The Jodi Picoult Collection
Page 126
“How did it end?”
She’d been sworn in and had known it would come to this moment—the point where her words might as well have been arrows, aimed right at Jack’s heart. “I told him I wanted him to leave.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
And if she hadn’t forced him out, he wouldn’t have been in the woods that night. He wouldn’t have been anywhere near Gillian Duncan. It was what she’d wondered a thousand times . . . how could the blame have come to rest heavily on Jack, when she herself was so clearly at fault?
“What time was it when Mr. St. Bride left?”
“About nine forty-five.”
“When did you next see the defendant?”
“About one-thirty in the morning,” Addie whispered. “At the diner.”
“Can you describe his physical appearance?”
Every word ripped into her. “His cuts, they were bleeding again. He had a scratch on his cheek, and dirt on his clothes, and he reeked of liquor.”
“What did he say to you?”
Addie took a deep breath. “That it had been a tough night.”
“Ms. Peabody,” Matt asked, “was Mr. St. Bride with you between the hours of nine forty-five P.M. and one-thirty A.M.?”
She exhaled heavily but didn’t reply.
“Ms. Peabody?”
The judge leaned toward her. “You’re going to have to give a response.”
She wanted to answer, but she wanted the answer to be the right one. She wanted to look the prosecutor in the eye and tell him that he had collared the wrong man, that the Jack she knew was not the person who had committed this horrible crime.
She wanted to save him, like he had saved her.
Lifting her face, Addie said, “Yes, he was.”
The county attorney turned, shock written all over his face. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yes,” Addie repeated, her voice stronger. “He was with me that whole night.”
Houlihan narrowed his gaze. “You’re aware you’re under oath, Ms. Peabody. Perjury is a criminal act.”
Her eyes were shining, damp. “He was with me.”
“Really,” the prosecutor said. “Where?”
Addie’s hands stole over her heart, as if that might be enough to keep it from breaking. “Right here.”
“When the police came to arrest Jack, what were you thinking?”
At Jordan’s question, Addie looked up. “I really didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t my finest hour.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was in shock. There had been rumors around town . . .”
“Rumors?”
“That Jack had done time in jail.”
“Did he ever tell you that he’d been convicted for sexual assault?”
“He told me that a girl had wrongly accused him of carrying on an intimate relationship. One of his students. And that he plea-bargained the case on the advice of his lawyer, because it was the way to serve the least time and put the whole thing behind him.”
Jordan frowned. “But he specifically said he wasn’t guilty?”
“Over and over,” Addie answered.
“And you believed him?”
“One hundred percent,” she vowed. “But so many people in town were . . . well, they were like vultures, waiting to strike. And I guess I got so used to hearing people expect the worst of Jack that when the police came, at first, I . . . I did too.” She frowned. “It wasn’t until I sat down later and really thought, This is Jack they took. Jack. Then I knew that he couldn’t ever have done what they said.”
“Ms. Peabody, you saw Jack being beaten up by five men that night?”
“Yes.”
“Was he fighting back?”
She shook her head. “He passed out.”
“Did you call the police?” Jordan asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Addie looked at Matt Houlihan, then at the judge. She leaned toward the bench and whispered something to Althea Justice, who nodded.
“I didn’t call the police,” Addie said, “because I thought they might have been involved.”
When court adjourned for the day, Jordan handed his briefcase over the railing of the gallery to Selena. “Try to get some rest,” he told Jack. A deputy cuffed him and led him silently through the tunnels that wound beneath the courthouse parking lot to the jail. Once they’d been buzzed inside, a guard took over Jack’s transformation back to prisoner, leading him into the room near the jail entrance to strip. “We’ll take these right down to the dry cleaner and have ’em pressed,” the CO joked, folding Jack’s trousers over his arm. Because Jack had left the premises, the guard waited until he was naked and then checked Jack’s mouth, nostrils, ears, and anus for contraband.
This Jack St. Bride was a different man than the one who had come through the door two months ago in protective custody. His face was a blank wash of expression, like every other prisoner rotting in his cell. He shrugged out of his civilian clothes like a snake giving up its skin, as if he knew that it wouldn’t fit him in this next stage of his life. Through the violation of the cavity search, Jack closed his eyes and did what he was told.
It didn’t matter anymore, none of it. He’d seen the faces of the men and women on that jury—the way they’d cried along with Gillian Duncan, the slanted looks they knifed at him that they thought he surely could not feel. He’d watched his own attorney leave the courtroom, headed home to his own life—one that didn’t factor in the innocence or guilt of Jack St. Bride and that wouldn’t change, no matter what verdict was handed down.
Jack fell into step beside the guard and walked, docile as a fawn, toward his cell. Get used to this, he thought.
