Snap Judgment (Samantha Brinkman Book 3)

by Marcia Clark

  Alex sighed and nodded. “Which they might have because so far, nothing.”

  I told him to carry on and not worry about it. Ultimately, I knew we’d have to try and find people on Roan’s side of the fence who were willing to talk to us about him. His mother was obviously out of reach. I’d bet his father was, too. But I might get some cooperation from his brothers. Siblings can be one another’s best friend—or worst enemy. “When do you plan to leave?” I looked at the digital clock on my desk. It was six already.

  Alex looked at his watch. “How did it get that late? I’m outta here.”

  He left, and just to make Michelle happy, I got to work on my time sheets. I’d barely made a dent in them when she came in to tell me she was heading home, coat on and scarf wrapped around her neck. “It’s almost seven thirty. Go home. Whatever you’re working on can wait, I’m sure.”

  I sat back. “I’m working on my time sheets.”

  Her look of concern turned off faster than a guy listening to his girlfriend talk about her exes. “Stay as long as you like. Got a blanket? You can crash on the couch. I put toothpaste and a toothbrush in your desk drawer.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re all heart.”

  She softened—but didn’t let me off the hook. “Seriously, want me to order you a pizza?”

  Remembering how that offer worked out the last time, I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  Michelle left, and I put my head down and kept grinding. I must’ve nodded off at my desk, because when I heard the outer office door open, my head was laying on the last of my files, and there was a little spot of drool on the time sheet. I jerked up, my heart pounding.

  But it was just Alex. He called out, “Sam? You still here?”

  I rubbed my face and tried to wake up. “Yeah. What’re you doing here?”

  He came into my office and sat down on the couch. “You told me to report back. And Michelle called me and said you’d be working late.” He gave me a little smile. “You been sleeping?”

  I wanted to deny it, but honestly, it was a waste of time. “Yeah. Damn time sheets. What’d you get?”

  Alex leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. “Nothing. Nada. Zip. Roan’s hard drive wasn’t totally wiped clean. Like I said, that’s really hard to do. So I did find the photos on it. But there’s no evidence he posted them from that computer. In fact, there’s no evidence he sent them anywhere at all.”

  This had the beginnings of a nicely confusing, jury-tantalizing distraction. “So are you saying Roan didn’t post the photos?”

  Alex gave an impatient sigh. “No. I’m saying he didn’t post them from his computer. He could easily have posted them from his phone. But his phone truly is wiped clean, and he didn’t have an iCloud account.”

  Not as good as I’d hoped, but not horrible. “Then Roan could’ve posted the photos, but so could someone else if they’d hacked Alicia’s phone—or Roan’s for that matter, right?”

  Alex shrugged. “Yeah. I did confirm that Alicia sent them to his phone, so he did have them on there at some point.” He slapped his knees. “Okay, ready to hit it?”

  I was.

  But by the time I got home, I was wide-awake. My little nap had screwed up my rhythm. I took a hot shower, poured myself a drink, and put my feet up on the coffee table. I turned on the TV and was flipping through the channels and looking for something to watch when the eleven o’clock news came on.

  A young reporter with hair so perfect he looked like a Ken doll was standing in front of a bar. “ . . . and this was where our reporter, Jack Chen, just happened to be when Audrey Sutton and her friend left the bar. Ms. Sutton was very inebriated, and when Jack took out his phone and snapped a photo, she became irate and knocked the phone from his hand. A—I don’t want to say a fight, exactly—but an altercation ensued, and the police were called.”

  The anchor asked, “Is Jack going to press charges?”

  The reporter gave a half smile. “No, he said he wasn’t really hurt, and his phone is still working, so . . .” The reporter shrugged. “That seems to be the end of it.”

  Not if I had anything to say about it.

  SEVENTEEN

  It was after one a.m. by the time I got into bed. Not good. I had an eight thirty appearance in Van Nuys the next morning. That meant I had to be up by six and out the door by seven a.m. I tossed and turned for at least an hour before finally falling asleep. Six a.m. came way too soon. I smacked my phone to stop the alarm, stumbled out of bed, and slogged into the shower. Although I pounded three travel mugs of coffee before I left, I was still feeling fuzzy and slow, and I headed to my car like a bird dragging its feathers. As I headed over Laurel Canyon, I tuned in to a political podcast I knew I could count on to piss me off and jack my brain into gear.

