust you? It worked out so well before.” I glared at him but kept my voice low. “Tough shit. You jerked me around and put my investigator in the hospital. See you in court.”

  I called for the bailiff to let me out and left him clutching the bars. Scott could make a motion to have me relieved as counsel. But I was betting he wouldn’t. If he got rid of me, he’d have to roll the dice with a public defender or a court-appointed lawyer—and that’s exactly what he didn’t want. Sure enough, when the judge called the case, Scott never said a word. Other than, “I apologize to the court.”

  I said I thought the June twentieth date we’d set for trial was turning out to be way too optimistic. We reset it for August nineteenth. Scott looked pale and shaky as the bailiff escorted him back into lockup.

  It was one forty-five by the time I got out of court. I headed for my car at a fast trot. I didn’t want to keep Orozco Senior waiting. Especially since Michelle was alone in the office.

  FIFTY-ONE

  On my way back, I thought about what he might want from me. Or want to do to me. I told myself not to be paranoid, that I’d gotten that gangbanging asshole Ricardo a hell of a deal, and that he’d be stupid to shoot me in the office in broad daylight. But his son was a psychopath. There was a distinct possibility the apple hadn’t fallen all that far from the tree. And after the fun time I’d had with Lane Ockman, I decided there was no reason to take any chances.

  When I got to the office, I put my .38 Smith & Wesson in the pocket of my blazer. Michelle raised an eyebrow. “I think if you don’t want to take his case, a simple ‘no’ will do.”

  At that moment, the outer door buzzer sounded. Michelle cast a critical look at my waist. “It totally shows. Just put it in your desk drawer like you always do.”

  Michelle went to get the door. I supposed she was right. I dropped the gun into my drawer. But I left it open.

  A few seconds later, Michelle escorted in an older man whom I assumed was Ernesto, and a younger man who looked a lot like Ricardo—tats and all—but he was thicker in the chest and arms. They were taller than Ricardo; I figured they were both about five foot nine or ten. The older man, who had the head of a buffalo and slightly stooped shoulders, extended a leathery brown hand. “I am Ernesto Orozco, and this is my son, Arturo.”

  I reached out and shook his hand. It felt like a chunk of asphalt—rough, solid, and heavy. “Pleased to meet you, Ernesto.”

  Arturo, who had the same slicked-back hairdo as Ricardo, stretched out a hand that was inked from pinkie to thumb. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  As we shook, I noticed the muscles move under his black T-shirt. He’d taken a bath in cologne for the occasion, and the sweet scent mixed with the smell of hair grease made me queasy. It brought back memories of Ricardo. I gestured for them to take the seats in front of my desk. I was glad to have the advantage of my big lawyer’s chair so I could look down on them. The old man’s eyes were black and flat, like a shark’s—just like Ricardo’s. But Arturo’s eyes were hot, and they glittered with malice. The air felt heavy, like the moments before a thunderstorm, and I could feel the weight of it in my chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I clocked the position of the gun in my open drawer. If I had to grab it, I didn’t want to wind up with a handful of paper clips. I made my face relax and did
my best to sound confident. “What can I do for you?”

  Ernesto’s eyes grew watery. He spoke slowly in a deep, rumbling voice. “We have had a terrible tragedy. My son Ricardo. Someone killed him in prison.”

  My heart gave a dull thud. I pulled on a look of concern and surprise. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. How did it happen? Was it a guard?” I kept my gaze steady.

  Arturo shook his head with a venomous look and bit off his words as though he were tearing through flesh. “A pinchi Southside motherfucker shivved him.”

  Ernesto dabbed at a tear that leaked out of the corner of his eye. “They put Ricardo in with the Southside Creepers.”

  His rival gang. My palms were sweating. I wiped my left hand on my thigh and let it dangle off the arm of my chair, within closer reach of the gun. Barely breathing now, I looked from Ernesto to Arturo. “How did that happen?”

  Ernesto shook his head, his hooded eyes narrowed. “They tell me it was an accident. Someone made a mistake, put his name on the wrong list.”

  Arturo leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and cracked his knuckles. “We don’t believe it. That was no mistake. I think some Southside pendejo got friends in high places.”

  I wanted to swallow, but I couldn’t let them see they were getting to me. I moved my left hand a little closer to the open drawer and kept my expression neutral. “So you think a guard who was on Southside’s payroll did it?” They both nodded. “I assume you want to file a lawsuit. But I’m sorry, I don’t do civil cases.”

  Ernesto stared at me for a moment, then nodded. “We can find another lawyer to sue. But we want to find out how this happened. Who did this. Who killed my son.”

  Arturo’s hands curled into fists. “And who put him with those Southside putas.”

  I must have looked alarmed, because Ernesto patted Arturo’s arm heavily. “Don’t worry about him. He gets a little hotheaded sometimes. We just need to know for our own peace of mind. We don’t mean no harm.”

  The hell they didn’t. They wanted revenge, and they wouldn’t be picky about how they got it. They weren’t going to buy that it was just a computer glitch or a typo. They wanted names. And if they didn’t like my answers, they’d take me out, too. Having anything to do with these two animals was a bad—possibly fatally bad—idea. But I had no choice. I had to take the case. “I understand. But you know I’m not an investigator.”