Moral Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 2)

by Marcia Clark

“Yeah, I checked out Ginnie and Janessa. Ginnie’s got no brother, no dad, and her mom was tweeting nonstop on the night of the murders about the Gloria Estefan concert that had blown her mind. Ginnie herself—”

  I held up a hand. “Nonstarter.” She was so frail, she probably couldn’t cut her own steak, let alone three people.

  Alex nodded. “Janessa has a younger brother, but he lives with her dad in San Bernardino.”

  “Which is where they were on the night of the murders.”

  “Yep. And Janessa—”

  I shook my head. “Didn’t give two shits about Abel. You’re done with them. What about the guy Stephen got fired for dummying up his time sheets?”

  “I haven’t found him yet. No worries, I will. When I do, you want to meet with him?”

  His confidence was always a breath of fresh air. No one had ever been more secure in his abilities. But it was more than justified. “Maybe. If we can come up with a good cover story. You know, something better than ‘We’re thinking you might’ve tried to kill the whole family.’”

  “We will. But assuming we rule him out, then what?”

  I hated to say it. “Then I think we let the cops figure it out.”

  Alex nodded and sighed. “I’m not optimistic about that.”

  I put my hands on my knees, then stood up. “I never am. The only way they solve this case is if something drops in their laps.”

  I headed back to my office, wishing I really had tanked up on Scotch and Xanax.

  THIRTEEN

  The next day, for no reason but pure, dumb luck, my first case wrapped up early. I’d arranged to meet Dale’s sort-of-not-really buddy Kevin Hausch at the Code Seven, a cop bar and diner on Main Street, just a couple of blocks from the courthouse. I had forty-five minutes before my next case, so I had a little extra time to enjoy the walk.

  I strolled out into the watery sunshine of the early spring day and wove my way through the motley crew that crowded the sidewalk. The assortment of humanity around the criminal court building in downtown LA was always a diverse mix. Hookers, cops, office workers, lawyers (hookers in suits), city and county pols (hookers in shirtsleeves), and the homeless.

  For a change, I wasn’t trying to beat the clock, running from the jail to the courthouse to the parking lot and then the next courthouse, so I got to look around at the world, take in the trees, the pale-blue sky, and the closest thing LA had to city bustle. But that also meant I got to watch a homeless guy pee against one of those trees outside city hall, listen to the Cup Man—an old guy who stood on the corner every day with a plastic cup on his head—spew about the coming apocalypse, and smell the belching exhaust of old buses and the gag-heavy perfume of the trannie who seemed to be following me a little too closely.

  When I got to the diner, I saw that Kevin wasn’t there yet. The place smelled like onions and old cigarette smoke. I felt the carpet crunch under my feet as I headed for the table at the far end of the dimly lit room. The drapes that framed the soot-stained windows looked like they hadn’t been washed since Carter was president, and the wood tables were battered and chipped. It was only eleven o’clock, but two detectives were already pounding shots at the bar. I noticed a few uniformed cops at the tables, but otherwise, it was pretty quiet. An older woman wearing tight slacks and a small apron, whose eye makeup looked like it’d been applied with a canoe paddle, asked for my order. Actually she asked, “Whadda you want?” I ordered coffee.

  She’d just left when a heavyset man in slacks and a dress shirt that strained around a beer belly walked in. He paused and peered around the room, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Probably Kevin. But I took a few seconds to size him up before waving him over. He looked like he was in his late forties, maybe early fifties. His thick brown hair was starting to go gray at the temples, and his bushy mustache had flecks of white and gray. He had a heavy face, the flesh under his brows hung low over his eyes, his nose was thick and wide, and his jowls were starting to sag into his neck. I raised my hand and waved. He nodded and headed to my table in a rolling, bearlike gait. The hand he held out looked like an oven mitt. “Thank you for taking the time.”

  His voice was a deep baritone, the kind that’d make you jump when he ordered you out of the car. I shook his hand and noticed that it was surprisingly soft. “Sure, no problem,” I lied. The chair squealed in protest as he sat down.

