Snap Judgment (Samantha Brinkman Book 3)

by Marcia Clark

  We made it to Phil’s house in record time and got there fifteen minutes early. Ordinarily, I’d wait outside for at least ten minutes to be polite. But in this case, I thought it might be wise to get the lay of the land as soon as possible. If we had to waste time getting him stoned, we may as well start sooner rather than later. I sniffed at the door as I knocked to get a sense of what condition Phil would be in, but I couldn’t smell anything. I glanced at Alex. “You?” Alex shook his head.

  Phil answered the door with a hazy smile. A cloud of pot smoke flowed out to greet us. We were in luck. Or rather, we were in “business as usual.” “Hey, Phil. Thanks for seeing us.”

  He bobbed his head. “Not a problem. Come on in.”

  I asked if anyone else was around. More luck. Phil was alone. He offered us water. I accepted, but Alex cast a nervous glance at the sink full of dirty dishes and empty bottles and wrappers on the counter, and he declined. Phil brought me the water, then flopped down in one of the beanbag chairs. Alex and I settled in on the sofa.

  We made small talk for a few minutes, asked how classes were going, whether he’d seen the latest Marvel Comics superhero movie and how everyone was dealing with Alicia’s death. He told us it was tough on all of them. That gave me a natural segue to ask whether he thought any other guys were into Alicia, besides Roan.

  Phil burped a little inside his mouth and patted his chest. “’Scuse me. You mean during the time she was hooking up with him?”

  I tried to ignore his bodily functions. “Or before she started seeing him.”

  He stretched and folded his arms behind his head. “I know I was crushing on her. But a lot of guys were. Davey, too.”

  We’d thought that might be the case, and we’d decided that if we were right, Alex should do the questioning. This was guy territory. Alex took the lead. “So did you and Alicia ever hook up?”

  Phil half closed his eyes, his head still resting on his arms. “Nah. We made out at a party once, but that was it.”

  Alex sat back and crossed his legs boy style, with his left foot on his right knee. “Was that before or after she met Roan?”

  Phil sniffed. “Before. And she was drunk. Barely remembered it the next day. I kind of dropped a few hints that I wouldn’t mind if we did that again, but she wasn’t interested.”

  Phil took a bathroom break, and when he sank back down on the beanbag chair, he asked, “I tell you about her and Diana?”

  This was new. “No, what about them?” I asked.

  Phil took a pipe out of his back pocket. “Diana’s here on scholarship. Her folks are broke. They’ve got three kids still at home, and her dad’s on disability.” He paused to light the pipe and took a deep drag. Smoke drifted out through his next words. “When she first moved in, she said she was going to have to get a job because her scholarship wasn’t a full ride. I figured she’d get a waitressing gig or something. But she didn’t. And she didn’t seem to be hurting for money. I finally found out she was stripping.” He blew out the rest of the smoke, and I held my breath. “No, not stripping. What’s that thing . . .” Phil made a gesture with his free hand to indicate something long and vertical.

  “Pole dancing?” I asked.

  Phil pointed at me. “That’s it. I found out totally by accident. Went to a bar out in Pasadena with some old buddies from high school, and there she was. The minute I recognized her, I got out of there.”

  I felt sorry for her. “Did anyone else know?”

  He took another hit and held in the smoke as he shook his head. “I got the feeling she didn’t want anyone else to know, so I kept it to myself.”

  I didn’t know what this had to do with Alicia. “Did Alicia find out?”

  Phil blew out the smoke in a rush. “I’m not sure, but I think so, because I saw her leaving with Diana one night, and they were both all done up. Like the way Diana was when I saw her dancing. Alicia was acting weird, all nervous and excited, and when I asked where they were going, she got super cagey, wouldn’t tell me.”

  His deduction seemed reasonable. Especially since Alicia was a real dancer. And it was such a great “fuck you” to use all those childhood dance lessons to wind her mostly naked body around a pole. But it also brought up some new investigative possibilities. One in particular was foremost on my mind. “Can you remember the name of the place?”

