Key Witness

by J. F. Freedman

  They were both brought to the infirmary for treatment. Samples of blood were drawn from each man, a precaution to make sure neither man was HIV-positive. The blood samples were labeled and sent to a certified lab for testing.

  Since no one knew (or was willing to come forward to tell) who had instigated the fight, neither man was charged with the assault. It was noted on their records, and could be used against them if the authorities decided they wanted to, although generally, if a prisoner kept his nose clean for the rest of his stay, they let things go. The jail was badly overcrowded, and keeping a man in for fighting was a waste of time, resources, and space.

  Richard’s punishment was confinement to his cellblock; Elvis Burnside was kept in the infirmary overnight for observation, although he insisted he was fine.

  DORIS BLAKE HADN’T SHOWN up for work again and she hadn’t called in, either. Calls to her condominium were taken by her answering machine.

  The marshal went back three days in a row. The same response—nothing. Newspapers were piled up in front of the door, and her mail slot was overflowing. There was no record of her traveling on any scheduled airline, train, or bus.

  They finally located her Toyota Camry late Saturday afternoon. It was parked in the far corner of the lot, away from her assigned space. It had a thin coating of dust on it, as if it had been parked there for some time.

  Complying with a court order, the manager of the complex unlocked her door with his master key. The marshal and two members of the sheriff’s IAD team, wearing latex gloves to prevent contamination, opened the door and went inside.

  The apartment had been closed up tight, and the air-conditioning was off. It was like being in an oven; close to 130 degrees, and the stench was overpowering. All three men involuntarily gagged, their hands going to their mouths and noses. They staggered outside. Then they called for backup.

  Doris Blake’s huge body—naked, immensely bloated, the top two-thirds paler than marble, the bottom portion purple-black with settled blood—was sprawled out in her bathtub. The barrel of her .357 automatic was still stuck into the corner of her mouth, the hand that pulled the trigger frozen onto the gun butt. The back of her head and most of her brains were splattered against the back tile wall, over the faucets.

  Her suicide note, found propped up on her bedside table, was a plaintive, pathetic cry for understanding and forgiveness:

  Dwayne Thompson was my lover. Because of my blind love for him, the only man who ever returned my love, I compromised my position as a guardian of the people’s trust. I do not deserve to be a lawyer; nor do I deserve to be a police officer, because I have broken the law. That I did it out of love makes no difference. The one thing I never did, however, was let Dwayne use my computer to get evidence against Marvin White or any other prisoner. Please forgive Dwayne for helping me, and please forgive me. Unless you have never known love, you cannot understand why I acted as I did.

  (Signed) Doris Blake.

  They searched the place high and low, but her computer was not to be found.

  Judge Grant, reached at a restaurant where he was having dinner, immediately ordered the letter to be sealed. It would not be made public or admitted into evidence unless the contents of her computer, when and if it was found, revealed that it had been used to obtain information directly related to the trial.

  Wyatt was at home when he got the call from Josephine informing him of the suicide.

  He was struck dumb. “That’s horrible.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  “That poor, sad woman.” He pressed the cradle of the phone to his forehead. “I’m responsible for this.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered sharply. “She was an adult, she knew what she was getting into when she took up with Thompson.”

  He sighed. “I suppose.”

  “It’s true,” Josephine insisted. “You can’t beat yourself up over something like this. He used her, she let him, and she couldn’t face the consequences.”

  “You’re right. Still, I feel … something.”

  “The computer. We have to find it,” she reminded him. “That’s the important thing.”

  “It wasn’t in her apartment? They tossed it?”

  “Thoroughly—her car, too.”

  “Maybe she threw it away,” he half joked.

  “You think she’d do that?”

  “I was skywriting, but when you think about it, it makes sense, doesn’t it? She knows she’s not going to have any more use for it, and she doesn’t want to leave a piece of incriminating evidence behind.”

  “Which means it could be in any trash can in the city. Good luck finding that.”

  “Or it could be right under our noses.” He was getting excited. “She testified that she hadn’t brought it to work since she’d taken her bar exam. Okay, let’s say she lied and brought it in for Thompson, hacker extraordinaire, to use. He uses it for what he needs—”

  She cut in, finishing his thought: “—accessing the files and using Marlow’s name and ID—”

  “—and she takes it back home!” he finished up. “And it sits there, in her house, until she rushes home from work, barricades the place, and eats her gun.”

  “But gets rid of her computer first,” Josephine thought out loud.

  “Someplace close,” he prompted her. “Very close. She was tipped off the marshal was coming to serve her and she wanted everything done before he got there.”

  She was on his wavelength, as always. “I’ve wondered what it would be like, being one of those bag ladies who live out of trash cans.”

  “Be careful,” he cautioned her.

  “Of what? I’m looking for a ring my feeble old mother threw away by mistake. A family heirloom.” She laughed over the phone. “Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you.”

  THERE WAS A TORRENTIAL downpour all Sunday morning and well into the afternoon, and when evening came and it was over and had moved on, the weather broke. While it was still humid, the temperature was cooler, and the misery index wasn’t nearly as oppressive as it had been. People felt optimistic again.