  Today was the status conference on my vehicular manslaughter case, and I was hoping to talk the prosecutor into reducing it to a DUI with injury. But the prosecutor, Art Sawgus, was tough on plea bargains, so I really needed to be on top of my game.

  I made it to the courtroom just as the bailiff was unlocking the door. Excellent timing that I hoped was a good omen. A flood of lawyers and their clients and families rolled in behind me, but Art was a no-show. An older guy, who didn’t even bother to tell me his name, was standing in for him. He said he couldn’t deal out Art’s cases, but I made my pitch anyway. Maybe this guy would be a weaker link. It was worth a shot.

  I pointed out all the weaknesses in his case—among them the fact that my guy, who had no record, would make a sympathetic witness on the stand—and finished with the ultimate threat. “The case is very losable for the prosecution, and I’m sure Art knows that. So it’s a fair bet he’ll hand this dog off to someone else. And that someone just might be you. I’m offering you a chance to make sure it isn’t.”

  Divide and conquer. Pit the deputy DAs against each other by framing one up as the dumper and the other as the dumpee. It was one of my favorite strategies. I gave him my confident but nonchalant smile and waited to see if it would work.

  Behind him, I saw that the sheriff’s deputy was leading the custodies into the courtroom. My client, Jonathan Keller, looked like the classic new kid who always got knocked around by the class bully—wire-frame glasses and all. I nodded to him. As he nodded back, I told the prosecutor to take a look at him. “Think the jury’s going to have a hard time believing him when he swears he wasn’t high, and it was too dark for anyone to see your victim—who, by the way, was high and darted into traffic?”

  For a change, I wasn’t exaggerating. I’d gone out to the intersection in question and seen for myself how dark it was at night. But the cops had written my guy up as being stoned out of his mind, and if the jury bought that, they’d nail him for gross negligence manslaughter. The judge would probably max him out and give him ten years. I didn’t think my guy would survive a stint that long.

  The prosecutor turned around and glanced at Jonathan, who was looking particularly frail and vulnerable between two beefy, tatted-out gangbangers.

  He turned back to me and was about to answer when the judge took the bench. All I could do now was hope I’d planted the fear of failure deeply enough to scare him into a deal.

  As I moved over to my side of the courtroom, the judge called our case. “People versus Keller. I see it’s on for a status conference.” The judge looked from the prosecutor to me. “Counsel, what’s your pleasure? Are we setting it for trial or can we all get along and plead this case out?”

  I tried to look casual as I held my breath and waited for the prosecutor to answer. He was staring down at his file and frowning. He was thinking. That was good. He threw a quick glance at Jonathan again, then cleared his throat. “I believe we have a deal. We’ll let Mr. Keller plead guilty to a DUI with injury.” The prosecutor turned to face me as he continued. “But it’ll have to be an open plea. No promises on the sentence.”

  That could mean as much as a three-year sentence. But I had a good fe
eling about this judge. I’d already talked to my client about this possibility, but I made eye contact with him now just to make sure he was still on board. He nodded to me. I faced the judge. “That’s acceptable. But I’m putting the DA on notice that I will be calling witnesses at the sentencing hearing.” I planned to pull on every heartstring I could find to get the minimum ninety-day sentence. I’d call Jonathan’s ailing mother, his autistic brother, his girlfriend. Hell, I’d even bring in pictures of his dog, Max, and hire an actor to pose as Jonathan’s veterinarian so he could speak movingly of the love Jonathan had showered on Max—a lovable beagle who would surely die of a broken heart if Jonathan were gone too long.

  We took the plea, and I went over to Jonathan and quietly gave him a thumbs-up. “I’ll tell your peeps.”

  He had tears in his eyes. “Thank you, Ms. Brinkman.”

  I stared at him and whispered, “Do not . . . do that.” His buddies on either side were looking jealous, and if they saw him cry, it’d be the perfect excuse to beat the crap out of him for acting like a pussy.

