Moral Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 2)

by Marcia Clark

  Had I been playing hide-and-go-seek with the truth about Cassie’s molestation because I’d been so bent on winning? Probably, in part. But so many victims suffer in silence, and so few ever lie about it, that I’d been willing to resolve my doubts in Cassie’s favor. So even though my own ambition played a part, I cut myself some slack for letting myself get duped.

  What I wouldn’t do was cut Cassie any slack for lying about it. I have no sympathy for a faker. Even one facing life without parole.

  But Cassie’s duping me wasn’t the biggest issue I had with her.

  My biggest issue was that now, and for years to come, abusers would point to Cassie and say, “See?”

  Even so, ever since Cassie’s rearrest, I’d been asking myself why I’d allowed the cops to set her up. I’d been gamed by clients a million times before. And I’d certainly represented some truly depraved psychopaths before. What was so different now?

  I’d given that some serious thought, but I was stumped until I remembered Michelle’s remark—that she didn’t like a kid who lied about being molested. And then I realized what was different. I’d told Michelle I didn’t care about that. But it wasn’t true. I cared a great deal.

  And that’s why I’d let the cops set Cassie up. Because this time it was personal. Too bad for Cassie.

  EPILOGUE

  The fallout from Cassie’s rearrest, and the revelation that her molestation story had been a lie, was dramatic. And sadly, the children’s advocate groups were taking it full in the face from the naysayers who’d argued all along that the molestation story was just an excuse fabricated by a killer so she could get away with murder.

  I got requests to speak at the children’s advocate groups again, and to be on a bunch of cable news shows, morning shows and afternoon talk shows. I accepted them all.

  I had to do what I could to repair the damage. “I can’t comment specifically on Cassie Sonnenberg, because she was my client. But I can say this: the overwhelmingly vast majority of children who report abuse are telling the truth. Our biggest problems are that so many children are afraid to report—afraid they won’t be believed or that they’ll be blamed—and the adults who turn their backs when children do report. And no one should doubt that sexual abuse can cause serious, permanent damage to a child’s psyche.”

  The hosts always came back with a variation on the same follow-up question: “Serious enough to commit murder?”

  And my answer was always the same. “Most definitely.”

  The shrinkers on those shows helped. But they also agreed that Cassie was a prime example of a psychopath—though they believed that she and her lies would’ve been exposed eventually.

  I wasn’t so sure about that. Tiegan was a great fall guy. No matter how sweet and petite she looked, no matter how soft-spoken and nonthreatening she seemed, the jury would’ve hated her. I thought they would’ve been more than willing to believe Cassie’s testimony.

  So why hadn’t Cassie pointed the finger at Tiegan to begin with? I’d knocked that question around with Alex and Michelle over drinks in my office.

  “I think she was still hoping to go live with Tiegan,” Michelle said.

  Alex polished off the last of his drink. “Maybe, but at first, I think she just saw no way out. They found her bloody clothes in the backyard, and her mom had basically said she was the killer. I think Cassie figured the only way out was to admit it and find an excuse.”

  Michelle set down her glass. “And then, when Tiegan started to back away, she finally saw that her dream of running away together wasn’t going to happen.”

  I nodded. “So Cassie turned on her. I think that’s when she realized she could put the blame on Tiegan.”

  Michelle asked, “Is Tiegan going to get a deal to testify?”

  Tiegan was on the hook for being an accessory after the fact and for having sex with a minor. There was no getting around any of that. She’d given a full confession. “Fred’s going to try and get her a deal. But just between us, she told him she’d testify whether they give her a deal or not.”

  Michelle raised her eyebrows. “No shit?” I nodded. “That is one pissed-off woman.”

  It really was. “Can you blame her?”

  Alex shook his head. “Oh hell no.”

  I held up the bottle of Patrón Silver. “Another round?”

  “No.” Michelle gave me a pointed look. “Because, driving.”

  “I’m gonna Uber.” I refilled my glass.

  “Me, too.” Alex held out his for a refill.

  By the time we left, I was feeling very relaxed and a little buzzed.

  So when I found my front door unlocked, I just thought, how dumb of me to forget to lock it that morning—until I saw the man who was sitting in the wingback chair in my living room. I stood frozen just inside the door as my knees began to shake. “Who the hell are you?”

  The drapes were open, and the city lights glowed in the dark behind him. He looked to be in his fifties. His hair was thick and almost all white, as were his trim beard and mustache, but his eyebrows were still dark, and they matched his large brown—almost black—eyes.

  He smiled and held up his hands. “I’m not armed, and I have no intention of hurting you, Ms. Brinkman. On the contrary, I’ve come to tell you that I have saved you from some serious trouble.”

  He spoke with a Spanish accent, but his English was perfect. I stood in the open doorway, scared and unsure of what to do, but getting angrier by the second. “Again, who are you?”

  “My name is Javier Cabazon.” He kept his hands up. “You can certainly stay over there if it makes you feel safer. But I’d close the door if I were you, because I don’t think you’ll want anyone to hear what I have to say.”

  I hesitated as I weighed the danger of being alone with him against the danger of someone hearing what he might say. The range of things I wouldn’t want anyone to hear was painfully extensive. And it would be stupid of him to kill me and think he could get away without someone noticing him. It was early, and the people in the apartments all around us were awake. Plus, he had a very distinctive look. They’d remember seeing him. I shut the door but kept my hand on the doorknob.