  Phil stared off for a long moment—for so long I was about to repeat the question when he finally said, “I think it was The Pink Palace.” He shook his head with a look of disdain. “Genius name.”

  It was pretty lame. I saw that Alex had typed it into his iPad. I turned back to Phil. “Did you ever go and see whether Alicia was dancing there?”

  Phil made a face. “I really don’t dig those places. I only went there that night because my buddies wanted to go. If Alicia was dancing there, too, I didn’t want to know.” He yawned without covering his mouth. “It’s kind of a sad thing to do.”

  Sad for Diana, who did it out of necessity. But not so for Alicia, who did it by choice, probably to exact revenge and get her rebel on. I wondered how Diana felt about that. We talked for a while longer, but Phil was starting to nod. If we wanted to get more out of him, we’d have to come back. He was tapped out for now. We thanked him and left.

  When Alex drove up the on-ramp to the freeway, I shared the idea Phil had given me. “Remember Nomie said Alicia thought someone was stalking her?”

  Alex nodded. “But I didn’t think there was anything to it.”

  I had pretty much dismissed the idea, too. But I was ready to reconsider it now. “If she really was dancing at that place, it might turn out to be true after all.”

  What better place to pick up a creep like that? And what better suspect to pin Roan’s possible murder on than a crazed, jealous stalker?

  Finally, I’d landed on a theory that might give me some traction.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  We’d left Phil’s place in plenty of time for me to drop Alex at the office and go home to change for the party. But, of course, traffic being what it was—seriously, who are these people who get off work by three in the afternoon?—we didn’t get back until four thirty.

  Michelle was on the phone. She waved me over as she said, “She just walked in, Mr. Hutchins. Hold on and I’ll put you through.” Michelle pushed the hold button. “He wants an update. I suggest you ask him for one, too, find out if he’s been yakking to reporters again.”

  A good idea. “Got it.” I headed into my office and thought about what I should say. It was too soon to tell him about my stalker theory, and I was 100 percent sure Alicia wouldn’t have confided her fear about that to him, because Graham would surely have made her move back home. So I told him we were still gathering information, but we thought we’d have some new leads soon. In essence, nothing. But I used the opportunity to ask him the question Nomie’s latest revelations had raised. “Did Alicia ever see a therapist?”

  Graham’s tone was shocked—and a little miffed. “No, of course not. Why would she? And why are you asking?”

  Just the fact that he reacted that way told me so much. Everyone has problems, and if they’re lucky, they get to talk to a therapist about them. Graham’s attitude struck me as not only backward but also a symptom of someone who’d engage in willful denial to avoid admitting that he, or anyone close to him, was less than perfect. I never would’ve suspected someone who was otherwise as sophisticated and intelligent as Graham would react that way. “I only ask because a lot of people do see therapists nowadays. And a therapist can have useful information.”

  That mollified him. “Oh. Well, no, she didn’t.” He cleared his throat. “I, ah, I also called because I was wondering if you might be able to find out whether Audrey Sutton has hired a private investigator to go after me?”

  Fingers of dread crawled up my spine. “I can certainly try. Tell me why you think she did.”

  There was a beat of silence. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid, and it might just be T
MZ, but a guy I used to work with at my old law firm—”

  “The one who fired you for harassing—”

  He cut me off. “No, the one after that. Some man who claimed to be working for a company that was putting together a lawyer’s ‘Who’s Who’ asked my friend—Martin Beamon—a bunch of questions about me.”

  That might—or might not—be fishy. “Well, you have been in the news lately, so that could put you on the radar of a company like that. Did Martin get the name of the company?”

  Graham’s tone was frustrated. “No, he didn’t think anything of it until later, and by then he’d forgotten whatever name the guy gave.”

  I dealt with the most immediate problem first. “Did he tell you what he said to the guy?”

  “He said he only gave the guy good stuff about how everyone liked me, how I got great results for my clients, that kind of thing.”

  I guess we’d find out soon enough if that was all Martin had said. “How good a friend is this Martin Beamon?”