  Up close, I saw that he had big, round brown eyes under heavy eyebrows. I was willing to bet a hundred bucks that he had a hairy back. “We’d better get to it.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to get back to court in about twenty minutes. How’d this whole thing start?”

  Kevin folded his arms on the table and looked around before he spoke. “I pulled the guy over for a broken taillight.”

  I took out my notepad. “His name?”

  “Julio Valenzuela. As I was walking toward the car, I saw him reach toward the passenger seat. I told him to put his hands on the steering wheel where I could see them.”

  I could’ve recited this story in my sleep. “Did he?”

  Kevin gave a curt nod. “Yeah. But when I got up to the driver’s window to ask for his license and registration, I saw the edge of a plastic baggie on the floor under the front passenger seat. So I told him to step out of the car. He got out and started hollering at me about how he didn’t do anything wrong and I had no reason to stop him. Shi—I mean, stuff like that. He was waving his arms around and getting more and more agitated. I told him to back off, but he wouldn’t listen, kept getting in my face, so I turned him around and cuffed him. Then I put him in my patrol car—”

  “You didn’t call for backup?”

  He straightened up and squared his shoulders. “No. He’s not that big, and he calmed down once I got the cuffs on him. I put him in the backseat of my patrol unit and went over to his car to get a better view of the baggie. I saw a white powdery residue in the corner—”

  A line I’d read in so many police reports I couldn’t even listen to it anymore. “So you pulled it out and it was, what? Coke? Meth?”

  Kevin’s jaw tightened. “Coke. Just a small amount.”

  “Did you take him in?” He nodded. “What happened on the way to the station?”

  He gave me a heavy-lidded stare. “Nothing. I took him to booking and walked away. I think they OR’d him.”

  Let him out on his own recognizance. “So he got released that same day?”

  He gave another curt nod. “Yeah. And he didn’t say anything about excessive force. About a week later, I found out he was claiming I’d roughed him up in the field, cuffed him too tight, didn’t belt him up in the backseat, and I purposely drove like a ‘wild man’ so he’d get thrown around. It’s all bullsh—sorry. A bunch of lies.”

  Their stories sure didn’t jibe; I’d give him that much. “How do his booking photos look?”

  He snorted. “Nothing. You can’t see a damn thing.”

  “Anyone take photos of his body?”

  Kevin turned his palms up and shrugged. “There was no reason to. He didn’t tell anyone he’d been bounced around.” He gave me a firm look. “Because he hadn’t been.”

  I’d be interested to hear what Valenzuela said about that. “What happened with the possession charge?”

  “Pending. It’s just a misdemeanor. He’ll probably plead guilty and get probation.”

  “But he hasn’t yet?” Kevin shook his head. “I hear he’s not asking for money, so what’s your take on why he’s beefing you?”

  Kevin frowned, his brows meeting in the middle. “Honestly, the only thing I can think of is that he’s trying to get the dope case thrown out.”

  If that really were his goal, it’d be a lot better to let his public defender claim the search was bogus than to pursue an excessive-force claim. Unless his public defender had already told him he had no shot. “Okay, Dale says you have the reports on this?”

  “Yeah, and the booking photos.” He pulled out his cell phone. “G
ive me your e-mail address.”

  I gave it to him and waited while he typed it in. “You still working?”

  Kevin made a face. “Yeah, but they have me riding a desk until this is resolved.” He shook his head, looking more depressed than angry. “I hate it. I need to be on the street. It’s the whole reason I stayed in patrol.”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d heard a cop say that. I imagine there’s a kind of freedom to working the streets, and a constant excitement in ferreting out the puzzle pieces that don’t fit: the new Mercedes rolling around in the housing projects, the too-young girl leaving the fleabag motel with a too-much-older man. “I’ll do what I can. But I won’t be able to represent you in any formal capacity. I’ll meet Valenzuela, see if I can shake him off, maybe get you some ammunition to fight with if he won’t back down. But that’s it.”

  Kevin gave me a full nod this time. “Understood.”

  I got up. “Okay, I’ll get back in touch when I have something to report.”

  Kevin stood, and we shook hands. “Thank you, Ms. Brinkman. I want you to know I really appreciate this.”

