Moral Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 2)

by Marcia Clark

  I popped back up to look. Our garage guy was standing to the left of the entrance with another man and speaking with some urgency. The other man scanned the area, and as his head swiveled in our direction, I saw that he looked like one of the Gomez brothers. And his expression was panicked. They took off, moving at a fast clip but not running.

  Dale pulled out his phone. “Alex?” He shook his head. “He must be driving. Shit. We’re gonna lose him.”

  “The hell we are.” I tucked my hair into my coat and shoved my hands into my pockets, hoping to look nondescript enough to blend in, then started after them.

  Behind me, I heard Dale mutter, “You’re gonna get us killed.” But he moved around to get ahead of me, and we walked as fast as we dared. Gomez—at least I assumed he was—and his roomie seemed to be headed for the street at the front of the building. Dale and I did our best to stay back, and we stopped behind every car or truck we passed in case they looked back. But we had to be cool about it, or the other workers would notice. Then we’d have a whole new set of problems.

  When they reached the street, we were just fifty feet behind them. Dale whispered into his cell phone. “Alex? You there?” I held my breath as I waited to hear whether he answered. And exhaled as Dale began to tell him where we were. “Yeah. So just pull up next to them, and I’ll push in from my side.” But as we reached the corner, Gomez and his buddy broke into a run and turned right. I started to give chase, but Dale held me back. “Wait. Let’s see what they do.”

  We moved to the corner and saw that they were already halfway down the street. We followed at a slower pace until we saw them cross to the other side. There was a rusted old storage pod on the curb to our left. We hid behind it and watched as they ran to an old, badly beat-up white Datsun that was missing its back bumper. I hissed to Dale, “Shit! Where’s Alex?”

  Then I heard Alex’s voice coming through Dale’s cell phone. Dale put it to his ear and listened, then said, “Perfect, now turn right.” He described our position and the junker they’d just gotten into. Gomez started the car. It kicked over with a slow, reluctant whine. I willed it to choke and die, but no such luck. He gave it more gas, and the engine coughed to life. Gomez gunned it. The car jumped away from the curb, tires squealing. A loose pipe under the carriage threw sparks as it scraped along the road. Compared with that heap, Beulah was a goddess.

  Seconds later, Alex’s black Toyota Camry rounded the corner and pulled up next to us. Gomez had reached the end of the block. He made a fast right, and I heard the old car give a harsh roar as he took the turn. We jumped in, and Alex stomped on the gas; we flew down the block.

  “Try to hang back,” Dale said. “I don’t think he’s going far. Let’s see where he’s headed.”

  Alex eased off the pedal, and we caught a glimpse of their taillights as they hung a left at the next corner. I hoped they’d go back to the house we’d been staking. If they were heading to some friend’s house, we’d have to pull the plug. We couldn’t risk walking up to an unknown place where we might be outnumbered—and outgunned.

  As Alex rounded the next corner, he turned off his headlights. The white Datsun had slowed, which quieted the engine but did nothing to calm the screeching pipe that dragged underneath. Alex fell back farther. The Datsun made another left. We were in luck. “It looks like they’re heading back to the house.”

  Alex nodded. “Seems so.”

  “And I bet I know why,” Dale said.

  I saw the ghost warehouses up ahead. If they made a right at the next corner, we’d be back at Gomezes’ place. Sure enough, they turned right. Alex stopped just short of the corner. Dale got out and looked down the street to make sure. He raised a thumb, then got back inside. “My guess is he’s about to pack up and clear out. Leave the car here.”

  We all got out and found a hiding place at the side of the house next door—more accurately, a shack that was little more than a lean-to—and waited. After a few minutes, Gomez emerged from the house carrying an army duffel bag in his hand and a toaster oven under his arm. The other guy was nowhere in sight.

  Dale whispered to Alex. “On my three. One, two, three!” They shot out into the street, and I followed. Gomez stopped dead in his tracks when he saw them, then dropped the duffel bag and oven and tore off down the street.

