Moral Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 2)

by Marcia Clark

  But I had to know how this would play in court. “What would you say about the possibility that she injured herself?”

  “That even if she did, that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s lying. It may just mean she’s desperate for us to believe her. I assume she knows how much it would help her case if I said I found evidence of trauma.”

  She did—in part, because I’d told her. “So bottom line, what would you be able to say to the jury about your findings?”

  “Basically that they don’t conflict with what she’s reported.”

  “But they don’t necessarily support her story, either.”

  Naomi sighed. “Yes, in layman’s terms, I’d say it’s a wash.”

  I ended the call feeling conflicted. The jury would want to hear from a medical doctor. But the possibility that Cassie had deliberately injured herself—even though there was an innocent explanation—worried me. I’d have to wait and hear what the shrinkers had to say about that before deciding whether to use Naomi.

  Which would be soon. Dr. Michael Edelman, the first of the three shrinkers, was due in forty-five minutes. I used the time to write up a sentencing memo on an arson case. The idiot had set fire to a chair in an abandoned office building near Skid Row. The cops caught him dancing around it and singing, “Happy birthday to me.” And he kept singing in the patrol car, all the way to jail. The cops had it on video. Big shock: the dipshit had been high on Molly, AKA Ecstasy. I was trying to persuade the judge to give him low term, but the prosecutor had been acting all chesty about how the “potential consequences of his actions were devastating.” Yeah, okay, but the actual consequences were a charred piece of junk furniture, a pile of ashes, and a tortured version of “Happy Birthday.”

  Dr. Edelman showed up ten minutes late, which I didn’t mind because it gave me the chance to finish my memo. He had that young/old look going for him. Salt-and-pepper hair and a tailored dress shirt and slacks that showed a fit build. He told me to call him Michael and gave me a crinkle-eyed smile. The women on the jury would eat him up.

  He confirmed Naomi’s positive spin on the possibility of Cassie having injured herself. “Matter of fact, I’ve seen a lot worse. One of my patients actually did it with the handle of a screwdriver.”

  “How do you know she did it on purpose?”

  “He. Because he admitted it. His abuser was the director of the summer camp where my patient had worked. He claimed my patient was the one who’d made a pass and that he’d rejected it.”

  “So the director claimed your patient lied because he was pissed off.” Michael nodded. “How did you confirm your patient was telling the truth?”

  “Everything about him and his story seemed authentic, but there were also fresh complaint witnesses. He told his sister and a friend about it. And yes, the jury did convict the director.”

  If Cassie’s ex-boyfriend, Waylon, held up, I’d have a fresh complaint witness, too. I briefly described Cassie’s story. “What do you think? Does it strike you as incredible that she’d have been assaulted by both her brother and her father?”

  “We both know it could be true. Sadly, there are so many cases of molestation that are bizarre. And Cassie wouldn’t be the first I’ve seen who was assaulted by more than one member of the family. Most of those cases involve foster children, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen to others—even blood relatives. The other possibility is that her story could just be partially true. It seems pretty clear that the brother was the primary assailant. So it’s possible she put the father into the mix to shore up her credibility, not realizing that it might actually have the opposite effect. But then again . . .” Michael steepled his hands in front of his face and thought for a moment. “It’s a tough thing to admit. Much worse than a brother. A father is supposed to protect a child. Children want and need to believe in him as their hero, and they don’t let go of that need even when they really should. So it’s pretty rare to see a child make up that kind of lie. My guess would be her father did something to her.”

  “You mean, even if he didn’t touch her?”

  “Right. If he’s putting out a sexual vibe with her, looking at her like a woman instead of his daughter, making sexual comments about her—all of that can be very damaging. In any case, whatever the specifics, it’s hard to believe there wasn’t something very wrong in that family.”

  I liked him. And not just because he echoed the very theme I intended to pound into my jury: that something had gone very wrong in that family. He had a warm, down-to-earth way about him. Not condescending or imperious or overly ingratiating like some of the other forensic shrinkers I’d seen. I put Michael Edelman down as a solid “possible.”

