Moral Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 2)

by Marcia Clark

  OTHER TITLES BY MARCIA CLARK

  FICTION

  The Samantha Brinkman Series

  Blood Defense

  The Rachel Knight Series

  Guilt by Association

  Guilt by Degrees

  Killer Ambition

  The Competition

  NONFICTION

  Without a Doubt

  (with Teresa Carpenter)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Marcia Clark

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503939776 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1503939774 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781503938694 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1503938697 (paperback)

  Cover design by David Drummond

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Stephen pushed the hair off his wife’s clammy forehead and stroked her cheek. Paula’s skin was pale and tinged with green. The Uber driver’d had to stop three times to let her throw up. When he finally pulled into the driveway, Stephen gave Paula a worried look. “You sure you don’t want to go to the ER?”

  Paula turned toward the open window and gulped some more of the fresh, rain-soaked air. “It’s just food poisoning; I’ll make it.” She gave him a wan smile as the driver parked the car. “Happy anniversary.” The smile fell away as she clutched her stomach, pushed open the passenger door, and vomited onto the driveway.

  Stephen saw the driver’s disgusted expression in the rearview mirror and threw him a dirty look before jumping out and running around behind the car to help her. Paula was leaning halfway out, trying to catch her breath. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Can you make it to the house?”

  She spoke in a weak voice. “Think so.” She put her right foot on the ground, then her left. Holding on to the doorjamb with one hand and the car door with the other, she started to pull herself up.

  Stephen put an arm around her waist. “Let me carry you.”

  Paula shook her head. “Just . . . hurry.”

  Stephen helped her out as he said to the driver, “Please put our bags on the porch.”

  The driver opened his door with an irritated sigh. Stephen glared at him as he bent down to steady Paula, who was doubled over. They hobbled up to the front door, their bodies bumping against each other, out of sync. When they reached the porch, Stephen held her against him with one arm as he fumbled for the key. “Damn!” he sputtered as the key ring fell to the ground. Behind him, he heard the Uber driver back out of the driveway and take off.

  When Stephen managed to unlock the door, he shoved it open so hard it banged against the wall. Paula ran for the bathroom.

  Stephen turned around and saw that the driver had left their suitcases at the end of the driveway. He shook his head. The jerk. As he stomped down to get their bags, it began to rain again. A sudden, cold wind drove the icy drops straight into his face. Stephen dipped his head and shivered as he walked back to the house. The image of the romantic fireplace in the bungalow where they’d planned to spend the night flashed through his mind. Oh well—next time. And next time he wouldn’t let Paula order that damn Dover sole in cream sauce.

  Stephen hurried down the hall to their bedroom and dropped the bags just inside the door. To his right, he heard Paula retching in the master bathroom. The sound made his stomach seesaw. Sympathetic nausea. He wondered whether that was a real thing. He called to her through the door. “Need help, hon?”

  Paula coughed twice, a harsh, jagged scrape. Her voice was raw and barely audible. “No. Thanks.”

  He shook his head. Poor Paula. “I’ll get you some water.”

  Stephen started back down the hall, stopped at the door on his left, and looked at his watch. One thirty. Cassie should be asleep. He cracked open her door and peeked inside. All good. He moved farther down the hall, then noticed that Abel’s door was slightly open. But there was no light on.

  He never left his door open. Stephen peered into Abel’s room. “Abel? You okay, kiddo?”

  He stepped inside. Rain was blowing straight through the open . . . wait, broken window. What? It took a moment for his eyes to adjust in the darkness. Clothing spilled from the open drawers of Abel’s dresser; books were strewn around the room; the drawer of the nightstand lay on the floor. His heart gave a quick, hard thud as his gaze moved to the bed. And stopped. Stephen recoiled, unable to process the sight. The blood-soaked body; the dead, staring eyes. His son. No. It couldn’t be right. Stephen fumbled on the wall for the light switch.

  At that moment, he felt a rush of air. A sharp pain exploded in his throat. He screamed and grabbed at the side of his neck. He tried to breathe, but something was in the way; he choked as he gasped for air. The killer abruptly yanked out the blade and stepped back. Stephen heard his own voice make a strange, gurgling moan.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of blue as he fell, facedown on the floor. Stephen put a hand to his throat to staunch the blood that was flowing from the gaping wound. Paula. Cassie. He had to help them! He tried to push up, reach for the killer, but as he raised an arm, he felt the blade plunge into his back. His arm fell. The blade drove into his back again. Stephen’s brain screamed, Warn them! You’ve got to warn them! He mustered all his strength, lifted his head, and tried to shout. But all that came out was a thin, high-pitched wail. Then the killer drove the knife into his back again. Stephen collapsed. He was gone.

