Marcia Clark - Guilt By Degrees

By the time I got to the lobby, I found Graden standing next to the open passenger door of his darkly gleaming, freshly washed black BMW 750Li. He was talking to Angel, the doorman, who was looking at the car like it was Scarlett Johansson.

I hated to break up this lovefest, but nothing lasts forever.

“Hey, guys,” I said.

Graden gave me an appreciative smile.

“Hey, Rache,” he said, and gestured to the passenger seat.

I patted Angel on the arm as I got into the car. “How’s it going?”

“Good, good, Rachel,” he said. He tipped his hat to Graden and closed my door with a loving care that I knew had nothing to do with me.

Graden slid in and pulled the car around the circular driveway to the street. As he paused for oncoming traffic, he turned to me and said, “You look lovely, as always.”

I smiled and squeezed out a thank-you with as much grace as I could muster. Compliments always make me uncomfortable.

“You too,” I said, and meant it.

With his dark navy blazer and French cuffs, I knew that women’s heads would be swiveling from the moment he entered the restaurant.

He’d been busy with what he’d briefly dismissed as “administrative matters” for the past few days, and I’d been pretty swamped myself, so we hadn’t had a chance to talk.

“You want to tell me what’s been on your plate at work this week?” I asked.

He sighed. “Maybe later. Right now I’d just like to forget about it for a while, if that’s all right.”

Having been in that head space myself, I didn’t question him further. He’d tell me, if he wanted to, in his own time. We chatted about mutual friends, including Toni and J.D., but I broke off to enjoy the view when Graden turned up the narrow drive above Franklin Avenue and headed into the hills that would take us to Yamashiro. At the top of the hill, we entered the parking lot that wound around behind the famous restaurant and ended in front of the huge pagoda-style building that had one of the best views in town.

Yamashiro was an atmospheric landmark and a paean to old Hollywood. The dining room to the left of the entrance was formal yet lush and cushy, with white-tableclothed circular banquettes that gave views overlooking the city. The bar on the opposite side was romantically situated at the front of the restaurant and took advantage of the panoramic view with wall-to-wall windows that looked down on all of Los Angeles. Between the bar and the dining area there was a huge, high-ceilinged room decorated with waterfalls, gardens, and quaint red-painted bridges that spanned ponds of roaming brightly colored koi. Kitschy but charming.

The hostess took us to a table next to the window. I sat down and looked out at the glittering lights, neon signs, and vibrantly lit skyscrapers that outlined downtown L.A. From here, even the traffic looked beautiful, a moving river of red-and-white glowing beams. I exhaled with pleasure and saw that Graden too was entranced by the view.

“May I interest you in a cocktail?” asked the waitress, who appeared at our table within seconds.

Graden and I were both a little slow on the uptake, but the mention of drinks brought us back to earth. He looked at me.

“I’ll have a Ketel One martini, very cold, very dry, straight up with a twist,” I said. It didn’t matter what the weather was like; there was only one way to have a martini, and that was icy cold.

“I’ll have a Ketel One and soda with lime,” Graden said.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said when the waitress left. “I’ll have the vodka soda and drive tonight. It’s only fair.”

Graden waved me off. “I’m being impressively gallant,” he said with a grin. “Now tell me what’s going on with you.”

I started to tell him about the John Doe case. But I’d gotten only a few words out when the waitress returned with our drinks. We gave her our dinner order: salads for starters, and a shared steak served on a heated salt plate. It’s an Asian restaurant, but their steak is amazing. Then we toasted to ourselves and an amazingly clear night.

Now that we’d relaxed into the evening, I told him the story of my John Doe case.

Graden sighed. “I guess there’s no such thing as an escape,” he said.

I looked at him quizzically.

“That DA, Brandon Averill, beefed Stoner to the skies,” Graden explained. “The whole chain of command is on the alert.”

I shook my head and pressed my lips together in an effort to keep myself from saying what I thought. This wasn’t the place to get loud and profane.

“Yeah,” Graden said. “And some managerial type named Phil Hemet jumped into the mix too.”

Hemet too? That was more than I could stand.

“Hemet is a talent-free jerkoff who brownnosed his way to the top, and Averill is a sniveling puke who thinks he craps flowers-,” I snapped, unable to help myself.

“So what do you really think?” Graden said, laughing.

I gave him a little smile, though I really was angry. The waitress brought our salads, and I let mine sit for a moment, my appetite gone. But even in the throes of pissitivity, I was able to appreciate the fact that Graden not only understood my upset but felt the same way. It was one of the great things about being on the same side.

“What’s going to happen to Stoner?” I asked.

“You can’t talk about this,” Graden said sternly. “Not even to Bailey.”

“I promise,” I replied. “Have I ever snitched?”

“No,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m going to tell you.”

He took a bite of his salad and another sip of his drink. “I’m pushing to just let him off with some administrative leave. But there’re some in the department who think Stoner’s a hothead who needs a bigger paddling than that.”

“Such as?” My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since…when? I couldn’t remember. I dug into my salad.

“Maybe a transfer out of Homicide Special,” Graden said, his voice stern.

“Seriously? Just for decking that asswipe?”

But I might be facing the same fate if Hemet decided to go after me. I filled Graden in on what Toni had told me about Hemet.

The waitress arrived and gave us steak knives and set the salt plate between us.

Graden started to say something, then stopped himself.

“What?” I asked.

A smile played on his lips. “I was going to say that it’s not the same, and that you have nothing to worry about because Stoner has a way of speaking his mind that ticks off the brass an awful lot,” he said wryly. “But it really is the same, isn’t it? I mean, short of the fistfight.”

I had to smile. “I guess it kind of is.” I’d had more than my share of run-ins with both the office management and the judges. I called it “being direct.” They called it “confrontational and insubordinate.” Tomato, tomahto.

“One of the many things I love about you, baby,” Graden said. He lifted his drink. “Here’s to mouthy women.”

“And hotheaded men,” I said.

We drank, then tucked into our steak. Graden told me about a trainee who’d been caught smoking dope in his squad car after his shift ended. I topped him with a story about a DA who’d been caught shooting heroin in his car. On a lunch break. During trial.

After we finished, we turned to look at the view some more and sank back in our chairs, pleasantly relaxed. We rode to the Biltmore in a comfortable silence. Graden left the car with Angel and walked me to the elevator. I’d joked with Bailey about having sex with Graden, but the truth was, we hadn’t yet slept together. Though we’d kissed enough to know it would be something great when we did take the plunge. We reached my door, and he pulled me in for a long, slow, romantic kiss. If I’d had one more martini, I would’ve opened the door and tackled him. But I managed to restrain myself. Just.