  The other two experts said roughly the same thing. And one, Dr. Amy Rappaport, was an adopted child who’d been molested by her father. She was a less solid “possible.” Her personal experience would give the prosecutor a lot of ammunition to claim bias. But her confirmation of the likely authenticity of Cassie’s story was reassuring to me on a personal level.

  After the last expert left, I went out and told Michelle what they’d said. “Think we’ve got enough to go to the press?”

  Michelle adjusted her Scünci—gray and pink stripes today—and sat back. “Sure sounds like it. And I talked to Trevor. He said he’s got just the reporter for you.” She glanced at the notepad next to the phone. “Sheryl Hallberg. Been with him for a few months. He says she’s great. Do we trust him?”

  “We do about that. Okay, set it up for this afternoon if you can.” I didn’t want to give Cassie too much advance notice of the interview. It’d just give her time to get worked up into a freaked-out mess—or worse, think up ways to embellish her story.

  I went back to my office. Ten minutes later, Michelle walked in. “You’re all set. She’ll meet you at the jail at four thirty.”

  I looked up, surprised. “That was fast.”

  Michelle seemed unimpressed. “It’s a great story. And how often do reporters get to talk to a defendant?”

  When she put it that way . . . “I hope this isn’t a mistake.”

  If it were, it’d be a big one. Possibly the biggest professional mistake I’d ever made.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Hey, Sheryl, thanks for coming on such short notice.” I smiled and put out my hand as I glanced around to make sure none of the jail deputies were watching us. We were standing in the lobby at Twin Towers, and I needed to keep the introductions low-key.

  Sheryl had long, oily-looking dark hair that lay flat against her head. She wore no makeup, and her dark eyes bulged under thin eyebrows. And she had that reporter cosplay thing going on: faded “boyfriend” jeans—that really were men’s jeans—a gray pullover sweater, and an army-green cargo jacket with bulging pockets. She looked me over with a superior air as she shook my hand. “Thanks for giving me the interview.”

  But her tone said I was the one who should be thankful, that she was the genius, girl-wonder reporter, and that I was the lucky beneficiary of her boundless talent. I nodded toward the jail deputy behind the desk. “Remember, you’re my assistant.” I hadn’t been sure how the jail deputies would feel about a reporter coming in, so I’d decided not to take a chance.

  “Yeah, got it.”

  I really didn’t dig her vibe, but I needed her on my side. So I did my best to charm her as we made our way to the attorney room. She didn’t make it easy. When I congratulated her on getting the gig at Buzzworthy, she thanked me in a tone that said she thought it was beneath her. When I asked where she’d worked before Buzzworthy, she dusted me off with “lots of places.” I wondered whether Trevor had deliberately screwed me over by sending me a jerk. I wanted to kill the interview right then and there. But that would make Sheryl “I am womyn” an enemy for life. All I could do was hope she’d warm up when she sat down with Cassie.

  I’d warned Cassie when I’d first brought up the idea of telling her story to a reporter that the reporter might try to provoke her. “Whatev
er she does, don’t let her get to you. If you feel yourself getting angry, take a deep breath and wait a few seconds. I’ll jump in to pull her back. Okay?” Cassie had nodded, but she’d—very understandably—looked terrified.

  And now, when the guard brought her out, she didn’t look any better. She was mouth-breathing, and her eyes were wide and staring. I gave her a reassuring smile and squeezed a chair in next to me for Sheryl—which gave me the lovely opportunity to discover that Sheryl’s disdain for all things feminine included deodorant.

  Sheryl started out with routine background questions about Cassie’s childhood. Cassie spoke in short, halting sentences and looked everywhere but at the reporter. I was getting more nervous by the second. If things didn’t loosen up soon, this could turn out to be a real debacle. I tried to act relaxed, but inside my guts were twisting, and I found myself holding my breath with every question.

