Salem Falls

by Jodie Picoult

  “Other than that?”

  “Well . . . it’s why I have ten toes,” Matt answered.

  “And, no doubt, that razor-sharp mind,” Frankie said dryly. “Did you even pass biology in high school?”

  “I was a wordsmith, not a scientist.”

  “Okay. Basic genetics: everything about you came from your mom and your dad. She gives you one allele, he gives you another . . . and that’s why you wind up with blue eyes or good teeth or dangling earlobes.”

  “Or excessive charm,” Matt added.

  “Well, sometimes you get the short end of the straw,” Frankie sympathized. “Anyway, all those traits are on the DNA molecule, which is microscopically over six feet long. But for forensic purposes, you don’t care if someone has dangling earlobes. So I test eight areas that the general public has no idea about-like TPOX or CSF1P0. Every person is going to have a ‘type’ at those areas-two alleles . . . one from Mom and one from Dad.”

  Matt nodded, and glanced at Frankie’s results.

  “The one hundred line is the sample of blood that came from the victim. The two hundred line is the sample that came from the suspect. These are the standards . . . the known samples that we use to compare everything else we get. The numbers in each of those boxes are alleles, found at different places on the DNA molecule. The DNA we extracted from the blood on the shirt, as you can see, is an identical match to the suspect’s standard.”

  “So far,” Matt said, “I’m a happy camper.”

  “Good. Because the fingernail residue is a slightly different story. The victim’s own skin cells are naturally there, as well as some skin cells that are not hers.”

  “Like a mixture?” Matt asked.

  “Exactly. You’ll see numbers that correspond to the victim and the other party.”

  “Is that what the parentheses are for?”

  “Yup. Different intensities, based on the combination of alleles from each person. Say, for example, that the suspect and the victim both have an eleven at the TPOX location . . . but only the victim has an eight. In a combination of their DNA, I’d expect to find a thicker band at the eleven than I would at the 8. The parentheses suggest just that.”

  The waitress sailed over and slapped two chocolate milk shakes down on the table. “Thanks,” Frankie and Matt said simultaneously.

  They left the glasses sweating rings, their attention absorbed by Frankie’s chart. “For the semen, unfortunately, the results were inconclusive.”

  Matt’s face fell. “Why?”

  “There’s no result in the CSF system and the D16 system. That’s because sometimes, when there’s not much DNA, we can’t get readings at those loci.”

  Staring at the numbers, Matt frowned. “Can you tell me anything about it?”

  “Yes. Since we’re talking about semen, I know it’s going to be a mixture of the victim’s inner thigh skin and some male’s sperm.”

  “Like the fingernail residue?”

  Frankie nodded. “Compare those two lines.”

  Matt studied the chart for a moment, then shrugged. “The numbers are all the same . . . they’re just mixed up in a few spots. That means you can’t eliminate the suspect, doesn’t it?”

  “Technically, that’s right,” Frankie admitted. “But there’s something there making me a little hesitant to finger him, too.”

  Matt tossed the papers down and leaned back in his chair. “Talk.”

  “Think of all the people in the world, and all the different alleles they’ve inherited. I’ve never seen a mixture of two unrelated individuals where I didn’t have four distinct numbers at some location. You’d think, just by probability statistics, that there’d be some place where the suspect would be-let’s say-a twelve, thirteen and the victim would be an eleven, fourteen . . . but not according to this.” She pointed to the thigh analysis. “Look at the overlap. In fact, at only a handful of locations is there any number foreign to the victim’s own DNA.”

  “Are you telling me there’s a lab error?”

  “Thanks so much for the vote of confidence.”

  “Maybe you didn’t have enough DNA. Isn’t it possible that if the sample was better, you might have gotten four alleles?”

  “It’s remotely possible,” Frankie conceded. “But that’s not all that’s bugging me. Look at the TH01 system, for example. The victim and a suspect are both six, seven there, so a mixture of their DNA should always be six, seven there.”

  “It is.”

