Blood Defense (5 page)

The sudden raw force in his voice made me lean back as though he’d shoved me. “If anyone ‘drags’ your daughter into this, it’ll be the press, not me—”

As quickly as he’d heated up, he cooled down. The abrupt switchback was startling. His voice was calm, contrite. “Sorry. The thing is, I only just started getting to know her a couple of years ago. When Tracy and I broke up, she took the baby back east to be with her family. Lisa was just six months old. Between work and money issues, I never got the chance to see her. They moved back to LA two and a half years ago, and I’ve been trying to make up for lost time—”

“And they’re okay with it?”

“Yeah, really cool, actually. Lisa is a great kid—no thanks to me.” Dale rubbed his face, his expression miserable. “The minute I heard the cops were looking at me for this, I called to tell her and Tracy that I didn’t do it. They said they knew, but . . .”

But they didn’t. And now, at the very least, they’d start wondering. “I get it. And your other ex?” I knew his marriage to Tracy had barely made it past the honeymoon. But his second marriage had stuck for seven years.

“Bobbi’ll be okay. No really bad blood or anything. But she won’t be much help.”

Damn. A loving ex would’ve been a nice touch in a case like this. But at least I didn’t have to worry about any bad press. The exes went on the back burner for now.

“I’ll need my retainer up front. It’s fifty thousand. I’ll probably run through that before we get to trial, so Michelle will work out the fee and payment schedule with you tomorrow.”

I walked him out of my office and had him sign the retainer agreement Michelle had already prepared. He nodded to Michelle and Alex, then shook my hand again.

“Thank you, Ms.—”

“Samantha.”

He looked at me and said in a soft voice, “Samantha.” He turned to go, then stopped in the doorway. “I know you don’t believe me right now, but I’m not like your other clients. I really didn’t do it.”

I nodded, but his lightning-fast mood shifts weren’t reassuring. And I didn’t think he’d want to hear the truth: that’s exactly what my other clients say.

EIGHT

I
convened the troops after
he left. “What do you think, guys?”

Michelle leaned back and folded her arms. “The same thing I’ve been thinking.”

I looked at Alex. He shrugged. “I’m not sure I should have a vote here, but I’d definitely take the case if I were you.”

Michelle held out her hands, presenting Alex. “And there you have it.”

“Then I guess it’s unanimous.”

Michelle finally smiled. “Hallelujah. And by the way, he’s easy on the eyes. That’ll help.”

It really would. Being attractive matters everywhere—getting jobs, getting laid, and yes, getting acquitted by a jury of your peers. No one can resist a pretty face. As long as it’s not
too
pretty.

Back in my first year of private practice, I had a bombshell of a client. Tall, blonde, built like a Victoria’s Secret model. She was charged with grand theft. A teller for a very large chain of banks whose title ends with the name of a country, my client used her position to filch personal account information from almost a hundred customers and then gave it to her boyfriend. He pocketed more than sixty grand before they got caught.

The judge gave me every ruling, every jury instruction, and every lesser-included charge I asked for—and not because he was impressed by my legal genius. He practically stepped on his tongue every time he took the bench. But the jury hammered her. Hard. I talked to them afterward, and in stray comments here and there, I found out why. The women hated her, and the men saw her as the girl they could never get.

Dale Pearson looked good but not spectacular. So we were safe, at least in that regard.

I decided not to tell them about that flashpoint moment when I mentioned his daughter. It might mean something—but it might not. And there was something . . . satisfying about the way he was protective of Lisa, even if it was a little over the top.

I gave them a quick rundown of what Dale had said. Then I got into our immediate chores. “Alex, I’ll need you to call the IO so we can arrange to surrender Dale when the DA files charges.” I explained what an IO was—the lead detective, also known as the investigating officer—and how to find out who it was.

Michelle cut me off. “I’ll get Alex up to speed on that stuff, Sam. You just do your thing.” And thankfully, Michelle knew the ropes, because arranging for Dale’s surrender was going to be serious business. The arrest of a veteran detective would have reporters swarming the skies in jet packs. I started to head back to my office, but Michelle held up a hand. “Don’t forget you have Sheri again tonight. The car should be here any minute.”

