Marcia Clark - Blood Defense

A look of relief spread across his face. “I don’t need to; I already know. You’re the one I want.”

I stood up and held out my hand. “Then I guess we’re in business.”

Dale got up and gave it a hearty shake. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

With the decision made, my wheels started turning. “You’ve got two exes and a daughter. Anyone lighting candles and chanting for your death?”

Dale gave a rueful smile. “Put it this way, they won’t go out of their way to hurt me, but I wouldn’t recommend you put them on the stand.”

“What about your daughter, Lisa? Any child-support issues floating around?”

Dale looked insulted. “No. Never.” He saw my expression. “Tracy never even had to ask. I paid in full and on time.” His face immediately darkened. “But if you’re thinking of putting her in front of a camera, the answer’s no. I won’t have Lisa dragged into this.”

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.

I convened the troops afterhe 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?”