Snap Judgment (Samantha Brinkman Book 3)

by Marcia Clark

  “Did she mention any names?”

  Greg gave me a sheepish look. “No, but she didn’t have to. I was at Roan’s apartment the week before, and I saw him with her.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Our little Oxy dealer was a fount of information. “Did you know the girl?” Greg nodded. “Who was it?”

  He inhaled. “Diana.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Diana? What the fuck?” I said to Alex after Greg had left, clutching my business card in his cold, clammy hand.

  He’d given me his statement in exchange for my promise to represent him if he got busted for selling Oxy. I considered it a bargain. Since he had no record, it’d only take me one appearance to knock out a deal for straight probation. The statement he’d given us was more than worth the effort.

  Alex wrinkled his nose. “It’s pretty tacky. But you could feel the envy when we talked to her.”

  I agreed, but that was the least of it. I looked at my skull clock. It was only ten. If she was in pocket, we could brace her up right now. That’d put me just minutes away from the downtown courthouse—where I had to go that afternoon anyway when I met with the prosecutor on Tracy’s case. “See if you can get Diana to meet with us by eleven or so.” I didn’t think the interview would take long. “But keep it light; don’t tip her.”

  Alex shot me a look. “Gee, ya think?”

  I sighed and shook my head. “Yeah, sorry.”

  Five minutes later, he was back—and wearing his coat, a cool double-breasted peacoat. “Let’s hit it.”

  I stood up and put on my very uncool—but warmly lined—raincoat. “We should take two cars. I’ve got a court appearance downtown afterward.”

  Alex followed me out to Michy’s desk. “I don’t mind waiting.”

  It was tempting to have him nearby. Just for moral support. But I might be acting weird, because, you know . . . life or death, and I didn’t want him to get suspicious when he saw me sweat. “Thanks, but it might be a while.”

  I told Michy where we were going—and that I had to make a pit stop downtown after that. “I should be back this afternoon. But it’s Friday.” When traffic would be at its worst. In LA there was no such thing as “life in the fast lane.”

  She shook her head. “So I’ll see you sometime tomorrow. Anything going on downtown I should know about? As in, something involving billable hours?”

  I had my lie ready. I knew better than to try and pull it off on the fly with Michy. “Unfortunately, no. I’m just standing in for Norman on that burglary case.” It’d been my case, too, but my client had taken the county lid deal I’d gotten for him. Norman’s client was proving to be a little less realistic. We headed to the door. “Call me if anything good happens. Otherwise . . .”

  Michy nodded. “It can wait.”

  Alex had arranged for us to meet Diana at Bacaro L.A.—a relatively nice but cheap restaurant on Union Avenue—where we could find some privacy. The promise of a free meal was turning out to be a real boon for inspiring cooperation. Viva la poor student.

  It started to rain on the way over—nothing heavy, just drizzle, but the greasy road made traffic slow down to a crawl. It was a quarter after eleven by the time I got there. Fortunately, Alex had already arrived. He’d snagged a table in a quiet corner, and I saw that Diana was already hunched over a bowl of soup. As I sat down, I said, “Smells good. What is it?”

  She paused to come up for air. “Chicken vegetable.”

  I let her engage in chitchat with Alex while she finished her soup. But the moment she put down her spoon, I let her have it. My voice was low but firm. “We found out you were hooking up with Roan behind Alicia’s back. I’m not here to judge. If that’s the way you roll with your friends, that’s your business. But your holding out on me is my business. What else aren’t you telling me? People’s lives are on the line here, Diana. You need to get a grip on what’s important.”

  If I thought she’d be cowed by my confrontation, I was very much mistaken. She sat up and locked eyes with me, her gaze defiant. “Everyone knew Alicia was hooking up with that professor. So why shouldn’t I hook up with Roan?”

  I held her gaze. “You don’t really need me to answer that.” She deflated a little and looked down at the table. “When you say ‘everyone knew,’ I assume that means you think Roan might’ve known about it, too?”

