Miracle Creek: A Novel

by Angie Kim

  “I’m sure you tried to ensure that the chart reflects your experience, not just the textbook stuff but your real-world knowledge about what evidence is the most reliable, most relevant. Is that fair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful.” Shannon put a poster on the easel.

  “Detective, is this your chart?” Shannon asked. The sweetness in her voice seemed saccharine, with a touch of mockery sprinkled in.

  Simultaneously, Pierson said, “How the hell did you get this?” and Abe said, “Objection. That’s misleading. Ms. Haug knows very well that Virginia law doesn’t differentiate direct and circumstantial evidence.”

  Shannon said, “Your Honor, we can fight about legal technicalities when we’re hashing out jury instructions. Right now, I’m questioning the lead investigator about his investigation methods. This document is not confidential, and it’s his own words, not mine.”

  “Overruled,” the judge said.

  Abe opened his mouth in disbelief. He shook his head as he took his seat.

  “Detective, I’ll ask again,” Shannon said, her voice back to her serious tone now, the saccharine layer stripped away like a banana peel. “This is your chart, the one you use to instruct other investigators, including those on this case?”

  Detective Pierson glared at Shannon before muttering, “Yes.”

  “So this chart tells us that in your experience, direct evidence is better and more reliable than circumstantial evidence. Correct?”

  Pierson looked at Abe, who frowned and raised his eyebrows as if to say, I know, but what the hell can I do about this crazy judge? “Yes,” Pierson said.

  “What’s the difference between those types of evidence? You use the runner example in your seminar, correct?”

  A jumble of surprised awe and annoyance distorted Pierson’s face. For sure, he was working out who’d squealed, imagining what he’d do to the traitor. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and said, “Direct evidence of a person running is someone seeing him actually running. Circumstantial evidence is someone seeing him in a running suit and shoes near a track, his face red and sweaty.”

  “So the circumstantial evidence could be wrong. The sweaty person could’ve been planning to run later, and could’ve simply been in a hot car, for example. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s turn to our case. The all-important direct evidence first, per your expert instruction. The first type of direct evidence you list is ‘eyewitness.’ Did anyone witness Elizabeth setting a fire?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone witness her smoking or lighting a match near the barn?”

  “No.”

  Shannon took a fat marker and crossed out the first bullet-point item under DIRECT EVIDENCE, Eyewitness. “Next, any recordings or pictures of Elizabeth setting the fire?”

  “No.” She crossed out Audio/video recordings of commission of crime and Photos of suspect committing crime.

  “Next, we have ‘Documentation of crime by suspect, witness, or accomplice.’ Anything?”

  “No.” Another slash.

  “So that leaves us with your ‘holy grail’—a confession. Elizabeth has never confessed to setting the fire, correct?”

  His lips clenched into a pink line. “Correct.” Slash.

  “So there’s no direct proof that Elizabeth committed a crime here, none of what you regard as the, quote, ‘better, reliable’ type of evidence against her, correct?”

  Pierson took in a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring like a horse. “Yes, but—”

  “Thank you, Detective. No direct evidence at all.” Shannon slashed a thick line through the words DIRECT EVIDENCE on the chart.

  Shannon stepped back and smiled. It was an unbridled smile, the triumph of winning reflected in every facet of her face—eyes, cheeks, lips, jaws, even her ears upturned. It was funny how invested she was even though the trial’s outcome wouldn’t affect her life, not really. Win or lose, she’d still have the same billable earnings, same house, same family, whereas for Elizabeth, the trial’s outcome meant the difference between suburbia and death row. So why was she feeling none of Shannon’s excitement?

  Shannon continued. “So we’re left with circumstantial evidence, which, in your own words, is quote, ‘not as reliable.’ The first of these is the ‘smoking gun,’ or the smoking cigarette, as the case may be here.” Several jurors chuckled. “Did you find Elizabeth’s DNA, fingerprints, or any other forensic evidence on the cigarette or match at the explosion site?”

  “The fire caused too much damage for us to retrieve such identifying information,” Pierson said.

