Moral Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 2)

by Marcia Clark

  Dale chuckled, but he winced at the screech of rusty hinges when he opened the driver’s door for me.

  I backed out of the driveway, mentally begging Beulah not to embarrass me. Luck was with me—or maybe Beulah realized her days were numbered with Dale around. I pulled away without a hitch. When I made it to the freeway, I called Tiegan to find out how Cassie was doing.

  “She’s sleeping. Those pills really knock her out.”

  “Probably for the best.” I told her what I’d heard about Cassie’s mother being the likely target.

  Tiegan sounded resigned. “I guess that makes sense. In a sick, demented sort of way.”

  I wondered how much Tiegan knew about this family, about Cassie. “How long have you been Cassie’s counselor?”

  “Five months. At the beginning of the year, I was just her English teacher, but when her counselor went out on disability, Cassie asked me to fill in.”

  “I didn’t know teachers doubled up like that.”

  “They don’t usually. But I’ve got experience as a counselor, and the school was shorthanded, so I agreed to help out.”

  “Then you’ve gotten to know her pretty well.”

  Tiegan hesitated before answering. “To an extent. She’s not the most . . . forthcoming student I’ve ever had. But I did notice in her file that she’d bounced between foster homes until she was four. By the time the Sonnenbergs found her, she was on the brink of being a foster child for life.”

  “At four?”

  Tiegan’s voice was sad—and somewhat bitter. “Everyone wants a baby. Very few want toddlers. And no one wants them after that.”

  What a hard, cold reality that was. “Does Cassie know her birth mother? Or father?”

  “It would’ve helped a lot right now if she did, but no. It was a closed adoption.”

  I thought about that. I’m not sure it’s all fluffy unicorns and rainbows when a child gets to meet the mother who gave her up. But to have that door forever slammed in a child’s face, to know she can never even find out who her mother was, must be a whole new vista of hurt and abandonment. “Did Cassie seem happy at home?”

  Tiegan gave a grim little laugh. “Are any of them happy at home at this age? Let me put it this way: she didn’t seem unhappy. But we didn’t talk about her family much. We mainly talked about how she was getting along in school, her friends, what she wanted to do when she graduated. That sort of thing.”

  “And what did she want to do?”

  “She wanted to be an actress.”

  Of course she did. The little girl who’d been abandoned craved a massive, adoring audience to fill the gaping hole in her heart.

  FOUR

  I spent the rest of Saturday doing boring chores and errands. By six o’clock I was starving and ready to sit down. I called Michelle Fusco and asked her to meet me at our usual fave, Barney’s Beanery, a legendary bar and diner where old-school rockers like Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin used to hang. It’s practically walking distance from my place. Not far from hers, either.

  Michelle had been my best friend since sixth grade, and she was a crack paralegal. I’d begged her to come work with me, because she was the best in the business. But to be honest, it was a little scary—kind of like having a friend become a lover. We were closer than most sisters, and we both knew that working together could ruin that. But I’d had a feeling it was meant to be. And I’d been right. We’d had some lean times and some scary times. But most of all, we’d had good times.

  Michelle was already nursing a bottle of Stella Artois and a basket of French fries when I got there. The smells of old grease, spilled beer, and charred meat were thick, and the crowd at the bar was cheering and yelling at a hockey game on the television. I scanned the crowd and saw they were all wearing T-shirts that had pictures of the Hollywood sign and logos like LA’S THE PLACE! Out-of-towners. It figured. I’d never seen anyone in LA give a damn about hockey. As I sat down, I waved to the waiter and pointed to Michelle’s beer. I took a handful of fries. I’d already told her about trying to get myself appointed to represent Cassie. Now I filled her in on Emmons’s theory that the killer was a skinhead. “I guess it fits.”

  Michelle looked noncommittal. “It’s all anyone can think at this point, right?”

  That much was true. “According to the cops, the Nazi Low Riders really had a hard-on for Paula. Death threats, a bomb threat. It’s not a big stretch to think they’d do something like this. But I’m going to check my own sources on the skinhead angle.”

  “Tuck?”

