Moral Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 2)

by Marcia Clark

  I couldn’t believe it. “Jeezus. Did Sanborn know they were in there?”

  “Good question. He wasn’t on duty when they found the bodies. He’d actually been off for the last two days before they were found, and he gave a statement denying any knowledge. There’s no indication he ever got disciplined.”

  But that didn’t mean Sanborn didn’t know. “Assuming Sanborn did know, why would he stop the truck?”

  Alex rubbed his fingers together. “To get more money.”

  “You assume.” Alex nodded. “So how do we prove it? How can we find out whether Sanborn was on the take? And more to the point, how do we know Hausch had anything to do with this?”

  “We don’t. But he was close by.” Alex looked down at his iPad mini. “Hausch moonlighted as private security for a warehouse close to Nogales PD. According to their records, the day that truck driver came through, Hausch was working at the warehouse.”

  A lot of this was just guesswork. But if it turned out to be right, if Hausch and Sanborn were on the take and knew about those immigrants and just left them to die, they were a couple of the most despicable murderers I’d ever seen. “So how do we find out if Hausch was at the checkpoint? I assume the truck driver’s in the wind.”

  “He is. And I checked the ID he supposedly gave Sanborn. The name doesn’t match the date of birth or birthplace. So it’s bogus.”

  It figured. “Is there a ray of light here?”

  “There is. I found a discrepancy in the reports. The first report shows there were twelve in the truck. The follow-up only shows ten.”

  Michelle had been half lying on the couch, but now she sat up. “What happened to the other two?”

  There only seemed to be two possibilities. “Was it a mistake? Or did they survive?”

  “I’m guessing—and hoping—that they survived,” Alex said. “And someone—maybe Sanborn—got hold of the follow-up report and dropped them off the list.”

  I sat back and folded my arms. “How do we know that?”

  “We don’t. Not for sure. We just know that Sanborn was on duty the day the follow-up was written.”

  I thought about that for second. “How come no one else caught the discrepancy?”

  Alex tapped his iPad again and read his notes. “The sergeant did. Sanborn put in his follow-up that the first report mistakenly included the names of two witnesses on the victim list.”

  I frowned. I knew that cops take down the names of everyone near the scene, whether they saw anything or not. “But I thought the truck driver who called it in was the only one around.”

  Alex gave me a pointed look. “Exactly. And I didn’t find any witness statements in the paperwork.”

  Michelle tilted her head toward the iPad. “But if they didn’t see anything, then maybe the cops didn’t bother to write it up. Isn’t that possible?”

  I nodded. “It is, and if so, then I’d think the cop who took the initial report would have something to say about it. Did he have any comments about Sanborn’s story?”

  Alex sighed and shook his head. “Not that I could find. But still . . . it just doesn’t feel right.”

  I had to agree. This whole thing just didn’t pass the smell test. The fact that Sanborn wasn’t on the job the day the illegals were found—when the report that listed twelve names was written—stuck in my craw. And if our suspicions about his being on the take were right, those two survivors were lucky Sanborn hadn’t been there—or they wouldn’t have been survivors for long. “Then you think those two may have escaped?”

  Alex nodded. “Again, it’s just a working hypothesis, but yes. And I think Sanborn took them off the list so no one could track them down.”

  “Did they get names for any of these guys?”

  “They got names for all of them. Whether they’re accurate is another story. Anyway, that’s what I’m working on now.”

  This really might be a big break. “Great job, Alex. But stick with the Internet for now. If you find those two survivors, we’ll need to get Dale on board.”

  “I agree. And I’ll check with Dale, but I’d bet the MS-13 is all over this.”

  It seemed likely. “Which means Sanborn and Hausch are in bed with them. Or were.”

  Michelle stood up and gave Alex a stern look. “Then all I can say is, you better not let them get wind of what you’re doing.”

  I turned back to my computer. “Just a sec, Michy. I’m sending you the contact information for Cassie’s old boyfriend, Waylon Stubing. Can you get me a meeting ASAP?”