  He nodded and blinked hard. “See you.”

  I headed back to the office, feeling victorious and praying Jonathan could stay out of harm’s way. With a little luck, I might get the judge to let him serve the rest of his sentence at a small, local jail where he wouldn’t have to navigate bangers, murderers, and rapists.

  And Michelle was smiling when I got in, a sign there was more good news. She got up and motioned for me to follow her into my office. “I caught this online first, and then I saw that Sheri was going to run with it. They’re promo-ing the heck out of it.”

  I’d called Sheri, the host of Crime Time, to offer a suggestion for her show—and a quote she could use if she did the story. “Then it worked?”

  “To be fair, she might’ve done it even if you hadn’t called her. I didn’t get the whole thing, but I think I got most of it.” Michelle picked up the remote and turned on my TV.

  A young Asian man was sitting across from Sheri. The chyron said his name was Jack Chen.

  Jack said, “According to Audrey Sutton’s estranged husband, that’s why they got divorced. The court refused to give him sole custody, but the kids wound up bouncing between their houses because she kept falling off the wagon.”

  The image froze, and Michelle clicked the remote to turn off the TV. I smiled. “So the show’s airing tonight?”

  Michelle nodded. “I’ve set it to record. You really think it’ll help?”

  “Hell yeah.” Not only would it take some of the heat off Graham, it would also—hopefully—dent Audrey’s credibility. Plus, an unstable home life made it more likely that Roan would have the kind of emotional problems that might lead to suicide. “I need to try and talk to that father—and Roan’s brothers. Is Alex in?”

  Michelle rolled her eyes. “He’s been working nonstop to find the owner of that porn website. And bitching up a storm because apparently, the guy’s much better at hiding than most of the other website owners. Feel free to ask him all about it.”

  I hoped that wasn’t all he was working on. I went to his office and knocked on the door. “It’s the NSA. We want to know what you’re doing with that unicorn costume.”

  Alex opened the door and gave me a tired look. “Really? Must you?”

  “Clearly, the answer is yes.” I asked whether he’d seen the footage about Roan’s father.

  “Yeah. I don’t know whether that means he’ll talk to us, though.”

  I didn’t, either, but it was worth a try. “Have you located him? Or any of Roan’s family?”

  He tsked with annoyance. “Of course. Ages ago. You ready to hit them up?”

  “I think so. Where are they?”

  Alex went back to his desk and picked up his iPad. “The oldest brother, Scott, lives in Venice. He’s a music producer.”

  “Does he work there, too?” Venice was very doable, and it’d be nice to get out to the beach—even if it was cold as hell this time of year.

  Alex looked down at his iPad. “Yes. The second brother lives in the Bay area, and the father lives in Tucson.”

  They’d be more of a hassle. But it was just a one-hour plane ride to either locale, and Graham would foot the bill. “Let’s see what we get out of Scott. We can hold off on the others for now.”

  Alex took his jacket off the back of his chair. “I assume we’re going now?”

  I nodded. “I’m hoping Scott saw the promo for the piece about his dad.”

  Alex asked, “Because it might loosen him up?”

  “Exactly.” We went out to Michy’s desk, and I told her where we were going. “I don’t know how long this’ll take.”

  “No problem. I’ll lock up around six-ish. Call me if you get anything delicious.”

  The odds of that were very slim, but I promised I would, and we headed out into the hazy winter day to go find a dead boy’s brother.

  EIGHTEEN

  This time, I drove. Venice—a beach town that used to be fairly down-market, especially when Jim Morrison lived there—had gentrified over the years. Now, even the tiny, cottage-style houses cost a fortune. And the ones on the canal? Forget it. You’re talking about high seven figures.

  But there are neighborhoods that aren’t so great. And there are gangs. Scott’s music studio was between the great and not-so-great areas, a dicey proposition, and Alex wasn’t keen on putting his ride in jeopardy again. So Beulah was the perfect solution. Because no one in his right mind would steal her.

  I could smell the ocean for miles before we got to Venice, and when I turned left onto Ocean Boulevard, the sea came into view. It was a blustery day, and the water was choppy, but the wind had blown away the haze, and the waves sparkled like topaz under the bright sun.