  “Not in the semen sample. There’s a lighter seven, along with the six. That doesn’t make sense.” She shook her head. “I’m not trying to ruin your case. But while I can’t eliminate your suspect . . . he’s not the most perfect fit, either.”

  Matt was silent for a moment, tracing his finger through the wet stain the milk shake had left on the table. “C’mon, Frank. You could combine the DNA of every guy in Salem Falls with my victim’s and still not come up with a precise textbook mixture.”

  Frankie considered this. “Maybe they’re related.”

  “Suspect and victim? Not a chance.”

  “Well, then, the suspect you gave me to test . . . and another guy who actually did contribute to the sperm sample. Relatives have DNA profiles that overlap . . . which can sometimes account for bizarre results.”

  Matt exhaled slowly. “You’re telling me my victim scratched the hell out of the suspect, who bled all over her shirt . . . and then brought his brother in to rape her?”

  Frankie raised an eyebrow. “It’s a possibility.”

  “It would be if the suspect had a brother!”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger.” Frankie gathered up her reports. “A private lab could test more systems to see if there’s an elimination further down.”

  “And if we don’t have the funding for that?”

  “I’d go check your suspect’s family tree.”

  Matt drained his milk shake and took out his wallet. “Is it his blood?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And is there a good chance that he got scratched by the victim?”

  Frankie nodded.

  “And you can’t say that sperm sample isn’t his.”

  “No.”

  Matt tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

  The girls arrived, flushed and sweaty in their silky shorts and bouncing ponytails, like a flock of sparrows that had swept into the locker room through an open door. Chattering in twos and threes, they made their way toward the showers, ignoring the woman who stood in the entry staring at last year’s varsity photo.

  Jack was pictured with his team, his hair as bright as the gold that glinted off the trophy one of the girls held. His head was turned in profile, admiring these young women.

  “Are you lost?”

  The voice jolted Addie out of her reverie. “Sorry,” a teenage girl said, smiling. “I didn’t mean to scare you to death.”

  “No . . . no, that’s all right.”

  “Are you somebody’s mother?” the girl asked.

  Addie was stunned by the personal question, until she realized that she was taking it the wrong way. This girl was not talking about Chloe at all; in fact, Addie was only being mistaken, once again, for someone she was not. Why wouldn’t a student invite her mother to join her after practice, maybe for a cup of tea?

  “I’m a prospective mother,” Addie said.

  The girl grinned, a dimple showing in her cheek. It was so guileless that Addie felt her stomach cramp; she was wishing that hard that this child might have been hers. “Oh. One of those,” the student teased.

  “What does that mean?”

  “That your daughter plays all-state and that you want to talk to the coach.”

  Addie laughed. “Where is he, then?”

  The girl’s eyes darted to the photo. “She should be here any minute now.”

  “She?”

  “We got a new coach this year. After our old one . . . had to leave.”
>
  Addie cleared her throat. “Oh?”

  The girl nodded and touched her hand to the glass. “It was some big horrible scandal, or it was supposed to be, anyway. But if you ask me, it was like Romeo and Juliet, a little. You know, falling in love with the person you’re not supposed to.” She frowned slightly. “Except they didn’t die at the end.”

  “Romeo and Juliet?”

  “No . . . Coach and Catherine.”

  “Ladies! Why don’t I hear water running?” A strident voice boomed through the locker room as the new coach clapped her hands and scattered her team toward the showers.

  “That’s her,” the girl said. “In case you didn’t figure it out.” With a tiny wave, she jogged toward the bathroom section of the locker room.

  The coach approached with a smile. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I was just looking around. If that’s all right.” Addie pointed toward the gleaming trophy. “That’s quite a Cracker Jack prize.”

  “Yeah, they worked hard for it. Good group of kids.”

  Addie leaned closer to the photo. But instead of looking at the girls, she scanned the calligraphy of the caption. L to R: Suzanne Wellander, Margery Cabot, Coach St. Bride, Catherine Marsh.