  “Yep. What time’s the arraignment tomorrow?”

  “Eight thirty. Want me to pick you up at home?” We all lived in West Hollywood within a few miles of one another. Not by design, just dumb luck.

  Michelle made a face. “How about I pick you up?”

  I lifted my hands. “Why must you all hate Beulah?”

  Alex joined Michelle at the door. “We’re not haters. We just like to breathe air—”

  “Instead of toxic fumes,” Michelle chimed in.

  I crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it at them.

  A few minutes later, Michelle buzzed me. “You can see Waylon in an hour if you want. He said he could meet you at Kaldi Coffee.”

  I didn’t like the idea of meeting him in a public place. But I needed to find out whether I finally had a witness who’d say Cassie had complained about the abuse to someone before the murders. “Okay. Tell him I’ll see him there.”

  I’d get him to take a walk or drive to a park or something if I didn’t like the setup at the coffee shop.

  But as it turned out, Kaldi Coffee was fine. Small, off the beaten path, and empty except for a bored-looking middle-aged woman with frizzy red hair, who seemed to be watching a cartoon show on her iPhone. I got a cup of coffee and took a table as far from the window as I could get.

  A few minutes later, Waylon showed up. Tall, slender, with sensitive dark eyes, a wide mouth, and flying eyebrows, he wore a black-and-white wool scarf draped around his neck and a black, pinch-front fedora that looked a little too small. Everything about him screamed Drama Club.

  He pulled out the chair across from me. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  “Nope. I just got here.” Wow, manners and charm. Cassie had a lot better taste than I’d had at her age.

  I thanked him for meeting with me, then asked when he and Cassie had started dating.

  He picked at the edge of his scarf as he spoke. “Around the beginning of the year. We got to talking during an emergency drill, and she said she might want to join Drama.” He dropped the scarf and made a sweeping gesture with his hands. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  I didn’t think they would say that or anything close to it, but I nodded. “How long did you guys date?”

  Waylon sighed and pushed his hat back on his head. “About three months. We broke up the day before Christmas.” He gave a sarcastic little smile. “Merry Christmas, huh?”

  Just three months, and yet she told him what she’d never told anyone else. “Did you guys ever hang out before you started dating?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “We’ve known each other since junior high, and we’d always been friends. But I can’t say we ever really hung out before we started dating, other than at school—lunch and breaks, stuff like that.”

  “Did she ever tell you she had problems with her family?”

  Waylon’s forehead wrinkled. “Ever? Try always. That’s how we first got to be friends.”

  “By talking about her family?”

  “Both our families. I’m adopted, too.”

  Of course. That made sense. She knew he’d “get it” the way none of her other friends could. “What did she tell you?”

  Waylon slouched farther down in his chair and twisted the end of his scarf. “At first, it was just about the way her mom would always remind her how lucky she was to get picked by such a great family. And about Abel always saying mean shit to her like, her r
eal mom was a crack whore and Cassie was probably going to turn out the same.” He had a look of disgust. “I know it’s not cool to say bad things about the dead, but Abel was a real douche.”

  This was not news. “You said at first? Did she tell you different things later on?”

  Waylon stared down at the table. “After we started dating, she told me he was making her . . . have sex with him.”

  That was helpful, but more detail would be better. “Can you be a little more specific? Did she tell you what he made her do?”

  His cheeks reddened. “Um, oral and, ah . . . I think anal.” I’d left my empty packets of sweetener on the table, and he played with one of them now, twisting it around and around. “I tried to get her to go to the cops, but she wouldn’t do it. She said no one would believe her, and her parents would kick her out and she’d wind up in foster care.”

  “Did she ever complain about her father?”

  Waylon frowned. “No. Not to me.” He stared at me, his expression troubled. “Did she say he was, ah . . . abusing her, too?”

  “I can’t discuss anything she told me.”

