Snap Judgment (Samantha Brinkman Book 3)

by Marcia Clark

  He didn’t answer. He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “We are finished.”

  The driver gave the horn a fast tap, and the tattooed gorillas opened my door. They were a little more civilized this time. They let me walk to the Range Rover on my own—albeit with one on each side of me.

  The driver sped through the streets almost as manically as he had on the way out. I guessed it was just his style. How he got away with it, I didn’t know. If I drove like that, I’d get busted within ten seconds. The constant stream of adrenaline that’d kept my juices flowing had abruptly ebbed by the time they dropped me back at my building, and my body felt like it was weighted down with sandbags. I barely had the strength to make it up the stairs.

  The moment I got inside, I poured myself three fingers of tequila and downed most of it in one gulp. The mix of tequila and waning adrenaline was not my best idea. I felt queasy, and my head started to spin. I had to lie down on the couch.

  But the alcohol eventually won out, and for the first time that evening, I took a full breath. Feeling better, I got up, locked the door, threw the deadbolt, and poured myself a double shot. I took it to bed with me and turned on the television.

  I found a Friends rerun—the visual equivalent of comfort food—sipped my drink, and tried to put my encounter with Cabazon out of my head. Ten minutes later, as Ross reminded Rachel they’d been on a break, I felt the empty glass slip from my fingers.

  And that was the last thing I remember until the raucous sounds of a Brady Bunch rerun woke me up at seven thirty a.m. I’d slept for eight hours. I couldn’t remember when I’d last managed to do that. I rolled out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. My stomach was still a little dicey, and my brain was fuzzy, but the steamy shower helped, and the first two cups of coffee restored me to almost full consciousness. I got dressed, poured myself a third cup, and went out to the balcony to take in the city. Between that final shot of caffeine and the icy wind that was bending the palm trees almost horizontal, I woke all the way up. My gaze drifted east toward downtown and the Twin Towers, where Jorge Maldonado was being held. Cabazon really was out of patience. I’d have to make time to see Jorge today—tomorrow at the latest.

  I went back inside and put on a vest, my coat, and my black wool scarf. It wasn’t easy to do because my arms were killing me. The Neanderthals had really done a number on them, and my biceps sported big Technicolor splotches. I grabbed the leftover toast I’d made the day before and headed for the office.

  Alex was standing next to Michy’s desk when I walked in, and Michy’s mouth was hanging open. I stared at her. “What? You just found out that Tom Cruise isn’t gay?”

  Michy said, “This is so weird.”

  Alex looked stoked. “You told me to check out Heather. So I decided to start by looking under her maiden name. And look what I found.” He held out his iPad.

  I took it and saw a birth certificate. The mother’s name was Heather Moser, and the father was listed as unknown. And the baby’s name was David. It took me a second to put it together. Then it hit me. “Holy shit. Davey Moser . . . Davey? She’s Davey’s mother?”

  Alex nodded as he took back his iPad. “And get this, he was born one year after Heather signed on as a client with Graham’s law firm.”

  One year. It was easy math—but a crazy equation. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Graham’s the father?”

  Alex spread out his hands. “I didn’t believe it, either, so I accessed Graham’s phone records for the past year. Heather called him the day the news hit about Alicia’s murder.”

  And she’d called Graham right after we’d spoken to her. It seemed pretty clear, but there was only one way to know for sure. “I’m going to have to talk to Graham.”

  Michy looked worried. “Don’t you think it’ll piss him off to know that you’ve been checking up on him?”

  “Probably. But this is something he should’ve told me himself. I’d like to know why he chose not to.”

  Not that I didn’t get it. No one would love the idea of having to admit that they’d had an affair, let alone one that’d produced a child. But he knew our conversations were privileged, and this was a truly bizarre coincidence. If the reporters found out that Graham’s illegitimate son had been friends with his daughter, the story would go viral. And it wouldn’t do Graham any favors with the jury pool. I needed to figure out how to minimize the damage before that happened.

