Marcia Clark - Guilt By Degrees

I turned to see where he was headed, and there was Brandon, sauntering out of the snack bar, carrying-what else?-a cinnamon-covered latte.

Detective Stoner flew at him like a heat-seeking missile. “Why the hell didn’t you give me a subpoena for the uniform?”

Brandon had enough sense to blanch, but not enough to back down. He took exactly one second to find his voice. “I did. I sent it over. You just never picked it up. You blew it, Stoner, so don’t try to blame me for your fuckup.”

“You never sent anything over, you dumb punk! And I can prove it! The subpoena records show nothing was ever issued for the uniform!”

“Yeah? And who controls those records?” Brandon said in a grating voice that’d probably set people’s teeth grinding since he was in kindergarten. “Oh, that’s right, you guys. ”

Everyone has a breaking point. Brandon had just found Stoner’s.

The detective pulled back his right fist with a vengeance that would’ve knocked Brandon into his next life if he hadn’t flinched just in time. The potentially lethal blow glanced off Brandon’s left shoulder. Even so, the force was enough to send him and his latte flying. Stoner’s momentum carried him forward, knocking them both to the floor. The detective seized the opportunity to land a solid punch to the kidney.

Brandon managed a strangled “Help!”

I wasn’t strong enough to break up the fight if I’d wanted to-though I admit I didn’t mind having an excuse to stand by and let Averill get what he so richly deserved. But there were about twenty cops standing around at the time who were more than capable of taking control. They gave Stoner at least a solid minute before stepping in. I made a mental note to get all of their names. I wanted to personally write them thank-you cards.

It took three of them to pull Stoner off, and when they yanked Brandon to his feet, still dripping with the remains of his latte, he couldn’t straighten up. But did that stop him from yapping? Holding his side with one hand and the wall with another, he went off: “I want that asshole arrested! He attacked me! You all saw it!”

We glanced at one another blankly. Nobody moved. Stoner looked Brandon over with hooded eyes, then, cool as a cucumber, flipped open his cell phone and called for the paramedics.

After they’d carted Brandon off to get checked for any possible major damage, I turned to Stoner.

“Want to try again?” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Rachel Knight.”

“Stoner,” he said, taking it and giving it a firm shake.

“No first name?”

“None I want to share,” he said flatly.

“Fair enough.”

“You really going to refile?” he asked as he straightened his sports jacket and adjusted his tie.

I paused. Common sense was beginning to enter the picture. “You really think it’s a righteous case?”

“We got blood on the defendant’s sleeve,” he replied. “No lab results yet, but it looks good so far.”

Meaning: enough to keep the case alive and see what else pans out. But I had one big question before I took the plunge.

“What about that box cutter? You think our victim was about to mug someone?”

Stoner shrugged. “It’s possible. You know, cut the purse straps and run.”

I nodded.

My expression must’ve shown my reservations. Stoner went on, “I know what you’re thinking. It looks like a possible self-defense case. Tell you the truth, I would’ve been willing to let this one go as a manslaughter, if the suspect had said the guy threatened him.”

“The defendant didn’t say he’d been attacked?” I asked.

“Nope. Claimed he wasn’t there when the victim got stabbed.”

It was classic. Suspects generally don’t get nailed by confessing. They get nailed by saying something provably false. Like claiming they’d never been in a house after their fingerprints were found all over the place.

“But your eyewitness backed up on you big-time,” I pointed out. Translation: maybe this defendant is telling the truth.

“Our eyewitness is a little sketchy,” he admitted.

I nodded, but if the only eyewitness was sketchy-and from what I saw, that description seemed accurate-that didn’t leave much to rely on. Again, Stoner read my expression.

“Look, I’m one hundred percent aware that we’re going to need a lot more,” he said. “Just give me the time to get it.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Then I’ll be the first to say, let it go.”

They always say that. Maybe no-first-name Stoner was one of the few who meant it.

But I knew that if I didn’t refile the case now, it might never see the light of day. A victim with a box cutter looked bad, but neither the defendant nor anyone else had claimed that the victim tried to attack them, which told me this probably wasn’t a self-defense killing. If so, our homeless man was a real murder victim. I didn’t know much about the case, but I knew one thing for sure: he didn’t deserve to die nameless and abandoned on a dirty stretch of concrete.

“I’ll go put the paperwork through,” I said.

“I’ll make sure the defendant stays in pocket.” Stoner turned to go, then stopped. “I may not be able to keep the case if that DA makes a stink about this. So…thanks,” he said. “In case I don’t get the chance to tell you later.”

“Glad to help,” I replied. “And thank you too. On behalf of those who didn’t get to see you in action.” I had a feeling there were many who would’ve danced in the streets if they’d witnessed Stoner bitch-slapping Brandon.

The detective nodded.

It tookthe better part of the morning for Sabrina to go from head-turningly gorgeous to invisible functionary, but the success of her efforts was undeniable. No one noticed the woman in the dull brown pantsuit with the flat-colored hair that lay in a low bun against her neck. She moved around the edges of the cocktail-wielding guests in tentative steps, blinking rapidly, nervously pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. A timid little mud bird, so inconsequential that even the security at the door hadn’t given her credentials more than a fleeting glance.

Not that the others around her exactly glittered. It was a low-key-looking bunch: pearls and tastefully small diamonds, navy blue and black, pumps and wing tips. But a word from any one of the men and several of the women in that room could shake Wall Street and rattle the NASDAQ. And, in fact, they had.

Sabrina was unaccompanied, but she was not alone. Now and then, she’d duck her head and offer a twitch of a smile to a man or woman passing by. They weren’t friends. Every single one of them worked for her. Sabrina moved from the fringes of one group to another, watching each individual with a fierce, penetrating intensity. That gaze would have been disturbing had it not been effectively masked by frequent sips from her drink-water disguised as vodka-and fidgeting with her glasses. Sabrina could “watch” like no other-it was one of the many unusual arrows in her quiver that made her the best at what she did. With the patience of a sniper, she surreptitiously tracked every nod, turn of the head, and gesture made by the key figures, but she made sure to take in the more peripheral figures as well: noting who spoke to whom, who leaned in closely to whisper, who left with whom. In that time, she’d seen what no one else would ever have noticed…and then some.

Finally, she signaled to a waiter (another of her employees), put her half-empty glass on his tray, and-shoulders hunched, head tilted obsequiously-approached the circle of suits surrounding the congressman, a tall, slender man whose blond head hovered above the crowd.