Marcia Clark - Blood Defense

“Got it. I’m on my way.”

The officers milled around trying to decide who’d take Dale, who’d ride in the follow-car, and who’d stay and help serve the warrant. In the meantime- of course -the press got wind of what was going down, and a crowd of reporters was starting to gather in the street. “I’d like to talk to my client for a moment.”

Wayne Little looked like he wanted to argue. I hoped he did. It’d be another line on my List of Shitty Things They Did to Dale. I gave him a bland smile.

He finally seemed to realize this fight was a bad idea and waved to the officers holding Dale. “Let her.”

The officers stepped back a few feet, and I whispered in Dale’s ear. “The press is out there. I want you to walk out standing tall, no stooping, no hiding. Don’t say anything, and for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t smile. Got it?”

He took a tense breath and nodded. “What’re they doing about security for me in the jail?”

“They have to put you in maximum. But I’ll remind them how much it’ll cost if you so much as stub your toe.” I wanted to tell him not to worry, but that would be impossible-and insane. His life was going to be in constant jeopardy.

I went over to Little. “You’ve got special security arranged for him, I assume?”

Little scratched his round, balding head and spread his fingers along his chimney broom of a mustache. “Uh, yeah. I mean, we’re putting him in max.”

“That’s the least you can do. And right now, when things are hot and fresh, I’d advise you to do the most.” I drilled him with a look. “Because if anything happens to him…”

He gave me a heavily lidded glare. “I’ll see what I can do.” He walked away, trying to act like he was dusting me off, but I saw him pull out his cell phone.

By the time we left, the press had filled the entire street. The only free space was the area around the squad cars. And that was only because there were uniforms keeping them away. The cops marched Dale out as though he were Lee Harvey Oswald. All six of them. There was no way anyone within range could’ve gotten a shot at Dale without taking out an officer first. I appreciated the security, but I wasn’t sure whether they really thought they needed that much manpower or they just wanted to be on camera.

Dale was pretty well hidden inside the phalanx of uniforms-which was fine by me-but the press screamed out questions anyway.

“Are you pleading not guilty?”

“Did she try to break up with you? Is that why you killed her?”

“What’s your defense going to be?”

“Do you have an alibi?”

Then, one lone voice on the fringe called out, “How come they didn’t let you surrender at the station?”

I’d been walking behind the group of officers holding Dale, but now I stopped and turned to see who’d asked a sane question for a change. It seemed to have come from a tallish, slender guy with curly brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed since Kanye West dissed Taylor Swift at the Grammys. He was standing away from the crowd, off to my right. I fell back and waved him over. “Who are you?”

He jerked back as though I’d slapped him. “Who are you ?”

Fair question. “I’m Dale Pearson’s lawyer.”

“You got a card?”

“Do you?”

He paused, then reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a business card that said his name was Trevor Skotler and he was a contributing reporter for Buzzworthy. I recognized the name. It was an online news mag that was starting to seriously encroach on Huffpo and the Daily Beast. This could be useful. I gave him my card. Then I told him how they’d done an end run so Dale wouldn’t have a chance to surrender.

“No shit.”

“No shit. And they’ll be tossing Dale’s place pretty soon. My associate is going to be here to make sure they don’t play ‘Thrash This Pad.’ You going to hang around?”

“For a bit.”

“I’ll tell him to look out for you.” And I’d tell Alex to point it out to Trevor if he saw the cops step out of line. With a little luck, my new buddy Trevor might help me fire the first salvo in the war for juror sympathy.

Off to my left, I saw one of the detectives put a hand on the back of Dale’s head, preparing to duck him down into the squad car. “I’ve gotta go.”

I followed the caravan thattook 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.”