  But when Sheryl asked about the closed adoption and Cassie’s desire to find her birth mother, they seemed to find their groove. Sheryl began to nod, and the clinical tone she’d begun with shifted to conversational and then got downright sympathetic. I finally let myself exhale.

  “So tell me about the abuse, Cassie.” Sheryl made a show of putting down her pencil and looking into Cassie’s eyes.

  Cassie teared up. “It started when I was thirteen.”

  She made it all the way through her story. Sheryl stopped her only a few times for clarification. It went about as well as I could’ve hoped.

  With just one exception: she’d said nothing about her father. Nothing. Was it because Cassie was too embarrassed to admit it? Or had she made up the story about Stephen and feared that the reporter would catch her in the lie? When Sheryl left, I congratulated Cassie. “You did great, Cassie. Really. I’m proud of you.”

  Cassie gave a little smile and leaned back in her chair, looking tired but relieved. “Thanks. She was pretty nice, actually.”

  We’d see about that when the story came out. I’d had more than one supposedly warm, friendly interview result in a nasty hit piece. “I’m just curious—how come you didn’t tell her about your father?”

  Cassie’s eyes slid away. “I just . . . didn’t want to.”

  “Didn’t want to . . . why? You told me about it.”

  She picked at a thread on the knee of her jumpsuit. “You said that was confidential.” She glanced up at me briefly. “Just between us.”

  “It was. But why didn’t you want to tell Sheryl?”

  She looked away and turned to the side, so the phone receiver was between us.

  “Cassie, was it because it didn’t happen? Or because you’re embarrassed?”

  She spoke without looking at me. “I just didn’t want to, that’s all.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do with that nonanswer. But now, it no longer mattered whether it was true or not. “I need you to realize what you just did. That was your first public statement. If you decide to tell anyone else that Stephen molested you, it’ll raise questions about your honesty.”

  Cassie didn’t like what she was hearing. She turned back to me and frowned. “Why? Just because I didn’t say it this time? Maybe I just didn’t feel like it!”

  “And you can certainly say that if you want to talk about your father at some later point. But I’m warning you, it’s risky. People might not believe you. So we’ll need to think very carefully about whether you ever talk about your father again.”

  Cassie’s face was anguished. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  “I did. I told you that whatever you said to Sheryl would be the story we had to stick with.”

  She stared at me. “But you said it was okay if I didn’t tell it exactly the same way every time.”

  “About little things, Cassie. Details. Your father assaulting you is not a detail.” Cassie slouched in her chair again. She went back to picking at a thread on her jumpsuit. I wondered what was going on in her head. More than that, I wondered whether I’d ever know the whole truth about what’d happened to her. I sighed as I watched her through the glass.

  The guard warned me that visiting time was almost up.

  I had one more question. This probably wasn’t the greatest time for it, but I couldn’t afford to put it off. “Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

  Cassie’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Whatever.”

  “Can you tell me why you broke up with Waylon?”

  She gave me a puzzled look. “Why are you asking me that?”

  I wasn’t going to play these cat-and-mouse games with her. “Cassie, you need to trust me. I don’t ask questions ‘just ’cause.’ Why did you break up with him?”

  A defiant look crossed her face, but it passed, and she answered in a tone that was offhand. “I knew him since junior high. We were really more like friends than girlfriend and boyfriend. I guess I was just over it.”

  Was her nonchalance an act? I couldn’t tell. “That’s funny. Waylon had the impression you broke up because you were seeing someone else.”

  Cassie sat up. “What? No, I wasn’t.”

  I saw a touch of alarm. “Was it someone in school?”

  Her face closed. “I wasn’t seeing anyone else. He’s wrong.”

  The guard announced that visiting hours were up. I didn’t believe Cassie, but she obviously wasn’t going to tell me. I wondered whether there was someone who could. “Has Tiegan been visiting you?”

  Cassie looked at me as though she were trying to figure out my angle. “Yeah. She’s been here a couple of times. Why?”

  I gave her a friendly smile. “Just making sure you have people to talk to.”

