Salem Falls

by Jodie Picoult

  “You analyzed the pubic hair combings in the rape kit, didn’t you, Ms. Martine?” Jordan said, getting up from his seat.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you find?”

  “No hairs with DNA foreign to the victim.”

  Jordan raised his brows. “Isn’t it extremely difficult to violently rape someone without leaving behind a single pubic hair?”

  “I see it all the time. We don’t normally even test pubic hair when we have DNA, since hairs can be transferred in the most innocent of ways. For example, when you went into the bathroom during the last recess, Mr. McAfee, you probably came away with other people’s pubic hair on your shoes, yet I’ll assume that you weren’t committing rape.”

  She looked lovely, Jordan thought, even when she was reaming him. Abandoning that line of defense, he said, “You testified that the blood found on the victim’s shirt is a match for the defendant’s, isn’t that correct?”

  “No. I testified that the locations I tested matched.”

  “Whatever.” Jordan waved away the distinction. “Can you tell whether the blood you tested came from a scratch on the defendant’s cheek . . . or from a cut above his eye?”

  “No.”

  “Is it possible to tell from the blood on the shirt whether he was scratched by a human, or by a branch?”

  “No,” Frankie said, then shrugged. “However, DNA was found beneath the victim’s fingernails, a mixture from which the defendant couldn’t be excluded as a cocontributor.”

  “Was the victim wearing nail polish?”

  She smiled a little. “As a matter of fact, she was. Candy-apple red. The nails were fairly long, too, which made for a very good sample of skin cells beneath.”

  “Do you have to scratch someone to get his skin under your fingernails?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “You can get his skin beneath your fingernails if you massage his scalp, right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Or if you gently rake your hand down his arm while you’re flirting?”

  The forensic scientist made a face that let him know what she thought of his alternative scenario. “It’s possible.”

  “Let’s examine some of the evidence,” Jordan said. “The semen and the nail residue . . . those are both mixtures of DNA?”

  “Yes.”

  “Presumably, they’re mixtures of the two known samples you have here-Ms. Duncan’s and Mr. St. Bride’s?”

  “Possibly, yes.”

  “Then how come the two lines aren’t identical?”

  “You’re noticing the discrepancies in intensities-the numbers that are parenthesized versus the numbers that aren’t. And those can come from a variety of sources,” Frankie explained. “If we did the mixture of the DNA in the lab, it would be very precise-two drops of each cocontributor’s blood. But a mixture that was handed to us to analyze may not be equally divided between the two contributors. Obviously, in the fingernail residue mixture I wasn’t detecting as much DNA from the cocontributor as I was from the victim.”

  “But if we’re talking about semen, shouldn’t there be a pretty good amount of DNA from the male?”

  “Depends on how much sperm he has in it,” Frankie said. “If he’s a frequent ejaculator, he won’t have much sperm. If he’s a crack addict, he won’t have much sperm. If he’s an alcoholic or a diabetic, he won’t have much sperm. Many factors are involved.”

  “To your knowledge, Ms. Martine, is the defendant a frequent ejaculator?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you know if he’s a crack addict?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know if he’s alcoholic or a diabetic?”

  “Again, no.”

  Jordan rocked back on his heels. “So when you looked at those two different mixture profiles . . . it didn’t bother you to see so many incongruities between them?”

  She hesitated. “An intensity difference isn’t really an incongruity. Sometimes we’ll see a number come up in parentheses that we didn’t expect . . . but that can be due to many things-from the percentage of each contributor’s DNA in the mixture, to whether or not the contributors are related. We don’t exclude a suspect based on such an infinitesimal differentiation.”

  “There’s a big difference between being two hundred forty million times more likely than anyone else to be a cocontributor-such as in the fingernail sample-or being seven hundred forty thousand times more likely to be a cocontributor-like in the semen sample.”

  “That’s true.”

  “What if you’d had results at the two locations that dropped out?”

  “That’s a big if, Mr. McAfee,” Frankie said. “It’s possible that your client might have been excluded. It’s also possible that he might have been further included.”

  “Isn’t it true that certain labs test more than eight locations?” Jordan asked.

  “Yes. The FBI lab does thirteen.”

  “Isn’t it possible that if you typed more systems, you might have excluded Jack as a suspect?”

  “Yes.” She looked at the jury. “If you narrow the search even further, to a 1991 blue Acura hatchback with a sunroof and bumper sticker . . . and a cracked windshield and dent on the fender and all-weather tires, the group of potential suspects shrinks even more.”

  “Did the state ask you to perform this additional test?”

  “Our state lab doesn’t yet have that capability.”

  “Ms. Martine, if you don’t mind, may I add a line to your chart?” When she nodded, Jack walked up to the projector and set down a handwritten sheet, adding a new profile.

  “Ms. Martine, is this sample different from the known sample you profiled of Jack St. Bride?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it would have come from a different person?”

  “Theoretically,” Frankie said.

  “Now, if you don’t mind . . . could you estimate what we might see in a controlled mixture of line one hundred and the new sample . . . Gillian Duncan and a hypothetical suspect?”