  We all pounded after him, Dale in the lead. But as we ran down the pitch-black street, I started to worry that Gomez might have friends around here. Friends who wouldn’t mind carving up some strangers just for the fun of it. Gomez came to a chain-link fence. I hoped it’d stop him. But he flung himself up and over it with amazing agility.

  Alex had passed Dale. He took the fence at a running leap and flew over it. Dale wasn’t far behind, but by the time he got over the fence, Alex was way ahead and gaining on Gomez, running across an empty, weed-covered field. I was about to climb the fence when I saw that it ended just ten feet to my right. I’d have laughed if I weren’t so winded. I ran around the fence and fell in behind Dale. The street at the far end of the field, where I saw more housing similar to the Gomezes’, was just fifty yards from Alex now. If Gomez had friends in those houses, we were in big trouble.

  I tried to catch up and warn Alex, but he was too far ahead. When they’d reached the last ten yards before the street, I yelled to Dale, my voice hoarse and winded. “Get them before they hit the street!”

  Dale raised a hand to show he’d heard me and barreled toward them. I kept running, but the sharp pain in my side was slowing me down. Gomez hit the street and yelled, “Ayudame!”

  Help me! His voice echoed down the block. Someone was bound to come out any second. Alex made a flying jump and threw himself on Gomez’s back. They went down. At that same moment, the front door of one of the houses opened and a burly man in a tank shirt stepped out. I pulled out my gun and stopped, about to take aim when Dale finally reached them. He yanked Gomez away from Alex and held on to him.

  Alex called out, “No hay problema! El es mi hermano! Estamos jugandos!”

  I didn’t know whether I’d have bought the claim that they were just brothers, playing around. But apparently, the man in the doorway did. He waved them off and went back inside. I bent over, hands on my knees, and tried to catch my breath. After a few moments, I trotted over to the group.

  When Gomez saw me, his expression changed from terror to confusion. I didn’t look like either a cop or a gangbanger. His eyes shifted among the three of us, then he asked Alex, “Que quieres?”

  He’d stopped struggling, but Dale hung on to his arm while Alex explained who we were—and weren’t—and what we wanted. Gomez looked at each of us carefully for a long moment. Finally, he nodded and agreed to talk. But he was nervous about having left everything he owned out on the street, so we headed back to his house. Luckily, the duffel bag and toaster oven were still there. Gomez locked them in his car, then invited us in to talk.

  The house consisted of one room with a sink against the wall—probably the only one in the place. It was so cold inside, I could practically see my breath. The air smelled of onions and beans. The source of the latter was a banged-up pot on a hot plate. Two plastic plates, a bowl, and some plastic cutlery lay on a towel on the small counter next to it. There was a door at the far end of the room that I assumed led to a bathroom—though I wouldn’t swear to it. The only seating available was a couch that’d been ripped and torn in so many places it was hard to find a patch of fabric big enough to sit on. Alex and Gomez sat on opposite ends—which still put them within about a foot of each other—and Dale perched on the arm. I remained standing. The stitch in my side was gone, but my chest still felt raw from all that racing around in the cold night air, and the frigid temperature in that room wasn’t helping matters. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and shifted from one foot to another to generate some body heat.

  Alex did the translating. We confirmed that he was indeed one of the Gomez brothers—Santiago Gomez. I speak some Spanish myself, but I’m not good enough
to keep up when people are speaking as fast as Alex and Santiago were, so I gave up and waited for the translation.

  After a few moments, Alex held up a hand and told us what he’d said. “He remembers that when they stopped in Nogales, a police officer spoke to the truck driver.” He turned back to Santiago, who continued with his story. Alex translated again. “He and his brother were sitting next to the partition between the driver and the back of the truck. There was a little window that was usually closed, but the driver had opened it just before they got to the checkpoint to tell them all to shut up, and he hadn’t closed it all the way.”

  I asked, “So he was able to see who the driver was talking to?”

  Santiago answered. “Sí.”

  I pulled out photos of Hausch and Sanborn. “Was it one of these men?”

  He stared at them for a long moment, then, with a shaking finger, he pointed to Hausch. “Sí. Es el policía.”

  Alex asked him if he was sure. He gave Alex a hard look. “Sí, estoy seguro.”