  “That would be a no, Detective?”

  His lips tightened. “Correct.”

  Shannon crossed out Smoking gun under CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. “Next, let’s skip down to ‘Opportunity to commit crime.’ The fire was set outside, behind the barn, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone could’ve walked right up there and set the fire, right? There’s no lock or fence?”

  “Sure, but we’re not talking theoretical opportunity. We’re looking for a realistic opportunity to commit the crime, someone in the vicinity and with no alibi, like the defendant.”

  “Vicinity and no alibi. I see. Well, how about Pak Yoo? He was in the vicinity. In fact, he was much closer than Elizabeth, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, but he has an alibi. He was inside the barn, as verified by his wife, daughter, and patients.”

  “Ah, yes, the alibi. Detective, you are aware that a neighbor has come forward to say that Pak Yoo was outside the barn before the explosion?”

  “I am,” Pierson said, sounding confident, smiling the delicious smile of someone who knows something no one else knows. “And are you aware, Ms. Haug, that Mary Yoo has since clarified that she was outside that night, and that the neighbor, upon hearing this, admitted that the person he saw from a distance could well have been Mary?” Pierson shook his head and chuckled. “Apparently, Mary was wearing a baseball cap with her hair bunched up, so he thought she was a man. An innocent mistake.”

  Shannon said, “Objection. Please order the response stricken—”

  Abe stood. “Ms. Haug opened the door, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled,” the judge said.

  Shannon turned her back to the jury and looked down, as if reading her notes, but Elizabeth could see her eyes scrunched shut, deep frown lines dividing her brows. After a moment, her eyes popped open. “So let’s get this straight.” She turned to Pierson. “The Yoos are all inside, then Young Yoo leaves to get batteries, then Mary Yoo goes outside where her neighbor sees her. Right?”

  Pierson blinked repeatedly, rapidly, like one of those futuristic androids processing information. “That’s my understanding,” he said, his voice tentative.

  “Which means Pak Yoo was alone in the barn before the explosion—in the vicinity and had no alibi, meeting your criteria for ‘opportunity to commit crime,’ isn’t that right?”

  He stopped blinking. He seemed to be holding his breath; there was no movement in his face or body. After a moment, he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up. “Yes.”

  A grin overtook Shannon’s face, and she wrote P. YOO in red letters next to Opportunity to commit crime. “Next, motive. Tell me, Detective: What’s the most typical motive for arson you see?”

  “This isn’t a typical arson case,” he said.

  “Detective, I didn’t ask if this was a typical arson case. Please answer my question: What’s the most typical motive for arson that you’ve seen?”

  He clamped his lips, like a boy refusing to answer his mother, then spat out, “Money. Insurance fraud.”

  “Here, Pak Yoo stood to gain 1.3 million dollars from fire insurance, correct?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe, sounds right. But again, this isn’t a typical case. In most insurance-fraud cases, fires are set when the building is unoccupied, and no one’s injured.”

  “Really? That’s
funny, because I have here your notes from your most recent arson case”—Shannon looked at a document in her hand—“let’s see, in Winchester last November. You wrote, ‘Perpetrator set fire and remained inside, believing insurer might suspect fraud if building empty. Perpetrator believed if he was injured, insurer more likely to believe it was accidental and pay out.’” She handed the document to Pierson. “This is your report, correct?”

  Pierson clamped his jaws and narrowed his eyes, barely looking down at the paper, before saying, “Correct.”

  “So, based on your experience, would you say that a 1.3-million-dollar policy can provide motive for an owner such as Pak Yoo to set fire to his own building, even when the building is occupied?”

  Detective Pierson looked at Pak, looked away, then finally said, “Yes.”

  Shannon wrote P. YOO in big red letters next to Motive to commit crime. She pointed to the next bullet point. “Detective, for ‘Special knowledge and interest,’ you have ‘bomb expertise or research example’ in parentheses. What does that mean?”