  Frankie picked up a marker and began to write on the bottom of her chart.

  “Ms. Martine,” Jordan asked, “what does that line remind you of?”

  “The semen profile.”

  “So could the person who gave this hypothetical blood sample have been a contributor to the semen mixture?”

  “Yes, this person would not be ruled out, either.”

  “Then it’s possible that there’s someone other than Jack St. Bride walking around out there . . . someone with this particular DNA makeup, for example . . . who might be included as a suspect?”

  Frankie met his eye. “Anything’s possible, Mr. McAfee, but my lab deals with concrete evidence. I didn’t have this hypothetical blood sample, and I don’t know this hypothetical suspect. But when you find him? You give me a call . . . and I’ll run the tests.”

  As Charlie tried to concentrate on the prosecutor’s questions, his attention kept straying to Addie Peabody.

  She sat behind the defense, almost in a direct line from Jack St. Bride, her eyes boring a hole into the back of the man’s neck. Her hair was slipping out of a bun, and her suit-the only one she had, he’d bet-was wrinkled as a newborn’s skin.

  He didn’t want to be there. He wanted to be home, unraveling the mystery that was his daughter. He wanted to grab Addie and shake her until all the truths Meg had confessed to her spilled onto the floor at Charlie’s feet.

  “What was her demeanor at that time?” Matt was asking, the words swimming to Charlie from a long tunnel.

  Frightened. Withdrawn. Numb.

  He had wanted to run home after Chelsea’s testimony, to grab Meg and ask her if she, too, was a witch. But he had already accused her once, and look at where it had gotten him. What if he did it a second time? How much damage could be done before the bond between a father and his daughter was irretrievably broken?

  Broken.

  He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud u
ntil Matt asked another question. “After you took her statement, what did you do?”

  “I went to the station and typed up an affidavit for an arrest warrant,” Charlie said.

  “Did you obtain this warrant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you go to serve it?”

  “Addie Peabody’s house,” Charlie answered, and although he did not look her way, he could feel her straighten in her seat. “I asked for Mr. St. Bride and told him he was under arrest for the aggravated felonious sexual assault of Gillian Duncan the previous evening.”

  “What happened?”

  “He said he was nowhere near her that night.”

  “Did you ever go back to the clearing behind the cemetery?”

  “Yes, the next morning.”

  “What did you find?”

  “The remnants of a bonfire,” Charlie said. “Some spots where leaves were kicked around. A boot print.”

  “Did you find a condom?”

  “No.”

  “A condom wrapper?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see Gillian again the next day?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie murmured. “I stopped in to check up on her.”

  “How did she look?”

  The way Meg does now, Charlie realized, and as he stared into the dark, empty eyes of Jack St. Bride, he could feel himself drowning.

  * * *

  Jordan stalked toward the witness before the prosecutor had even settled in his chair. “The search you did at the cemetery wasn’t the only search you did in conjunction with this case, was it?”

  “No.”

  “In fact, Detective, you searched your own daughter’s room and found evidence that you believed was connected, correct?”

  A memory flashed between them: Jordan sitting on the edge of Charlie’s couch, as he awkwardly confessed his suspicions to the policeman. “Yes.”

  Jordan took an item from the prosecutor’s table, one he’d requested to have brought along. “Do you recognize this?”

  “Yes. It’s a ribbon I found.”

  “Where?”

  “In my daughter’s closet.”

  “What else did you find with this ribbon?” Jordan asked.

  “Some plastic cups, and a thermos.”

  “Was there a powdery residue in them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which you had tested.”

  Charlie nodded. “Yes.”

  “That powder was atropine, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s what I was told,” he admitted.

  “Do you know what atropine is?”

  “A drug,” Charlie said.

  “Isn’t it true that atropine can occasionally produce side effects consistent with more traditional recreational drugs?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, in fact, Detective, the only evidence you found of a criminal act was in your own daughter’s room, wasn’t it? Because you didn’t find anything at the cemetery that would indicate a sexual assault happened there, did you?”

  “Not specifically.”

  “Isn’t it true that you asked Ms. Duncan to look at several condoms to see if she could pick out the one used that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet she couldn’t identify it, could she?”

  “No . . . but I imagine she wasn’t comparison-shopping at the time of the rape.”

  The judge frowned at Charlie. “Just answer the question, Detective.”

  “When you found the girls that night, they were at the edge of the cemetery?”

  “Yes.”

  “How far was that from the spot where the bonfire had been lit?”

  “The clearing is about fifty yards away,” Charlie said.

  “How long did it take you to walk there?”

  “I didn’t time myself.”

  Jordan walked toward Charlie. “Longer than thirty seconds?”

  “No.”

  “Were there any obstacles in the way?”

  “No.”

  “No rocks you had to climb over? No ditches to fall into?”

  “It’s a flat, level path.”

  By now, Jordan was almost face-to-face with the detective. “After his arrest, my client told you he was innocent, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Charlie shrugged. “So do most perps.”