“Cancel it, Michy. I’ve got real work to do.”

Michelle gave me her lightning-bolt glare. “I absolutely will not. You need her on your side now more than ever.”

That was true. “I can’t talk about the case.”

“Hello? You think I didn’t tell them that?”

Of course she had. Michelle wasn’t just on top of things, she was always three steps ahead. “And they’re cool with it?”

“Oh yeah. You’re about to be kind of famous. They’ll take you any way they can get you as long as that lasts.”

As if on cue, the office phone rang. It was my limo. I wasn’t in the mood for goofy TV talk, but the ride was a nice consolation prize.

Sheri was still obsessing over the Samron case. This time we chewed on parental responsibility—the girl’s father had left a loaded gun in his nightstand.

It was only one segment, but Barry and I got into it, and the fur really flew, which made Sheri’s producers happy. I guess if they’re happy, I’m happy. But it’d been a long day, and I got into the limo looking forward to a drink. When my phone rang, I figured it was Michelle. She usually calls to give me a critique on how I did and to let me know if I’d generated any new business.

So I stupidly answered the call without looking at the screen. Not that it would’ve helped. My mother is onto my screening ways, so her number comes up
B
LOCKED
.

Her voice, nasal and grating, was loud enough to scale even the heavy traffic on Sunset Boulevard. “Samantha? Your hair looked so flat. When was the last time you washed it?”

“Thirty years ago, Mom. When the beehive went out of style.” Most conversations with her begin this way. She fires the first salvo, then I spend the rest of the time trying—and failing—to get off the defensive. Talking to my mother was about as much fun as chewing a ball of tinfoil with a mouthful of fillings.

“Don’t be a smartass.
Someone
’s got to tell you the truth. And must you always do the smoky eye?”

I pulled down the mirror and looked. “That’s the way I like it.”

“And I don’t like that shade of lipstick on you. Didn’t I tell you to ask for a neutral?”

I was sure she did. She always gave me a litany of To Dos. I gritted my teeth. “How about the
case
, Celeste? Did you hear what I was talking about?”

“I don’t remember.”

For the nine-billionth time, I wondered if she did it on purpose. It was all I could do to unclench my jaw long enough to tell her. “The girl’s father left the loaded gun in his nightstand.”

“Oh, enough already. Everyone’s always blaming the parents for everything. I’m sick of it.”

I bit my lip so hard I could feel my teeth making a divot. This from the woman who’d never taken the blame for anything. “Sometimes they
are
to blame. That gun should’ve been locked up.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. She’s not a baby. She’s fourteen years old. More than old enough to know better.”

“She did know better. Better than to think her useless parents would ever protect her. They let that wolverine of a brother brutalize her for years.”

“Parents are only human. They can’t be everywhere and see everything.”

Or in Celeste’s case, much of anything. Of course, we weren’t just talking about the show. But I wasn’t in the mood to go for the real elephant in the room. And, as always, I’d been gritting my teeth so hard I’d given myself a headache. Time to get to the reason for her call. “What do you want, Celeste?” As if I didn’t know.

My mother invites me whenever they have an empty seat at one of their dinner parties. My stepfather, Jack Maynard, is a huge commercial real estate mogul, and he does a fair amount of entertaining to keep the wheels of commerce greased. Because he’s a decent, glass-half-full kind of guy, he insists these invitations are her way of reaching out to me. I know better. She just wants me because her buddies love to hear “insider” stories about the hot cases around town.

“I’m having some people over for dinner this Saturday. Nothing fancy, just a little get-together for some of Jack’s upper-level managers.”

First of all, in a mansion the size of two football fields, there’s no such thing as “nothing fancy.” You need to cater just to have someone move the food from the kitchen to the dining room. Second of all, if they were sacrificing a Saturday night, it would be at least a hundred of Jack’s closest friends. So this dinner was neither simple nor small. “Sorry, I can’t.” I considered telling her I’d just picked up a big case and I was too busy for one of her soirees. But she wouldn’t care. On a scale of one to ten—ten being most important to Celeste—my career rated a negative four. “I’ve got a date.”