  “It’s for specialized crimes. For instance, in a bombing, if the suspect knew how to make that particular type of bomb or researched it, I’d consider that strong evidence. Much like the evidence found on the defendant’s computer here.”

  “Detective, isn’t it true that Pak Yoo had specialized knowledge of HBOT fires? That, in fact, he’d studied previous fires just like the one here?”

  “I don’t know what he knows. You’d have to ask him that.”

  “Actually, I don’t, because your assistants did it for me.” Shannon held up another document. “An office memo to you, recommending that Pak Yoo be cleared of criminal negligence in the fire.” She handed it to him. “Please read the highlighted part.”

  He cleared his throat and read, “‘Pak Yoo was well aware of the risks of fire. He studied previous fires, including the case in which fire started under oxygen tubes outside the chamber.’”

  “So, let me ask again, isn’t it true that Pak Yoo had specialized knowledge and interest in hyperbaric fires similar to what happened here?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Thank you, Detective.” Shannon wrote P. YOO next to Special knowledge and interest and stepped back. “So here we have Pak Yoo, Miracle Submarine’s owner, who had the motive, opportunity, and special knowledge to commit the crime. Let’s talk about the last remaining item on your chart: ownership of the weapon. Now, you’re assuming that the weapon here—the cigarette and matches used to set the fire—belonged to Elizabeth, correct?”

  “I’m not assuming it, Ms. Haug. The facts are, a Camel cigarette and 7-Eleven matches started the fire, and the defendant was a short distance away with Camel cigarettes and 7-Eleven matches.”

  “But she told you they weren’t hers, that she found them in the woods. Someone very well could’ve used them to set the fire, then thrown them away to get rid of the evidence. Did you even investigate the possibility that someone other than Elizabeth bought those items?”

  “Yes, we investigated it. My team went to every 7-Eleven near Miracle Creek and in the defendant’s neighborhood and searched for receipts and the like.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. So you must’ve asked those stores’ clerks if they recognized any of the others, including Pak Yoo, who we know had the motive, opportunity, and specialized knowledge to set this fire.” Shannon pointed to the three bright red P. YOOs.

  Pierson glared at Shannon. He kept his mouth clenched shut.

  “Detective, did you ask a single 7-Eleven clerk if Pak Yoo ever bought Camels?”

  “No.” The word had a touch of defiance in it.

  “Did you check his credit card bills for 7-Eleven charges?”

  “No.”

  “Go through his trash for 7-Eleven receipts?”

  “No.”

  “I see. So the extensive search you did, you did only for my client. Well, let’s hear it. How many 7-Eleven store clerks recognized Elizabeth?”

  “None.”

  “None? Well, how about receipts? You must have gone through her trash, car, purse, pockets, looking for 7-Eleven receipts, correct?”

  “Yes. And no, we didn’t find anything.”

  “Elizabeth’s credit card statements?”

  “No. But the fingerprints conclusively—”

  “Ah, the fingerprints. Let’s talk about them. You don’t believe that Elizabeth found the cigarettes and matches. According to you, they were hers, despite the fact that there’s zero evidence she bought them. And that’s why no other prints were on them—because she’s the only one who touched them, correct?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Detective, this is the part that confuses me. If the cigarettes and matches were hers, she must’ve bought them somewhere. So shouldn’t the store clerk’s fingerprints be on them?”

  “Not if she bought a carton of cigarettes.”

  “A carton, ten packs. Two hundred cigarettes. Did you find an open carton of Camels or any other cigarettes anywhere in her house or trash?”

  “No.”

  “In her purse?”

  “No.”

  “Her car?”

  “No.”

  “Any cigarette butts in her car or in trash bins in her house? Anything indicating that she smoked regularly such that she’d buy a whole carton of cigarettes?”

  Pierson blinked a few times. “No.”

  “And the matches, even when someone buys a whole carton, they still hand you individual matchbooks, right?”

  “Yes, but over time, with a lot of handling, the defendant’s fingerprints would displace the clerk’s, on both the matches and the cigarette pack. So it doesn’t surprise me that the clerk’s prints wouldn’t be on those items.”