  A little defiance came back into her eyes. “He definitely knew.”

  There was only one way she could be so sure. “Because you told him.”

  She didn’t deny it. “He had a right to know what was going on. And besides, I was sick of the way they all stepped on their tongues around her.”

  Jeez, jealous much? But maybe she had specifics. “Including Davey and Phil?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “All of them.”

  I knew about Phil; he’d admitted it. “What makes you think Davey was such a fan? He told me they were just friends.”

  But Diana had spent all her hostility. She slumped a little and shook her head. “Maybe so. I don’t know.” She played with the empty packet of sweetener near her coffee cup. “I actually did like her. She was . . . sweet. I guess I just couldn’t deal with how she seemed to have it all. A rich family, perfect grades, a bunch of guys who were hot for her . . . She didn’t have to sweat for any of it.”

  Or do pole dancing to buy groceries. “How did Roan react when you told him about Alicia and that professor?”

  She set her jaw. “Pissed as fuck. And betrayed. They all used to hang out, go to the professor’s place for wine and pizza and all.”

  I hadn’t known they’d been such a chummy group. “You mean Roan and Alicia and some others from the class used to hang out together?”

  She nodded. “He couldn’t believe Alicia—or that prof—would do him like that. Said he was going to screw them both over.”

  Alex and I exchanged a look. He leaned toward her. “Did he say how?”

  Diana shook her head. “But I actually didn’t take him all that seriously. Roan popped off a lot, and it never amounted to anything.”

  Except for this last time. “Is there anything else you’re holding back?” I added with mild sarcasm. “Because now would be a good time to unburden yourself.”

  She stared down at her empty bowl and frowned. “No, there’s nothing else.” Diana looked up at me, contrite. “Sorry about going off on you like that. I do feel bad about hooking up with Roan. I shouldn’t have done it.” She sighed. “It’s just . . . I liked her, but I also resented her.” She shook her head sadly. “I’d always thought Alicia was so lucky.”

  The irony required no comment. I glanced at my phone and saw that it was almost one o’clock. I needed to get over to the courthouse. When we wrapped up, a much more subdued Diana thanked us for lunch and promised to let us know if she remembered anything else. I offered her a lift back to campus, but she’d ridden her bike over, so she declined.

  After she left, Alex and I walked to our cars. I was glad we were driving separately. I had some work for him to do. “I know you’ve been checking into Professor Barth, but we need to step it up a notch.” Now it wasn’t just that I could tell he was hiding something or that he had no alibi for Roan’s murder. I sensed there was a lot more to Barth’s story, and that might mean he also had a real motive to kill Roan—though I wasn’t sure what it might be.

  We got to my car first. The rain clouds had cleared, but the air had gotten downright frosty. Alex put his hands in his pockets. “You think he’d kill Roan to keep him from telling the dean about the affair? ’Cause I’m not sure I buy that.”

  “No, I agree. And it didn’t even sound like they dated that much. But there’s more to this, and we need to find out what it is.”

  Alex said he was on it, and I headed to the courthouse. I deliberately parked in the farthest lot. The walk would calm my nerves.

  The wind kicked up as I made my way toward Temple Street. I bent my head to keep my hair out of my eyes—and to keep my face
from freezing. I was glad when I got inside the lobby. The walk had helped to burn off a little nervous energy. But as I rode the elevator to the eighteenth floor, my stomach began to churn again. I gave the receptionist my card and told her to tell Rick that I was here to talk to him about the Maldonado case. She told me to take a seat and picked up the phone. I forced myself to take deep breaths as I sat down and rehearsed my lines for the thirtieth time.

  Ten minutes later, he walked into the reception area, a wide smile on his face. Rick Moringlane was a little shorter than I’d expected. But he totally looked like the Boy Scout type I’d seen in the photo. He came over and extended a hand. “Ms. Brinkman, I’ve heard of you. Nice to meet in person.”

  He’d heard of me, but that didn’t seem to be a bad thing. So far, so good. I shook his hand and said, “Likewise.”

