Blood Defense

TEN

I followed the caravan that took Dale to the station to make sure there were no “accidents” during the booking process. Dale had buddies on the force, but this was sheriff’s territory. Dale was LAPD. There was no love lost between the two cop shops, so Dale couldn’t expect to get any sympathy here. And I’d be about as welcome as a parrot at a spelling bee.

I sat in the waiting room, scrolling through my e-mail to distract myself while cops walked by, shooting me daggers.

By the time Dale got through booking and into his orange jumpsuit, I’d read, dumped, or answered every e-mail, Twitter message, and Facebook note; watched all the latest bits on Funny or Die (using headphones); and checked out the clothes on the HauteLook, MyHabit, and Urban Outfitters websites.

I watched the guards lead Dale into the attorney room, one on each side. Orange isn’t an easy color for anyone to work, but it was a real fashion “don’t” for Dale, and the monster lighting didn’t help. Neither did the shock of being on the wrong side of the handcuffs. The skin on his face looked like a deflated basketball, and his chest had the caved-in look of someone who was collapsing from inside. But he didn’t seem to have been knocked around. Not yet, anyway.

The deputies walked him in, and he sat down heavily. He stared, slack-jawed, as they chained him to the floor and the table. “How’d the booking go? Any unnecessary roughness?”

Dale was staring around the airless little room as though he’d landed on Mars. It took him a few seconds to focus. “Uh, no… no.”

I leaned down to catch his eye and waited for him to look at me. “Listen to me. I want you to get this. If you’ve got any ideas about being some kind of martyr who covers for his buddies in the Thin Blue Line, send them to Warner Brothers. That crap only works in Hollywood. If anyone gives you a hard time-and I mean any kind of hard time, including not giving you enough bread to go with your gravy-you tell me about it. Got it?” He didn’t answer, didn’t even move. “Blink once for yes, twice for no.” Finally, he blinked. Once. “Good. Now let’s try this again. How did the booking go? Any damage I can’t see?”

He shook his head. “What about bail?”

Now I knew just how shaken up he was. He knew the answer as well as I did. “It’s a double. It’s a capital case. There is no bail.”

Dale sighed and shook his head. “Of course.”

“Now I’m going to remind you: no matter who it is, no matter what anyone says, no one here is your friend. No one. If you need to talk or even just vent, call me. If I can’t come, I’ll send Alex or Michelle. And if anyone wants to come visit, you send them to me first. I’ll vet them.” Dale looked confused. “Your case is going to be on every news channel, all day, every day. Your grandmother’s second cousin’s adopted nephew is going to be looking to cash in on you. Every ex-girlfriend, ex-boyfriend, ex-best friend-”

“Okay, okay. I get the picture. I won’t talk.”

Probably by tomorrow he’d have his feet under him a little better, but right now, he was reeling. I wrapped it up by telling him we’d be working night and day on his case.

“Thanks, Samantha.” He gave me a wan smile.

I signaled the deputies that we were done, and they came to get him. As they led him out, he looked back at me. Most clients-even some of my gangbanger clients-get scared the first time they’re led away. Dale looked like a child lost in a department store. I gave him the most reassuring smile I could muster and called out, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I headed for the door, planning what I’d say to the press. It was time to start winning the hearts and minds of our jury pool. I’d planned to walk slowly when I got through the door so the reporters could catch up, but I didn’t have to worry. I couldn’t have missed them if I’d cut out of there at a dead run. A whole contingent was waiting by the exit, and they jumped me the moment I stepped out the door.

“Ms. Brinkman, what’s your defense going to be?”

“Are you going to try and get him a deal?”

I recognized a few of the reporters from other court cases, and my new buddy Trevor from Buzzworthy.

This was it. I planted myself in front of the microphones and put on my serious-but-not-scary face-a steady gaze with just a hint of upturned lips. “I have no plans to make any sort of deal in this case. Dale Pearson is innocent of these charges, and we look forward to the opportunity to prove that in a court of law.”

