Marcia Clark - Blood Defense

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.

When 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.”