  Alex pulled up the secretary’s chair. “And FYI, not that it’s any surprise now, but none of those girls in Davey’s building called Graham after we met with them.”

  I nodded. He was right. It was no surprise . . . now.

  Alex continued. “I guess now we know why Graham was visiting him.”

  I thought about that. “I’d say so. In which case, Davey must know that Graham’s his father. And Alicia is—was—his half sister. But then why didn’t Davey tell me?”

  Michy leaned back and folded her arms. “Because maybe Davey doesn’t know. Heather probably wouldn’t want him to find out that he was the product of an affair. And the same would go for Graham—especially since he chose not to be a part of Davey’s life.”

  Alex agreed with her. I supposed that made sense. I wanted to talk to Graham about it, but I also needed to get downtown to see Jorge today. I decided to try and squeeze Graham in this morning and go see Jorge in the afternoon, since that would take more time. “Michy, see if you can get Graham in here before noon. If not, try and set us up with a meeting tomorrow.”

  I went into my office, thinking I’d get some work done while I waited to find out what the plan was. But Michy called to let me know that Graham was in the neighborhood. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  Damn. That was fast. “How did he sound?”

  “Kind of pissed.” She shrugged. “My guess? Heather told him you were snooping around, and he wants some answers. And I think I’m edging up to a big ‘I told you so.’”

  I could feel my anger rising as I prepared for the fight. “I don’t care. He needs to get that he’s jeopardizing his own life by shutting me out.”

  Michy sighed. “This should be fun.”

  I told her to show Graham in to my office when he got there. Seven minutes later, Michy knocked on my door, and he strode in.

  She’d been right. He stood in the middle of my office, red-faced with anger. “What the hell are you doing digging around in my life? I hired you to represent me, to watch my back. Not to investigate me.”

  I gestured to the chair in front of my desk. “Have a seat.” He glared at me as he came over and sat down. “Let me explain to you how it works with a case like this. The press doesn’t give a crap about mergers and acquisitions. But they care a great deal about a salacious murder case involving a high-priced lawyer.” I told him what I didn’t know could hurt him—badly. And that it’d come to my attention more than once that there was a lot I didn’t know. “Things you should have told me. For instance, how long have you known that Davey was your son?”

  Graham clenched his jaw. “I knew Heather had my child. But I didn’t find out that child was Davey until right after Alicia . . . died.”

  I remembered what Alex had said about his phone records. “When Heather called you?”

  A look of alarm crossed his face. “How did you know about that?”

  I wasn’t about to let him drag me into a defensive posture. “So you knew you’d gotten her pregnant, but you didn’t know anything about the child?”

  He shook his head. “No, I mean I didn’t even know I’d gotten her pregnant until the child was a couple of years old. Heather had wanted to take care of everything on her own, but her business had taken a big downturn. So she asked me for financial help, but she didn’t want me to be involved, and I was okay with that. I sent her monthly checks until she got back on her feet.”

  This much made sense. The rest, however . . . “Didn’t Alicia tell you she was friends with Davey Moser?”

  Graham stared over my
shoulder. “No. She only told me she was friends with a boy named Davey. Heather never told me what she’d named the baby, didn’t even tell me whether it was a boy or a girl. And I never got the chance to meet any of Alicia’s college friends in person.”

  Right. Alicia’d only been at USC for a few months. I supposed if Graham had met Davey in person when Alicia had first moved in, he might’ve seen the resemblance between them—though I certainly hadn’t noticed it. Only now, having learned that they were related, did I see the similarity in the shape of the brow, the curve of the lips. “But surely once you spoke to Heather, you found out?”

  Graham nodded. “She told me when she called to extend her sympathy about Alicia. And she said that Davey told her they were friends. I asked whether Davey knew Alicia was his half sister, but Heather said no. She’d never told him about me.”

  I’d come back to that later. “Why did you go visit Davey?”