  I couldn’t really say it was my pleasure. “Sure. We’ll talk soon.”

  The waitress finally showed up with my coffee. I looked at her. Seriously? “You’re a little late.” For a whole lot of things, I had a feeling. I nodded at Kevin. “He can have it.”

  Kevin held up a hand. “No, thanks.”

  I headed out, but Kevin stayed. As I glanced back through the window, I noticed him move toward the bar.

  When I got back to court, I checked my e-mail. Kevin had already sent me everything. I looked at Valenzuela’s booking photo. Granted, the resolution on my cell phone wasn’t great, but I didn’t see a scratch. Then again, it was only a head shot.

  I’d finished my business in court and was on my way to the parking lot when I got a call from Alex. “What’s up?” I wove around a young Asian couple holding hands and strolling.

  “I found the guy Stephen got fired.”

  “Where?” I headed for the stairs with dread. When I’d had to park on the upper level, I’d told myself the stairs would be good exercise. Now I wanted to tell myself to screw off.

  “He lives up in Silicon Valley, but he’s down here for a company training program.”

  “Can we snag a meeting with him?” My steps were getting slower and heavier with every stair.

  “Yeah, he agreed to meet us in that little concrete park behind the Hall of Administration when he gets out for the day. Should be around four thirty.”

  Ugh. That meant another trip downtown, and I barely had enough gas to get back to the office. I had to pause and catch my breath on the second-floor landing. “We’ll take your car. What’s our cover story with him?”

  “We’re reporters, covering background on the victims. Hey, you okay? You sound like you’ve been running.”

  “I had to park in the sky.” Also known as the third floor. “Okay, see you when I see you.”

  But after I ended the call, I started to have reservations about this meeting. Too many people still seemed to recognize me, even though it’d been three months since Dale’s case was dismissed.

  When I got back to the office, I told Alex I thought it might be too risky for me to meet this guy, and he should do it alone. “But I want to check him out for myself. So I was thinking: while you do the interview, I could be nearby. Just don’t let him sit near the fountains.” Because Alex was going to record the conversation, and the noise would screw up the sound.

  Michelle rolled her eyes. “What’re you going to do, Sam? Wear dark glasses and a scarf on your head?”

  I shot her a look. “Yeah. And a trench coat. Like Carmen Sandiego.”

  She pulled off her Scünci. “Here, wear this and your sunglasses. That should do it.”

  “I’d rather wear a set of antlers. No offense.”

  “None taken.” She pulled back the Scünci like a slingshot and fired it at me.

  It turned out not to be a problem. It was the end of the business day for just about every county employee in a three-block radius, and the weather was nice enough to enjoy coffee and a snack in the park before heading home. I had plenty of people to blend in with.

  Alex took a table just eight feet away from where I was nursing a big cup of green tea. At a quarter to five, Alex waved, and I saw a short man whose body looked like a stack of circles waddle over to his table. William Everleigh, I presumed. When he sat down, I saw that he had a young face. I pegged him somewhere between midthirties and early forties. Alex had positioned the chairs so I’d get enough of a side view to read his expressions and hear their conversation.

  William—who, of course, told Alex to call him Bill—started by saying that he wanted to be able to decide when something was off the record. Alex assured him that wouldn’t be a problem. Alex asked him some general questions about Stephen Sonnenberg, how long he’d worked for him—three years—what it was like to work for him—okay, he guessed—and what Stephen’s reputation was at the office. Bill hedged on that one, and I could tell he was dying to unload. So could Alex. He baited Bill with a question about why he’d left the company. But Bill just shrugged and mumbled something about wanting to move up north. So Alex threw out bigger bait and hinted that he’d heard Stephen had kind of a thing for young women. That did it.

  Bill leaned in. “This is off the record, okay?” Alex nodded. “He got me fired so he could move in his twenty-year-old squeeze who barely knew how to program.”

  Alex feigned surprise. “How’d he do that?”

