Marcia Clark - Blood Defense

As we pulled up to the curb, I saw that the press and gawkers were crowded around the front doors. I was a little worried about the gawkers. You never know when a nutbag might decide the world would be better off with one less lawyer. “I’ll be about an hour.”

“That’ll work.” He handed me his card. “Here’s my number in case you’re out sooner. You really that cop’s lawyer?”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head. “Sounds like they got that guy three ways from Sunday.”

“Not when I get done they won’t.” I gave him my card. “Just in case.”

He looked at it. “Hey, you mind signing it?” He pulled out a pen and clicked it. My first autograph. I felt like a doofus signing my own card. He tucked the card into his jacket. “Thanks. And, uh… good luck.”

His tone didn’t just make it clear that he thought I’d need it-it said he thought luck was the last thing he wished for me. Not exactly the send-off I needed right now. I got out and had to push my way through the crowd. None of the reporters recognized me till I got to the door and pulled it open. A squirrelly-looking little guy with a microphone jumped in front of me. “Hey, you’re the lawyer, right? Love that skirt. Are you going commando?”

I knew I should ignore him. Don’t lose it, don’t lose it, don’t lose it… I lost it. “Tell me, Smurf, you ever ask the guys that question?”

“Heck yeah!”

I glared at him. “Liar.” I stepped inside and let go of the door, hoping it’d hit him in the head. The lobby was packed with people waiting for the elevator, so I decided to take the stairs. The arraignment court was only five floors up. But-my bad-I belatedly realized that when you’re in four-inch heels and a tight skirt, there’s no such thing as “only” five floors. By the time I came out of the stairway, I was sweating. I ducked into the ladies’ restroom for some damage control.

But as I searched through my purse, I realized I’d forgotten my compact, my concealer, and… everything else. All I could hope to do was hide the sweat, so I grabbed a paper towel and dabbed my face. Two of the women reporters I’d seen at the jail yesterday came in. The one with the blonde bob stretched out her hand. “Samantha? You probably don’t remember me. I’m Brittany Marston. With Channel Seven.”

“I do remember you. You covered that McDonald’s shooting last year, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Great memory. You know Edie? Not that I should introduce my rival.”

Edie laughed. “Too late, she already knows me.” She looked at the paper towel in my hand. “You are not rubbing that thing on your face.”

I gave her a weak smile. “I forgot my makeup.”

She dug a compact out of a huge, black fake-alligator purse. “Here, let me do that for you.” She patted her purse. “I have everything in this suitcase, so from now on, you let me know if you have a cosmetic emergency.”

She made a few expert swipes, and I went from sweaty to smooth in mere seconds. I laughed. “Cosmetic emergency. If ever there was an oxymoron-”

They made huge mock gasps. Brittany’s eyes were wide. “There is no greater emergency!”

Edie rolled her eyes. “Unfortunately, in our business it’s kind of true.”

I sighed. “Bet the men in your biz don’t have to worry about that.”

Brittany snorted. “Wrong-o, baby. They pack almost as much as we do. If you’re ever in a pinch again and we’re not around, believe me, you can ask them for help. I promise they’ll hook you up.”

I laughed. “Thanks. Guess I’ll see you out there.”

But as I headed across the hallway, I noticed there were large, wet rings under my arms. The biggest arraignment of my career and I come in sweating like a linebacker. Perfect.

The master calendar arraignment court seats three hundred. It’s the biggest courtroom in the building because it’s the first stop for all the cases set downtown. And instead of two counsel tables that face the bench, it has a big U-shaped table that stretches from one side of the courtroom to the other. The right side is for the defense; the left is for the prosecution. Against the wall on the right side is a glass-enclosed section with a bench. That’s where the custodies sit. And that’s where Dale would be when he got arraigned.

A bunch of deputy DAs were milling around, but I didn’t see anyone I recognized. Big as it is, this courtroom is always packed to the gills in the morning. But today was even worse than usual. It was standing room only, and a camera crew was set up in the well between the table and the judge’s bench.

Greta, one of my friends from the public defender’s office, was running the calendar for the office cases today. I headed over to her. “Hey, Greta! How come you’re on calendar?”

Greta, being Japanese, had that great hair, which she totally took for granted and threw up in a bun most of the time. “Larry’s in trial. But I know why you’re here.” She leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. “So what’s it like handling a cop?”

Cops almost never have public defenders. They retain their own lawyers-who are almost always former cops. “It’s kind of Bizarro World. I feel like I’m hanging out behind enemy lines.” I looked at the lawyers crowded into the space behind us. “Do you think I can get priority?”

“I think you’ll get priority whether you want it or not. I heard the judge is dying to get the press out of here.” Greta laughed, a gentle tinkling sound.

My laugh can most accurately be classified as a guffaw. I don’t even know how to make a little bell sound like Greta’s.

I noticed that the sheriff’s deputy was bringing out the custodies. “Excuse me. Gotta go see my guy.”

I moved close to the dirty glass. Dale’s face looked like it had weights attached at the jaw, and with the dark circles under his eyes, he looked like a basset hound. I hoped the smudged glass would hide some of that from the camera. His eyes roved around the courtroom before coming back to settle on me. I smiled at him and he struggled to smile back. Before I could say anything, Judge Magnuson came out, his robe still unbuttoned and flying behind him. The bailiff called everyone to order.

After a single, irritated glance at the camera crew, the judge quickly pulled a file off the top of a depressingly big stack. “Case of People v. Pearson . Counsel, state your appearances for the record.”

Greta was right. He really did want us out of there. “Samantha Brinkman for the defendant.”

I searched the opposite side of the courtroom to see who’d be my worthy adversary.

There was a gaggle of prosecutors huddled behind counsel table with their backs turned. Now, one of them stepped out. “Zack Chastain for the prosecution.”

I couldn’t believe it. I stared, hoping that somehow it’d turn out to be someone else. But no such luck. It was Zack. Dark, lean but wiry, full lips, and longish black hair that fell charmingly over one eye, you could practically see the DANGERsign flashing above his head. Not that it mattered. I didn’t know a single woman who’d ever heeded it.

He walked toward me. “Let the record reflect I’m now handing the first batch of discovery to defense counsel. Pages numbered one through one hundred fifty.”

He approached my side of counsel table and held out the sheaf of pages, just a hint of his trademark wolfish smile twitching on his lips.

I took the pages from him and faced the bench. “I can’t say whether I’ve received one hundred and fifty pages, Your Honor, but I have received a stack of paper.”

The judge waved me off. “That’ll do for now. Your client is charged with two counts of murder and the special circumstance of multiple murder and murdering a witness. Waive further reading of the complaint and statement of rights, counsel?”