Blood Defense (12 page)

TWENTY

I
wanted to get to Twin Towers
first thing in the morning, but Deshawn’s hearing was at nine a.m., and there was no way Judge Raymond would let me put it over. A former marine and a slavishly devoted cop-lover, Judge Raymond was a prosecutor’s dream come true. And my worst nightmare. He wasn’t exactly a big fan of mine, either. Which is why I got to court a half hour early. I knew he’d jump at the chance to slap me with a fine.

Deshawn rolled in at five minutes to nine. That was early for him, and no doubt thanks only to his mother, Tamika Johnson, who was sitting in the audience, her eyes boring into Deshawn’s back. Deshawn had spiffed up for the occasion in black loafers, dark slacks, and a white shirt and tie—thanks again, I was sure, only to Tamika. He turned to glance at her every few minutes, feeling the wrath of her glare. Deshawn feared no one the way he feared his mother.

Seconds later, Rita Stump, the prosecutor, wearing a dress from Forever 21 (no one told her it was just a name, not a promise) and an irritated expression, marched into the courtroom. The cop, Bruce Ambrose, rolled in behind her. He was one of those red-necked (it’s not a pejorative in this case; his neck was actually red), fleshy cops who looked like a heart attack waiting to happen.

He’d busted Deshawn for a seat-belt violation, then claimed to have seen something “funny” about his glove compartment. The ensuing search turned up a handgun that Deshawn swore wasn’t his.

Ambrose got on the stand, and Rita took him through the fairy tale he’d written in his police report. Then it was my turn.

I started by having him describe what was so “funny” about the glove compartment. He claimed it didn’t seem to “line up right.” I made him get specific about it—which edges didn’t line up, how far off they were.

He stared at me with cold, hard eyes. “It looked to me like there was at least half an inch between the dash and the top of the glove box.”

“And yet the glove compartment was fully closed, wasn’t it?”

“It was closed.”

“Amazing feat of engineering, wouldn’t you say? That it could stay closed—”

“Objection!” Rita jumped to her feet. “Counsel’s sarcasm is inappropriate.”

I held up my hands. “I’m just asking for his opinion. I mean, he’s clearly an expert in glove boxes—”

The judge gave me a menacing look. “Ms. Brinkman, you’ll knock off the personal comments
and
the sarcasm or we’ll stop this hearing and start contempt proceedings.”

I turned back to my buddy Ambrose. “And of course, you took photos of that glove box so we could all see how ‘funny’ it looked—”

“No. I didn’t.”

I let that sink in for a moment, then moved on. “This wasn’t the first time you met my client, was it? You’ve had a few run-ins in the past.”

“I wouldn’t call them run-ins. I had information that indicated to me he might’ve committed a crime on two previous occasions, and I detained him for further questioning.”

But the descriptions of the suspects in those cases didn’t even remotely fit Deshawn. The first suspect was five foot seven, 150. The second one was even more ridiculous: he was five foot six—and Hispanic. Deshawn was six foot three. I told Deshawn to stand up next to me. “Your Honor, for the record, I’m five foot six.” I stared up at Deshawn. I glanced at the judge and saw that I’d made my point. Time to move in for the kill.

I picked up the gun Ambrose claimed to have found in Deshawn’s glove box and took it to the witness stand. “Officer, would you read the serial number on that gun for us?”

He stared at me for a moment, then slowly read it.

“Thank you. Now I’m going to show you a police report that was prepared about a month before you arrested Deshawn.”

“Objection! Irrelevant!” Rita bounced up again. “What does a police report on a different case have to do with—”

The judge cut her off. “I think we’re about to find out. Overruled.”

I put the report in front of Ambrose and pointed to the bottom of the page. “Please read those last two lines for us.” I watched to see if his lips would move. They didn’t. But when he finished, I saw him swallow hard. “That report was prepared one month ago by another LAPD officer, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And it shows that another officer seized this very gun from a suspect named Julio Ortiz and booked it into evidence one month
before
you stopped Deshawn Johnson, doesn’t it?”

Ambrose darted a look at Rita, then licked dry lips. “Yeah.”

I pulled out the follow-up report on Julio Ortiz and showed it to Ambrose. “If this gun had been released back to Ortiz, it would say so in this report, wouldn’t it?” Ambrose nodded. “But it doesn’t say that, does it?”

Ambrose stared at the report for a long moment. “No.”

