No Way Out

by David Kessler

  “Yes but the more markers you use, the more accurate the test.”

  “But is it not a fact that with Y chromosome DNA, to determine the probability of a random match, you don’t multiply the odds of each sequence to calculate the overall probability, but rather look it up in a database according to a mathematical formula?”

  “Yes. That’s why it’s only four thousand to one.”

  “And is it not also a fact that many of those people actually in the reference database are profiled with only ten or eleven markers?”

  “So many of the markers that you tested for are in fact irrelevant and might in fact produce a greater sense of certainty than is realistic?”

  Alvarez nodded.

  “Yes, that’s true. But in such cases, the markers are simply ignored. So it doesn’t affect the final result one way or the other. Again, that’s why I said one in four thousand.”

  “And is it not also a fact that the markers are not independent? In other words, men get all their DNA from their fathers so that fathers and sons and brothers – and even some cousins and second cousins – all have the same Y chromosome DNA?”

  “Yes that’s true. But again, that’s why we use the database method and the mathematical formula that you referred to a moment ago. That’s why I said one in four thousand.”

  Alex noticed that Alvarez had put his hand to his mouth when he answered, suggesting that he was if not lying then having to admit something that he didn’t want to admit or possibly that he was holding back part of the truth.

  “And is it not also a fact that specific Y-STR haplotypes are more common in some ethnic groups than in others?”

  “Yes.”

  “So in other words, even if the probability of this particular haplotype in the population as a whole is one in four thousand, it’s somewhat more common in the African-American population.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is that probability?”

  “About zero point two of one per cent.”

  He put it this way to make it still seem rare. But Alex had other ideas.

  “About zero point two? So you’re saying that one African-American man in five hundred has this same haplotype?”

  “Yes, if you care to put it that way.”

  Alex most certainly did care to put it that way. Alvarez was desperately trying to take the sting out of this point. But Alex was not going to let up.

  “Well let’s try it another way then. Instead of a percentage, let’s look at it as a number. How many African-American males in the United States would you expect to match this profile?”

  Alvarez looked uncomfortable and appeared to be thinking about how to phrase his answer.

  “About 37,000.”

  The spectators gasped. The jury, to their credit, held their breath silently, although some did lean forward keenly. Alex knew that he had them.

  “Let me let me be clear that I’ve understood this correctly. You are telling this jury that from a scientific point of view anyone of those 37,000 African-Americans could have been the source of the DNA was found in these nail clippings?”

  Alex had phrased the question cleverly. Of course, Alvarez could say that the real question should be what was the likelihood that a man who was identified by the victim, who had a prior record of interracial rape – a rape committed by someone driving a car that matched his car that he claimed had been stolen two days before the rape but hadn’t bothered to report – was innocent. But it was not for him to say that. That was an argument for the prosecutor to make out in her closing. He was here not to present arguments but to answer questions. And he could only answer within the scope of his field. And his field was DNA science.

  Alex had asked from a scientific point of view and it was from a scientific point of view that Alvarez had to answer. He could try to embellish it or emphasize that his portion of the evidence was indeed only one small portion of the evidence. But the more he quibbled, the weaker and less significant and convincing his evidence would sound.

  And because he was an expert, he knew that his duty was to answer truthfully without taking sides.

  “Yes,” said Alvarez finally, swallowing awkwardly.

  Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 12:50

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” Martine squealed as Alex practically crushed the life out her.

  “I was so worried about you.”

  “I’m okay,” she said looking at him with amusement, tinged with guilt.

  He well knew why. He was making a fool of himself in front of other people. But he had lost a woman he loved in the past and that too had been in a surprise attack, without warning. And at the back of his mind was the thought that the same had so nearly happened in this case too. He didn’t know how to handle this kind of trauma other than with an over-the-top show of affection.

  She had told him that the man tried to rape her. But he might well have gone on to kill her to silence her. Alex had always wondered which was worse, for a loved one to go suddenly without warning and the chance to say goodbye, or for that same loved one to waste away slowly from some chronic or terminal disease, the life slowly sucked out of them by the invisible enemy.

  For the victim, the quick death was probably the lesser of two evils. Who wants to suffer in agony for weeks or months without hope or dignity. But for the loves ones who are left behind, that lost chance to say goodbye, hovers over them like a cloud for all eternity, casting a pall over any new relationship however warm and loving.

  And the prospect of the same thing happening again, was all the more dreadful.

  That was why being here, holding Martine in his arms right now was more important than defending a thousand Elias Claymores, however innocent they might be and however worthy their cause.

  “Alex…”

  “Yes.”

  “My… ribs.”

  He released her apologetically.

  They looked at each other in silence. Martine was the first to speak.

  “Look… I just want to say I’m sorry about… that day in the restaurant… after the snooker tournament.”

  “What do you mean.”

