by Marcia Clark
PRAISE FOR MARCIA CLARK
Moral Defense
“Moral Defense by former Los Angeles prosecutor Marcia Clark has it all: a hard-charging lawyer heroine, tough-as-nails cops, realistic, yet somehow lovable ‘bad guys,’ as well as fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants pacing and page-turning twists.”
—Associated Press
“In Clark’s outstanding sequel to Blood Defense . . . [She] deepens her already fascinating lead, while adeptly juggling several subplots.”
—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
“This second in the Brinkman series (after Blood Defense, 2016) is a nonstop ride marked by legal and moral gray areas, with a cliff-hanger epilogue. Another Clark legal thriller that’s hard to put down.”
—Booklist
“A murdered family leaves only one survivor in this second roller-coaster case for Los Angeles attorney Samantha Brinkman . . . [The case] builds to a rare intensity.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Blood Defense
“Former LA prosecutor Clark kicks off a promising new series with this top-notch whodunit . . . Clark sprinkles jaw-dropping surprises throughout and impressively pulls off a shocker that lesser writers can only envy.”
—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
“On the heels of FX’s blockbuster television series, American Crime Story: The People v. O. J. Simpson . . . Simpson prosecutor-turned-author Clark . . . launches a new legal thriller series. Unlike in her well-received Rachel Knight books, which featured an LA prosecutor, Clark’s latest calls on her earlier career as a criminal defense attorney to fashion protagonist Samantha Brinkman. VERDICT: Clark’s deft handling of her characters through a multilevel maze of conflicts delivers an exhilarating read.”
—Library Journal
“Clark, who served as a prosecutor for the trial of O. J. Simpson, clearly knows this world well. She has the most fun when she’s showing readers the world of celebrity trials, from the media circus, the courthouse crowds, the crazies, and the police to the inner workings of the trial itself. You’ll push yourself to finish the final pages just to keep pace with the defense team’s discoveries.”
—Associated Press
“Once again, Marcia Clark has reinvented herself—and the results are stellar. Her knowledge of the criminal justice system is unrivaled, as is her understanding of how the media influences public opinion of high profile trials—and the actions of those involved. But the real magic of Clark’s writing is her dynamic, richly textured characters and the visceral, often gritty settings they frequent.”
—Hartford Examiner
ALSO BY MARCIA CLARK
FICTION
The Samantha Brinkman Series
Moral Defense
Blood Defense
The Rachel Knight Series
Guilt by Association
Guilt by Degrees
Killer Ambition
The Competition
NONFICTION
Without a Doubt (with Teresa Carpenter)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Marcia Clark
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542045995 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542045991 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542045551 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 154204555X (paperback)
Cover design by David Drummond
First edition
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
November 2nd
Dear Me,
I’m feeling kind of proud of myself.
I did it. I finally told him.
Okay, I did it on voice mail, kind of a weenie move, I know. But there was no way I could’ve told him in person. He totally loses it when he gets mad. Just leaving him the message made my hands so sweaty I almost dropped the phone. They’re still shaking now. It’s actually hard to write. I need to take a few minutes.
I’m back. And now I’m kind of mad at myself. What was I so proud of? All I did was tell him we should take a breather for a month or so. I should’ve just broken it off for good. That’s what everyone said I should do. But I thought I should at least give him a chance to change. Nomie said I’d given him too many chances already—her nice way of saying I was just being a coward.
And she was right. Deep down inside, I knew that. I just didn’t want to admit it. God, I’m such a loser.
I’ve been trying to figure out how I wound up in this fucked-up situation. But I do know how it started. It all seemed so romantic at first. The fact that Roan wanted me to call him every night before I went to bed—even though we saw each other every single day—seemed so . . . sweet. Sure, he went ballistic if I forgot to call, but I just thought it showed how much he loved me.
The problem was, he kept wanting more and more. It got to the point where I felt like a prisoner, like I couldn’t breathe. Nomie had been saying all along that this wasn’t love, that this was some kind of sick obsession. So did Gayle. And Diana and Davey and Phil. But I didn’t want to believe them. I kept thinking that if I did everything right, he’d finally be happy—we’d be happy.
But that never happened. If I called three times a day, he wanted four. If I texted every three hours, he wanted every hour. And if I was late or I forgot, he’d totally lose it. He’d scream at me, call me names, and tell me I was a thoughtless, heartless bitch. One day last week, I was in the library studying for midterms, and I missed three of my “appointments” to call him. Tha
t night, he came to my apartment, but I wouldn’t let him in. I was tired, and I just couldn’t deal with his craziness. So he stood out there and yelled at me, then kicked the door so hard he put a hole in it. He probably would’ve done even more damage if the guys in the apartment across the hall hadn’t threatened to call the cops.
