Blood Defense - [3]

“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.