by Marcia Clark
A voice behind me that sounded like gravel churning in a Cuisinart snarled, “You don’t move, bitch.”
I stood frozen, my hand still at my shoulder. There was something familiar about that voice. Could it be . . . ? If I was wrong, I’d be dead. But I had to take a chance.
TWO
I put as much attitude into my voice as I could muster and spoke over my shoulder. “Deshawn Johnson, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Silence. Oh God, I was wrong. This was it. This was how I was going to die. I should do something, jump on someone’s instep, make a fast turn and head-butt someone, but my brain was stuck on the barrel jammed against my head. The pounding of my heart was all I could hear.
Then, a figure stepped around from behind me and moved next to the guy holding the gun to my head. “Ms. Brinkman? Shit. What you doin’ here?”
The man holding the gun—whose haircut reminded me of Vanilla Ice—looked from me to Deshawn. “You know dis bitch?”
“She’s my lawyer.” He waved a hand. “Y’all back off.”
Vanilla Ice stepped back and slipped the gun into his pocket as the other one slid the pipe back up his sleeve.
My brain signaled for all systems to stand down, and the adrenaline ebbed—a little too fast. I had to swallow to keep from vomiting. I pulled my jacket around me and folded my arms around my waist.
After a few deep breaths, the throbbing in my head started to recede . . . and then I got mad again. Really mad. You know what I hate almost as much as getting jacked? Working my ass off on a case and seeing all that hard work get flushed down the toilet.
I’d spent a lot of nights putting together the motion I’d been working on for Deshawn. If I won, he’d be home free. But if the cops caught Deshawn out here jacking people, “home” would be Wasco State Prison for twenty-five to life. My motion would matter about as much as a squirt gun in a hurricane.
I stepped up close to him and tried to keep my voice low. “Are you kidding me with this shit? I busted my hump on that motion, your mom probably went into hock to pay my freight, and you’re out here crime-ing.” Deshawn looked down. I pulled my phone out of my purse. “Matter of fact, I’m gonna call her right now and let her know—”
“No!” He grabbed my hand. Mama Johnson was no one to mess with, and we both knew it. He looked around, remembered that his homies were watching, and whispered, “Come on, you don’t gotta do that. Why you want to upset an old lady that way?”
I swear if we’d been alone, I’d have smacked him. “Me? Did I call you up and tell you to go out and jack people tonight?”
Deshawn sighed and threw a glance at Vanilla Ice. “It’s just a favor for Lil’ J. He’s trying to buy a ring for his girl. That gun ain’t even loaded.”
“But you’d still get twenty-five to life.” I nodded at the pocket of Vanilla’s hoodie that sagged with the weight of the gun, and at the other guy’s sleeve where the pipe was still peeking out at the cuff. “That’s a gun, and that’s a deadly weapon. You’re a third-striker, Deshawn.” I pointed to my temple—the same one that had hosted the barrel of a gun just minutes ago. “Think, man. You’ve got no slack here.” Deshawn nodded, then looked down at the ground again. “You couldn’t tell Lil’ J to check out a layaway plan at Zales?”
Deshawn shrugged. “Lil’ J’s not much of a saver. We said we’d do one, maybe two hits—don’t let no one get hurt—and he’d have to make do with whatever we got.”
“That’s good parenting, Deshawn. Way to set limits.”
He started to smile. “Really?”
“No.”
Deshawn stared over my shoulder, taking some time to try and save face. “Okay, okay. Tell you what, I’m goin’ on home now. I promise. Just don’t call my moms.”
I took a few seconds to make it look like I was thinking about it. I wanted to make Deshawn sweat a little. I looked at his posse. They were watching us, a little bit wary, a lot curious. “I need you all to do Deshawn a favor and make sure he goes straight home. Now. No detours. Got it?”
They nodded. A pack of hyenas would be more reliable, but you’ve got to work with what you’ve got. I scanned the pockets of Deshawn’s hoodie. “You strapped?”