  There was another long pause. “We used to be buddies back in the day, kept in touch for a little while after I joined Hocheiser, Leslie & Friedman, but we haven’t seen a whole lot of each other since.”

  It might be nothing, but still . . . I didn’t like the sound of this. “Would you mind if we got in touch with Martin?” I wanted to judge for myself whether he’d caused any damage—witting or unwitting.

  Graham coughed. “Excuse me.” He held the phone away and coughed again. “Sorry. Just a little water went down the wrong way. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t contact him just yet. I don’t want him to get the idea I don’t trust him.”

  A decent point. No matter how respectful it was, my follow-up would likely come across as Graham’s vote of “no confidence.” We didn’t need to turn a friend into an enemy. “Fair point. But we may have to revisit this decision depending on what happens next.”

  I told Graham to try not to worry—he had enough on his plate. He thanked me and added, “I’m sorry, Sam. Didn’t mean for this whole thing to turn into a National Enquirer story.”

  The sorrow in his voice was painful to hear. Whatever his flaws as a father, he’d truly loved Alicia. Having to deal with all this media insanity while he was grieving for her death was more than anyone should have to bear. “No apology necessary, Graham. I’m happy to help.”

  We ended the call with my promise to look into the private investigator issue and his promise to let me know if there were any further developments on the tabloid front.

  I picked up my purse and briefcase, intending to head home, but I got two phone calls from clients, back-to-back. By the time I finished the last call it was after six. As usual, Michy was right. And I was stuck with her choice: the damn black dress Celeste had bought for me once upon a time.

  I changed in my office, pulled out my portable makeup mirror and did a fast touch-up, then combed my hair and slipped on the black suede platform heels Michy had picked out. I walked out and did the model turn for her.

  She gave me an approving nod. “And I brought your beaded black clutch.”

  I hate changing purses. “No one’s going to care what kind of purse I carry.”

  “You are so ridiculous.” Michy went into my office and dumped my purse out onto the couch. She took the credit cards, driver’s license, and money out of my wallet and stuffed them into the clutch, along with my lip gloss and keys. “There.” She looked at her watch. “That took all of thirty-seven seconds.” She handed me the clutch and my cell phone. “Now call an Uber.” She gestured to the mess on the couch. “I’ll drop all this and your briefcase at your place on my way home.” Michy went back to her desk.

  Having no other choice, I did as I was told. Five minutes later, my phone said my driver, Hamid, had arrived. I walked out. “Okay, adios, I’m a ghost. Wish me luck.”

  Michy stood up and hugged me. “Go get us some rich clients.”

  Alex came out of his office and looked me over. “Nice. You should dress like that more often.”

  I glared at him. “I’d rather chew ground glass.”

  Alex turned to Michy, his expression puzzled. “What’d I say?”

  Michy tried to suppress a laugh. “Celeste bought it.”

  Alex shrugged as he gave my dress an appraising look. “Just because she’s a narcissist doesn’t mean she can’t have good taste.” When I turned to glare at him again, he waved. “Have a great time.”

  I huffed and walked out.

  I almost never find myself in Century City. It’s all massive office buildings and hotels—very high-end but totally charm-free. Westerly, the firm that was throwing the party, was in a high-rise building that was all chrome and glass. But the law offices were opulent old school: thick burgundy rugs, expensive leather sofas and chairs, lots of cherrywood and mahogany furniture and brass accent pieces. Westerly commanded two entire floors, but the party was on the main floor where the imposing reception area was located. Two beefy, muscled men wearing earpieces and dark suits that were two sizes too small for them stood at the door to keep out the crashers. I wondered who’d bother to crash a boring lawyer party—then remembered that’s what I was doing.

  As a general rule, I hate parties. Actually, hate isn’t a strong enough word. I detest them. I suck at small talk, and I’m not a “people person.” But since I was here on a mission of my own choosing—as opposed to having been roped into a social obligation—for a change, I wasn’t resentful.