  “What exactly do you think you’ve saved me from?”

  He lowered his hands and started to reach into his black sport jacket—it looked like it was cashmere. I started to take a step back. “No, no. Calm yourself.” He brandished a pipe. “I hope you don’t mind.” I watched him without blinking as he lit it and inhaled. The smell of cherry tobacco filled the room. “You are familiar with Ernesto and Arturo Orozco, yes?”

  My grip on the doorknob tightened as I nodded.

  He took another pull on his pipe and leaned back. He looked completely at ease, as though he owned the place. “They work for me. And the other day, they came to me to resolve a certain, I will call it, concern they had about a man who supposedly set up the killing of Ricardo.”

  My heart gave a loud, painful thump. I was busted. I was dead. But I was going to go down fighting. “What do you mean, ‘concern’?”

  Javier raised an amused eyebrow. “They did not believe that he was really the one who’d altered the paperwork. They thought it was you.”

  My hand on the doorknob was slick with sweat, and my heart was beating so fast I could barely breathe. “They’re wrong. It wasn’t me.” Even to my ears, my voice sounded strained and reedy.

  Javier shook his head. “You have nothing to worry about. I am not at all sorry that Ricardo is no longer with us. He was an embarrassment, a disgrace to us all.” A look of disgust crossed his face. “Killing that child. A terrible thing. There was no reason for it.” He puffed on his pipe again and blew out a cloud of smoke, as though he were erasing the words from his mouth. “So I told the Orozcos that I would check it out myself.”

  I had no choice; I had to brazen it out. I lifted my chin and stared him in the eye. “Then you know that the deputy was the one who did it.”

  Javier raised an eyebr
ow again, but this time with no amusement. “Actually, I know it was a complete fabrication. I have contacts everywhere, including within the so-called rival gangs. This deputy had nothing whatsoever to do with the . . . Southside Creepers.” His mouth twisted with derision as he said the gang name.

  I let go of the doorknob and edged sideways, toward the kitchen table. I tried to keep my voice steady as I asked, “What did you tell the Orozcos?”

  Javier lowered his pipe. “That this deputy—Lazaro, correct?” I nodded. “That he was most certainly the man who set up Ricardo to be killed.” He drew on his pipe and spoke through a cloud of smoke. “You will no longer be bothered by the Orozcos.”

  But now he owned me. My days were numbered—and not in double digits—unless I did whatever he’d come to ask of me. “What do you want?”

  “Now? Nothing. But it’s good to have a lawyer in the family. Especially one whose father is a detective.” He stood up and began to approach me. I backed away till I bumped into the kitchen table, but he moved past me, opened the door, and walked out.

  When the door closed behind him, I turned and grabbed the back of a chair, faint from lack of oxygen. My stomach was roiling from the mixture of adrenaline and tequila. And in my brain, I kept hearing the old saying: out of the frying pan, into the fire.

  The following evening, Dale and I were sitting on his patio, polishing off the last of a bottle of Adastra Proximus. I’d called him the morning after my visit from Cabazon to ask whether he wanted to join me for dinner. He’d suggested we meet at his place this time, and I’d accepted. Over spaghetti and salad, I told him about Cassie and what I’d learned. “That little girl is one scary psychopath.” Dale stared at me. “What?”

  He turned to scan the untamed hills behind his property. “Nothing.” After a brief pause, he took a sip of wine. “You know, I’m kind of surprised you didn’t see that little setup coming.”

  He suspected . . . but he didn’t—couldn’t—know that I’d not only seen it coming but also gone along with it. And he never would. I’d take this one to the grave. I shrugged. “Surprised me, too. Rusty isn’t usually that smooth.”

  Dale raised an eyebrow, then reached for the bottle and poured the last of the wine into our glasses. “Anyway, however it had to happen, I’m glad the case is closed.” He set down the bottle and picked up his glass. “Now, how about we toast to getting rid of the Orozcos?”

  My heart gave a dull thud, and my throat grew tight. This was it. I searched Dale’s face. I didn’t know whether he was ready to cross this line. But I had no choice. “Yeah, about that.” I set down my wineglass as I looked into his eyes. “We need to talk.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, my infinite gratitude goes to Catherine LePard. Without her support, I would never have had the courage to reach for the childhood dream of writing crime novels.

  Thank you, Dan Conaway, agent extraordinaire. You’re the best in the business, and I’m so glad I found you.

  Charlotte Herscher, you are one fabulous editor—there’s no one better. Thank you for your fantastic notes and for being such a pleasure to work with.

  Thank you, JoVon Sotak for believing in Samantha. Collaborating with you has been a truly great experience.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2016 Coral von Zumwalt

  California native Marcia Clark is the author of Blood Defense, the first book in the Samantha Brinkman series, as well as Guilt by Association, Guilt by Degrees, Killer Ambition, and The Competition—all part of the Rachel Knight series. A practicing criminal lawyer since 1979, she joined the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office in 1981, where she served as prosecutor for the trials of Robert Bardo—convicted of killing actress Rebecca Schaeffer—and, most notably, O. J. Simpson. The bestselling Without a Doubt, which she cowrote, chronicles her work on the Simpson trial. Clark has been a frequent commentator on a variety of shows and networks, including Today, Good Morning America, The Oprah Winfrey Show, CNN, and MSNBC, as well as a legal correspondent for Entertainment Tonight.