Blood Defense

THREE

The next day, I finished my morning round of court appearances early and got back to the office in time for lunch. Michelle had brought in my favorite: coffee.

I pulled up the old secretary’s chair I’d liberated from the public defender’s office when I quit to go into private practice and sat next to her desk. “Nice Scünci.” This one was red and blue-color coordinated with her cobalt-blue sweater. She always wore her hair up in a ponytail, and I always gave her shit about it. Michelle has the kind of fresh-faced, cheerleader-y looks that still gets her carded at bars. And the tiny scar over her left eye-courtesy of the mugger who’d pistol-whipped her nine years ago-only heightened the effect.

Michelle shot me a look. “Shut up. Jury on Ringer still out?” I nodded. “They asking any questions?”

“Not a peep.” Which was not a good sign. A quiet jury is a convicting jury.

The whomp whomp of a ghetto bird fired up. A daily-and nightly-occurrence in this ’hood. I picked this office because it was cheap and close to the Van Nuys courthouse. It seemed like a win-win, until I found out the building was smack-dab in the heart of Barrios Van Nuys turf, one of the biggest gangs in the county.

Michelle was saying something, but I couldn’t hear her over the din of the helicopters. I shook my head and pointed to the ceiling.

Michelle shouted. “How’d he do on the stand?”

“Not bad.” For a rapist-bully-asshole. His eighteen-year-old victim, Aidan Mandy, a homeless kid Ringer had found hanging around a fast-food joint looking for a handout-money, food, or drugs-had a prior bust for solicitation. So Ringer’s claim that it’d been a consensual business deal might’ve been a winning gambit. Except Aidan wound up in the emergency room with injuries so bad it’d take years before he fully recovered-if he ever did.

Ringer claimed he hadn’t hurt him, that Aidan must’ve tricked with someone else after Ringer, but I didn’t believe it, and I didn’t think the jury would, either. I kept my defense short and tight, put on a couple of “Ringer’s so nice” character witnesses from the insurance company where he used to work, and rested. I expected the jury to convict any minute now.

The helicopters began to move away. Michelle waited for the noise to die down. “Well, I hope he gets nailed. He’s a disgusting douche.”

No argument there. “But I did give a pretty good closing if I do say so myself. Want to hear it?”

Michelle hit a key on her computer and started typing. “Depends. You care about having phone service? If not, I’m all ears. Otherwise, I’ve got to get your claim in to the court this second because we’re about a month overdue on the bill. And you need to pay your car registration.”

“Fine, never mind.” I glanced at Alex’s office-AKA, the storage room where we kept our ancient, incredibly slow copying machine. We’d probably be better off using carbon paper. I noticed the door was closed. That meant he was out. The room was so small you had to leave the door open or you’d wind up breathing carbon dioxide in about ten seconds. “Where’s our intrepid investigator?”

I just hired Alex Medrano, a former client, to be my investigator. He’s got no training or experience, but he’s smart and has mad hacking skills. And I figure he can’t be any worse than the useless slugs I hired in the past.

“Working from home. He’s trying to get those records you asked for on Deshawn’s case.”

“Oh yeah.” I would’ve tried to track them down myself, but it required serious cyberpunk chops-and a decent computer. I had neither. I started to head for my office, but Michelle held up a hand.

“Are you sure about hiring that guy? I mean, he’s a thief and a hacker.”

I looked around at our Office Cheapo furnishings and smacked my forehead. “Damn, you’re so right. How could I so endanger our financial empire?”

Michelle glared at me. “I’m not saying he’ll rip us off, smartass. I’m saying what if he gets caught? It might look like we’re in on it and-”

I shook my head. “Never gonna happen. Trust me.” Alex had hacked into the company computer to “liberate” two 750Li’s from the BMW dealership where he was a salesman. But he hadn’t done it for himself. It was a story straight out of Les Misérables. Alex’s father had died of a sudden heart attack, then his mother had a stroke and needed full-time nursing care, which they couldn’t afford, so his brother, Carlos, had to quit work to take care of her. And his little sister, Leticia, was about to graduate high school. She’d been offered a scholarship at Penn State, but it wouldn’t cover her dorm fees. If Alex sold those cars, it would take care of all of them for at least a few years. So he did steal, but he wasn’t really a thief in my book. I told Michelle his story.

She had a skeptical look. “That’s a pretty sad tale of woe. You check it out?”

“No. Why would he lie?” I shot her a dagger. “Of course I checked it out.”

Michelle paused for a moment, then nodded and turned back to her computer. “Okay, back to work. Get me your time sheets on Ringer. One way or another, he’ll be done soon.”

I saluted and headed into my office. My office decor is best described as early “I don’t give a damn,” because I don’t. Plus, there’s no one to impress. My clients are almost always in custody. Most of my cases are court appointments-basically public defender cases that the public defender can’t take for one reason or another. So I have the minimum: a big desk and lawyer’s chair (I scored them on the cheap at a storage locker sale) and a couple of unmatched chairs in front of my desk that sit lower than mine (so I can look imposing). The only thing on my desk other than my computer is a bottle of tequila shaped like a skull-a present from a former boyfriend-and a little jade “money tree” with tiny gold-colored bells hanging from the branches. Michelle gave it to me for inspiration. It hasn’t done much for us so far.

I spent the rest of the afternoon pulling together the paperwork for Michelle and working up the cases that I probably wouldn’t be able to plead out. Alex showed up at six o’clock. He looks nothing like any real-life investigator I’ve ever seen. But Hollywood would cast him in a hot second: thick black hair swept to the side, olive skin, and eyes like black diamonds. It’d broken Michelle’s heart when I told her he was gay. But she knew better than to argue; my gay-dar almost never fails me-and it hadn’t this time, either.

I walked out to the anteroom. “You don’t look joyous. No luck on those records?”

He shook his head.

“Look, don’t sweat it. If you can’t, you can’t. We’ll just have to-”

“Oh, I can.” His tone was calm, utterly self-assured. “It’ll just take a little more time. When’s Deshawn’s hearing?”

I liked his confidence. And I knew it was justified. It was only a fluke that he’d been caught stealing those BMWs. He was that good. Which was why I’d been able to make him a sweetheart deal for no time and straight probation: he’d agreed to show the cops how he’d done it. “His hearing’s set for next week.”

Alex made a poof sound. “I’ll have it for you in two days.” He gestured to the monitor of Michelle’s desktop, which was splashed with the latest headline on the double murder in Laurel Canyon. “They’ve been thumping Chloe’s and Paige’s murders nonstop.”

I nodded. So nonstop it filled the airwaves, the Ethernet, and every tabloid rag in the supermarket. You couldn’t get away from the case if you tried. “But it’s all background stories on Chloe. They still don’t have anyone.”

Michelle, always on the hunt, looked at me with fire in her eyes. “Oh, they will. Trust me. And when they do, you’ve gotta go for it.” I didn’t answer. “Sam, I’m not kidding.”

“I know.”

Michelle looked at me with frustration. “I don’t get it. You took Ringer for no publicity.”

I was about to say that Ringer hadn’t killed his victim. But that wasn’t the issue. The issue was Chloe. And Paige. Something about them hit too close to home.