  I nodded. Tuck Rosenberg—not Jewish, just very German—was a former client and current shot caller of the Los Angeles branch of the Nazi Low Riders. “If they put out an official hit on Paula Sonnenberg, he’d know about it.” I noticed Michelle’s golden-brown hair was swinging freely tonight. “How come no Scünci? They all in the wash, or something?” Michelle, who looked a lot like Jessica Biel, always wore Scüncis. And I always gave her shit about it.

  Michelle threw a fry at me. “Shut up.”

  The waiter delivered my beer, and we ordered cheeseburgers. I took a sip. “Wait, I got it. Brad doesn’t like them.” Michelle’s sour expression told me I’d nailed it. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Michelle’s latest love interest was an associate in a white-shoe law firm. The kind of law firm that makes billions and pays its associates bubkes. I’d been skeptical about Michelle dating a guy who’d work in a place like that. But when he’d stopped by the office to pick her up, I got the attraction. He was a nice guy and handsome—in a white-bread, super-straight, squeaky-clean sort of way.

  She gave me a flinty look. “No, you’re not right.” Michelle pushed the fries away. “Ugh. Stop me. I can’t afford to grow out of my jeans. I don’t get paid enough.” She gave me a meaningful look. I pointedly turned and stared out the window. “But this case should be pretty easy money.”

  “Easy. But not much. I’m out of a job the minute they make an arrest.”

  Michelle took a sip of her beer and raised an eyebrow. “Unless it’s her. I know it seems too weird, a fifteen-year-old girl doing all that, but is there any chance?”

  I shrugged. “Never say never. And she was the only one who survived. But . . .” I just didn’t think so.

  Michelle shook her head. “It doesn’t feel right to me, either.” Her features grew sad. “That girl has got to be one giant mess.”

  “She really is.”

  Michelle peeled the label off her bottle of beer. “Well, for the time being, the case is good publicity. And you could use some. Your shine’s been fading, since you’ve been out of the limelight for the past few months.”

  “True.” Dale’s case had made me momentarily famous enough to pick up some high-profile cases. But none of them wound up going to trial, so I’d been out of the public eye for a while. It’s not about wanting to be famous, per se. It’s all about building the client list. Famous lawyers get big cases. Big cases mean big money. Usually. Well, sometimes. “Anyway, even if I don’t make much on the case, I don’t mind helping her out for a little while. The girl’s had a rough life.” I told her about Cassie’s childhood.

  Michelle studied me. “You can probably identify with some of that.”

  Other than Dale, she was the only one in my life who knew what I’d been through. But I hated talking about it. “So I guess that means there’s hope for Cassie. Look how well I turned out.”

  Michelle rolled her eyes. “Eat your cheeseburger.”

  The problem of what to do for Deshawn plagued me. I considered my options. The only thing I could do for him right now was hide him somewhere. If I maxed out my personal credit card, I could put him up in a two-star hotel for a couple of weeks. I just needed to buy some time so I could think of a solution. I called him, but it went straight to voice mail. I tried not to think about what that might mean.

  With nothing to do except worry, I tried to distract myself by staying busy for the rest of the weekend and managed
to bring my caseload up to speed. By eleven o’clock Sunday night, I was dead tired. I closed my laptop; took a steamy, hot shower; and fell into bed. I was asleep within seconds.

  But it didn’t matter. I had the dream anyway.

  It’s always the same. I thrust the knife into his chest again and again and again. I stand back and wait for him to fall, but he doesn’t. He smiles. That same sick, leering smile that always made my stomach lurch. I stare, confused. How can he still be standing? In an agony of frustration, I jam the knife into his stomach again and again, sobbing with the effort. But as I pull back and wait for him to fall, he turns into a giant, and he pins me against the wall with hands that feel like steel clamps. I close my eyes and try to wrench free, twisting my body back and forth, my heels kicking against the wall. Then I feel a blast of hot, fetid air. I open my eyes to see that his mouth is open wide, and it’s a huge, cavernous black hole. I feel myself being sucked into the darkness. Trapped, terrified, I scream and scream.