He held up his hands. “No. I swear.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “Let’s see those pockets.” If they got stopped on the way home and the cops found a gun on him, he’d be toast. Deshawn pulled out the pockets of his hoodie. They were empty. I pointed to his jeans. “Those, too.”
He gave an exasperated huff. “Come on, man. I told you, I’m clean.” He saw the expression on my face, sighed, and pulled out his jeans pockets.
As he did, a baggie full of white-ish powder fell out. I snatched it up, opened it, and sniffed. “Heroin? Seriously?” Deshawn had never been into junk. Coke, yes. Pot, yes. But heroin, never. I closed my fist around it, just in case anyone was watching. “This is enough to bust you for intent to sell. What on earth are you dreaming?”
Deshawn shook his head. “It’s not what you think. This is just business. That shit’s pure, man. I step on it hard enough, I’ll probably clear fifty, maybe even a hundred grand.”
I stared at him, wondering how he’d managed to stay out of jail long enough to get busted again. “I don’t even want to know how you scored this much pure shit. But your shop is now officially closed for business.” I dropped the baggie into my purse.
Deshawn’s eyes got big. “What? No! You can’t! You know what that cost me?!”
“A lot less than it’ll cost if you get caught with it.”
He put out his hand. “Come on, man. Give it back. That’s a lot of money.”
“Just be glad I’m not calling your mother.”
Deshawn’s shoulders drooped and he gave me a glum look. He motioned to the others. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Lil’ J leaned toward me. “Hey, uh, you got a card or something?” The others chimed in. “Yeah.” “I’ll take one.” “Me, too.”
I passed my cards around. “Cash retainers only, no checks, no credit cards.” I doubted that they’d be able to swing my fee, but I didn’t want to discourage what was probably the only responsible thing they’d manage to do that month—or that year.
They started to walk away, but Deshawn paused. He looked up and down the street, stepped back, and whispered, “Anybody else gives you trouble, you call me. Hear?”
THREE
The next day, I finished my morning round of court appearances early and got back to the office in time for lunch. Michelle had brought in my favorite: coffee.
I pulled up the old secretary’s chair I’d liberated from the public defender’s office when I quit to go into private practice and sat next to her desk. “Nice Scünci.” This one was red and blue—color coordinated with her cobalt-blue sweater. She always wore her hair up in a ponytail, and I always gave her shit about it. Michelle has the kind of fresh-faced, cheerleader-y looks that still gets her carded at bars. And the tiny scar over her left eye—courtesy of the mugger who’d pistol-whipped her nine years ago—only heightened the effect.
Michelle shot me a look. “Shut up. Jury on Ringer still out?” I nodded. “They asking any questions?”
“Not a peep.” Which was not a good sign. A quiet jury is a convicting jury.
The whomp whomp of a ghetto bird fired up. A daily—and nightly—occurrence in this ’hood. I picked this office because it was cheap and close to the Van Nuys courthouse. It seemed like a win-win, until I found out the building was smack-dab in the heart of Barrios Van Nuys turf, one of the biggest gangs in the county.
Michelle was saying something, but I couldn’t hear her over the din of the helicopters. I shook my head and pointed to the ceiling.
Michelle shouted. “How’d he do on the stand?”
“Not bad.” For a rapist-bully-asshole. His eighteen-year-old victim, Aidan Mandy, a homeless kid Ringer had found hanging around a fast-food joint looking for a handout—money, food, or drugs—h
ad a prior bust for solicitation. So Ringer’s claim that it’d been a consensual business deal might’ve been a winning gambit. Except Aidan wound up in the emergency room with injuries so bad it’d take years before he fully recovered—if he ever did.
Ringer claimed he hadn’t hurt him, that Aidan must’ve tricked with someone else after Ringer, but I didn’t believe it, and I didn’t think the jury would, either. I kept my defense short and tight, put on a couple of “Ringer’s so nice” character witnesses from the insurance company where he used to work, and rested. I expected the jury to convict any minute now.
The helicopters began to move away. Michelle waited for the noise to die down. “Well, I hope he gets nailed. He’s a disgusting douche.”