  Paula clutched the sides of the toilet, the tiled floor cold and hard against her knee
s as her stomach heaved for the hundredth time. There was nothing left of the Dover sole. Now it was just bile. As she gulped for air, a strange sound penetrated her fog of misery. It seemed to come from somewhere inside the house. A yell . . . or a scream? But that made no sense. Paula rested her cheek against the rim of the toilet and listened. The cool porcelain felt good against her skin. She didn’t hear anything. But where was Stephen? He should’ve been back with her water by now. Paula waited to see whether her body had finished wringing out the last dregs of dinner. After a few seconds with no heaves, Paula pushed herself up and flushed the toilet. Holding on to the sink with one hand, she used the other to splash water on her face and rinse her mouth. She stood there, doubled over at the sink, and listened again. Nothing.

  Her insides aching, stomach muscles already sore, Paula held on to the wall for support as she moved to the door of the bedroom. She peered down the hallway. “Stephen?” No answer. Her stomach lurched again, and she felt the acidic burn of bile rising in her throat. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, forcing it back down. When the wave subsided, Paula glanced to her left, saw that Cassie’s door was closed, no light showing under it. She looked down the hallway. Abel’s door was standing open. Something wasn’t right. “Abel?” No answer.

  Another wave of nausea almost made her drop to her knees. She wanted to lie down right there. But what if Stephen had fallen? What if he was unconscious? Paula flipped on the hall light and listened again. What was that? It sounded like heavy breathing. “Stephen?” Nothing. Frightened, unsure, Paula hesitated. What should she do? Her head swam as she gazed toward Abel’s room. Her mind was too numb to work it out. She heard herself whisper, “Go see; you have to go see.” Paula leaned against the wall as she slowly crept down the hall, one hand on her stomach.

  Paula stopped in Abel’s doorway. Rain-soaked curtains flapped in the wind that whistled through the broken window. She stared, confused, into the darkness; then her eyes moved down to the bed. She screamed. “Abel! No! Oh God, no!”

  Paula stumbled into the room. But before she could reach the bed, she tripped over . . . something on the floor. She lost her balance. As she fell, she looked down and saw her husband’s body. She let out a shriek, but it was cut short as something sharp and cold plunged into the back of her neck.

  Cassie stood at the doorway of Abel’s room, white-faced, the echo of her mother’s scream still ringing in her ears. The wind that now howled through the shattered window sprayed her with freezing rain, soaking her hair and long T-shirt. A streak of movement made her look out through that window. Then, in flashes, she took in the bloody scene. Her brother, vacant eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her mother, head resting on her father’s stomach, body curled, knees to chest. Blood . . . so much blood. She sagged against the doorway. Too much. It was too much.

  Cassie shook her head back and forth, trying to shake the images out of her brain. Tears streamed down her face.

  Then she sank into a crouch and began to scream, a deep animal wail.

  ONE

  Earlier that same night

  I leaned toward the black lens of the camera. “Sheri, if it’s true the FBI recruited a fifteen-year-old kid to work as an undercover drug dealer, a lot of heads should roll. And the kid—well, now he’s an adult—but he definitely shouldn’t still be in prison.”

  Sheri, the host of Crime Time, turned to my worthy adversary for the evening, Lonnie Miston, a former prosecutor who’d recently come to his senses and joined me on the right side of justice: criminal defense—though he still had that short, conservative prosecutor haircut. “Lonnie, you’ve got to admit, it does seem a bit over the line to recruit a minor—”

  Lonnie jumped in. “No question. But the FBI didn’t tell him to start his own cartel. The only reason he’s in prison now is because he got caught dealing fifteen pounds of cocaine—”

  I shook my head, and the camera came back to me. “Dealing’s the only thing he knew how to do thanks to the FBI, who yanked him out of high school when he was a sophomore—you know, when most kids are getting their learner’s permits and figuring out they’re not gonna need to know geometry to get a job.”

  Sheri interrupted. “Sorry, folks, my producer tells me that’s all we have time for tonight. Samantha Brinkman, Lonnie Miston, thank you for joining us. To all of our watchers, join us again tomorrow on Crime Time, when we’ll talk to the former FBI agent who’s blowing the whistle on this case.”

  I pulled out my earpiece and unclipped the little microphone on my lapel. The guy wasn’t my client, but his predicament really did piss me off. The FBI had used him up and then spit him out. And now, although he’d been a model prisoner for the past eight years, he couldn’t get paroled because one of the scumbags he’d helped the FBI take down had cronies in high places.

  The whole thing reeked of backdoor string pulling and dirty politics.

  I headed to the makeup room and ran into Lonnie, who was washing his face with a baby wipe. I looked at him in the mirror as I wiped off the lipstick. “Tell me you don’t really think that kid should still be in prison.”