  Bill was already breathing hard. He bit off his words as though he were snapping the necks of baby chicks. “He claimed I was reporting false hours on my time sheet. A total fucking lie! I’d never do a thing like that! But he was the boss, and I was just a nobody, and I didn’t have an angel in senior management to protect me. So I got dumped. And that idiot, Lilliana, got my job.” He sat back and stared off with narrowed, angry eyes. I could practically see the steam coming off him.

  Even from where I was sitting, I could see Alex oozing sympathy. “That’s really shitty. Do you think he was having an affair with the woman?”

  Bill exploded. “Of course he was! I can’t prove it, but it was totally obvious.” He shook his round head. “I always knew there was something not right about Stephen. It wasn’t just Lilliana, either. He liked young women a little too much. And I mean young young. Not like junior high or anything, but I remember he’d watch the summer interns. You could practically see the thought bubble over his head: ‘I’d like to get my hands on that one.’ High school kids! It was disgusting.” Bill made a face. After a few moments, he shook his head again. “You know, I’m really sorry about what happened to the rest of the family. It’s a terrible thing. But screw that guy. The world’s a better place.”

  “How’d you hear about the murders?” Alex was easing Bill into the final issue: his alibi.

  Bill’s tone was bitter. “Not from anyone at work. I haven’t spoken to them since I left. I heard it on the news. I was at the airport on my way back down here to pack up my stuff. I’d just gotten the job up in Silicon Valley.”

  I slouched down in my chair, disappointed. So he was probably in Silicon Valley at the time of the murders. Damn. So much for Everleigh. After another few minutes, Alex wrapped it up. I headed to the car, and Alex joined me thirty seconds later. We got in, and he leaned back against the seat and blew out a breath. “Man, he really hates that guy.”

  “You could see that from space. But if he’s telling the truth, he has a solid alibi.”

  Alex started the car. “It’ll be easy enough to check out. I just wonder how much of his stuff about Stephen being a perv is believable.”

  “Me, too. Seemed a little over the top to me.” But not impossible. Pervs did walk among us.

  As I well knew.

  FOURTEEN

  Since we were already downtown, I decided to drop in on Cassie and see how she was doing.
“Can you give me a lift, Alex? I’ll just Uber home.”

  Alex lifted his hands off the steering wheel. “See how they’re shaking? That’s because I fear what Michelle will do to us if she finds out you spent money on Uber.”

  That was, unfortunately, no exaggeration. And Michelle didn’t even know I was footing the bill for Deshawn’s hideaway. Yet. “But I think Cassie’s more comfortable talking one-on-one, and I don’t want you to get stuck waiting for me.”

  “I’ll ‘wait’ at the Americana. Take your time.”

  The Americana at Brand was a great mall in Glendale, the kind that was like a Disneyland for shoppers. Alex really knew how to make the most of a situation. When he dropped me off, I said, “Let me know if there are any good sales.”

  But Cassie wasn’t home. Barbara was apologetic. “I didn’t know you were coming. She asked if she could go see her friends, Tawny and Rain. I thought it’d be good for her to get out and do something normal. I’m so sorry.”

  “No, no, Barbara. My bad. I just assumed she’d be here, which was silly of me.” But now that I was here, I might as well make the most of it. I’d been meaning to talk to her daughter. “Would you mind very much if I spoke to Debbie? Just to get her view on things?”

  Barbara didn’t mind at all.

  I knocked on the door and heard Debbie tell me to come in. Whereas Cassie’s room had been a typical guest room—clean, tidy, but spare, no personality—this room very obviously belonged to a teenage girl: posters of Meghan Trainor, Nicki Minaj, and One Direction; no stuffed animals, but lots of powder-blue and pink pillows; framed photos of Debbie with various girlfriends in goofy poses; and hanging over the mirror above a dressing table, a multicolored, pop-bead-style necklace that said “Holly 2015”—Holly’s birthday commemorative, I surmised.

  Debbie was lying on the bed, watching television. It looked like South Park.

  Debbie herself was one of those girls you overlook in every group photo. Her brown hair was long, thin, and parted in the middle to frame a fair-skinned face with no discernible bone structure and pale-brown eyes. She looked at me with a gaze that was flat and uninterested.