One of the female reporters I’d seen around the courthouse called out, “Edie Anderson here for Channel Four News. Are you taking this to trial by yourself? Or will you be adding other lawyers to the team?”

“I don’t plan to add any other lawyers to the team, Edie. You know what they say about too many cooks.” And Dale wasn’t a millionaire, so the only lawyers willing to jump in would just be publicity whores. They wouldn’t do any real work or give a damn about the case.

I gave her a smile, and she grinned back at me. “Thanks, Samantha.”

“My pleasure.” I stepped around the throng and headed for my car. A small group trailed behind me still shouting questions, but I just kept walking. No nods, no headshakes. I’d said what I wanted them to air. I didn’t want to give them any other choices.

It’d already been a long day, and it wasn’t even half over. I had just fifteen minutes to get to Department 130, where I had a pretrial conference on a drive-by shooting. My client, Ricardo Orozco, a Grape Street Boy gang member, had opened fire on a house that was supposedly the home of the shot caller for the Southside Creepers, their archenemy.

Except it wasn’t, and Orozco wound up killing a three-month-old baby and maiming a seven-year-old girl. I inherited the case from another lawyer who’d told the court he and Orozco had had an “irreconcilable breakdown in their relationship.” Translation: the lawyer hated him, and no amount of money was worth the grief. Or maybe Orozco had threatened him. But by that time the case had been lingering on the docket for almost a year, and Judge Mayer was desperate to get it off his desk. He begged me to take it. The unspoken quid pro quo was that he’d approve all my billings and throw some good cases my way. As Michelle put it, I couldn’t afford to say no.

But it had taken just five minutes with Orozco for me to know it was a mistake. This shooting was so bad, even his fellow Grape Street bangers were ashamed. One was even quoted as saying it was “disgraceful.” But Orozco? At our first meeting, he’d looked at me with flat, dead eyes and said, “I didn’t do it. But I ain’t sorry it happened. That baby’d just grow up to be another Southside Creepers piece of shit. Oughta hang a medal on the dude who did it.” At our second meeting, he’d laughed about the little girl he maimed. “Man, you should see the way she stumble around. Little puta look like one of them damn zombies from The Walking Dead. Ain’t nobody ever gonna fuck her gimp ass.”

Just breathing the same air as him turned my stomach. I’d tried to make a deal, but the DA told me not to waste my breath. He was going for life without parole. And now I had to give Orozco the bad news that there was no deal. Even worse news for me, because it meant I’d have to sit through a trial with this foul piece of swamp sludge. I told the jail deputy to stay close as I knocked on the door of the holding tank and braced myself for the face-off.

Orozco, his thick hair slicked back, dark and shiny with grease, was sitting on the bench in his cell. He leaned against the wall, his tatted arms folded across his chest, legs stretched out in front of him. His mouth twisted in a lazy sneer of a smile when he saw me. I motioned for him to come to the bars. Moving as though he had all the time in the world, he shuffled up and gave me a head bob. “S’up?”

The sickly sweet smell of his hair goo made me breathe through my mouth. “The DA won’t deal. We’re going to trial.”

Orozco tilted his head back and looked down his nose at me. “I don’t think so. When you last talk to him?”

“Yesterday.”

He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Go back and talk to him now. Tell him I’ll plead to ex-con with a gun, low term.”

I stared at him, read the superior look on his face, the confidence in his voice, and put it together. “I’m assuming Castaneda had an accident.” Castaneda was the sole eyewitness. So much for witness protection. “That won’t help you. They’ll just read in his testimony from the preliminary hearing.”

Orozco gave a derisive snort. “Castaneda ain’t got killed. He jus’ finally got his mind right.” He flicked his fingers at me, shooing me away. “Go on. Talk to your DA buddy.” Orozco turned and walked back to the bench.