No argument there. “But I did give a pretty good closing if I do say so myself. Want to hear it?”
Michelle hit a key on her computer and started typing. “Depends. You care about having phone service? If not, I’m all ears. Otherwise, I’ve got to get your claim in to the court this second because we’re about a month overdue on the bill. And you need to pay your car registration.”
“Fine, never mind.” I glanced at Alex’s office—AKA, the storage room where we kept our ancient, incredibly slow copying machine. We’d probably be better off using carbon paper. I noticed the door was closed. That meant he was out. The room was so small you had to leave the door open or you’d wind up breathing carbon dioxide in about ten seconds. “Where’s our intrepid investigator?”
I just hired Alex Medrano, a former client, to be my investigator. He’s got no training or experience, but he’s smart and has mad hacking skills. And I figure he can’t be any worse than the useless slugs I hired in the past.
“Working from home. He’s trying to get those records you asked for on Deshawn’s case.”
“Oh yeah.” I would’ve tried to track them down myself, but it required serious cyberpunk chops—and a decent computer. I had neither. I started to head for my office, but Michelle held up a hand.
“Are you sure about hiring that guy? I mean, he’s a thief and a hacker.”
I looked around at our Office Cheapo furnishings and smacked my forehead. “Damn, you’re so right. How could I so endanger our financial empire?”
Michelle glared at me. “I’m not saying he’ll rip us off, smartass. I’m saying what if he gets caught? It might look like we’re in on it and—”
I shook my head. “Never gonna happen. Trust me.” Alex had hacked into the company computer to “liberate” two 750Li’s from the BMW dealership where he was a salesman. But he hadn’t done it for himself. It was a story straight out of Les Misérables. Alex’s father had died of a sudden heart attack, then his mother had a stroke and needed full-time nursing care, which they couldn’t afford, so his brother, Carlos, had to quit work to take care of her. And his little sister, Leticia, was about to graduate high school. She’d been offered a scholarship at Penn State, but it wouldn’t cover her dorm fees. If Alex sold those cars, it would take care of all of them for at least a few years. So he did steal, but he wasn’t really a thief in my book. I told Michelle his story.
She had a skeptical look. “That’s a pretty sad tale of woe. You check it out?”
“No. Why would he lie?” I shot her a dagger. “Of course I checked it out.”
Michelle paused for a moment, then nodded and turned back to her computer. “Okay, back to work. Get me your time sheets on Ringer. One way or another, he’ll be done soon.”
I saluted and headed into my office. My office decor is best described as early “I don’t give a damn,” because I don’t. Plus, there’s no one to impress. My clients are almost always in custody. Most of my cases are court appointments—basically public defender cases that the public defender can’t take for one reason or another. So I have the minimum: a big desk and lawyer’s chair (I scored them on the cheap at a storage locker sale) and a couple of unmatched chairs in front of my desk that sit lower than mine (so I can look imposing). The only thing on my desk other than my computer is a bottle of tequila shaped like a skull—a present from a former boyfriend—and a little jade “money tree” with tiny gold-colored bells hanging from the branches. Michelle gave it to me for inspiration. It hasn’t done much for us so far.
I spent the rest of the afternoon pulling together the paperwork for Michelle and working up the cases that I probably wouldn’t be able to plead out. Alex showed up at six o’clock. He looks nothing like any real-life investigator I’ve ever seen. But Hollywood would cast him in a hot second: thick black hair swept to the side, olive skin, and eyes like black diamonds. It’d broken Michelle’s heart when I told her he was gay. But she knew better than to argue; my gay-dar almost never fails me—and it hadn’t this time, either.
I walked out to the anteroom. “You don’t look joyous. No luck on those records?”
He shook his head.
“Look, don’t sweat it. If you can’t, you can’t. We’ll just have to—”
“Oh, I can.” His tone was calm, utterly self-assured. “It’ll just take a little more time. When’s Deshawn’s hearing?”
I liked his confidence. And I knew it was justified. It was only a fluke that he’d been caught stealing those BMWs. He was that good. Which was why I’d been able to make him a sweetheart deal for no time and straight probation: he’d agreed to show the cops how he’d done it. “His hearing’s set for next week.”