  The girl next to Jack, holding the trophy. The girl who, Addie now realized, he was staring at.

  “This is a copy of your statement,” Matt said, handing it across his desk to Gillian. “I want you to take it home and read it, so that you remember everything you said.”

  Beside her, Amos glanced at the thin leaflet. “I damn well hope you’ve got more for your case than just that.”

  “We do,” Matt answered smoothly. “But your daughter’s allegations are the foundation of our case.” He opened up another folder and gave Duncan a copy of Frankie’s forensic report. “These results all corroborate what Gillian said. His blood on her shirt, the skin beneath the fingernails, the semen.”

  “Semen?” Gilly whispered.

  “Yes.” Matt grinned. “I was delighted to hear that, too. I had my doubts, since you said he used a condom. Apparently, a swab of seminal fluid was taken from your thigh for DNA analysis. And that will go some distance toward establishing the burden of proof.”

  “From your thigh,” Amos repeated, and squeezed his daughter’s hand.

  The county attorney completely understood their astonishment. He’d told the Duncans, going into the process, that a rape conviction could be a long shot-and this dramatically altered the odds. Matt smiled broadly at Gillian and her father. “Sometimes,” he said, “we just get lucky.”

  Thomas tossed the Airborne Express envelope onto his father’s lap. “For you.”

  Jordan put down the joystick he was using to cream his son at Nintendo and slit open the package. “Must be the DNA,” he said, and quickly skimmed the brief note Matt Houlihan had written as a cover sheet-not saying much of anything, really, which was exactly what Jordan would have done if faced with the sort of results the forensic scientist must have turned up . . . namely, that Jack was nowhere near Gillian Duncan that night.

  He leafed through the first page, then the second, and with a curse slapped the entire package down on the floor before getting to his feet. “I’ve got to go out,” he muttered.

  On the screen, Thomas killed off one of his father’s players. “But you’re winning.”

  “No,” Jordan said. “I’m not.”

  Clients lie. It was the first thing you learned as a defense attorney, a rule Jordan had cut his teeth on. After all, a guy who shoots his mother in cold blood or robs a convenience store is going to be not a paragon of honor but rather someone who will do or say just about anything to save his own ass. Jordan was not surprised to find out Jack had been bullshitting him for weeks now. What did stun him was the fact that he’d been so gullible.

  His mood was markedly different from the last time he’d been sitting in this conference room, filled with the righteous belief that he was saving a truly maligned soul from the channels of the court system. Jack noticed the change, too, the moment he came in. The smile fell off his face and fluttered to the floor like the old skin of a snake.

  “You know,” Jordan began pleasantly, “it doesn’t particularly surprise me to find out that you lied.”

  “But you . . . you said the other day-”

  “In fact, I couldn’t care less. What does upset me is that you have completely fucked yourself over by telling Saxton you weren’t anywhere near Gillian Duncan that night.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Jordan slammed his palms on the table. “Then what the hell is that soil doing in your boots, Jack? What the hell is your blood doing on her shirt, your skin under her nails? And your goddamned semen on her thigh? You want to explain that to me? Or perhaps you’d like to wait and explain it to the jury when you get up on the stand and Houlihan impeaches you with an inconsistent statement.”

  Jack sank down into a chair, silent.

  “First thing the prosecutor is going to do is ruin your credibility by dragging that up. If I were sitting on that jury and heard that a guy lied to the police . . . a guy whose DNA was found all over the place, I’d vote in an instant to hang you. Why lie . . . unless you had something to hide?”

  Frustrated, Jordan tossed the forensic lab report toward his client and let Jack skim the results. “So,” he said briskly. “I assume we’re going with consent.”

  “What?” Jack’s head swung up, slow as a bull’s.

  “You were obviously in the woods that night with the girl.”

  “I was,” Jack said evenly, “but we didn’t have sex.”

  “Could we just stop with the Boy Scout act, Jack? Because frankly, I’m losing my patience.” Jordan frowned. “Or are you going to pull a Clinton and come up with a creative definition of intercourse?”