“So can you explain to us how a gun that was booked into evidence a month
before
you stopped Deshawn Johnson wound up in his glove compartment?”

“I . . . someone must’ve taken it out of evidence.”

“And that someone had to be a cop, didn’t it? You guys don’t let people like Deshawn or me go check stuff out of the locker, do you?”

“No.”

“Any idea who that cop might be?”

Ambrose stared straight ahead. “No.”

“But there’s a video camera in the evidence locker, so we could find out, right?”

Ambrose turned a scary shade of red and gave me a death glare. “I guess so.”

“Did you ever have the gun tested for prints or DNA?”

“No.”

“But being a good police officer, you handled it carefully so as not to wipe off any prints or DNA that might be there, right?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t really worried about that. It was in his glove box.” Ambrose’s face got so red I thought the top of his head would blow off.

The courtroom had gone dead silent.

I glanced at Rita, then turned to the judge. “I’d ask the court to order that the videotape of the evidence locker be produced and that this weapon be tested for prints and DNA. By a neutral agency, like the sheriff’s office.” I sat down.
Your move, Rita.

The judge looked like he’d just taken a bite of rotten fish. He turned to the prosecutor. “People?”

This time, Rita didn’t bounce. She didn’t even stand. “I have no questions.”

Judge Raymond didn’t want to do it. I could see it was killing him. But he had no choice. “I’m going to issue those orders.” He glared at Rita. “It’s not my job to tell you how to do yours. But if I were you, I’d give my superiors the heads up that the judge will be ordering an investigation. They might want to do one of their own.” He glared at Ambrose. “And I’m ordering you to go back to the station forthwith and tell your captain what happened here.” He banged his gavel. “We’ll be in recess.”

Rita stomped out with Ambrose trailing behind her. Neither of them looked at me. They knew as well as I did that the lab wouldn’t find Deshawn’s
anything
on that gun. This case was history.

Deshawn started whooping and fist-bumping the minute we got outside the courtroom, but I held up a hand and gave him the facts of life. “Deshawn, listen to me: Ambrose went to a lot of trouble to set you up. That’s how bad they want you. You’ve had a target on your back for a long time, and it just got ten times bigger. You keep crime-ing, they’ll get you for sure. And next time you won’t have me.”

“I hear you. I really do. Starting now, I’m out of the life for good.”

I knew he meant it. Now. But I also knew that tomorrow, or the next day, Lil’ J or Big Blue or whoever would show up and say, “I just need [fill in the blank] just this one time,” and he’d go for it. As the saying goes, it was in Deshawn’s nature.

TWENTY-ONE

I
t was four o’clock
by
the time I got in to see Dale. There are only seven attorney “rooms”—really just cubicles—in each module, and they were all full when I got there. I had to wait a half hour for one to open up. Dale looked better today. His face didn’t sag as much, and there was more life in his eyes. He wasn’t all the way back to the man I’d met in my office, and he probably wouldn’t be as long as he was in here. But he was doing better. Which was a good thing, because I was going to have to get into it with him.

I picked up the phone. “Hey. They treating you okay so far?”

“Probably as okay as they can. They put me next to a juicehead who sleeps all day. And farts. But it could be a lot worse.” He looked in my eyes. “How are you doing? I’ve been worrying about you. You must be getting some serious flack for representing the monster who killed America’s sweetheart.”

I’d never had a client in custody ask how I was doing. Especially one who was facing a sentence of life without parole. “I’ve gotten some . . . interesting comments on my website and on Twitter. But it goes with the territory. Don’t worry about me; I can handle it.”

I told him about our interviews.

He remembered Nikki—who hadn’t been subtle about her irritation at not getting a rise out of him. “But what she told you was true. I was driving around the neighborhood. I thought the burglar was a local amateur who might decide to try it again.”

“That’ll work.”

“It’s the truth. I told you, I’m not like your other clients, Samantha. I’m not going to lie to you.”

I gave him a long look. “Holding out on me is
exactly
what my other clients would do. How come you didn’t tell me Chloe broke up with you that night?”

He blew out a breath. “Janet, right?”

I nodded. “And Chloe’s sister confirms it. During their last phone call, Chloe said she was planning to break up.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I should’ve told you. I’m sorry. I guess I was worried that you’d make more of it than it really was. The truth is, we were
both
through with each other. She was getting back into the junk, and I couldn’t just stand by and watch her throw her life away.”