  “Detective, on an item used frequently enough to displace older fingerprints, you’d expect to find multiple overlapping fingerprints of the owner, correct?”

  “I suppose.”

  Shannon walked to her table, flipped through a file, and picked out a document, a triumphant smile on her face. She strutted back and handed it to him. “Tell us what this is.”

  “It’s the fingerprint analysis of the items found in the picnic area.”

  “Please read for us the highlighted passages.”

  As he scanned the document, his face started to droop like a wax figurine on a hot day. “Matchbook, exterior: one full and four partial fingerprint marks. Cigarettes, exterior: four full and six partial print marks. Ten-point analysis identification: Elizabeth Ward.”

  “Detective, in your office, is it customary practice to report the presence of overlapping fingerprints if there are, in fact, any?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many overlapping fingerprint marks did your office find on either item?”

  His nostrils flared. He swallowed and stretched his lips as if pretending to smile. “None.”

  “Only five prints on the matches and ten on the cigarettes, all belonging to Elizabeth, no overlapping prints, and not a smudge from anyone else. Pretty clean, wouldn’t you say?”

  He looked to the side. After a moment, he licked his lips and said, “I suppose so.”

  “And since at least one other person, a store clerk, must’ve handled these items, the lack of other prints must mean they’ve been wiped off at some point, isn’t that right?”

  “I suppose, but—”

  “And any number of people, including Pak Yoo, could’ve handled the items prior to them being wiped off, and there’s no way to know, isn’t that right?”

  “No, there’s no way to know,” he said, narrowing his eyes into slits. As Shannon wrote Any number of people (incl. P. YOO) on the chart next to Suspect ownership/possession, he said, “Don’t forget, though, it’s the defendant who wiped them off in the first place.”

  “Why, Detective,” Shannon said, her eyes widening, “I thought you didn’t believe she wiped them. I’m glad you finally changed your mind.” She smiled—no, beamed—at him like a mothe
r proud of her toddler for finally learning to color inside the lines, and stepped back to reveal the finished chart.

  “Thank you for your illuminating testimony, Detective,” Shannon said. “I have nothing further.”

  MATT

  HE DROVE TO THE 7-ELEVEN thinking about fingerprints—the arches, loops, and whorls bifurcated by lines and wrinkles, sweat and oil soaked in the curved grooves leaving near-invisible traces on cups, spoons, flush handles, and steering wheels, smudging and covering up other prints left seconds or days or years before, the prints of each person different, each finger of each person different, the dizzyingly high number—billions? trillions?—of unique fingerprints in existence, each one unchanging even as a person grows from a six-month fetus to a full-sized adult and then shrinks back into old age.

  He’d had ten, like everyone else. The same ten patterns for thirty-three years, from the time he’d been the size of a foot-long sub in his mother’s womb and his finger pads were the size of peas. And now they were all gone. Burned and sliced away. His right index and middle fingers amputated under the OR’s bright lights, then discarded, prints and all, the medical waste incinerator finishing the flesh-to-dust job the fire started. And the pads of his eight remaining fingers melted into ridgeless, glossy pink scars. Almost as if the slick-smooth plastic of Henry’s helmet were still clinging to his fingers, refusing to let go.

  As far as he could remember, he’d never been fingerprinted, unless you counted the kindergarten Thanksgiving project with his handprint decorated like a turkey. Which meant there was no record of his fingerprints. Gone, with no way to know which of the gazillions of latent prints on walls, doorknobs, and X-ray films in the world belonged to him.

  Right after the amputation, when he’d been glum with self-pity, his favorite burn-ward nurse had said, “Look on the bright side. Some people actually want their fingerprints taken off.” “Yeah, mobsters and drug lords,” he said, and she laughed and said, “I’m just saying, you managed to do what some people dream of, and you got insurance to pay for it!” He laughed with her—not out loud, more of a smile, really, but still, the first time he’d done anything but grimace since the amputation—and said, “Yup, now I never have to worry about some cop using my prints to tie me to some murder somewhere.”