Blood Defense

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 BLOCKED.

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 dependently 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.