  “Oh, right. Sure. Sorry.”

  I shook my head. “S’okay.”

  He’d corroborated Abel, and that was good. Very, very good. The fact that he didn’t know about Stephen might hurt, but not much. I could argue Cassie was too embarrassed to admit that he’d victimized her, too. So far, it was all adding up: the reason why she’d tell Waylon, the reason why she wouldn’t tell anyone else. “I don’t want to embarrass you, but can I ask you a personal question about your relationship with Cassie?”

  Waylon looked at me intently. “Okay.”

  “Did you two have sex?”

  He flushed again, then shook his head. “We made out and stuff, but we never went all the way.”

  That figured, given what she’d been going through at home. “Is that why you broke up with her?”

  Waylon’s gaze slid off to the right. “Cassie was the one who broke up. She said she was too messed up to be in a relationship.”

  I caught the inflection. “You didn’t believe her?”

  “Not really. I got the feeling there was someone else.”

  I was a little surprised. “Do you know who?”

  Waylon shook his head. “But I don’t think it was anyone in school.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d have seen him. Or at least heard about it.”

  “There wasn’t even a rumor?”

  Waylon met my eyes. “Nothing.”

  THIRTY

  It was after seven o’clock by the time I left Glendale. I called Michelle to find out whether there was any pressing reason to go back to the office. “Does Alex have anything for me yet?”

  “No, so don’t bother. I’ll be cutting out of here pretty soon myself. Did you get anything out of Waylon?”

  “Yeah, a lot. Tell you tomorrow when you pick me up.”

  I ended the call and thought about how I wanted to handle the press. There wouldn’t be any in-court coverage. Cassie was a minor, so they couldn’t photograph her. The only face time I’d get would be on the courthouse steps. The question was, did I want any face time right now? I didn’t think so. Not yet. I needed to know what the doctor said, and I wanted to get Michelle’s take on Cassie. There’d be plenty of time to start the battle wagons rolling after tomorrow.

  I’d been doing a lot of nonstop running for the past few days, and by the time I got home, I was shot. I put myself to bed at ten thirty, hoping to get in a few hours of solid sleep before the nightmare slashed my psyche.

  I didn’t do too badly. It was almost six by the time I woke up. A very good night for me. I pulled out one of my three high-priced suits from Barney’s. The suits came courtesy of my stepdad, Jack, the real estate mogul whom my mother had persuaded to put a ring on it—and who happened, just by accident (certainly not her design), to be a great guy. He’d bought them for me during Dale’s case after I’d been trashed on cable shows for dressing like a bargain-basement rag doll. Someday, women won’t have to put up with it. Someday, people are going to care more about what we say and do than what we look like.

  But that day didn’t seem to be coming any time soon, so I stepped into my black platform heels, sprayed my hair, checked my makeup, and finished my fourth cup of coffee.

  Michelle arrived with my fifth cup at seven thirty. On the way to court, I filled her in on what Waylon had said.

  She was impressed. “He’s probably the best backup yet.”

  “He’s really good. But we’ll see what you think when you meet Cassie.”

  There were a few reporters outside the courthouse, but nothing like the throngs I’d had to wade through during Dale’s case. I waved to Brittany, a Channel Four reporter I’d gotten friendly with back then. She motioned to ask me whether I wanted to comment. I shook my head. And I did the same with the other reporters.

  When we got into court, I noticed a few print reporters in the audience. But since there were no cameras, the atmosphere was business as usual—a welcome relief. Even so, the bailiff brought out Cassie first and told me they were going to call our case right away, to get the reporters out of there. I barely had ten seconds to introduce Michelle before the judge came out.

  Judge James Groff, a young guy I hadn’t seen before, took the bench, and as I stood next to Cassie, I could feel her whole body shaking. The prosecutor, a young blonde woman who looked about twelve years old, said in a Minnie Mouse voice that she was just standing in for the arraignment. When she read the charges, I heard an audible gasp from the audience.