  “Oh hell no. Matter of fact, I’m hoping they take down the sleazeball agents who recruited him.”

  I clapped him on the back. “My man. Always glad to meet a recovering prosecutor. Welcome to the side of truth and justice.”

  Lonnie’s smile was a little embarrassed. “It’s taking a little getting used to.”

  I threw my baby wipe in the trash. “Trust me, once you get your sea legs, you’ll love it.”

  “Well, I know I’ll love the money, anyway.” He adjusted his tie in the mirror. “You up for a drink?”

  Was it my imagination? Something in his tone made it sound like this was more than just a friendly gesture. I’d assumed he was married. Hopefully not. I looked at him in the mirror. Lonnie was kind of a hunk. Strong jaw, deep-set blue eyes under bushy eyebrows, muscular but not in an obsessive way. “Can’t tonight. Next time?”

  Lonnie flashed me a sexy smile. Yep, definitely not just a friendly invite. “You got it.”

  I headed out, wondering why I’d turned him down. I didn’t have to work tonight, and I had no other plans. Maybe it was because he still had that prosecutor vibe. Bad enough I had to deal with them on the job. The last thing I needed was to let them ruin my personal time. As I walked out the back door, the security guard motioned for the limo—a nice, gas money–saving perk for doing the show—to come forward. The car pulled out of the garage, but before it could reach me, a fairly new-looking black Escalade with gold trim and custom hubcaps zoomed into the space.

  The security guard gave the driver a stern look, held up a hand, and gestured for him to back out. But the car stayed put, and the passenger-side window rolled down. I looked inside, saw the driver, and sighed. The guard started to move between us, but I shook my head. “It’s okay. I know him.”

  I hadn’t heard from Deshawn Johnson, my former client, in a while. Generally speaking, this is good news. When clients show up after their cases are over, it’s usually because they’re in deep shit again. It’s never because they want to drop off a box of See’s Candies and thank me for the great job I’d done.

  And in Deshawn’s case, I’d done a miraculous job. I’d gotten him off the hook on a dope case that would’ve landed him in prison for twenty-five to life. So seeing him pull up in this tricked-out Escalade just had to be bad news. From what I knew, Deshawn’s legitimate skill set didn’t qualify him to buy a car that pricey. As I walked over to the passenger window, I scanned the street, half expecting to see flashing blue and red lights pull up behind him. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you. Get in; I’ll take you home.”

  It’d been a long week, and I was tired. I’d been hoping to get to bed early for a change. But he looked and sounded desperate. Just the fact that he’d gone to the trouble of finding me here meant this was serious. I told the security guard to let the limo driver go.

&n
bsp; He gave Deshawn a skeptical look. “You sure?”

  Unfortunately, I was. “Yeah, thanks.”

  He sighed and shrugged. “Have a good one.” His expression said he thought that was unlikely.

  I had a feeling he was right, though probably for different reasons. I got into the Escalade, gave Deshawn the directions to my apartment in West Hollywood, then asked the question I didn’t really want him to answer. “So, what’s new?”

  Deshawn was driving with one nervous eye on the rearview mirror. “Remember that dope you took off me?”

  Warning bells went off in my head. This was going to be bad. About three months ago, Deshawn and his buddies, not realizing who I was, tried to jack me. I’d been busting my hump on a motion that stood a good chance of getting his case thrown out. When we recognized each other, I was so pissed off that he was still out capering, jeopardizing everything I was trying to do for him, I’d made him empty his pockets—and found a big baggie of what turned out to be very pure heroin.

  I decided to remind him of why I’d taken it. “You mean the dope I never saw you with? The dope that would’ve landed you in prison for life if you’d been caught with it? That dope?”

  We were stopped at the light, and his eyes kept bouncing from one mirror to another. “Yeah, that dope. The dope my play cousin, Taquan, fronted me. Which he got from a dude who’s telling him if he don’t bring back the dope or the money, Taquan’s gonna be wearin’ a Colombian necktie.”

  My stomach lurched at the image. I’d seen one of those in a big dope case I’d handled last year: they’d slit a guy’s throat, then pulled his tongue through the hole. “How come you didn’t tell me someone fronted you that dope?”

  Deshawn looked at me like I’d just asked why the Easter Bunny hadn’t come this year. “Now how’s that gonna look in front of my homies? Like a little bitch who can’t even afford to buy his own shit.” He shook his head. The light turned green, and he glanced at the rearview mirror again as he pulled forward.

  This made no sense to me, but it wasn’t a point worth debating. “Where’s the guy been all this time?” No dealer who moved quantities that big would let three months go by without getting paid.