  And I wake up to the sound of my own rasping croak, a pounding heart, and a T-shirt soaked in sweat. I used to believe the dreams would stop, that the real-life nightmare that fueled them would fade with time. But it’s been years since the Sebastian Cromer chapter of my life ended, and the dreams still come—almost every night. I stared out the window at the still dark sky and wished I could go back to sleep. But I knew better than to try. The nightmare always left me feeling sick and jittery. The only way to wash out the memory was to get up and get moving.

  I pounded two cups of coffee standing at the kitchen sink and headed into the office.

  Unlike my old digs, which were in the heart of gang territory in the San Fernando Valley, my new office is in West Hollywood, not far from my apartment. My “suite” consists of two offices and a reception area. Michelle’s desk is in the reception area. My investigator, Alex Medrano, has the smaller office on the right, and my office, which is maybe five feet bigger, has what they call a “partial view.” Meaning that if you stand on tiptoe and tilt your head all the way to the right, you can see a sliver of Sunset Boulevard.

  It was only seven o’clock when I got in, but Alex was already there. Like Deshawn, Alex Medrano is a former client. Unlike Deshawn, he had not been a lifelong devotee of criminal enterprise. He’d just used his insane computer skills to steal money for his family when they were going through a really bad time. I’d managed to get him a sweetheart deal in return for his agreement to show the DA how he’d done it. And he’d turned out to be the best investigator I’d ever seen—anywhere. If he couldn’t find something, it didn’t exist.

  On top of all that, he was gorgeous. Huge dark eyes with enviable lashes; thick, wavy black hair; and high cheekbones. When he dressed up, he looked like something out of GQ. Could he be that beautiful and also be straight? Alas, no. But that didn’t keep him from working it with the ladies when the need arose. And they routinely melted like ice cubes on a hot stove.

  I quickly brought him up to speed on the Sonnenberg murders. “I’ll call the court when they open up in half an hour and ask for the appointment. But since I already met with Cassie and the lead detective, I shouldn’t have a problem.”

  Alex was excited. “I heard about that on the news. It’s crazy. What can I do?”

  Now that I knew the cops were running hard on the skinhead theory, I’d decided to explore other possibilities. “Check out the family. I’m looking for any other enemies they might have.”

  “I’m on it.” Alex headed to his office.

  At eight thirty sharp, I called the court. It turned out I’d had a little competition for the case. A couple of other lawyers had e-mailed the court and asked for the appointment. But the school’s lawyer had also e-mailed. And he’d explained how I was already “on top of the case.” I got the appointment.

  Five minutes later, I got a phone call from Dale. “Keep this to yourself, Sam. They spotted a Nazi Low Rider on surveillance footage from a liquor-store parking lot. They should be bringing him in any time now.”

  “Did RHD take the case?”

  “Yeah. And I know what you’re going to ask, but I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can. They love you at RHD. Get me in to watch the interview.”

  Dale sighed. “I’ll try.”

  Ten minutes later, Dale called me back. I was in.

  FIVE

  The Nazi Low Rider was handcuffed to the table, but he still managed to look relaxed as he slouched down in the chair and glanced around the interrogation room. He looked like a biker in his worn, dirty jeans and beat-up motorcycle boots. I supposed there was no reason a skinhead couldn’t be a biker, too—though I’d guess some bikers might disagree. His shoulder-length black hair lay flat on his head, and the ends were frizzy and jagged. My hand itched to take a pair of scissors to it. He looked into the one-way mirror—our viewing window—and raised his free hand in a one-finger salute.

  I returned it and whispered to Dale. “I don’t remember Cassie saying the guy had long hair.”

  Dale shrugged. “She said he was wearing a blue bandanna.”

  Right. I’d forgotten that. At a fast glance in the dark, the blue bandanna was probably all she’d had a chance to see. Detective Westin Emmons and a tall, beefy man entered the interrogation room. His red-blond hair had shrunk to a monk’s fringe that barely made it all the way around his large head. Both were dressed in shirtsleeves and slacks. The bigger detective made the introductions. “I’m Detective Rusty Templeton, and this little guy here is Detective Westin Emmons, come from Glendale PD to help us out. Thanks for talking to us, Mr. Horrigan.”

