Beverly smiled wickedly. She wouldn’t even if she could. If he played his cards right, there might even be dessert afterwards.
In fact, she was certain of it.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The following morning, criminalist Harold Bledsoe took the stand. He was in his late forties, wore gold-rimmed glasses, and had a dark blonde toupee.
“Dr. Bledsoe,” Beverly began deliberately, “you did a DNA analysis on semen and genital hairs extracted from Maxine Crawford. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And these were found where?”
“In and around Mrs. Crawford’s vagina and anus,” he said tightly.
Beverly moved closer. “I understand that your tests revealed that the semen and hairs found belonged to two different individuals, one being the victim’s husband, Sheldon Crawford. Correct?”
Bledsoe nodded. “Yes.”
“Which could be expected, given that it has already been established that the Crawfords were engaged in the sex act when the crime occurred.” Beverly faced the jury, looking self-assured in a cream blazer and pants. “Can you tell us who the other semen and genital hair samples belonged to?”
She looked back at the criminalist in time to see him respond evenly, “They matched the DNA of the defendant, Rafael Santiago.”
Beverly nodded, satisfied that she had given herself the set up for the next set of questions.
“Were there also strands of human hair found on the Crawfords’ bedspread that did not belong to either Judge Crawford or Maxine Crawford?”
“Objection Your Honor,” Ortega shouted. “She’s leading the witness.”
Grant dismissed this without even giving the attorney the benefit of a glance. “I don’t get that impression, Counselor. Overruled. The witness may answer the question.”
Bledsoe eyed Beverly. “Yes, there were a few hairs found on the spread that did not match those belonging to Sheldon or Maxine Crawford.”
“And who did they come from?” she asked pointedly.
Bledsoe regarded the defense table. “They matched the DNA of the defendant.”
Beverly paused purposefully. “Dr. Bledsoe, perhaps you could explain to the jury what it means to have a DNA match, whether semen, hair, or blood.”
“No problem.” He touched his glasses. “Without getting too technical, DNA profiling allows us to differentiate one person from the next by analyzing small segments of DNA called polymorphisms that make us who we are as individuals. In DNA criminal profiling, samples of one’s DNA can be obtained from blood, semen, hair follicles, saliva, or urine. With the exception of identical twins, the likelihood of two individuals having the same DNA is by some estimates one in 100 billion.”
Beverly let that sink in with the jury for a moment. “So what you’re telling us, Doctor, is that there is no doubt in your mind whatsoever that the DNA testing of the semen and hair samples collected in relation to this crime belonged to the defendant, Rafael Santiago?”
“That is correct,” Bledsoe answered without prelude. “And for the record, the Polymerase Chain Reaction—or PCR testing method—used to analyze the DNA fragments in this case is widely respected as a reliable forensic tool in DNA fingerprinting.”
Beverly couldn’t resist a tiny smile that he got that in as a further blow to the defense in attacking the DNA evidence presented. In her mind, even the possibility that Rafael Santiago had an identical twin in say, Manuel Gonzalez, wouldn’t hold up in this case, DNA aside. Especially when considering that Santiago had motive and the witness identified his signature lizard tattoo in a rather conspicuous place.
“No further questions,” she told the judge and walked away as the defense attorney rose for cross-examination.
Ortega wasted little time getting to his feet. He glanced once at his client and glared at Beverly as she walked away, before taking looping strides toward the witness box.
“Dr. Bledsoe, you testified that the odds that two people could have the same DNA were one in 100 billion, with the exception of identical twins.”
“That’s right.” The witness eyed him carefully.
“So you’re telling us that if two people are identical twins, their DNA would be identical as well?”
Bledsoe pushed his glasses up, hesitating.
Beverly sucked in a breath, having anticipated such a line of questioning.
“Do I need to repeat the question, Doctor?” Ortega pressed.
“No,” he responded tersely. “Yes, identical twins do have the same DNA or genotype, in fundamental nature. However, recent studies have been able to identify minute differences in identical twins’ DNA—”
Ortega cut him off. “I’m not aware of any such research being admitted as evidence in a criminal proceeding. If I’m wrong...”
Bledsoe averted his stare. “As I said, the research in this area is fairly new.”
“And therefore not relevant to this case,” argued the attorney. “What is relevant is that the possibility exists that there may be an identical twin of Mr. Santiago with the same DNA in this city who could have committed this crime. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
Bledsoe sighed. “Well, yes, I suppose so, in theory, but there are other means to differentiate identical twins such as fingerprints—”
Ortega interjected brusquely, “But from what I understand there were no fingerprints found at the scene of the crime that matched my client’s. Therefore, much of the case rests with DNA evidence that could very well belong to another individual!”
“That’s highly unlikely,” Bledsoe protested. “The chances that Mr. Santiago has an identical twin in Eagles Landing that no one knows about is—”
“Is possible,” Ortega blasted, not allowing him to finish. With a steady gaze at the jury, he told them, “They say we all have an identical twin somewhere in this world, whether we’re aware of the person or not. Who’s to say that Rafael Santiago’s identical twin brother isn’t somewhere in this city hoping to get away with rape and murder while his innocent brother takes the rap?”