  “I laid into you over you trying to be my knight in shining armor.” He was about to speak, but she held up her hand. “No let me say it. I mean I still think it’s a bit old-fashioned, you know. I mean… like… we’re not living in the age of Errol Flynn – and not John Wayne either. But that's your nature. You’re always going to want to be the Great Protector, because that’s what you are. Even your work is that of the protector – the protector of the innocent and the falsely accused. And I can’t fault you for that. That’s what makes you the man I...”

  She trailed off.

  “This isn’t going to work,” he said, almost regretfully.

  A pained expression appeared in Martine’s eyes.

  “Our relationship?”

  “Putting it on hold. It’s not gonna work. We can’t fight it.”

  She looked at him for a few seconds, fighting back the tears.

  “You can’t pull out of Claymore’s defense. He’s counting on you. I’ll ask the network to take me off the case.”

  Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 13:05

  “So we got the call about the 261-A at the parking structure on the Jackson-thirteenth Street intersection,” said the eager young rookie at the other end of the line, “and we race there with the siren clearing the way. But as we get close, we see the road is clear, so we cut the siren and keep cruising. Then the perp just shoots out of the parking structure exit without looking and wham… we T-bone him.”

  Detective Bridget Riley had been reluctant to handover the case to one of her counterparts in Alameda County, but there was no way she could have gone up there to be with Bethel. She had too many other duties down here in Ventura, especially after Sarah Jensen had made it clear that she was not needed to testify at the trial, So she was surprised when she got the message from the Oakland police after leaving her desk for ten minutes to get a hot
pastrami on rye.

  They said it was about the Bethel Newton rape and that it was urgent. Bridget thought at the time that they might need her after all – or maybe that there was some problem with the written reports. Whatever it was, she called back as soon as she got the message.

  “How hard d’you hit him?”

  “Hard enough to deploy our airbags.”

  “What about his?”

  “His front airbags opened but it didn’t really save him ‘cause it was a side impact. He wasn’t even wearing a belt.”

  “Well he wouldn’t if he was fleeing from an interrupted 261.”

  “No and he paid the price for it.”

  The patrolman sounded almost happy.

  “What happened to him?”

  She was half-expecting the patrolman to say he died.

  “Broken collar bone, broken leg, concussion and whiplash.”

  “You got him in custody?”

  “They took him to ER and his leg’s in traction. But we’re got him under arrest and there’s a pair of officers stationed there – one at his bedside and the other in the corridor.”

  “I’m crying for him already,” said Bridget, taking a bite out of her sandwich. They’d put too much mustard on it again. Mustard is supposed to bring out the flavor, not drench it. “Have you been able to question him?”

  “Not yet. He’s still heavily sedated. But, get this. Who do you think the victim was?”

  “Of the 261A?”

  “Ah huh.”

  “Britney Spears?”

  “Nah come on… be serious.”

  “I am serious. Who do you think I am, Uri Geller? How the fuck am I supposed to guess!”

  “Okay it was Martine Yin.”

  “The news reporter?”

  “Right.”

  “Well that’s very interesting, but you’re surely not suggesting that he picked her ‘cause she was covering the Claymore trial?”

  “Not in itself, no. Although that’s a possibility to consider after what else we found out.”

  Bridget was getting irritated with this rookie and his puerile games.

  “And what did you find out?”

  “Now wait a minute, here’s where is starts getting interesting. We noticed that his car was a Merc.”

  A chill went up Bridget’s spine.

  “What color?”

  She already knew the answer before it came back over the phone line.

  “A sort of dark blue. I think it’s called aquamarine.”

  “Please tell me you impounded it.”

  “Well obviously! And we’ve got a CSI team going over it even as we speak.”

  “Thanks. Now the next thing you need to do is check the ownership.”

  “That’s actually what I’m calling you about.”

  Something in the way the patrolman said this made Bridget realize that he was way ahead of her. It also made her realize that the bombshell was yet to come.

  “Spill it.”

  “We already checked the ownership, First, we checked the license plates and they belong to one Louis Manning.”

  “Have you traced him?”

  “No need. That was the name of the perp. We checked his driver’s license and it’s him all right.”

  “Okay, so he also owns an aquamarine Merc and he tried to rape a reporter who’s covering the Claymore trial.”

  Bridget was no longer as excited as she had been a few seconds ago.

  “Now hold on a minute. I said the plates belonged to the perp. But they didn’t belong to the car. They were New Mexico plates and they belonged to his old car – a Pontiac Firebird.”

  “You should’ve checked the VIN.”

  “What kind of a jerk do you take me for? Of course we checked the VIN.”

  “And?” prompted Bridget, not daring to get her hopes up.

  `“It’s registered to Elias Claymore.”

  “Holy shit!”

  Several other people in the open plan office turned to look in the direction of Bridget’s booth when she uttered this exclamation. Profanity wasn’t exactly taboo in a police station, even for women, but it was rare for Bridget.

