by Marcia Clark
I sat back down and spoke to Michelle. “So who was that?”
“Your next client. His mother said she’d come in with the retainer as soon as you sign on.”
It was our second new case this week. The fame train was starting to pay off. I got up and threw my coffee cup into the trash. The Twin Towers jail was just across the street. “Tell her I’m on my way.”
The guards only gave me an hour with my new client, Jason Stambler. I didn’t want to get into the case with him until I saw the police reports, so I introduced myself, gave him the standard warning about not talking to anyone, no matter how “friendly” they seemed, and told him what to expect during the next few days.
By the time I got back to the office, it was almost three o’clock.
Michelle was just getting off the phone when I walked in. I pointed to the leopard-print Scünci she was wearing and made a growling noise. “You’re really gonna drive the boys wild today, babe.”
She shot me a dagger. “It keeps the hair out of my eyes, smartass.” She nodded at the phone. “That was Arturo Orozco, wanting to know what you’ve come up with.”
My heart gave a painful thud. I’d known those guys were going to be trouble, but I hadn’t expected it to start this soon. I had to find a way to calm them down, buy myself time to figure out what to do with them.
Michelle broke into my thoughts. She peered at me with a worried expression. “Sam? What’s going on?”
I made my face go blank. “Nothing. I just haven’t had time to get much done for them yet.” I rolled my eyes. “I mean, between the fire, the break-in at my apartment, and such, we’ve been a little busy.”
Michelle shook her head. “Don’t dust me off, Sam. I know you too well. It’s more than that.” Her mouth set in a firm line. “So what gives?” Her expression softened. “Come on. Let me help.”
I shook my head as I took in the scar on her forehead and thought about the asshole who’d given it to her. She’d picked him out at the lineup, was 100 percent sure. But the cop had let her see the guy in handcuffs beforehand, and he was the only one in the lineup with a goatee. Michelle said none of that mattered; she knew it was him. But the judge threw out her identification anyway, and that was the end of the case. For them. Not for Michelle.
The day after the case was dismissed, the letters and phone calls started. Ugly death threats, describing how he’d maim her, burn her alive, throw acid in her face. She went to the police, told them she knew who was doing it—and the cops were sympathetic. They were sure she was right, but she had no proof. Their hands were tied.
Michelle wasn’t eating, she wasn’t sleeping, and within two weeks, she’d dropped ten pounds—weight she didn’t need to lose. My best friend was about to go over the edge. I had to do something. I got the dickweed’s address from Michelle’s copy of the police report and staked out his place, a skuzzy studio apartment in Koreatown.
It took two weeks, but I finally found my chance when he left his place late one night. After having watched him for the past two weeks, I knew his habits, knew he was headed to the local liquor store. And I knew the route he’d take. I still remember the feel of the gas pedal under my foot, the roar of the engine as the car leaped forward, the look on his face as he saw me bearing down on him. When he rolled off the hood, I backed up and ran over him two more times, just to make sure.
But what I remember most of all is the feeling of power. I did this. I made things right. It was a liberating, intoxicating feeling, a high like no other. I didn’t know it then, but I was hooked.
I took in Michelle’s worried expression and wished I could tell her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell her about any of them. I couldn’t put that burden on her. And though I didn’t think she would, I couldn’t take the risk she’d turn me in.
I’d find a way to handle the Orozcos. It helped that they’d asked me to investigate Ricardo’s death. I’d just have to make sure no one remembered that I’d been hovering over the custody list when we took his plea. And I needed to start thinking about a fall guy. Someone else I could pin the blame on. I forced a bright smile. “No worries, Michy. I got this.”
Michelle gazed at me. I could see she knew I was holding out. She sighed. “Okay. But if you change your mind . . . I’m here for you.”
My smile relaxed. “Yeah, me, too.”
In more ways than she’d ever know.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, my undying gratitude goes to Catherine LePard. Without her support, I would never have had the courage to reach for the childhood dream of writing novels.
Thank you, Dan Conaway, agent extraordinaire. You’re the best in the business.
I totally lucked out to get the most amazing editor on the planet. Charlotte Hersher, my gratitude is boundless. It’s been a joy working with you.
Thank you to JoVon Sotak and Alan Turkus for believing in Samantha. It’s been a real pleasure working with you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2010 Claudia Kunin
California native Marcia Clark is the author of Guilt by Association, Guilt by Degrees, Killer Ambition, and The Competition, all part of the Rachel Knight series. A practicing criminal lawyer since 1979, she joined the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office in 1981, where she served as prosecutor for the trials of Robert Bardo, convicted of killing actress Rebecca Schaeffer, and, most notably, O. J. Simpson. The bestselling Without a Doubt, which she cowrote, chronicles her work on the Simpson trial. Clark has been a frequent commentator on a variety of shows and networks, including Today, Good Morning America, The Oprah Winfrey Show, CNN, and MSNBC, as well as a legal correspondent for Entertainment Tonight.