  “Do you remember what they said?” I asked.

  I’d stretched past Santiago’s English vocabulary. He looked at Alex, who translated for him.

  His face hardened with anger. “Pues, sí. Como podría olvidarlo?”

  Yes. How could I forget? He stopped to calm himself for a moment, then he continued in heavily accented English. “He say, ‘Where the money is?’ Driver say, ‘I pay you already.’ Policía say, ‘El precio . . . price . . . go up.’ Driver . . .” Santiago made a walking motion with his fingers and gave a little whistle.

  I thought I understood, but I wanted to nail it down. “The driver left? El se fue?”

  Santiago nodded. “Sí.”

  It was a simple but harrowing story. Hausch was a dirty cop who took bribes to let someone—possibly the MS-13—deal in human trafficking. When the driver hadn’t paid up, Hausch had walked away and left the truck—and the men trapped inside it—to bake in the fierce desert sun. That probably hadn’t been the plan. Hausch had likely expected the driver to come back and pay up. Not that it mattered. Santiago’s testimony would shred him. Hausch was going down, and I couldn’t wait to see it happen. “Can you ask him how he got away from Nogales?”

  Alex did, then translated his answer. “He and his brother escaped from the hospital during the night.”

  I glanced at Dale. “Right again.”

  Dale gave me a flat look. “I have done this before.” He turned to Alex. “Can you ask him where his brother is?”

  When Alex translated the question, Santiago teared up and had to pause to collect himself. Then he gave a lengthy answer.

  Alex grew increasingly troubled as he spoke, and by the time Santiago finished, Alex was really upset. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Santiago and his brother made it to Pomona, where they had relatives. But after a couple of months, the relatives heard that the MS-13 were looking for them. They packed up that night. Santiago wanted to leave right away, but his brother had to say good-bye to a woman he’d been dating. They ambushed him on the way home and stabbed him to death.”

  Those fucking monsters. “Please tell him how sorry we are.”

  Alex told him that, plus a few more things I didn’t catch that were probably a lot more poetic. While Alex spoke to Santiago, I thought about how to persuade him to come up to LA to testify. “Can you ask him if he’d like to relocate to LA?”

  Alex inclined his head toward me. “You think you can find him a job?”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure I can find him something. And he’s going to need to be in LA to testify. So why not move?” I looked around the room. “It’s not as though he’s living large down here.”

  Alex spoke to him in Spanish again. Santiago seemed to like the idea. He nodded and said, “Sí” a few times. He said something else to Alex, then he stood up and headed to the door.

  Alex turned back to us. “He seems to like the idea of moving to LA.”

  I turned and watched him walk out the door. “Then where’s he going?”

  “He just wants to bring in his stuff. He was getting nervous that someone might break into his car.”

  I didn’t blame him. Until I heard the engine of the old Datsun cough and kick over. I jumped up and ran to the door.

  Just in time to see the car speed down the street, sparks flying behind it.

  I looked at Dale. “You really have done this before.”

  He stared at me, exasperated. “Shut up.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  We searched the room for any clue as to where he might’ve run, but either he didn’t keep addresses around or he’d already packed everything up. We had to admit defeat.

  Alex and I were pissed off, but Dale looked like he was ready to kill someone. As he paced around the tiny space, his face got redder and redder. I was a pacer, too. Another one of those little habits we shared.

  Dale finally stopped and looked at us, his hands on his hips. “We found him once; we can find him again. And this time, we drag him into court with a subpoena.”

  I hated to rain on his parade, but that was hopeless. “And then he lies his ass off—”

  Dale fired back. “And then we all testify to what he told us.”

  He hadn’t played this out. “You sure you want to do that? It won’t exactly endear you to the department, and wasn’t that the whole point of taking on Hausch’s case?”

  “Screw that. He’s a murderer. Jeezus! Ten dead—eleven if you count Santiago’s brother. And he’s obviously in bed with the MS-13.” Dale started pacing again. “He probably did have something to do with disappearing Julio’s sister—and God knows how many others!”

  I nodded. “No argument.”

  Dale set his jaw. “Hausch has got to go down, Sam.”