It blows my mind that I put up with so much of his insane shit. But I guess I just got so used to it that the crazy seemed normal. It wasn’t until just this morning—when I finally read what I’d been writing in this journal for the past month—that I realized how bad, how horrible, it’d gotten. I wish I’d done that sooner! It made everything so clear, the downward spiral, the way he got more and more demanding, the way I kept fighting a losing battle to please him.
And you know what’s the worst part? I’d probably still be hooked into that madness if my TA hadn’t told me yesterday that I was about to fail calculus. I’ve never failed anything! And I CANNOT FAIL NOW! If I fail, my parents will make me move back home. That CANNOT HAPPEN.
I finally love my life. No more rules, no more curfews, no more endless lectures about the importance of “success.” I love my parents, but I never had a life. It was always run, run, run—from the time I was four—to ballet to gymnastics to drama club to the school newspaper. The one semester I didn’t make honor roll, I got grounded for a month. I was so jealous of the kids when they talked about the parties they’d gone to, the shopping trips—even the weekends they spent “just kicking it.”
But the day I moved into this apartment—just a couple of blocks from campus!—I thought, Now it’s my turn. It was a little scary at first. I’d never been alone before. It was so . . . quiet. But after a few days, I started to like it. I could watch dumb TV shows, wear ratty T-shirts, eat Doritos. It was like every day was a holiday. I was making my own choices, my own decisions . . . living my own life. For the very first time. I felt so light, like a huge weight had been lifted off my chest. I was free; I was . . . happy.
Until I let myself get dragged into Roan’s sicko world.
So I am not about to let anything—not Roan or anyone else—make me screw up and have to move back home. If he goes nuts, I’ll just have to break up with him for good.
I can’t believe it, but the thought of breaking up with him makes me kind of sad. I guess I’m still a little bit hopeful that this wake-up call will get his attention, make him realize he has to change. If he did, we’d be able to get back together. I’ve got to admit, I’d love that. To go back to the way it was in the very beginning. We had such good times!
November 3rd
How could he do this to me?! How did I not realize what a total monster he was?
I’m so PISSED and so . . . embarrassed, mortified, and . . . I don’t even have the words. I can barely breathe. This morning, I was feeling so good, so in control of my life! But when I checked my e-mails, I found seventy-eight—all from strange addresses. I thought it had to be some kind of spam attack. I wasn’t sure what to do. I was afraid to open one; I thought it might be some kind of malware attack. But finally, I had to see what was going on, so I clicked on the first one.
Haay, gurl. Some hot photos you took. I hope you’re ready for my big, hard dick, cuz I’m soooo ready for you baby. I can tell you’re my kind of girl. I like it rough too. Call me. 602-555-0282.
Who was that guy? And why was he writing to me? What the hell was going on?
My heart was pounding so hard I felt like it would break a rib, but I couldn’t help myself. I opened the next one.
Foxy Ali. I luv sluts like u. I can give you what you need. I can make you scream.
I slammed my laptop closed. I thought I was going to be sick. I dumped the rest of my coffee in the sink and threw my toast in the trash. Were all the rest of the e-mails like this? I didn’t want to know. But I had to know. I went through four more e-mails, then the next ten. The same, they were all the same.
What was going on? Why was this happening to me? The room started to spin. I forced a deep breath and tried to think. One word flashed in my mind. Photos. I’d seen it in almost all of the e-mails. And that’s when I knew.
I Googled my name. And there they were. The selfies I’d taken for Roan. Because he’d needed to “be with me 24-7.” My body, all of me, naked, for the whole world to see. I ached all over as I stared at the photos.
And they were posted on a sleazy porn website called XXXtraSpecial. But that wasn’t all. He’d also posted my “invitation”: Cum see me, make my rape fantasies cum true. And the address to my apartment!
My home!
I ran to the bathroom and threw up until I couldn’t breathe. I sank to the floor and sobbed so hard I started to choke. I’d known he’d be mad—I even suspected there might be some kind of payback. But this? I never thought he could do me like this. This was . . . so hideous, so . . . cruel. I couldn’t stop thinking, How could he?
And then I thought, what if my friends see it? Or, oh God!—what if somebody showed my parents? I’d just die! Plus, they’d drag me back home! My life would be over!