“With that singer?”

“He’s a musician who also happens to sing.”

“What’s the difference? He’s a zero.”

Meaning: he’s got zero money. “He’s a good guy.” I knew what was coming. I mouthed the words as she said them.

“A ‘good guy’ won’t put you in a nice house. A ‘good guy’ won’t buy you a nice car—”

“No. He won’t.
I
will, Celeste.” But self-reliance was not a concept she embraced. Her lifelong aspiration had been to become
de
pendently wealthy. The truth was, I’d already broken up with the musician. But I had no intention of telling her.

“You might not always want to work. You never know—”

I turned onto my street. “I do know. I’ve gotta go.”

“You can show up late. Or just come for drinks.”

“I really can’t.” The sad, inexplicable thing was, I knew I’d probably go anyway. And so did she.

NINE

W
hen I got home,
I
changed into sweats and poured myself a double shot of Patrón Silver—a gift from a client who’d cleaned house when she went into rehab. The press was well on its way to making Dale’s case a daily feast, and the jury pool was out there listening. I’d need to start using those reporters to talk to that pool right away—about burglars and drug dealers and maybe ex-boyfriends. Basically, anything that would point the finger at someone else.

I thought about where we should start digging, made some notes, and put myself to bed early. I wanted to hit the ground running.

The next morning, I was up by six thirty. I finished my first cup of coffee, then called Dale. He sounded wide awake and clear headed. I told him I was arranging to surrender him at the station so we could avoid a parade. “Has the press found your house or your phone number yet?”

“Not yet.”

“They will. So try not to do a lot of running around. If anyone does call and you accidentally pick up, just refer him or her to me. You’ve got my number handy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Get your place in order. Have they searched it yet?”

“Yeah. First thing they did. Left it a friggin’ mess.”

“They seize anything I need to worry about?”

“Just my set of murder knives.”

“That’s a real knee-slapper, Dale. But watch out with the jokes. If the wrong person hears you, it won’t play well. So I’ll take that as a ‘no’?”

“No. I mean, they did what I’d expect. They grabbed my comb and the clothes I wore that night. I’m sure they
will
find my hairs and clothing fibers at the scene. But, so what? It’s no secret I was there that night. Hell, I was there a lot of nights.”

True. But still, if they found his hairs or clothing fibers on her body, it wouldn’t help. “They’ll probably toss your place again when the DA files, which could be any minute. So stand by. I’ll be back in touch.”

I showered and dressed in camera-worthy slacks and a blouse. Alex called while I was eating breakfast. “I’ve got the IO. His name is Wayne Little.”

I’d heard the name, but I’d never had a case with him. “Did he say when he thought the DA would get him the paperwork?”

“He thinks by this afternoon. And he said he’d call us as soon as he gets it and arrange a time for Dale to surrender. They’re planning to book him at Twin Towers.”

That figured. They’d need all the security they could get for a cop, and Twin Towers had maximum-security modules. “Got it.” I looked at my watch. “Okay, I’ll see you at the office.”

I ended the call. I was about to go to my computer and start typing up my notes for the To Do list when I got a premonition. I headed for my car instead.

And that is why, when Detective Wayne Little showed up at Dale’s house with an arrest warrant at eight thirty a.m., I was there waiting for him. I pointedly looked at my watch. “Guess the DA put a rush on that paperwork, after all. Thanks for the heads up.”

Detective Little, his arms hanging loosely from a square, dumpy body, just shrugged and answered in a flatly unapologetic voice, “Sorry ’bout that. We kind of got busy.”

Meanwhile, other detectives were cuffing Dale. I counted the blue-uniformed and sports-jacketed bodies. “
Eleven
men?” One of them started reading Dale his rights. I stepped over to him. “He’s not waiving.” I turned back to Little. “I assume you’ve got a search warrant as well?” He nodded. “I’ll have one of my associates on hand, just to make sure nothing gets . . . lost or dented.” Police can be careful or they can leave the place looking like it’d been through a hurricane. Judging by their last visit, the latter seemed more likely.

