Marcia Clark - Blood Defense

And it’d be a real personal coup if I could wind up living as well as my mother- without having to slide underneath a rich old guy every night. But I love what I do; I believe in what I do. Sticking up for the little guy is why I went to law school.

So I keep doing it, hoping to score my big break. A shrink who was on one of the shows with me a few months ago said the real reason I did the cable circuit was because I needed to prove that I was “somebody.” Probably to my parents. I told the shrink I’d never met my father, and the only thing that would make my mother think I was “somebody” was if I married a rich “somebody.” And then I told him I thought he did these shows because he was a self-important ass waffle who probably got his degree from an online “university” in Belize. I hadn’t meant to pop off like that-not that it didn’t feel good to take down that self-important, patronizing jackass. But I figured that was the end of my brief stint as a talking head. Which just shows how green I was. The producers booked me for three more shows on the spot.

As I was finishing a tweet, Dane, the audio guy, spoke in my earpiece. “Could you give me a ten-count, Samantha?”

“Sure.” I counted to ten while I scrolled through my Twitter feed.

Go get ’em, Samantha! #onetoughlawyer

Love you, Samantha! #onehotlawyer

Your a cunt. #SamanthaBrinkmansawhore

I retweeted the first two and answered the last:

You’re a cunt. You are=you’re.

Dane was back in my ear. “Okay, Samantha, coming to you in ten. Heads up.”

The case we’d be banging around tonight was a simple one. Fourteen-year-old Linette Samron, who’d had enough of her bullying big brother, Ryan, “borrowed” her dad’s 9mm and plugged him three times. If it’d been you or me, we’d be dead. Ryan, however, was in “stable condition” and resting comfortably.

It’s the Law of Douche Bags. Douche bags walk away with enough holes in them to look like a colander, while good guys go down for the count with one random punch to the head.

Sheri-one of my favorite hosts; I love her tough, funny ’tude-came to me first. “Samantha Brinkman, you’re our expert defense attorney. Linette’s lawyers are claiming it was an accident. What do you think of their strategy?”

“I think Linette would be better off hiring Justin Bieber. Three shots? An accident? Look, she wins on popularity, not the law. She’s the David to his Goliath. They’ve got a boatload of evidence that Ryan beat her up in the past. She needs to put it all out there and go for self-defense-”

Barry jumped in. “Come on, Samantha. They can’t sell self-defense. She went and got the gun and then hunted him down-”

“So what? A jury who hears about those beatings is a jury who’ll say screw the law and screw him. She walks. A jury who hears a lot of BS about trigger pulls and safety malfunctions says, ‘Screw her.’”

Sheri leaned in. “Then, Samantha, you’re banking on an emotional verdict, aren’t you?”

“Sheri, since when aren’t we?”

Sheri threw it to Barry. “You agree with that?”

Barry smiled. “There’s no disagreeing with that. It’s just a matter of how you go about it. But Samantha’s right: the more the jury hears about those beatings, the better for her.”

Which now, thanks to us, they just had.

When my last segment wrapped, I went to the makeup room to find Barry. We’d agreed to join the producers for drinks after the show. The television was playing clips from Chloe’s most recent talk-show appearances. A voiceover was talking about the rough times Chloe had been through before she got the gig on Dark Corners .

She’d been a child star, but in the years after her show went off the air, she’d hit a downward spiral that ended at the tip of a needle. Before she scored the role in Dark Corners , the only time she appeared on television was when she landed in court for one drug bust or another. It made her murder an even bigger heartbreaker. I nodded at the screen. “She was really in the shits for a while, wasn’t she?”

Barry nodded as he wiped off his makeup. “One of her lawyers is a poker buddy. Said she was heading down the OD track for sure when Paige took her in. He said Paige and that role saved her life.” Barry looked up at the television, his expression sad. “Kind of a tragic irony, isn’t it?”

More than tragic, it was depressing. “Life is one unfair bitch.”

Barry’s cell rang. He frowned at the screen. “I’ve gotta take this. You go on ahead. Save me a seat, okay?”

“You got it.” I headed out, thinking about the icy tequila with lime in my near future.

It was already dark by then, and the studio was on the east side of Hollywood. Not the best neighborhood for a nighttime stroll, but I’d found a shortcut after doing A.M. Hot Spot last Monday morning. But the minute I turned onto the smaller street just south of Sunset, I realized that what’d looked fine in daylight looked a lot different at night. I told myself to stop being such a wuss, but my stomach tightened with every step. I scanned the street as I moved, noticing for the first time the abandoned house with broken windows on the corner, the empty lot on the right where used condoms and discarded syringes glowed in the moonlight, and dark alleys on either side of me. I felt like the idiot in those scary movies who makes you want to yell at the screen when she gets into the car with a- duh -serial killer.

And then I hit a stretch of road that was totally pitch-black. That was it. I decided that I’d rather be an alive wuss than a dead tough guy. I’d just turned back to head for Sunset Boulevard when I heard the fast slap of running feet coming up behind me. At that same moment, two white men in red do-rags and baggy jeans-the kind that have loops sewn inside the legs to hold shotguns-stepped out of the alley to my left and came toward me with deadly eyes that said anything could happen in the next sixty seconds. A strangled little scream squeaked out of my mouth as I jumped back-and almost fell into the team behind me. I could feel their hot breath on my neck, and the smell of their sweat, oily and sour, wound its way over my shoulder like a snake. The bile rose in my throat.

A heavy-looking metal pipe slid down out of the sleeve of the taller of the two men in front of me. He slapped the pipe against his thigh, stepped close enough for me to smell the cigarettes on his breath, and said in a low, tight voice, “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

And in that second, a surge of anger burst through the fear. This cretin was telling me to shut the fuck up? I wanted to rip his stupid head off his neck. I was about to reach for my gun, but then I remembered I didn’t have it. And I noticed we were standing at the mouth of a dark alley. It wouldn’t take five seconds to pull me into it. Another five and I could easily be dead. I didn’t see any lights on in the trashed-out houses nearby, but even if anyone was home, I seriously doubted they’d be in any shape to help me. Rage gave way to reason as I considered my options.

If I’d had a wad of money on me, I could’ve hoped that they’d just take my purse and be happy with the score. But as usual, my cash on hand would barely cover one drink. Still, it was all I had to bargain with. I started to take my purse off my shoulder. Seeing my move, the other man whipped a.44 out of the pocket of his hoodie and put it to my head. As the cold steel barrel pressed against my temple, I saw my face exploding in a red mist.

A voice behind me that sounded like gravel churning in a Cuisinart snarled, “You don’t move, bitch.”

I stood frozen, my hand still at my shoulder. There was something familiar about that voice. Could it be…? If I was wrong, I’d be dead. But I had to take a chance.