  He sighed and looked down at my desk. “I’d just lost my daughter and found out that my son had been a good friend of hers. I guess it was a way of hanging onto some part of her.” Graham met my gaze. “I’m sorry I lied to you about it, but I didn’t see what it might have to do with the case.”

  Was he kidding? This was tabloid manna from heaven. But there was no point getting into it with him now. “Did you tell him you were his father?”

  A wave of sadness washed over his features. “No. It’s too late for that.”

  Then Michy might be right. Maybe Davey didn’t know Alicia was his half sister. Still, the fact that they’d become friends struck me as too much of a coincidence. “Don’t you think it’s a tad bizarre that they just happened to go to the same school, and then just happened to wind up being friends?”

  Graham shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose so. But then again, they share some DNA. Is it so strange that they’d make similar choices? And USC is a popular school, they both live in LA . . . I mean, it’s not like Davey moved here from Atlanta.”

  That was fine, as far as it went. But it still didn’t explain how they wound up being friends. In fairness, though, Graham couldn’t be expected to know the answer to that question.

  He asked me if the police had contacted me yet about bringing him in for more questioning. I told him they hadn’t so far. “And I’d be surprised if they did. The lead detective knows me well enough to know that I’d tell him to take a flying leap.”

  Graham nodded, then asked in a tense voice, “But they don’t have enough to arrest me yet, right?”

  “No, not yet.” I’d already told Graham that I was sure the cops and evidence analysts were going through everything with a fine-tooth comb to find just one more link to justify his arrest. I decided not to tell him that they’d held up Alicia’s autopsy report. I didn’t know what their questions about the murder weapon had to do with her cause of death, and it’d only drive him crazy to tell him something I couldn’t explain. I just said that I’d be in touch the moment I heard anything. “In the meantime, is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

  He swore there wasn’t. I studied his face as I searched for the lie. I didn’t see enough to know either way. It was the hell of representing a trial lawyer: it meant he was one hell of a poker player.

  After Graham left, I went out and told Michy and Alex what he’d said and how he’d learned about Davey and Alicia being friends. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.” We’d learned a lot, but I knew there was more, a lot more. I asked Alex, “What’ve you found out about Davey?”

  He didn’t look excited. “Not much. The only thing that’s even mildly interesting is that Davey transferred to USC the year before Alicia entered. He started at Loyola.”

  I shook my head. “I disagree. That wasn’t even mildly interesting.” I looked at my phone. It was almost noon. “I’ve got to go see a client at Twin Towers.”

  Hopefully, that would prove to be interesting.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  As I drove downtown, I thought about how I could let Jorge Maldonado know what his tío Cabazon was up to without tipping off the guards who monitored jail visits. Attorney-client visits were supposed to be confidential, but I was sure Cabazon had connections everywhere. I couldn’t take any chances.

  I showed the guard at the reception desk my ID, and when I gave her Jorge’s name, I asked whether he was still in maximum security. She typed on her computer, then peered at the screen. “Yeah. In fact, he’s in solitary.”

  Just as I’d suspected. They weren’t taking any chances. If he were in general population, he’d probably be dead before he finished his first fruit cup.

  By the time I entered the attorney visiting room and sat down at a cubicle, I had a few ideas about how to clue Jorge in to what I was doing. Of necessity, my language would have to be cryptic. I’d just have to hope that Jorge was smart enough to get it. Five minutes later, a guard walked him down the row, and I sat face-to-face with Tracy’s savior.

  I’d expected to see a multiple-tattooed and -pierced tough guy. That was not who sat across the Plexiglas divide from me. Jorge Maldonado was tall, slender, had one small tattoo of a rose just under his left earlobe, and no piercings whatsoever. He wasn’t a beauty; his eyes were a little close together, his nose was a little big for his face, and his ears stuck out at right angles from his head. But his smile was warm, and when he picked up the phone, he greeted me with a soft voice.

  He gave me a curious look. “I was surprised to find I had another lawyer. Are you replacing Diego?”