Beverly had heard enough, objecting with a hard edge to her voice while rising. “Your Honor, this is ridiculous! The witness has already testified that the odds of two people having the same DNA number in the billions. That should speak for itself in spite of Mr. Ortega’s pathetic attempt to have us believe the unlikelihood that his client has an evil twin walking around Eagles Landing with identical genetic codes. Besides, I’m prepared to introduce evidence that will further show that Rafael Santiago did in fact commit these heinous crimes for which he is charged.”
She gave Ortega the benefit of her frosty green eyes while fearing that he might have scored some points with the jury in spite of the weakness of his argument.
Grant narrowed his gaze sharply at the defense attorney. “I’m warning you, Counselor—you’re skating on thin ice here. Unless you have something more than sci fi speculation, I suggest you move on.”
Ortega cracked a wry smile and did just that, clearly pleased with his performance.
* * *
Beverly next called to the stand Raymond Kaiser, an expert on firearms and ballistics. He was in his late thirties, with wavy black hair and misty gray eyes.
“You examined the bullets that were removed from Judge Crawford’s body, as well as shell casings found in the room. Is that correct?”
Kaiser blinked. “Yes, I did.”
“Can you tell us what kind of gun was used in the attack?”
“It was a .25 caliber automatic handgun.”
“What were the results of your analysis of the bullets and shell casings?” she asked.
Kaiser cleared his throat. “The bullets taken from the judge were fired from a gun barrel that had five lands and grooves with a left-hand twist.” He used his hand to illustrate. “The ejection and firing pin marks found on the shell casings near the bed were identical and indicative of coming from the same weapon.”
Beverly met his gaze. “You also e
xamined shells found in the apartment where the defendant was living when the crime occurred?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “These were also .25 caliber shells.”
“So they could have come from the same batch as the ones used to kill Judge Crawford?”
“Yes, I’d say that’s very possible.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kaiser.” She smiled at him for what Beverly believed was an effective testimony.
Ortega looked at Beverly with contempt as they crossed paths. He walked up to the witness box. “Mr. Kaiser, were there any fingerprints found on the bullets or shell casings that you analyzed from the crime scene evidence?”
“No, there weren’t.”
“Did you find Mr. Santiago’s prints on the shells you took from his mother’s apartment?”
Kaiser sighed. “No.”
Ortega leaned forward. “Well, were you able to make a positive match between those shells and the bullets and shell casings taken from Sheldon Crawford’s body and his bedroom?”
Kaiser dropped his shoulders. “Actually, no. But—”
“No buts, sir!” Ortega interjected triumphantly, then faced Judge Nunez. “I have no further questions for this witness—”
* * *
“Detective O’Dell, what happened after you saw the body of Judge Crawford on the night of October twenty-ninth?” asked Beverly.
O’Dell brushed his nose with the back of his hand. “I tried to see if there was any sign of a pulse,” he said. “When there wasn’t, the medical examiner’s office was notified and the crime scene secured.”
Beverly took a couple of well-practiced steps toward the jury box, and back again. “When was Maxine Crawford first able to identify the defendant as the man who shot the judge?”
“Two days later at her home. It was from a photo lineup.”
“Can you explain this photo lineup to the jury?”
“Sure.” He faced them. “They are front and side color mug shots of people who have been arrested.”
“Was there any reason for showing these mug shots in particular?”
“They were of people who either fit the profile for the types of crimes committed that night,” explained O’Dell, “or men who had been sent to prison by Judge Crawford and released.”
“Did you coerce Mrs. Crawford into picking out the photo that she did?” Beverly had to ask.
“Absolutely not!” O’Dell shook his head adamantly as though he needed to.
“Was there anything about the photograph lineup that may have unfairly made the defendant stand out?”
“Nothing unfair about seeing and identifying a rapist-killer among other lowlifes,” O’Dell stated brashly. “Rafael Santiago murdered the judge and defiled his wife—”
Not surprisingly, Ortega objected vehemently. “Highly prejudicial,” he barked. “It has yet to be proven that my client did anything, Your Honor—!”
Grant had no choice but to sustain and have the comment stricken from the record.
“Did Maxine Crawford have another opportunity to identify the defendant?” Beverly glanced at Santiago. He looked back at her with a nasty glower.
“Yeah,” said O’Dell. “She picked him out of a lineup.”
Beverly felt that had been another important step towards building a case against the defendant whose appearance—similar as it may be to another murder suspect—would betray him at the end of the day.
Her eyes met O’Dell’s. “Thank you, Detective.”
Beverly shared an icy glare with Ortega as they passed each other, coming and going.
“Isn’t it unusual to bring photo lineups to a witness’s house, Detective?” Ortega asked O’Dell casually.
“Not really,” he hissed. “Depends on the situation.”
“You mean like if the murder victim happens to be a judge’s wife?”
Grant jumped in. “I want that stricken from the record,” he ordered. “We both know, Ortega, that such a remark is highly prejudicial and uncalled for. Photo lineups are commonly used under a variety of circumstances. And may I remind you that Mrs. Crawford was a victim here, too.”