Alex made a poof sound. “I’ll have it for you in two days.” He gestured to the monitor of Michelle’s desktop, which was splashed with the latest headline on the double murder in Laurel Canyon. “They’ve been thumping Chloe’s and Paige’s murders nonstop.”
I nodded. So nonstop it filled the airwaves, the Ethernet, and every tabloid rag in the supermarket. You couldn’t get away from the case if you tried. “But it’s all background stories on Chloe. They still don’t have anyone.”
Michelle, always on the hunt, looked at me with fire in her eyes. “Oh, they will. Trust me. And when they do, you’ve gotta go for it.” I didn’t answer. “Sam, I’m not kidding.”
“I know.”
Michelle looked at me with frustration. “I don’t get it. You took Ringer for no publicity.”
I was about to say that Ringer hadn’t killed his victim. But that wasn’t the issue. The issue was Chloe. And Paige. Something about them hit too close to home.
FOUR
But I couldn’t stop following the coverage of the “Canyon Killer” case, as the press had dubbed it. So far, the only new announcement was that the girls had been stabbed to death with the same weapon—a carving knife that was missing from the butcher block on the kitchen counter. The police media liaison said it was too soon to speculate about who’d done it or why. But the usual pundits disagreed. They immediately pronounced that the use of the carving knife showed the murders weren’t premeditated, that the girls had probably walked in on a burglar. When their apartment was burglarized two months before, the perp had gotten in through an open sliding glass door. That same door was found open after the police discovered the bodies.
Predictably, most of the coverage was devoted to Chloe Monahan. The tabloids in particular were feeding nonstop off the tragedy of a young actress who’d managed to pull herself out of a drug-infused abyss and climb her way back to the brink of superstardom only to have her life brutally cut short.
To top it off, they’d dug up a whole new, heart-grabbing wrinkle. Though no one knew it at the time, when she was a child star, Chloe had been the sole support for her family, which included a younger sister, an absentee father, and an abusive mother. The makeup artists, who now felt the truth must be told (but only to a tabloid that was notorious for checkbook journalism), said they’d kept special concealer on hand to cover the bruises. Those stories probably explained why Chloe’s mother hadn’t surfaced to suck up some of the limelight.
But her roommate, Paige Avner, got almost no ink. Pretty but not glamorous, Paige had been a part-time print-ad mod
el and waitress. Nothing to be ashamed of, but not the stuff of fairy tales, either. Her story was largely eclipsed by the searing drama of Chloe’s life. What little press she did get was centered on the fact that she and Chloe had met when they were kids on the set of All of Us, where Paige’s mother had been the on-set tutor. Apparently, they’d remained friends ever since. Paige’s mother, Nina, gave a brief, heartrending statement about the loss of her only child—all that was left of their little family. Paige’s father had died of cancer years ago.
So the victims were about as blameless as it gets, their only crime being that they were unlucky enough to be home when some asshole decided to rip them off.
There was no suspect in custody, so the sharks hadn’t started to circle yet. But they would—the moment there was an arrest. It had all the makings of a media circus, and the bigger the circus, the better it is for business.
But big enough to be worth sitting next to the animal who’d done it? I wasn’t sure. I had friends in the public defender’s office who were true believers, who didn’t care how many victims their clients had disemboweled, who thought they were all just poor, misunderstood unfortunates. And some are, though more often they’re just schlemiels who don’t think past the next five minutes—which is largely why they get caught. But there’s a small percentage who are nothing but born predators. And for them, no amount of good parenting, quality schooling, or therapy sessions will ever make a bit of difference. That doesn’t mean I don’t fight for them just as hard. I fight like hell. It just means I never forget who they are. Or that justice really should prevail, though too often, it doesn’t.
I didn’t mind the fact that the Canyon Killer would be the most hated guy in the country. I knew going into this business that I wasn’t going to score a lot of Valentine’s cards. Being troll-bait for haters is part of the gig.