  “But unlike most perps, you didn’t get a confession out of my client at the station. In fact, my client has steadily denied his involvement in this crime, isn’t that true?”

  “Objection!” Matt cried.

  “Sustained.”

  Jordan didn’t blink. “When you met Gillian Duncan at the edge of the cemetery, how did her clothing appear to you?”

  “Dirty, covered in leaves. Her shirt, it was buttoned all wrong.” Charlie glanced at Jack. “Like she’d had it ripped off her.”

  “I have here the transcript of Ms. Duncan’s testimony yesterday, Detective. Would you mind reading the section I’ve marked off?” Jordan handed Charlie a piece of paper.

  “ ‘How about your sweater? Did he take that off?’ ” Charlie read, and then gave Gillian’s answer. “No. ‘Unbutton it?’ No.”

  “Thank you.” Jordan held up a photograph of Jack that had been placed on the evidence table. “Did you take this photo of Mr. St. Bride?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it a fair and accurate representation of how he looked when you arrested him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take a look at the scratch on his face. Is that one scratch or five?”

  “One.”

  “Is that consistent with five fingers being raked across a face?”

  Charlie suddenly remembered Gillian’s hands twisting in her lap, how Amos had reached for one to hold. She’d had long fingernails, bright red, the same color polish his daughter had come home wearing that week after visiting Gilly at her house. “I’m not sure,” Charlie murmured.

  Jordan slapped the picture down. “Nothing further.”

  The incense cast a lavender cloud over Gilly’s bedroom, and as she drew it in, she imagined that she was drifting with the smoke, dissolving, energy rising. Cinnamon sprinkled freckles over her mother’s cheek, the worn photo tucked beneath a candle. “I call upon the Earth, Air, Fire, Water,” she whispered. “I call upon the Sun, Moon, and Stars.”

  She did not know what was going on in the courtroom across town, and at this moment, she truly did not care. In fact, she was not thinking of her father, seated behind Matt Houlihan like the dragon who guarded Gilly’s virtue. She was not thinking of Jack St. Bride. Sweet sage tickled the inside of her nose, and with all she had inside her, Gillian wished for her mother.

  Just on the edge of the circle, she could see her, a translucent figure with a laugh that fell into the shell of Gilly’s ear. And this time, something happened. Instead of the candle sputtering out and her mother simply disappearing, she looked Gillian in the eye and sang her name, a series of bells. “You shouldn’t,” her mother said, and the flame on the candle roared so bright it was blinding.

  By the time Gillian realized the rug was on re, her mother had gone. She batted at the flames but didn’t manage to save the photograph. It was charred through, the only remaining fragment a piece of her mother’s hand, now curled and scorched with heat.

  Gillian threw herself down beside the ashes, breathing in the smoke and sobbing. She would not learn until much later that she had burned her hands putting out the flames, that each broken blister would scar in the shape of a heart.

  Matt Houlihan was tired. He wanted to go home and have Molly fall asleep on his chest while Syd rubbed his feet. He wanted to drink himself into oblivion, so that when he was tottering at the edge of consciousness, he wouldn’t have to see Gillian Duncan’s face.

  He was almost done.

  That, more than anything else, drew Matt to his feet. He slipped a piece of paper from a manila envelope and offered it to McAfee, who’d known ever since the motions hearing that it was coming. “Judge, th
e state has no more witnesses for its case in chief. However, at this time I’d like to offer a certified copy of the conviction of Jack St. Bride for sexual assault on a plea of guilty entered August 20, 1998, in Grafton County, New Hampshire. To wit, Mr. McBride admitted that he sexually assaulted a fifteen-year-old victim and received a sentence of eight months to serve in the Grafton County Correctional Facility.”

  The jury gaped. They looked at Matt, they looked at the defendant, and they thought what any reasonable man or woman would think when presented with this evidence-if he’s done it before, he most likely has done it again.

  Matt placed the conviction on the clerk’s desk, then looked directly at Jack St. Bride, hoping to hell the bastard was fully suffering the terror of being at someone else’s mercy, someone who held all the cards. “Your Honor,” Matt said. “The state rests.”

  1969

  New York City

  That morning, while drinking her imported Sumatran coffee, Annalise St. Bride had read a story in the New York Times about a woman whose baby had been born in a tree. The woman lived in Mozambique, a country suffering from a flood, and had climbed to safety when her hut washed away. The baby was healthy, male, and rescued by helicopter a day later.

  Surely that was worse than what was happening now.

  She had been on Astor Place shopping for the most darling christening outfit when her water broke. Two weeks early. The ambulance told her she couldn’t get to Lenox Hill-the hospital where she’d planned to have her baby-because there was a parade blocking traffic one way, and a broken water main had locked up the conduit through Central Park. “I am not going to St. Vincent’s,” she insisted, as two paramedics hefted her into the back of the ambulance.

  “Fine, lady,” one said. “Then drop the kid right here.”

  A band of pain started at her groin, then radiated out to every nerve of her skin. “Do you know,” she gasped, “who my husband is?”

  But the paramedics had already set the ambulance screaming crosstown.