  “Wait, it gets better! You see, I thought it was kind of a big coincidence, this guy having possession of Claymore’s car and trying to rape a woman who just happens to be covering the Claymore trial. So I pulled the records on the Newton rape and guess what?”

  “I already told you, I’m not into guessing. Just tell me what you got.”

  “This perp, Louis Manning… he’s the spittin’ eye of the artists impression of the man the Newton girl described.”

  Bridget practically choked on her sandwich.

  “But we’ve already got the man who raped Bethel Newton.”

  “You mean you think you’ve got the man.”

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “All I know is we’re holding a man on an attempted rape charge who was driving Claymore’s stolen car and who looks just like the original description of the rapist.”

  “So did Claymore when he was younger,” said Bridget, realizing that she was rationalizing.

  “So what should we do?” asked the rookie.

  “About what?”

  “Louis Manning. I mean we can’t just ignore what we’ve got. We have to check it out.”

  “Have you taken a DNA sample from him?”

  “Not yet. We’re waiting for a warrant.”

  “Why?”

  “We weren’t sure if we had probable cause.”

  “Are you kidding? On a 261?”

  “261-A – it was only attempted rape.”

  “That should still be enough to pass a Hayes test.”

  “My captain didn’t want to take any chances.

  “I just thought of something. What if they ask why we need a DNA sample when he never got past second base.”

  “Don’t worry. What we said is that it’s to compare with skin and clothing contact samples. But in the meantime I just thought you should know.”

  “Okay, well as soon as you get the warrent, take the sample and run it. Have the lab upload it to the California SDIS. Tell them to do a Y-STR comparison with the Bethel Newton rape evidence sample. In the meantime, I’ll tell Sarah Jensen what you’ve told me.”

  “Sarah Jensen?”

  “The ADA. She’s one of ours. She’s first seat and I think you’ve got a local guy – Nick Sinclair – in second.”

  Bridget remembered that some cops resent out of zone intrusion. Still, he’d taken the trouble to contact her so he obviously wanted to help.

  “Okay,” said the patrolman. “Just one thing?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What if you find something you don’t like?”

  The patrolman sounded genuinely concerned.

  “I don’t think we will. But we’ve got to cover all the bases – ‘cause if we don’t, the defense certainly will.”

  Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 13:30

  Alex had lunch with Martine at the Slanted Door, the classy Vietnamese restaurant in the Ferry Building overlooking the Bay: a generous plate of Niman Ranch shaking beef with broken jasmine rice for him and grilled five-spice chicken with Massa Organics brown rice for her. He was trying to reassure her after what he thought to be the traumatic experience of the attempted rape. If he had been eating alone it would have been a “Miss Kentucky” chicken burger at Taylor’s, in the Embarcadero Center where he worked. But he always went up-market when he was with a lady, even if it was strictly platonic. In this case it was a mixture of the romantic with the paternalistic: the eager lover and the protective older man.

  But she had made it clear that she wasn’t the delicate little flower that he seemed to think she was. She reminded him a couple of times during the conversation that she had fought off the attacker with pepper spray and it was Louis Manning who had fled in agony and was now in a hospital bed with a broken leg and collar bone.

  But she had agreed to tell the network
to take her off the Claymore case because of a conflict of interest. That meant that she and Alex were now free to start dating again. Alex even hinted that he wanted her to move in with him, but Martine made it clear that she valued her freedom too much for that. Alex well understood. He also remembered her reaction the first time she visited the house in Elizabeth Street, when she saw Melody’s strategically placed picture in several places. They had never discussed it, but he had made it clear that his late wife was still too important in his memory to remove the pictures and she had made it equally clear that she wasn’t sure if she could compete with a ghost.

  So they had let it stand at the status quo, dating but not living together, taking it one day at a time, faithful but not committed to each other. And now they were poised to resume where they had left off.

  It was mid-afternoon when Alex returned to the office. Juanita was at her desk, reading a law book as part of her night school course. She reacted, almost imperceptibly, to his entry, but didn’t greet him. Alex sensed that something was up – almost as if she was deliberately ignoring him.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. Andi has some one in there. Jerry Cole. You remember, you invited him over?”

  “Jerry Cole? Oh yes. From the forensic lab in Ventura. I thought he was coming this evening.”

  “His flight arrived at two thirty and he didn’t have anything else to do. So he phoned in and I put him through to Andi. She got him to come by taxi and she’s been talking to him for the last twenty minutes.”

  They heard a door opening. It was the office that had been assigned to Andi – the one that Nat Anderson had once used.

  “Alex, is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got Mr. Cole with me.”

  He noted the use of the respectful title and surname and sensed that their guest had a fragile ego.

  “I’m coming.”

  Juanita signaled Alex over to her desk with a flip of her index finger. He leaned forward when she touched her lips conspiratorially.

  “He takes his coffee weak, with plenty of milk.”

  Juanita smiled and leaned back smugly, as if this was supposed to be telling Alex something. He had no doubt that it was, but couldn’t for the life of him figure out what.