  Alex used his phone to navigate, and we wound up at the east edge of Venice on a seedy street in front of a trashed-out warehouse. “Seriously? This is it?” I’d hoped we could at least see the ocean from Scott’s studio. Crazy dreamer that I am.

  “This is the place.” Alex opened the passenger door and wrinkled his nose. “Try not to breathe. It’s Urine City out here.”

  Even with the warning, the smell hit me like a fist when I got out. I covered my nose and mouth with my wool scarf and followed Alex, who was speed walking toward a grease-covered metal door to our right. We’d tossed around some ideas for cover stories, but in the end, it seemed best to just tell the truth. If I did wind up needing Scott’s testimony, it’d only piss him off to find out I’d lied to him. And a pissed-off witness is generally a very unhelpful witness.

  Alex pulled the handle on the metal door, but it didn’t budge, so he knocked. It made a hollow clang. A few seconds later, a voice crackled through an ancient-looking speaker in the wall next to the door. “Who’s there?” I announced Alex and myself and said we were there to talk to Scott. I waited to hear the voice again, but instead, there was a loud buzzing sound. Alex pulled on the door again. This time, it opened.

  We walked into a narrow, dark corridor with a cement floor. When we got to the end of the hall, a door opened on our right, and a young woman in overalls wearing Snoop Dogg braids that started high up on the sides of her head and draped her face like—well, like dog ears, stepped out and eyed us suspiciously. “What do you want with Scott?”

  I noticed her eyes lingered a bit longer on Alex as she spoke. So did Alex. We had our game down to a science now. I let Alex do the talking. To my relief, the smell had faded to a mere noxious echo.

  Alex flashed her a warm—but not too warm—smile. “I promise this won’t take much time. We just need to ask him a few questions about Roan.” She hesitated, and Alex shifted into second gear. He held out his hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  She just barely touched his fingers before withdrawing her hand. “I’m Zandra.”

  Alex gave her hand a slight squeeze along with a wider smile. “Zandra, what a cool name. I’m Alex.” He gestured to me. “And this is Sam.”
<
br />   She didn’t extend her hand to me, so I gave her a little wave. “Hi.”

  Zandra glanced in my direction, then looked back at Alex. “Let me see if he’ll—”

  At that moment, a tall, muscular man with curly dark hair and a long, scraggly beard and mustache came out. It was Scott, no doubt about it. I could see the resemblance to Roan in his strong jaw and high cheekbones, but Scott definitely wasn’t the looker his brother had been. He was dressed in a pullover hoodie, jeans, and . . . sandals. Damn, sandals again. He looked from Alex to me. The flicker in his eyes when he looked my way said it was my turn to take the hit for the team. I put out my hand. “Hi, I’m Sam.” As he shook my hand, I introduced Alex and told him why we were there.

  Scott put his hands into the front pouch of his sweatshirt and leaned back against the doorway as he studied me. “You reporters?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m a lawyer, and he’s my investigator.” I tilted my head toward Alex.

  Scott didn’t seem entirely sold on the idea of talking to us. “What do you want to know?”

  If I asked a gentle, open-ended question like, What was Roan like as a kid? he might decide this was going to be too much trouble and shut me down. I needed to make him feel like he had to answer, and the only way to do that was to provoke him. “Did you know he posted Alicia’s selfies on that porn website?”

  Scott’s eyes narrowed. “No. And I can tell you right now, he’d never do a thing like that.”

  Except he had definitely done it to Laurie. But there was no need to contradict him. He’d taken the bait; he wouldn’t back out now. “Then I’m guessing you don’t believe he could’ve killed Alicia, either?”

  He shifted his weight onto his left hip in a move that was faintly menacing. “There’s no fucking way he killed her.”

  If I’d been alone, I’m not sure I would’ve continued to press him. That’s how hostile his vibe was. But Alex knew how to fight—probably a lot better than Scott. I wasn’t worried. Still, I tried to soften up the tone a little. “Roan seemed to be very . . . demanding with Alicia. From what I hear, that’s why she broke up with him. Did you ever see him act that way with girls?”