  The workweek had begun. Monday morning, nine o’clock. What remained of the cast of characters was in place. Wyatt sat at the defense table, Marvin stiff and upright next to him, Jonnie Rae and her brood in the first row behind. Dexter was still in the hospital and Louis and Richard were in jail. Across the aisle, Abramowitz and her team sat smugly in their places, waiting to see if Wyatt had one last gasp, one final, implausible straw to grasp at before he went down. Judge Grant was moments away from making his entrance.

  The heavy rain had kept Josephine from going through the trash cans and Dumpsters in Blake’s condo complex. Since she had to be in the courtroom to help Wyatt, Angelo had been enlisted to do the dirty work.

  Wyatt leaned over to Josephine. “Any news yet from Angelo?”

  She shook her head, pointed to the beeper on her belt. “He’ll call me if he finds anything.”

  Grant entered the courtroom, strode purposefully to the dais, and took his seat. “Bring the jury in, please,” he instructed the bailiff.

  The jurors filed in. Their expressions were blank—they didn’t know anything about Blake’s suicide or the missing computer.

  “Call your witness,” Grant instructed Wyatt.

  Wyatt nodded to the clerk, who read aloud from her witness sheet. “Call Dr. Gloria Lynch.”

  Abramowitz stood up. “This witness was not identified to us as part of discovery, Your Honor.”

  Before Grant could say anything, Wyatt gave his reason. “We weren’t planning on using this witness, Your Honor,” he said. “But new evidence has just come to us that compels her testifying. I think that when you hear what she has to say you’ll agree with me.”

  Grant nodded. “I think we should be generous in interpreting the rules at this point, given everything that has transpired recently,” he said. “The witness may take the stand.”

  An attractive, professiona
l-looking middle-aged woman walked from the back of the room and took the witness stand. As she was sworn in and took her seat Wyatt crossed to the lectern and smiled at her. “Good morning, Dr. Lynch. Thank you for flying in on short notice.”

  She smiled but offered no reply.

  “You are a medical doctor, Dr. Lynch?” Wyatt led off.

  “Yes, I am.” She was the kind of witness who would give short, concise responses to everything except her specialty.

  “You are a forensic pathologist?”

  “Yes.”

  He recited her credentials into the record: Bryn Mawr College, magna cum laude; Johns Hopkins Medical School; internship at George Washington University Hospital, residency in pathology at Brigham & Women’s in Boston. Currently holding the Gladys Schwartz Chair of forensic pathology at Cornell University Hospital. “Impressive resumé,” he commented.

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you been favorably cited many times for your work in the field of forensic pathology?” Wyatt asked.

  “Yes,” Dr. Lynch answered.

  “In your extensive work as a pathologist, Dr. Lynch, have you been involved in genetic testing, such as RFLP and PCR?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  Abramowitz leaped up like a cat on a hot tin roof. “Objection!” she screeched. “Genetic testing has not been introduced in this case. Any reference to RFLP or PCR or any genetic testing should not be permitted here. We’ve already covered that ground thoroughly, with Dr. Ayala.”

  Grant looked over at Wyatt. “Where is this coming from?” he asked.

  “With all due respect to Dr. Ayala, Your Honor, our county coroner may be a forensic pathologist, but not one with expertise in DNA testing.” He walked closer to the bench, so that he was standing right in front of Grant. “Genetic testing has been and is being used all over the country, Your Honor, but I’m not planning to try and prove that because my client’s DNA doesn’t match that of the victim’s—all or any of them—that he’s innocent, although that proof has been used and accepted in several cases across the country. I have several precedents, if you would care to review them.”

  Josephine got up and went to the defense table, where several lawbooks and journals, bookmarked with slips of paper, were piled.

  Before she could bring them forward, Grant waved them off. “I know most of these cases,” he told Wyatt. “I reviewed them prior to the beginning of this trial, in case either you or the prosecution would decide to use genetic testing as an evidentiary tool.” He placed his hands together in front of him, as if in prayer. “This is a controversial subject; and while I don’t accept the use of it without reservation, it has entered the vocabulary.”

  He sat back, having made up his mind. “I am going to allow this line of questioning,” he announced, “on a conditional basis. If or when it seems to be going in a direction that I feel is irrelevant or not within the jurisdiction of this case, I will stop it.” He looked down from the bench. “The objection is overruled. You may continue, Counselor,” he told Wyatt.

  Wyatt exhaled a deep breath. His entire, case, what was left of it, had hinged on this ruling. If Grant had sustained Abramowitz’s objection, it would have been over. Now he still had life.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” he said from the heart. Turning back to his witness, he said, “Would you briefly explain to the court and the jury what PCR testing is?”

  Dr. Lynch nodded. She turned in her chair and faced the jury.

  “Every human being inherits DNA patterns from each of their parents,” she explained. “They combine to form your own individual genetic ‘footprint.’ In the same way that no two human beings’ fingerprints are identical, each person’s DNA makeup is separate and unique. Everyone’s DNA—yours and mine, everyone’s in the universe—is made up of the same basic amino acids: what determines particular traits or controls various bodily functions, for example, is the order and type of the particular acids in the strands of DNA.”