  He gave them a cold, lazy smile. “You can call me Dominic. Seeing as we’re having a friendly chat.” He yanked his cuffed hand against the chain. “Though I don’t usually wear these when I’m with friends.”

  Rusty Templeton took the lead. He returned the cold smile. “Funny, that’s not what I heard.”

  Dominic stared at the detective, his expression deadpan. “God, you cops are so fucking funny.”

  Rusty ignored him and went straight at it. “We’ve got surveillance footage that puts you at a liquor store just a mile away from the Sonnenberg house on the night of the murders. Where’d you go when you left the parking lot?”

  Dominic sniffed, then made a hacking sound as though he were dredging up something from the bottom of his gut. He looked around, and I thought for sure he was going to spit on the floor, but he decided to swallow whatever it was instead. My stomach lurched. “Where’d I go? Home, that’s where. That liquor store’s right by my house. Notice I didn’t ask you which liquor store? That’s because I go to the same friggin’ place every time. Ask Tio. He’s the owner. He’ll tell ya.” Dominic made that hacking sound again.

  Even Templeton looked disgusted. “We know you and your buddies got mighty pissed off about that gang injunction. We’ve got information that there was talk of putting out a hit on Paula Sonnenberg.”

  A gang injunction is basically a restraining order that lets the cops bust members of the named gang for doing just about anything—walking too slow, walking too fast, standing in one place too long. You name it, the bangers can get busted for it. If an injunction is enforced seriously enough, it can practically clear a gang out of the covered area. So the injunction in Glendale would really cramp their style.

  Dominic snorted. “There’s always some young peckerwood with more mouth than brains talking shit.”

  Templeton raised an eyebrow. “You saying there was no hit?”

  “If there was, I sure as hell never heard about it. Look, I hated that bitch, and I don’t mind that someone wasted her. But I didn’t do those fucking murders. If I had, she wouldn’t be in no hospital. She’d be in a morgue.”

  Templeton shrugged. “People get sloppy.”

  Dominic looked at him with contempt. “Not with this shit they don’t. I’m doing this, I go straight at the bitch. Put her down fast and hard. No mistakes. And I don’t bother with the rest of the family.” />
  Templeton leaned back and looked at Dominic through narrowed eyes. “Unless you had to. And I can see you thinking that wasn’t so bad. Since she targeted your family, you’ve got the right to take out hers. An eye for an eye.”

  A fair point. But Dominic shook his head and gave a mighty snort. “I didn’t do it, man.”

  Templeton gave him the typical skeptical-cop look. “Then tell us who’s been talking about the hit.”

  Dominic tilted his head and looked at Templeton like he was an idiot. He spoke in a flat, hard voice. “There was no talk, and I never heard about no hit.”

  Templeton kept at it for a while longer and tried to squeeze names out of him, but he got nowhere. Ten minutes later, he pulled the plug. “I’m gonna go talk with my partner here for a bit, so you sit tight.”

  Dominic yanked the chain on his cuffed hand and gave him a dirty look. “Fuck off.”

  Seconds later, Templeton opened the door to the viewing room and waved us out. We stepped into the hallway. I introduced Emmons to Dale.

  Templeton glanced at me, then focused on Dale. “What do you think? Anything here?”

  Dale shook his head. “You covered it. And unless you got his prints somewhere, I don’t know how you hold him.”

  Templeton looked at me. “You got any bright ideas, Counselor?”

  “No. You’ve got nothing. You have to cut him loose.” But Dominic’s point about going after Paula first had made me curious about one thing. “Do you know in what order they got attacked?”

  Emmons answered. “Looks like the boy, Abel, was first, since that’s where he broke in. The mom and dad were both found in his room, so they probably heard something and came in to check. That’s when the suspect got them. I’m guessing they came in one at a time, with the mom being last—looked like she fell on him. Also because the killer didn’t take the time to make sure she was dead.”