Starting now, I’d be making notes of every shitty thing they did. It’d all be part of my campaign to show the viewing public, AKA the jury pool, how Dale Pearson had been unjustly accused and mistreated—and by his own “family,” no less. I called Alex and told him to come over and stand watch while they served the warrant. “Keep your eyes open for any unnecessary roughness, and take notes and pictures.”

“Got it. I’m on my way.”

The officers milled around trying to decide who’d take Dale, who’d ride in the follow-car, and who’d stay and help serve the warrant. In the meantime—
of course
—the press got wind of what was going down, and a crowd of reporters was starting to gather in the street. “I’d like to talk to my client for a moment.”

Wayne Little looked like he wanted to argue. I hoped he did. It’d be another line on my List of Shitty Things They Did to Dale. I gave him a bland smile.

He finally seemed to realize this fight was a bad idea and waved to the officers holding Dale. “Let her.”

The officers stepped back a few feet, and I whispered in Dale’s ear. “The press is out there. I want you to walk out standing tall, no stooping, no hiding. Don’t say anything, and for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t smile. Got it?”

He took a tense breath and nodded. “What’re they doing about security for me in the jail?”

“They have to put you in maximum. But I’ll remind them how much it’ll cost if you so much as stub your toe.” I wanted to tell him not to worry, but that would be impossible—and insane. His life was going to be in constant jeopardy.

I went over to Little. “You’ve got special security arranged for him, I assume?”

Little scratched his round, balding head and spread his fingers along his chimney broom of a mustache. “Uh, yeah. I mean, we’re putting him in max.”

“That’s the least you can do. And right now, when things are hot and fresh, I’d advise you to do the most.” I drilled him with a look. “Because if anything happens to him . . .”

He gave me a heavily lidded glare. “I’ll see what I can do.” He walked away, trying to act like he was dusting me off, but I saw him pull out his cell phone.

By the time we left, the press had filled the entire street. The only free space was the area around the squad cars. And that was only because there were uniforms keeping them away. The cops marched Dale out as though he were Lee Harvey Oswald. All six of them. There was no way anyone within range could’ve gotten a shot at Dale without taking out an officer first. I appreciated the security, but I wasn’t sure whether they really thought they needed that much manpower or they just wanted to be on camera.

Dale was pretty well hidden inside the phalanx of uniforms—which was fine by me—but the press screamed out questions anyway.

“Are you pleading not guilty?”

“Did she try to break up with you? Is that why you killed her?”

“What’s your defense going to be?”

“Do you have an alibi?”

Then, one lone voice on the fringe called out, “How come they didn’t let you surrender at the station?”

I’d been walking behind the group of officers holding Dale, but now I stopped and turned to see who’d asked a sane question for a change. It seemed to have come from a tallish, slender guy with curly brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed since Kanye West dissed Taylor Swift at the Grammys. He was standing away from the crowd, off to my right. I fell back and waved him over. “Who are you?”

He jerked back as though I’d slapped him. “Who are
you
?”

Fair question. “I’m Dale Pearson’s lawyer.”

“You got a card?”

“Do you?”

He paused, then reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a business card that said his name was Trevor Skotler and he was a contributing reporter for Buzzworthy. I recognized the name. It was an online news mag that was starting to seriously encroach on Huffpo and the Daily Beast. This could be useful. I gave him my card. Then I told him how they’d done an end run so Dale wouldn’t have a chance to surrender.

“No shit.”

“No shit. And they’ll be tossing Dale’s place pretty soon. My associate is going to be here to make sure they don’t play ‘Thrash This Pad.’ You going to hang around?”

“For a bit.”

“I’ll tell him to look out for you.” And I’d tell Alex to point it out to Trevor if he saw the cops step out of line. With a little luck, my new buddy Trevor might help me fire the first salvo in the war for juror sympathy.

Off to my left, I saw one of the detectives put a hand on the back of Dale’s head, preparing to duck him down into the squad car. “I’ve gotta go.”