  If only. I spoke carefully, so that every word would sink in. “No. I’ve come to bring you information. Your little mother misses you terribly. She wishes there was something she could do to help you.” I’d said “little” mother to clue him in that I was talking about Tracy. I looked into his eyes and tried to convey the fact that he had to read between the lines.

  He stared back at me for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his eyes were shiny with tears. “I miss her, too. So you’ve seen her? Will you see her again?” I nodded. “Please tell her I said it’s not her fault I’m in here.”

  I was so relieved I almost smiled. He got it. He knew we were talking about Tracy.

  He asked, “How is she?”

  “She’s fine. People are protecting her.” I waited to see if he understood I meant she was in protective custody. He nodded. Good. Now, I had to convey the threat Cabazon posed. “But there’s concern that she might be getting sick. And at her age, any illness might be fatal.”

  Jorge gripped the telephone and stared into my eyes. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  I returned his gaze. “All she wants is for you to take care of yourself. I think you should consider finding someone you can talk to, share your feelings with.” I paused to make sure he got what I meant: that he should consider rolling over on Cabazon if he could find someone safe.

  Jorge stared at me intently. “But it hurts to talk about feelings. It even hurts to think about my feelings.”

  He was telling me he knew he was in grave danger whether he talked or not. “I understand very well. There’s no rush. I’m going to see tu familia very soon, I think.” I said it in Spanish to let him know that I meant Cabazon. “I will tell them that your mother is ill and needs good care.”

  Jorge nodded emphatically. “Yes, please tell them that it’s important to me that she recover her health. If she doesn’t, I’ll be very, very upset.” He paused and looked into my eyes. “And if I get that upset, I will have to talk to someone, share my feelings.”

  He was telling me that if Tracy were harmed, he’d tell the cops everything he knew about Cabazon.

  I gave him a steady look to let him know I understood. “If all goes as planned, she’ll get better soon. But if anything changes, I’ll be back.” I was telling him I had a plan to help her, and that he shouldn’t take action until we spoke again. I waited for him to let me know he’d understood.

  He gave me a slow nod, then thanked me. “Please tel
l my little mother I love her.”

  I promised I would. We hung up, and I left the jail. I’d hoped Jorge would back my play, and he had—beautifully. If Tracy got killed, Jorge would start talking. I’d give Cabazon the message when he next got in touch. Given his state of impatience, I was sure that’d be soon. I’d go over the plan with Dale one more time, just to ensure we’d done all we could to make it succeed, but basically, we were ready. A part of me was even anxious for Cabazon to make contact. The sooner he did, the sooner we could get Tracy out and put this insanity behind us.

  As I headed back to my car, my thoughts refocused on Davey and Alicia. Was that the secret Roan thought would rock her world? It was certainly possible. I wasn’t sure I’d call it such a “gnarly” secret, but the knowledge that her good buddy Davey was her father’s bastard son from an affair he’d had years ago definitely wouldn’t be pleasant news.

  But how could Roan have found out? It’d taken an incredible amount of digging for us to do it. And no matter how I’d ribbed Alex, he really was ten times the Internet detective Roan could ever have hoped to be. The only other way he could’ve found out was if Davey told him. But according to Graham and Heather, Davey didn’t know Alicia was his half sister.

  I called Alex from the car. “Can you find out where Davey is? We need to have a chat with him.”

  Alex said he’d known that was next. “According to his class schedule, he’s got a lecture until two, and then he doesn’t have another class until three o’clock. Since you’re already downtown, why don’t I meet you there?”

  We picked an address that was closest to the lecture hall. I told him to text me if he was running late, then ended the call. I didn’t want to talk to Davey without Alex. It’s standard operating procedure to always have someone else present when you’re interviewing a witness. Especially one who might decide to “forget” what he’d said. A lawyer can’t testify in his or her own case, so I needed to be able to call someone to the stand who could testify to what the witness had said during the interview.