  He gestured to the door. “Come on back.”

  I followed him out into the hallway and up to the security door. He punched in a number on the keypad and held the door open for me. I walked in, and he led the way to a tiny office on the right side of the building. Tiny, but it had a window—a major perk, I knew, from my days as a public defender one floor above.

  It was a typical county lawyer’s office: regulation wood laminate desk, standing metal file cabinets, and files stacked on a table against the wall. There was a family photo on a short bookcase behind his chair that showed Rick, his lovely bride, and a smiling toddler in a pink dress with pink bows in her hair, but unlike most county lawyer offices, there were no posters on the wall, no knickknacks on the desk. He sat down behind it, and I took one of the metal-framed county-issue chairs across from him.

  He leaned back in his executive chair and smiled again. “I heard about you defending your father on that double. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like.”

  It was a fairly common question—one I absolutely hated answering. But I needed to get on his good side, so I gave over to it with good humor this time. “Yeah, it was crazy.” We chatted about the case for longer than I’d have liked. Then I turned the tables and asked how he liked working downtown—and barely listened to his answer.

  Finally, he let us get down to brass tacks. “So what’s your interest in the Maldonado case?”

  I exhaled slowly and gave him a look that I hoped was a lot calmer than I felt. “I may have a client who witnessed the murder.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Rick had been leaning back and rocking in his chair. Now, he stopped rocking. “You want to give me his name?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. Obviously, he’s going to want a little consideration on his own case, and I want to make sure there’s an opportunity here before I give you specifics.”

  He studied me for a moment. “Well, you’re going to have to give me something to go on, even if it’s just a general overview of what he’ll say. And what kind of charges is he facing? Is it a strike case?”

  I gave him my fictional client’s history. “No, no. Just a commercial burglary. And he’s got a minimal rap sheet, just a couple of juvie busts. We’re looking for probation.” Rick tilted his head to one side, then nodded. So far, so good. “As for what he can do for you, I believe he can corroborate your key eyewitness’s testimony.”

  That got him—as I’d known it would. He leaned forward. “Corroborate how? Did he see it go down, too?”

  I shook my head and gave him a little smile. “Let’s just say he saw enough to cure your eyewitness’s credibility problems.”

  Rick frowned at me. “Exactly what credibility problems do you think I have?”

  I held up a hand. “My bad. Maybe the fact that your witness has a rap sheet a mile long isn’t a problem for you.”

  He blanched a little. “How do you—who told you that?”

  I had him. Time to play my trump card. “I know your main witness is Tracy Gopeck.” Her name wasn’t supposed to be public knowledge yet. If that didn’t convince him that my client really did have the goods, I was toast.

  Rick took a moment to absorb that. “Does he know her?”

  That’d be too easy for him to check out. “No. But he was in the background when she was talking to the cops at the crime scene. He caught her name. I used my . . . sources to look into her background.”

  He gave me a suspicious look. “What sources?”

  “Not the kind you have to worry about.” I waited for him to put it together: my father was a detective with LAPD, therefore . . .

  And he got it. He nodded. “I definitely could use some help with her credibility.”

  Here came the hard part. “The thing is, I’ll need to talk to Tracy myself. I won’t know if my client’s information really is corroborating until I hear what she has to say.”

  He shook his head. “No way.”

  I had to get him to tell me where she was. I pretended to be puzzled. “I’ll be happy to do it with you there, Rick. I just can’t expose my client until I know that there’s something in it for him. Plus, there’s a gang connection to this case. If his name gets spread around, it could be big trouble for him.”

  He rocked in his chair for a moment. “I can’t bring anyone to her right now. It’s not secure enough yet.”

  I played my answer with mild exasperation. “Look, I know you’ve got her in protective custody. You want to blindfold me or whatever, that’s fine.”

  Rick gave a little smile, but he shook his head. “I’d be okay with that, but it’s not up to me.”