A jury would probably buy it, since the toxicology report backed him up. But it’d help if someone else could back up his claim that she was a regular user. “Did anyone else know she was using again?”

“I’d bet her sister knew. But I doubt she’ll tell you. In my experience, next of kin tends to clam up when it comes to things like that.” He gave me a searching look. “Speaking of family, how does yours feel about you taking this case?”

What a weird question. “Uh, my mom wasn’t thrilled.”

He flicked a piece of dust off the counter in front of him. “What about your dad?”

Even weirder. What was this about? “I think my stepdad’s okay with it.” Celeste would’ve made a point of telling me if he wasn’t.

He looked up at me and cocked his head. “What about your biological father? Is he in the picture?”

This was getting stranger by the second. “No. Never met him. Look, about the drug dealer—”

“What if you could? Meet him, I mean. Would you want to?”

What the . . . ? “I don’t know. When I was a kid, I wanted to.” Actually, I’d dreamed of it day and night. Even now, the old feelings came rushing back. The pain of feeling alone, vulnerable, at everyone’s mercy, of wishing I had someone in my corner. Someone strong and fierce, who’d protect me . . . who’d make them all pay. I pulled myself back with effort. “Why do you care?”

“I know him.” He looked at me with soft eyes. “So do you.”

I stared at him. “What the fuck . . . ?”

Dale took a deep breath. After a long moment, he said, “It’s me.” His eyes searched mine as he continued. “I’m your father.”

I heard the words, but they made no sense. It was as though he was speaking backward. When my brain managed to unscramble the sounds, I was sure I’d heard wrong. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

He spoke gently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to blindside you like this. But I couldn’t seem to find the right time. I met you and then . . . everything happened so fast.”

“Couldn’t find the right time?” I felt a little dizzy, like the room had just tilted forty-five degrees. I shook my head slowly, thinking I must be dreaming. This couldn’t be real. I looked down at the pen in my left hand, poised over a legal pad. I looked around at the cubicles, at the observation window where a guard was standing—and watching me. I was definitely not dreaming. The words echoed again in my brain:
I’m your father
. How could it be?

I’d forgotten to breathe. Light-headed, I gulped for air. Finally, I looked at him. I took in the strong chin; the widow’s peak; the dark-brown, almost-black hair—all of it so like mine. And so unlike Celeste, with her blonde mane. Then I remembered seeing him sign the retainer agreement; he was left-handed—like I was. But I still couldn’t wrap my brain around it. I stammered, “H-how do you know? What makes you think . . .” I couldn’t manage all the questions that flooded through my mind.

Dale looked at me apologetically. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

I wasn’t sure of anything right now. But I nodded slowly.

Dale searched my face for a moment. “Okay. I dated your mother when we were in college. We went out for a while, then she broke up with me. About a month later, she called to tell me she was pregnant and needed money for an abortion. I gave it to her, offered to take her to the doctor, help her out afterward, but she shut me down. Said it was her problem and she could handle it. I called her a week later to see if she was okay, but she didn’t answer. And I never saw or heard from her again. I had no idea she’d had the baby.”

I shook my head. “No, that’s not right. Celeste got pregnant after a one-night stand. She went to a party, got drunk, slept with a guy whose name she never knew.”

“
That’s
what she told you?” Dale shook his head, then a little smile crossed his lips. “Celeste. She was Charlene when I knew her. But I’m not surprised she changed it. She hated the name, thought it sounded too hillbilly.”

Hillbilly? He was definitely talking about Celeste. But it just wouldn’t sink in. I had another dizzy spell. I’d stopped breathing again. I inhaled. Better. My brain started to work. “Why would she say she didn’t know the father? Why tell me he was just a one-nighter?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I have a good guess. Maybe because if you knew the truth, you might find me. And then I’d be coming around—which was the last thing she’d have wanted.” Dale hesitated, his expression pained. “Look, Samantha, I don’t want to speak ill of her—”

Most of my pistons were firing now. This had to be bullshit. I snapped at him. “Really? ’Cause I do. All the time. But why wouldn’t she want to keep you around? We were broke. She needed the money. And besides, she’d have been thrilled to have a free babysitter.” Getting tied down with a kid was the last thing in the world she’d wanted.