  “I didn’t have intercourse with her, Jordan, not any kind. I was drunk, and I saw them all in the woods. And . . . she was naked. She came on to me.” Jack looked up, miserable. “Can you see why I didn’t want to tell this to you? Or to Saxton? Who’d believe me?”

  “Seems to me it didn’t make much of a difference,” Jordan muttered.

  “All I wanted to do was get away, and she kept trying to get me to stay.”

  “How? What did she do? Say?” Jordan demanded.

  “I can’t remember! Jesus, Jordan, I try. I try so hard I think my head is going to explode. So I was there-so what? It doesn’t mean I had sex with her. I pushed her away from me, and then I ran.”

  Jordan folded his hands on the table. “And somehow, in that charming exchange, you lost several drops of seminal fluid?”

  “I never got undressed. I don’t know whose semen they found, but it isn’t mine.”

  “Do you have any idea how unlikely that will seem to a jury? Especially once they hear the DNA scientist say it’s your blood and your skin in that rape kit?”

  “I don’t care,” Jack said. “It happens to be the truth.”

  “Ah, right. The truth.” Jordan grabbed the papers, stuffed them into his folder, and stood up. “For how long this time, Jack?” he said, and he strode from the conference room without glancing back.

  The Honorable Althea Justice liked rare things. One-of-a-kind snuffboxes from Europe, Chinese silk, ink made from horse chestnuts. She lived in a glass home far more suited to the beach in L.A. than the woods of New England, drove a restored 1973 Pacer, and owned a puppy that had come thousands of miles from Belarus and was rumored to be one of thirty in existence in the world. She liked to stand out in a crowd, which was a good thing. As the only black female superior court judge, she really didn’t go unnoticed.

  The law had been a self-fulfilling prophecy for a little girl named Justice, and although no one in her family had been to college, the pattern of her life was as true to Althea as the lines that crossed the palm of her hand. It would have been remarkable for her to ascend to the bench as either a woman or a person of color-but the fact that she was both made her
New Hampshire’s answer to equal opportunity, and a bonafide wonder.

  She was six-two in her stocking feet, which was the way she usually trekked through Carroll County Superior Court. Under all those black robes, who cared whether she was wearing shoes, and if anyone did, no one had the balls to bring it up to her. Attorneys who entered her courtroom did so knowing that they weren’t going to be able to put one by her. A woman didn’t get to where Althea had by falling for snow jobs.

  Her new secretary was a young man who actually believed that kissing her ass was going to get him something . . . she didn’t quite know what. A good position in the county attorney’s office? A break, when it came his turn to try a case in front of her? He had a habit of running off at the mouth and citing little-known rulings that came from Bumfuck, Iowa, and other distant locales, as if Althea’s life on the bench could only be better served by knowing such minutiae. The only task she’d assigned him so far was to walk her monster of a puppy on days when she was stuck in trial for hours, something for which he didn’t really need a JD, but that he seemed to take as a windfall all the same.

  It had been a rotten morning-her Belarussian ridgeback had peed in front of the kitchen sink, she’d been awake for over an hour and still hadn’t had anything caffeinated to speak of, and to top it all off, she had gotten her period, which meant that smack in the middle of her schedule today she was going to be good for nothing but a hot water bottle and an OD of Midol.

  “In ten seconds or less, Mark, and by all means time yourself: What have you got for me?” Althea asked, folding her bare feet beneath her.

  “Black,” her assistant said, handing her coffee. “Just the way you like it.” Then he blushed the a shade of pomegranate. “I didn’t mean that to be a racial comment.”

  Althea regarded him over the lip of the mug. “It wasn’t until you just said so.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mark colored again. These white boys, with their face a whole palette.

  Althea decided to take him off the hook. That way, she could always bait him again. “Tell me what we have today.”

  “Motions hearing in State of New Hampshire v. Jack St. Bride.”

  She took the proffered file. “The rape case?”