  She leaned slightly forward in the chair, drawing closer to the jury box. “All humans have the same number of acid molecules in their DNA strands, but they vary greatly in composition. Each acid component of DNA has a separate and unique weight—which means genes of the same length from two different individuals will have different weights because they contain different numbers of each acid molecule. Even if only a few acids out of hundreds are different, modern technology can tell the samples apart.”

  Wyatt was watching the jury as Dr. Lynch recited her explanation. They seemed interested; but whether they were getting it, understanding the concept, he couldn’t tell. Juries generally didn’t like technical stuff. They preferred visual, visceral information. But the framework had to be properly laid in.

  “This is where PCR—polymerase chain reaction—comes in,” Lynch continued. “PCR allows us, in the laboratory, to identify the particular acids in a sample of DNA and then replicate those particular acids in the same proportions. Hundreds, even thousands of times. Once we have the DNA components in sufficient quantities, we can run tests, to separate each sample by its own unique weight.”

  She paused once again to make sure the jury was with her. They seemed to be.

  “PCR test data are comparative,” she explained. “We can tell if a particular sample matches another particular sample. Which means that if given a sample from a crime scene, for instance, and if given a second sample from a suspect in that case, we can tell if the two samples came from the same person.” She sat back. “Basically, that’s it.”

  Wyatt stepped forward again. “Thank you, Doctor. Would you bring in the projector, please?” he asked the deputy in charge.

  An overhead projector and screen were wheeled into the room. The projector was set up by the lectern, where Wyatt could operate it. The screen, as it had been for earlier testimony, was placed near the stand in a way that allowed Dr. Lynch, Judge Grant, and the members of the jury to see it easily. On the cart on which the projector rested was a pile of transparencies in plastic casings. There was also a pointer, which Wyatt picked up and walked over to his witness.

  The lights were dimmed. Wyatt maneuvered the top set of transparencies into place on the surface of the projector.

  “What we’re going to do is very straightforward. We’re going to present some basic PCR test samples, and examine them using the criterion Dr. Lynch told us, which is standard in the medical and legal field.”

  Two side-by-side slides of plastic strips with a line of eight small circles were projected onto the screen. “These are two examples of basic PCR markers?” Wyatt asked his expert witness.

  “Yes,” Dr. Lynch answered. “The circles inside the plastic strips are called ‘window wells.’ ” She stood up and pointed to the slide nearest her, then to the corresponding slide next to it. On each slide one identical well was stained blue; all the others were clear. She moved the pointer between the two colored dots. “You can see how these two patterns are similar,” she pointed out. “That indicates that the DNA on those two wells corresponds.”

  “So these two samples most likely came from the same person?”

  “Yes.”

  “What could the odds be that two samples looked this identical but didn’t come from the same person?” he asked.

  “One in five to six hundred, roughly,” she answered. “Statistically, those are extremely high percentages.”

  “Did you extract these samples yourself?” he asked her.

  “Yes. These are samples of your blood which I personally took on Saturday.”

  “Thank you.” He put up the next set of transparencies. “Are these samples similar?” he asked.

  Having already been briefed, she only had to look at them for a moment. “Yes, they are.”

  Wyatt picked up an identifying slip from his table. “And again,” he said, “these are samples taken from one specimen.” He passed the slip on to the jury. “Would you explain where these samples came from?” he asked.

  “These a
re sperm samples taken from victim number four. The first victim from whom sperm samples were taken and preserved.”

  Abramowitz looked like she was going to object, but after a quick glance at Judge Grant—who was obviously interested in the information Wyatt was presenting—she held her tongue.

  Wyatt left that set of transparencies up and inserted another set alongside them.

  “Sperm taken from victim number six,” he ID’d them. “Do you see anything interesting, Dr. Lynch?” he asked her.

  “The DNA types are the same,” she answered. “Identical to the previous ones,” she added.

  “Does that mean both these women had sex, voluntarily or otherwise, with the same man? The semen source tested the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though it was”—he looked at some notes—“seven and a half months apart?”

  “It could have been ten years apart. This sperm almost certainly came from the same man.”

  As he was about to put up another transparency he saw Josephine frantically waving him over. “Excuse me for a moment,” he told the court.

  He walked to her and listened while she whispered in his ear. Then he smiled—a big, broad grin—and nodded. Josephine got up and left the courtroom. Wyatt walked back to the lectern.

  “We need to have a private conference along with prosecution counsel in your chambers, Your Honor.”

  “This is insane,” Abramowitz objected. “How much more of these hollow theatrics do we have to put up with?”

  Wyatt smiled at her. “Not much more.” He looked at Grant. “We found Lieutenant Blake’s missing computer, Your Honor.” He walked to the door that led from Grant’s office to the hallway and opened it. Angelo stood on the other side, the computer cradled in his arms. “Come on in,” Wyatt said.