  I thought it was cool that he was willing to screw his chances of getting into RHD to do the right thing. Except it wasn’t worth it. “Let me tell you how this plays out in court. Santiago swears he never fingered Hausch. We say he did—and that he actually heard Hausch ask for more money. Hausch’s lawyer then jumps up our collective asses about how we tainted Santiago’s ID by only showing him photos of Sanborn and Hausch. He says, ‘Talk about a suggestive lineup. Those guys look so different you may as well have shown him photos of Hausch and a refrigerator.’ Plus, don’t forget, Santiago only saw him through a crack in a small window.” Dale started to argue, but I held up a hand. “Wait, we’re not done. Next, the lawyer goes after what Santiago supposedly heard. ‘How the hell would he know what they said? He can barely say his own name in English.’ The judge, who doesn’t like the idea of nailing a cop anyway, says, ‘Case dismissed.’ Hausch walks, you look like a backstabbing piece of shit, and you’ll wind up wishing you were in Cold Cases when you see the sinkhole they shove you into.”

  Dale raked a hand through his hair, his face dark as thunder. “I can’t just let this go.”

  I stared at the floor, thinking. “I didn’t say we had to let it go. But if you shoot at the king, you’d better kill the king. We need other witnesses. Find that other cop, Sanborn. Maybe we can twist him hard enough to scare him into testifying against Hausch. And try to find out who else went missing like Julio’s sister did. If we can find even one of them who’ll finger Hausch, we’ll have enough to move on him.”

  Alex pulled the car keys out of his pocket. His expression was bleak. “I don’t like our chances on either front.”

  Neither did I, but it was a shock to see Alex, the ever-confident can-do guy look so defeated. “Maybe we can’t get Hausch. But it’s worth a try. And you never know. Sometimes justice moves in mysterious ways.”

  It was a quiet ride home. No one was in a great mood, and really, what was there to say? For all intents and purposes, we were back to square one.

  When I got home, I took a long, hot, soapy shower and poured myself a stiff shot of Patrón Silver. Tomorrow, I’d get the results of Cassie’s doctor’s exam and meet with the shrinker experts. Then it’d be time to
put my media blitz into action.

  I’d had my usual bad night, but—unusual for me—I fell back asleep. When I finally woke up, it was after eight. Shit! I jumped out of bed. Dr. Hawkins was going to call at nine, and if I missed her, it’d be hell trying to get ahold of her again. She was one of the few sexual assault experts who still had a clinical practice.

  I threw on slacks and a sweater, gulped down two cups of coffee while I did a minimal makeup job, and raced to the office. Well, raced might be a strong word—Beulah doesn’t do race. But I managed to get to the office at one minute before nine. Michelle, angel of mercy that she was, had brought in coffee and bagels. She handed me one of each and a little container of cream cheese. “Dr. Hawkins is on line one. Go.”

  I hurried into my office and picked up the phone as I set out my breakfast. “Jeez, Naomi, when you say nine o’clock, you really mean it.”

  She gave a little laugh. “It’s a Virgo thing.”

  Or not. I’d had a friend in law school who was a Virgo. She was late so often I accused her of not being able to read a digital clock. “So how’d it go?”

  “No vaginal trauma. No external bruising around the genital or breast area.”

  “Is that bad? From what Cassie said, it didn’t sound like there’d be—”

  “No, that’s not a problem at all. It’s consistent with what she reported. And I did find evidence of anal trauma, which is also consistent with what she reported. But . . . are you sure the last assault was three weeks ago?”

  “That’s what she said. Why?”

  “Because there was some slight evidence of trauma, but it looked relatively fresh. As a general rule, injuries in the perianal area heal very quickly, within hours. And other signs of abuse, such as anal laxity, usually disappear after seven to ten days. Even if Cassie’d had scar tissue, it’d be gone by now.”

  That worried me. “Is it possible Cassie injured herself so you’d find trauma?”

  “Of course. It’s also possible she didn’t, and I’m misinterpreting what I saw. It was fairly subtle. And you should know that there’s a margin of error when it comes to interpreting certain signs. Other doctors might not even classify the irregularities I found as trauma.”