He sighed. “I didn’t have money—certainly not the kind she was aiming for—and she didn’t want a low-rent loser in her life. It’s one thing to be a single mom with a little girl. A lot of men wouldn’t mind stepping into that picture. But it’s another to be a single mom with a child and an ex-boyfriend who’s always around. She was looking for a guy with big bucks, and she didn’t want anything to get in the way of that.”

That explanation made me slow down and reconsider. It was exactly how she’d think. Celeste was all about the money. I’d spent my childhood watching her pan for gold with one boyfriend after another. “Then why’d she go out with you to begin with?”

“I looked better off than I was. I went to UCLA, and she went to Cal State Northridge. I had a better car than I deserved—an Audi that I’d inherited from a cousin who had some money. And when I met her, I didn’t have to work. But when my dad got laid off and I had to get a job, Char—I mean Celeste—saw that I was almost as broke as she was. It took her about five minutes to decide we weren’t ‘right’ for each other.” He shook his head. “And actually, she was right. We weren’t. I don’t know why it took me so long to admit it. I guess I was just deluding myself that she was someone else. Someone who’d wake up and realize love was more important.”

Everything he was saying about her fit. That was her. That was Celeste. But I still couldn’t believe it. This couldn’t be true. It was some bizarre coincidence. It had to be. And there was an easy way to prove it. “Would you be willing to take a paternity test?”

“Absolutely. And I don’t blame you for being skeptical. They can swab me in the infirmary and send it . . . wherever you want. If you get a private lab, you’ll have the answer in a day or two.”

Just the fact that he’d agreed to do it so readily was a jolt. He might be mistaken—I was sure he was—but he wasn’t lying. “How . . . when did you . . . figure this out?”

“When I found out I might be charged with the murders, I put together a list of lawyers and checked out everyone on it—their whole life history.” He saw my raised eyebrow and nodded. “I know. I’m a little OCD. It’s how I cope, by trying to know everything. When I saw your birth date and that your mother was Charlene Brinkman, I couldn’t believe it. But the timing was too perfect, and I knew she hadn’t been seeing anyone else.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “How can you be so sure?”

Dale shrugged. “We were together all the time until she broke up with me. And after that, I still saw her around, heard about her from mutual friends. She wasn’t with anyone.” He sighed. “Look, I know this is hard for you. It’s a lot to take in. Tell you the truth, I didn’t believe it myself at first.” Dale paused and shook his head. “It was so crazy. To find out that not only did I have another daughter but . . .” His voice trailed off as his gaze took in my hair, my eyes, my face. “But when I met you in person, I knew it was true.” Dale frowned. “Anyway, like I said, I’ll be glad to take the test—”

I cut him off. “Is that why you hired me?”

Dale pulled back abruptly. “What? No! It’s why I almost
didn’t
. I met with five other lawyers, and I was still thinking about going with the last one before I met with you—”

“Messinger?”

“Right. But I wasn’t that impressed with him. And this is my life we’re talking about. I wanted the best.” He looked at me with a mixture of pride and sadness. “You were it.” He looked down and rubbed a spot on the counter in front of him. “I’m sorry about all of this. Especially having to meet this way.” He looked up with a little smile. “But you just blow me away. I can’t believe I have a grown-up daughter who’s so brilliant, so beautiful.” His eyes misted and he blinked fast, then cleared his throat. “Not that I take any credit for it.”

In that moment, my mother’s phone call, her strange fury at my taking the case, came back to me. It all made sense now. She knew that even if Dale didn’t tell me, if the press dug hard enough, they could find the connection. Then everyone would know she’d dated—and had a child with—a murderer. In her mind, she’d never live it down.

Dale spoke again. “Samantha, if you want to get off the case, I’ll understand. It was probably crazy to think this could be okay. I just felt like in the middle of this friggin’ nightmare, it was the one ray of light.” He shook his head. “I guess going from cop to murder suspect in the space of a week left me kind of . . . unhinged.” He dropped his gaze down at the counter again. “I considered not telling you, but I couldn’t risk you finding out on the four o’clock news.” He looked up at me. “I can only hope that you’ll forgive me.”

I couldn’t find any words. I had no coherent thoughts. My feelings were so tangled I couldn’t even name them. When I spoke, my lips felt numb. “I—I need to think about this. I’m . . . not sure what I should do.” Dale’s case had to get to trial as soon as possible, and it wasn’t just a trial strategy. Maximum security or not, his life was in danger here. “I’ll figure this out. Tonight. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

I hung up the phone and signaled for the guard to let me out.