  I scanned the crowd. It was largely an older and very well-heeled bunch, and I noticed lots of big, flashy diamond rings and pricey necklaces. There was a tiny smattering of millennials—mostly female—in short skirts and cropped slacks, and all in four-inch stiletto heels. Probably a mix of young associates, mistresses, and wannabe one or the other. A string quartet in the corner played tasteful classical music. I went over to the bar, ordered a shot of Patrón Silver on the rocks, and moved around the room, looking for Diego Ferrara. A hunky waiter in a short white jacket and pleasingly tight pants walked by with a tray of mini broccoli-and-cheese quiches, and I snagged a couple to soften the blow of booze on my empty stomach.

  It took a while to make the full circuit of the rooms—they’d included two conference rooms as well as the oversize reception area to hold the crowd—but I eventually found my quarry. Diego, dressed in a black suit with white pinstripes—laughably mobster style—was chatting up an older couple, whose clothing and jewelry screamed MONEY. I saw the woman glance around the room with an expression of mild desperation.

  Sam to the rescue. I sailed over and introduced myself, then made the woman a friend for life by turning to Diego and saying, “I’ve heard good things about you.”

  A flicker of surprise crossed his face. He quickly covered with a wide smile. “Thanks. I’ve heard great things about you, too. You do criminal, right?”

  As I nodded, the older couple murmured something about it being nice to have met us and moved off. “And I hear you do immigration and civil. So how’d you wrangle an invite to this hootenanny?”

  He smirked. “Perk of being friendly with the receptionist. My office is in the building.”

  I returned his smirk. “Nice. You know, I’ve been thinking about expanding my practice.” I could see his eyes light up. Since I was the more famous one, and his law practice was about as low-rent as you can get, our joining forces would be a much bigger benefit to him than it would to me.

  He grinned and clinked his glass against mine. “I’d definitely drink to that. Where’s your office?”

  We talked about office space, our respective staffs, and other painfully boring subjects. Finally, I managed to steer the conversation to our respective caseloads. On the way over, I’d thought up a few smooth segues that would get him to talk about Jorge Maldonado’s case without making him suspicious, but now that I’d met him, I knew I could let go of that particular worry. This shitkicker would be happy to brag about his only big murder case.

  Sure enough, after
a one-minute summary of his civil cases, he told me he was handling a “heavy-duty” murder case. He tried to sound nonchalant, like it was just one of the many big trials he had pending, but his fatuous smile totally blew the effect.

  I, of course, pretended to be wowed. “Sounds great. How’d you score that one? Court appoint you?”

  He gave me a sly look. “No, that’s the best part. It’s privately retained and all in cash. My client’s uncle does business with a cousin of mine.”

  Maldonado’s uncle . . . was Cabazon. And Cabazon did “business” with Diego’s cousin. That answered one question: Cabazon had hired Diego. I decided to see if I could bait him for more information—but carefully. “Should be great money. It’s a gang case, isn’t it? If so, it’ll probably go to trial.” Prosecutors weren’t dealing a lot of gang cases, and if a client has deep pockets, a trial can mean a nice stack of cash.

  “It’s not really a gang case. Kinda weird. No one really knows why Jorge killed that guy.” He leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. “I mean allegedly killed that guy.”

  I tried not to grimace. “Who’s your IO?” The investigating officer is the detective in charge of the case.

  Diego frowned. “I forget.” He shrugged. “It’s not really a cop case, anyway. The whole thing hangs on an eyewitness.”

  That’d be Tracy Gopeck. I’d hoped to get the name of the cop handling the case, but I couldn’t press him for it without sounding suspicious. So I opted to try to get a sense of our deadline. “When do you start trial?”

  “We’re supposed to start picking a jury in ten days.” Diego polished off his glass of champagne. “But it’s not gonna happen unless the DA stops stalling and lets me talk to his star witness.”

  Witnesses don’t have to talk to defense lawyers, but the defense is entitled to have a chance to at least ask if they’ll give an interview. I suspected the DA was holding back on that meeting until he could find a more secure place for Tracy. Which was precisely why Cabazon was in such a big hurry. I wanted to see if Diego knew that. “Why do you think he’s stalling?”