Marcia Clark - Blood Defense

Randy came out of the holding tank with Orozco and saw me at his desk. “What are you doing?”

“Someone called; I was just trying to see the number.” I moved to counsel table and Orozco walked over, a shit-eating grin on his face. I turned away and opened my file so I wouldn’t have to talk to him. It’d be good to say adios to Mr. Orozco.

Judge Mayer came out, and Jerry took the plea and waivers through gritted teeth. The judge gave Orozco an icy glare as he accepted them. With the exception of Orozco, there was no joy in Mudville. The judge pronounced the sentence of two years in state prison.

“Your Honor,” I said. “My client would like a ‘forthwith.’”

The judge nodded. “My pleasure. The sheriff’s department is to have Mr. Orozco transported to state prison forthwith.”

When I got back to the office, Michelle was at her computer and Alex was reading over her shoulder. She looked up. “How’s Dale doing? And what happened with Orozco?”

I told her about Orozco and that Dale was shell-shocked. “It’s going to be rough on him in there. Did you happen to catch my news hits?”

Michelle smiled. “Yep. You did great. Nice sound bites.”

“ Gracias . Has the DA sent over any discovery yet?”

“No,” Michelle said. “But they sent over an e-mail confirming that the arraignment’s tomorrow at eight thirty. Want me to call?”

“Don’t bother. They’ll give it to me in court.” I sat down on the edge of Michelle’s desk. “Alex, you check the girls’ Facebook pages, Twitter feeds, every site you can think of that’ll give us information on them, their friends, their family-you get the drift. Michelle, get us the contact information on where they worked: Paige’s restaurant, her modeling agency, and her agent, if she has one. And get Chloe’s studio people, her agents, managers-everyone who had contact with her.”

I brought them up to speed on what Dale had told me about the girls. “So we’re looking for possible enemies, rivals, jealous exes. We want fall guys. Someone else we can point the finger at. I’m not sure we really want to find Mr. Perfect-”

“Unless we can show he has no alibi,” Alex said.

I pointed to him. “Exactly. We just need to find out who he is so we can check that out-”

Alex had been taking notes on his iPad. “And I could start sniffing around Chloe’s studio to check into who her dealer might’ve been-”

“Hold off on that for now. We don’t want to make any moves until we see some discovery and find out what we’re dealing with.” I headed for my office.

“I hate to go all Fashion Police on you,” Michelle said. “But the press is definitely going to be in that courtroom tomorrow, right?” I nodded. “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”

It sounds like a silly question. It’s not. The image is the message. I have to look successful, even a little flashy. Because if I look good, my client looks good-good as in “not like a murderer.” Also, I needed to steal focus from Dale. He’d be in his orange jumpsuit for this appearance. The less anyone saw of him looking like an inmate, the better. Especially since the victim’s side of the courtroom was going to be dazzling. Lots of celebrity supporters-some legitimate friends of Chloe’s, some just looking for free camera face time. I had to give our side as much shine as I could to balance things out.

“I figured I’d wear my usual: the black pencil skirt and the silk pinstriped blouse.” Skirt by Tahari, blouse by Calvin Klein. They were the only designer-ish clothes I had.

Michelle nodded. “Good enough.”

“Alex, did you get Dale’s suits and shirts?” Part of the reason I’d asked him to stay behind while the cops searched his house was to collect all the clothes we’d need to dress Dale up for his future court appearances. Alex nodded. “What do you think? Will they work?” After today, Dale had to look like a million bucks every single time the camera found him.

“Not bad. He did pretty well for someone on a cop’s salary. I can work with it.”

I wasn’t surprised. Dale had style.

Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t a killer.

By the time I leftthe office at eight o’clock, I was bone tired. So it figured that the very last thing I needed was the first thing that happened. Beulah died on me. The yellow engine light went on three blocks from home, and she just stopped. There was a station a few blocks from my apartment where I could get her towed, but there was no way she’d be roadworthy by tomorrow morning. I called AAA to come get her. Luckily, the driver took pity on me and dropped me at my apartment.

I slogged up the stairs to my tiny one-bedroom apartment. My building is small, just fourteen units on a hillside street above the Sunset Strip, but I scored a unit on the second floor that actually has a partial view of the city. There’s no elevator, no security, the carport is wide open to the street, and the washer and dryer are under the building in a dark little room where I just know I’m going to find a dead body someday. And someone’s always using the machines anyway, so I usually wind up at the local Laundromat. But for all that, it’s home. My little slice of heaven.

I dropped my purse on the kitchen table and went to the refrigerator. It was slim pickin’s. Some dicey-looking cottage cheese, an apple, and half of the roast beef sandwich I’d bought at the courthouse snack bar. I took out the sandwich and ate standing up at the sink as I tried to figure out how I’d get to court tomorrow. I couldn’t ask Michelle to take me; she had to man the office. But maybe Alex? I didn’t know whether the Jetta he was driving now belonged to him, but it was worth a try.

Alex had an even better idea. “I’ve got a connect to A-1 Limos. If I tell him who you are and where you’re going, I bet he’ll do it for free. It’s good publicity for him.”

“That would be awesome. Call me back when you know.”

An hour later my phone rang. It was Alex.

“You’re all set. He’ll pick you up at seven thirty. And I told him to wait and bring you back to the office. You’ve got to look good in both directions.”

“Kind of a maxim for life.”

I heard Alex laugh for the first time. “Sure is. Good luck tomorrow.”

“See you at the office.”

I was going to court in style. Yeah, baby.

I turned on the television, kicked off my shoes, and sat down on the couch. The news came on. I muted it while I sorted through the mail. I hate television news. It’s just a disaster report. And it’s the crassest form of ratings grabs out there.

My cell phone buzzed on the kitchen table. I went over and looked at the screen. It was Michelle. “Hey, Michy. What’s up? You okay?”

“I’m better than okay. The cops left a message with the answering service. Our buddy Harold Ringer OD’d last night.”

“Wow. On what?”

“Heroin. Sounds like a hot shot. Can you believe it? First night of freedom. I hate to sound callous, but it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

I chuckled. “No argument.” We talked for a little while longer, and I promised to try and get more details on Ringer in the morning. When we ended the call, I poured myself a double shot of Patrón Silver, on the rocks with a twist of lime, then found a rerun of Breaking Bad . I put up my feet and took a long, deep sip.

Going to court in a limo was even better than taking one to the studio. It made me feel like a rock star, and I drank it up all the way to the courthouse. I stared out the window at the palm trees and passing cars, reveling in the fact that I didn’t have to navigate the rush-hour traffic. I could sure get used to this. Too bad I wouldn’t get the chance.