  The guard on her side came in to get her. She peered at me for a moment, then stood up and walked out.

  I called Tiegan from the car and asked her whether she could try and find out who Cassie had been seeing after she broke up with Waylon.

  Tiegan wasn’t optimistic about her chances. “She never talked to me about Waylon, so I’d guess the odds of my getting her to talk about who else she might’ve been seeing are pretty lousy. But I’ll try. I just don’t get why she won’t tell you.”

  “Me neither. And maybe it doesn’t matter. But secrets have a way of biting you on the ass when you go to trial. So I want to be able to check this guy out.”

  She said she’d do her best. If Tiegan couldn’t pry it out of her, I’d have to find another way, because I was beginning to think that this mystery boyfriend might be more than just a personal wrinkle in Cassie’s life.

  Assuming Cassie had been seeing someone, it would’ve been in the months just before the murders, and that raised some serious questions: What if she’d told him about the molestation? And if she had, was it possible that he was the killer? What if Cassie was covering for him, painting herself as some romantic martyr?

  I posed the questions to Michelle when I got back to the office. “But it seems crazy that she’d cover for the guy.”

  Michelle looked noncommittal. “I don’t know. Teenage love can be a crazy thing. I’ll say this much, if she is covering for him, she’s bound to crack—and soon.”

  I remembered the utter shock on her face when I told her she’d probably be tried as an adult. “Yeah, definitely. But even if he’s not involved, he might be another fresh complaint witness.” And I needed all I could get.

  Michelle seemed puzzled. “Are you sure this guy exists? We still haven’t ruled out the possibility that Waylon is the guy with the burner phone. Maybe his folks didn’t want to pay for a regular cell phone plan. Burners are cheaper, you know. Besides, if there is some other guy, I don’t know why she’d want to hide him.”

  I didn’t, either. So maybe I was wrong. Maybe there was no mystery boyfriend. But I had this gut feeling . . . Michelle pulled me out of my reverie.

  “How’d the interview go?”

  I gave her the rundown and told her about Cassie leaving her father out of it. “What do you think? Was she lying about Stephen all along? Or
is she too ashamed to put it out there?”

  Michelle tilted her head to one side, then the other. “I vote for the latter. How much of a victim does she want to be? Abel’s bad enough.”

  Totally possible. Or not. Everything about this case was like that. This. Or that. Yes. Or no. It was making my head ache. “Well, either way, it’s about to go public, and that means reporters are going to go after Paula and Nathan to get their reactions.”

  “Speaking of which, how’s Paula doing?”

  “I think we’re about to find out.”

  The very next day, in fact. The Buzzworthy interview came out that morning, and by noon, it’d gone viral. Along with Paula’s responses. Paula, it turned out, had improved somewhat, but she was still in ICU and her prognosis was unclear.

  She was, however, well enough to give a brief statement to the press through her doctor, who read it for the camera. “Cassie is a murderer. She is not a victim. She never told me she had been assaulted. Everything she said is a lie. It’s just an excuse to get away with murder.” It was playing all over the Internet and on every broadcast and cable TV news show.

  But either Nathan refused to talk or no one asked him, because I saw no statements from him anywhere. He might’ve been afraid to make glowing remarks about Abel after what he’d told me. Or he just might not relish the idea of being in the spotlight. Especially this one.

  Paula’s denial, Nathan’s absence—neither was a huge surprise. That came the following Monday.

  I was on the phone when Michelle appeared in the doorway looking like she’d just heard Brad Pitt was a woman. I held the phone against my shoulder. “What?”

  “Turn on your TV. Channel Four.”

  I ended the call and turned on the little TV on top of my bookcase. A gray-haired woman in a black wool blazer who looked familiar was standing at a podium stacked with press microphones. Three women stood behind her. “. . . and it’s a tragic example of the devastating impact sexual assault has on children, particularly within the family. Though we of course do not condone what she did, we stand by Cassie Sonnenberg.”