  So did the judge. He threw a stern look at the audience, and the courtroom fell silent. I liked him already. When he asked Cassie how she pleaded, I turned to her and whispered, “You can do this.”

  Cassie gave me a frightened glance, and for a second, I thought she was going to blow it. But then, in a clear, if somewhat soft voice, she said, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  I leaned in and whispered, “Good job.”

  We set a date for the fitness hearing, and the judge called the next case. As the bailiff led Cassie out, I told her we’d meet her at the jail. She looked back and nodded.

  It’d take at least an hour for Cassie to get back to Twin Towers, so Michelle and I grabbed breakfast in the courthouse cafeteria.

  As she walked past the steaming trays of food, she made a face. “Is this actually people food?” She pointed to the vat of oatmeal. “What the hell is that? It looks like boiled Styrofoam.”

  We both opted for the safety of toast and cold cereal. Then we headed over to Twin Towers.

  Cassie looked drained when they brought her into the attorney room. I picked up the phone and introduced Michelle again. She glanced at Michelle, then turned back to me, her expression worried. “Did I do okay?”

  “You did great.” It was time to tell her our game plan. “I’m thinking we might go public with your history of abuse. I’m fairly sure we’ll have to take this case to trial, and I want the people who’re going to wind up on your jury to know your side of things as soon as possible. You okay with that?” It didn’t really matter. The lawyer controls the case and sets the strategy. The only decisions the clients really get to make are whether to plead guilty and whether to take the stand. But it’s good to let them feel like they have a say in things. Makes them more cooperative.

  Cassie’s eyes bounced between Michelle and me. “How are you going to do that?”

  “By talking to reporters. First me. And then, maybe you.”

  Cassie looked panicked. “Me? Why?”

  I’d known there was going to be some pushback on that point. “It’ll be more effective coming from you. But we don’t have to make a final decision about that now. Whether you talk to a reporter or not, I have to start getting you ready to testify. Because you’re definitely going to have to take the stand. And getting ready means going over your testimony many, many times.”

  Cassie had gotten
so pale I could see the blue veins in her temples. “Does that mean I have to say all those things in court, in front of everyone?”

  “I’m afraid so. But the more we practice, the easier it’ll get. I promise. So let’s start. Tell us what happened with Abel when you were thirteen.”

  I took her through the whole story. At first, Cassie’s voice shook, and she stumbled over her answers as she darted glances at Michelle. But as we got further along, her voice got steadier. She had to stop a few times when tears got in the way, but that was all to the good. I hoped she’d still be able to do that at trial. Sometimes, coaching can bleed that kind of emotion out of a client. But no way would I coach her to cry on the witness stand.

  Crying during testimony is only effective if it’s real. Nothing turns off a jury faster than fake tears. And since none of my clients are Strasberg graduates, my advice to them is always, “Try not to cry.”

  When we’d gone through the whole thing, I said, “That was great, Cassie. Now I’m going to give you some homework. For next time, I want you to try and remember as many details as possible. Especially about the first time Abel or your father came into your room. Try and remember what pajamas you wore, what they wore, what happened that day, where you went, who you saw. Any details you can add to the picture will help.”

  Cassie stammered, “B-but it happened so long ago, and there were so many nights.” She hung her head. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to remember all that stuff.” She looked up at me, her mouth turned down. “And I don’t want to.”

  “I don’t blame you. And I’m not asking you to remember everything. But the more specific you can be, the more the jury will believe you.”

  Cassie closed her eyes and sighed. “I’ll try.”

  I looked at her with sympathy. “I wish there were another way.”

  Cassie ran a hand through her short hair. “They said the doctor’s going to do the exam at three o’clock. Is it a woman?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Naomi Hawkins was a sexual assault expert. I’d never worked with her myself, but I’d seen her testify in court, and she was fantastic. Had the jury eating out of her hand in the first five minutes. “I think you’ll like her.”