Marcia Clark - Blood Defense

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.

Orozco was right.Jerry Ratner, the DA on the case, was furious. “Problem is, Castaneda didn’t just say he wasn’t sure anymore. He fingered someone else who looks a lot like Orozco-and the guy doesn’t have an alibi.” Jerry threw the file on his desk. “Castaneda was practically the whole ball game.” Jerry peered at me. “I don’t suppose you’d know how Castaneda happened to have this epiphany?”

“I don’t know any more than you do, but I can make the same guesses.” The only question was, how did those gangbangers find such a good fall guy for him to point to? But I didn’t think Jerry was in the mood to ponder it right now. “Look, it’s not my place to tell you how to do your job, but if you take this dog to trial, you’ll probably lose. Don’t you think it’d be better to let it get dismissed and refile when you get more evidence?”

I was doing my job, taking care of my client, but I was also talking sense, and Jerry knew it. He looked miserable, but he nodded. “We’ve got him on the gun possession, though.”

“He’ll plead for a county lid.”

Jerry got red in the face. “One year? Fuck that.” But after a moment, he sighed. “Get him to take low term. He at least has to get state prison out of this. I’d rather dismiss than let him fart around in county jail for a year.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

As it turned out, it was an easy sell. Orozco preferred state prison to county jail. A lot of defendants did. Living conditions were better, and bangers like Orozco always had lots of familia there.

When I walked into the courtroom, I saw that Randy was the bailiff on duty. I went over and handed him my cell phone. “You may as well take it now.” Somehow, my phone always seemed to ring when he was on duty. He took it away from me so often, I told him he should share the bill.

Randy took my cell and dropped it on his desk. “Gee, Sam. If only there was a way you could stop that from happening.”

“I know, right?” I shrugged. “At least this way we know I’ll be safe this time.”

Randy pulled the lockup keys out of his desk. “Glad you’re taking a plea on Orozco. Can’t get that piece of garbage out of here fast enough.”

As Randy headed to the holding tank, I glanced at his desk and noticed the custody assignment sheets. I quickly flipped through the pages. Then my phone lit up with a call. I didn’t recognize the number. Probably the press.