  I wasn’t going to get access to Tracy from him—that much was clear. But that wasn’t my only objective. I made my last move. “How about if my father talks to your cops? Would that help?”

  He looked contrite. “Sorry, but no. It wouldn’t. It’s not even up to them.”

  And bingo. I had my answer.

  I held up my hands. “Then I guess we’re at a stalemate.” I picked up my purse. “I’d really like to help you out, Rick. Here’s what I suggest: try and talk to the powers that be, see if you can get them to bend a little. If anything changes, let me know.” I stood up and held out my hand.

  As he stood and shook my hand, he looked so disappointed I almost felt bad for him. “Okay. And if your client changes his mind about fronting his information, let me know. Please tell him he can trust me. Even if I can’t make him a deal, I’ll make sure his name doesn’t get out.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll try. But you know he’s right to be nervous. There’s a reason you’ve got Tracy in protective custody.”

  Rick walked me out.

  As I left the building and headed for the PAB to talk to Dale, I thought I’d done a pretty good job for my client.

  Too bad he’d never get the chance to thank me for it.

  By prearrangement, I texted Dale to say I was on my way. He met me outside, and we headed to the nearby Panorama Café on Hill Street. I ordered hot tea, and he ordered coffee. After the waiter brought our drinks, I leaned in and kept my voice low. “The feds have her.”

  Dale wrapped his hands around his cup. He hadn’t bothered to wear a jacket, and the cold wind blowing outside was a bit much even for him. “That jibes with what I found out. She’s nowhere in state custody. She had to either be out on her own or with the feds.”

  Which begged the ultimate question: Where was she? “But if she’s with the feds, she could be anywhere in the country.”

  Dale’s expression was bleak. “For what it’s worth, my guess is they’re keeping her local for the sake of convenience.”

  That was cold comfort. “Which just means it’s easier for Cabazon—or Diego—to find her, too.” For all that people yap about the safety of protective custody, it can be porous as hell.

  We mulled over our options. Given what DA Rick Moringlane had said, we could now be fairly sure Tracy was in federal protective custody and not just hiding out on her own. The problem was, that meant Dale would have to be deployed—something we’d hoped to avoid. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get this ball rolling. Based on what Moringlane s
aid, I think it’s pretty clear that LAPD cops caught the case first.” And between the two of us, Dale was the only one who could hope to find those cops and get them to tell him which FBI agents they handed off the case to. But that would require a certain amount of snooping around and asking questions. Every bit of that was risky for him.

  Because the only way to save Tracy was to get her away from her handlers and help her disappear. If we were successful, someone might very well remember that Dale had been asking around about her shortly before she vanished. To put it mildly, that would be a bad thing. So he had to be very smooth about how he handled this. “I can help you come up with a cover story.”

  Dale glared at me. “Thanks. I think I can handle it.” He looked away for a moment. When he met my gaze, he said, “Assuming I do find these feds, how am I supposed to talk them into letting you meet with Tracy?”

  I’d been thinking about that problem for some time. I needed a story that would both persuade Tracy to talk to me and persuade the feds to let me talk to her. After meeting with la familia Gopeck, I thought I had the answer. “The truth is always the best lie. You tell the agents that I’m carrying a message from Tiffany. We’re going to need Tiffany to get on board with this, because she’ll need to handwrite the note and put in enough personal info so Tracy will believe it really came from her—”

  Dale interrupted, his expression irritated. “A note saying what?”

  I stared at him. “I get that you’re on edge, but you need to calm down and listen.”

  Dale leaned back and folded his arms. “Go ahead.”

  “Tiffany’s going to say that she thinks that asswipe Ronnie is molesting the younger sister, Tammy. But Tammy’s afraid to come forward because she thinks no one will believe her. Tiffany needs Tracy’s help. She’s sure that if Tracy backs her up, Tammy will go to the cops.” It seemed to me a story like that would persuade the feds to let us make contact with Tracy.

  Dale didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know.”

  Now I sat back. “I’m all ears if you have a better idea.”