I closed my eyes, but that didn’t block out the memory of my selfies and the disgusting rape “invitation” on that awful website. How many men—STRANGE MEN—had seen my pictures? A horrible image just flashed through my mind of some gross rando guy with a hairy back jerking off to my photos.
The thought made me heave again. I’m so scared. What if one of those perverts actually comes to my apartment? What do I do? I can’t call the cops. That’ll only make it even more public!
I feel so . . . violated. And . . . dirty. Like an old, overused dishrag.
All I want to do is go back to bed and hide under the covers. But I have a quiz in calculus, and I can’t afford to blow it. Focus, I need to focus. Just get through the exam. Think about what to do later.
I don’t know how I made it through that exam. I could barely see; my eyes kept filling up with tears.
I’m trying to think what I should do. I can’t tell my parents. They’ll just make me move back home. And they’ll be worse than ever. They’ll probably never let me move back out. I can’t bear to even think of that.
I’m going to handle this. I have to handle this! I know what I’ll do; I’ll install more locks, and I’ll use that stick to keep anyone from sliding open my bathroom window, like Nomie told me, and I’ll make sure I use that damn peephole before I open the door. There’re plenty of things I can do to keep safe.
Nobody who knows me is ever going to see those photos. I’ll be okay.
But Roan’s got to take them down off that friggin’ website. NOW.
ONE
I’d had my usual lousy night’s sleep. Woke up at four a.m. and fought to doze off for about an hour before I gave up and shuffled into the shower.
I was groggy, but by the time I’d chugged my third supersize mug of coffee, my head had started to clear, and the world had come into focus—a good news / bad news joke if ever there was one. I opened my laptop and checked the weekly roundup of the latest state and Supreme Court criminal cases, then headed for my office, the criminal defense firm Brinkman & Associates. Right now the only “associates” are Michy—AKA Michelle Fusco, my paralegal / office manager / bookkeeper and best friend since childhood—and my investigator, Alex Medrano, a former client who’d been busted for hacking—a skill that turned out to be just one of the many things that made him the best investigator I’d ever had.
But someday, I’m going to have legions of hungry young lawyers who’ll work eighty hours a week, get paid for twenty, but be incredibly grateful for the experience of working for the leading criminal defense lawyer in the country, Samantha Brinkman, i.e., me. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
It wasn’t even eight a.m. by the time I got in, but Michy was already at her desk and staring at her computer. I didn’t like the expression on her face. “What’s wrong?”
She looked up at me. “Have you seen the story about Alicia Hutchins?”
Hutchins. It
took me a second. “Graham Hutchins’s kid?” Michy nodded. I moved around to look at Michy’s computer. “What happened to her?”
Michy clicked on the image of a news anchor and hit the play arrow.
“In local news, Alicia Hutchins, daughter of famed attorney Graham Hutchins, was found dead in the bathtub of her off-campus apartment. Police have confirmed that her throat was slashed and that the case is being handled as a homicide. Alicia Hutchins was a freshman at the University of Southern California and . . .”
I reached over Michy’s shoulder and hit stop. Murder is a daily fact of life for a criminal defense lawyer. But it was a whole different thing when you knew the victim. I didn’t know Alicia, per se, but I did know her father, Graham. And I knew that he’d provided her with a life that was well heeled, well educated, but, above all, sheltered. A gruesome murder like this made about as much sense as a church service for atheists. “I wonder what the cops have.”
Michy leaned back and raised an eyebrow. Her tone was sarcastic. “Gee, if only there was a way you could find out.”
I shook my head. “I’m not calling him.”
“Why not? He always tells you stuff. Besides, he is your da—”
I cut her off. “I told you to never say that word.” I refuse to call him Dad. For me, he is—and always will be—Dale Pearson. I met him only a few years ago, when he hired me to defend him in a double homicide. I hadn’t known he was my father when I took the case. Imagine my surprise.
It was no surprise, however, that Celeste, my “mother,” had lied to me about him. She’d claimed my father was just a one-night stand, when actually, she and Dale had been dating for months. What really happened was she’d found out she was pregnant around the same time she’d found out he had no money—so she dumped him and never told him about me. That’s what Celeste does—lies whenever it suits her. It’s a life strategy that comes as naturally to her as breathing.
I managed to get the case against Dale dismissed—not just on a technicality but because someone else committed the murders—and he’d recently been promoted to the elite Robbery Homicide Division. RHD picks up all the high-profile cases, and Alicia’s murder certainly qualified as that. So it was a fair bet the case would wind up there. At the very least, it was likely that the captain of RHD was getting briefed on it. Which meant Dale probably had the inside skinny.