Ortega offered a lame apology.
O’Dell sneered. “And she had to live through what your client did to her. In my book, that’s much worse!”
Grant admonished O’Dell and moved things along.
“How many other Latino men were in the photo lineup, Detective?” Ortega asked.
“I couldn’t tell you,” O’Dell said. “We don’t distinguish photo lineups by ethnicity.”
“But didn’t Maxine Crawford claim that the man who broke into the house and committed these other crimes was Hispanic?”
O’Dell twisted his body unwaveringly. “Yes. But we still decided to show her all the photos that were available and fit the criteria already established.”
“Or, in other words,” Ortega challenged, “just in case the perpetrator was not Hispanic after all. Isn’t that right, Detective?”
“No!” bellowed O’Dell. “Just standard procedure.”
Ortega seized the momentum. “And I suppose it was also standard procedure that there were only two Hispanic men in the human lineup—and one was ten years older than my client?”
O’Dell took offense to this. Baring his teeth, he growled, “The lineup was fair and the men in it similar in their characteristics. The witness and victim positively identified your client. Nothing you twist around can change that!”
The detective was excused, having stood up fairly well to cross-examination, in spite of the defense lawyer’s attempts to the contrary.
Court was recessed for the day.
* * *
“What are you doing?” Beverly gingerly opened the door. Jaime had been holed up in his room ever since he’d gotten home from school.
“Just playing around on the computer,” he told her without looking up.
She stepped inside his kingdom that was usually off limits to her. It had all the things you might expect in a twelve-year-old boy’s room, much of which was haphazard. The walls were decorated with posters of athletes and rap and hip-hop artists.
On Jaime’s desk was the personal computer Beverly had bought him last summer for his birthday. He seemed to spend a great deal of his free time on it—maybe too much time for her comfort.
Looking at the screen over his shoulder, Beverly could see that Jaime was on Facebook having an instant messenger chat with someone named Junior Byrd.
“Who’s that?” she asked suspiciously.
“Just a guy I met online,” Jaime said casually.
Junior Byrd was asking Jaime about some mystical land called Myztantropolis. Beverly was well aware of pedophiles trying to seduce young boys and lure them away from home. Could he be a sexual predator? Though she had used the parental controls to block unsuitable sites and educated Jaime on the dangers of cyberspace and child molesters, Beverly was still concerned about some slick, charming man pretending to be someone he wasn’t, manipulating her son into doing something wrong or going somewhere that put Jaime in harm’s way.
“How old is Junior?” Beverly asked, concerned, as she did not see a photograph of him.
“Thirteen.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s easy.” Jaime clicked on his Friends list and pulled up the page on Junior Byrd. “Here he is. Satisfied?”
Beverly gazed at the picture of an African-American boy with short dark hair and bold brown eyes, who looked as if he could easily pass for eleven or twelve.
“He’s a friend of Paco’s, too,” Jaime said, and clicked on his page.
Beverly blushed, feeling a little foolish, but unapologetic for being overly cautious where it concerned her son.
If Stone Palmer’s son is part of this circle of Facebook online pals, it must be safe. Surely the detective would not allow Paco to get in over his head on the Internet.
“You want to go out for a bite to eat?” Beverly asked as her eyes began to grow strained from star
ing at the computer screen too long.
Jaime, who seemed to have no problem sitting practically on top of the computer, shrugged. “Why not? As long as I get to pick the place this time.”
“You’re on,” she said, wondering where he wanted to go.
They ended up at McDonald’s.
A chill enveloped Beverly as she remembered first seeing Manuel Gonzalez at Burger King. She thought further of how he had followed them home, broke in and stole from them, as well as sized her up as a kidnapping victim and sexual slave.
She still could not get over Gonzalez’s likeness to Rafael Santiago. How on earth could there be two such evil, unrepentant, and unrelated people who looked like they could be twins?
Oh well, stranger things have happened. At least both Santiago and Gonzalez are in custody where they can’t harm anyone in the outside world.
“I’ve been thinking about it...” Jaime said mysteriously, between bites of a Big Mac.
“Thinking about what?” Beverly was almost afraid to ask.
“Grant’s not so bad after all.”
“Oh no?” She smiled at Jaime, happy to hear him say that. More than he knew. “You mean you’re only now realizing that?”
He giggled. “Nah. But it’s taken me this long to make up my mind about him. Just don’t want you to end up hurt by Grant and left all alone—again.”
Neither do I. There was no reason to believe either would be the case. On the contrary, things seemed to be going very well between her and Grant, ever since they had admitted they loved each other and gotten over a few bumps in the road.
Knock on wood.
Only time would tell if what they had would result in true lifelong bliss and contentment. Or be another bitter disappointment that could be the hardest yet to stomach.
Beverly took Jaime’s Orlando Magic cap off his head and playfully put it on hers before wrapping her arms around his neck from behind. “How did I ever get to be so lucky to have such a terrific son?”
“Probably because you’re such a terrific Mom.”
“Yeah, probably.” She chuckled, again counting her blessings.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller Page 26