He might not yet have been sentenced, but it was only a matter of time.
“Oh my God,” Gillian said, sitting up on her bed the minute Meg opened the door of the bedroom. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.” The door cracked open a little wider, and Gillian saw her father standing behind her Meg. “Daddy,” she said, startled.
His eyes were dark, hooded. “I didn’t know if you were up to a visit.”
“I am,” Gillian said quickly. “Really.” She grabbed Meg’s hand and yanked her inside, then waited for her father to close the door and leave them in privacy.
It was, Meg thought, as if their fight about the drugs in the thermos had never happened. Gillian fluttered around her like a gypsy moth, buzzing about the trial and the witnesses and who had said what. “You have no idea how much I want to talk to Whit and Chelsea,” she chattered. “But I’m sequestered, in case I need to be recalled by one of the lawyers later. Still, I heard that Whit was peeing in her pants. And that Thomas’s father was a total prick to Chelsea.”
“That’s his job,” Meg said, her mouth dry.
Gillian stepped in front of her. “What’s been said about me?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, right. You haven’t been on the stand yet. Do you think you’ll be called tomorrow? It’s not so bad, really. One of the jurors has the most disgusting mole on the side of her neck. I swear I couldn’t stop looking at it the whole time—”
“I’m not testifying,” Meg mumbled.
“You’re not?”
She shook her head. “Mr. Houlihan, he changed his mind.”
Dumbfounded, Gilly stared at Meg. “If this is something you’re pulling because of that atropine . . .”
“Jesus, Gilly . . . does everything have to be about you?” Meg turned away, mortified. “He touched me,” she confessed. “He put his hands all over me, Gilly. I remembered.”
Beside her, Gillian stood like a stone sentry. “He did not.” She raked angry eyes over Meg’s disheveled form, her double chin, her dimpled arms. Her nostrils flared, once.
“Then why do I remember it?” Meg cried. “Why can I feel his hands on my—”
“No!” Gillian slapped her so hard Meg’s head snapped back and the red-pencil pri
nt of a hand stamped her cheek. Tears ran down Meg’s face, and her nose was running, and she couldn’t manage to hold onto a single thought. “He did not touch you,” Gillian said. “Do you understand?”
Meg nodded quickly.
“He touched me.” Gillian grabbed Meg’s arm and squeezed it. “Say it!”
“He touched you,” Meg sobbed.
“Good,” Gillian said, the fierce fire in her eyes banking. She reached for Meg, cradling her friend against her chest, wrapping her tight in her arms. She stroked Meg’s cheek until the red print faded, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to her damp skin. “That’s right,” Gillian whispered. “Don’t forget.”
The jury was sluggish the next morning, something not helped by the first witness—a retired FBI soil analyst older than Methuselah who used far too many chemical terms to explain that the dirt found in the treads of Jack’s boot was consistent with the known soil sample taken from the crime scene. By the time the prosecutor put his forensic scientist on the stand to explain DNA, Jordan almost felt sorry for him. Would the judge declare a mistrial if the entire jury went into a coma?
But Jordan had been counting on a typical DNA scientist—a brainy geek with a receding hairline and a technical vocabulary. What he got instead was Frankie Martine.
She easily could have moonlighted as a Playboy model, with her bee-stung lips and long blond hair and hourglass figure. Jordan glanced at the jury and wasn’t surprised to find them all sitting up, listening. Hell, she could have recited a grocery list, and the six men in that box would have given her their undivided attention.
“You get half of your DNA from your mother, and half from your father,” Frankie said. “You know how people say, ‘Oh, I’ve got my mom’s nose . . . or my dad’s chin.’ In the same manner, we inherit thousands of genetic traits that mean nothing to anyone but us geeky forensic scientists.” She smiled at the jury. “You with me?”
They all nodded. And the jury foreman, a bald man with a protruding belly, winked.
Surely he’d imagined that. Jordan did a double take as Frankie Martine continued, unfazed. “For example, the average Joe doesn’t know that he’s CSF1P0 type twelve, thirteen . . . yet that’s something that could come in handy if he’s ever accused of a crime and the perp leaves behind DNA evidence of being CSF1P0 type ten, eleven.”
Jordan glanced at the jury box and nearly fell off his seat as the jury foreman winked again at the witness.
“Objection,” he said, standing up.
Matt Houlihan looked at him as if he were crazy, with good reason. Nothing Frankie Martine had said was objectionable.
“On what grounds, Mr. McAfee?”
He felt heat creeping up from his collar. “Distraction, Your Honor.”
The judge frowned. “Get up here, counsel.” Jordan and Matt approached the bench, hesitating at the scowl on the justice’s face. “You want to tell me what you’re up to now?”
“Your Honor, I believe that the witness is distracting certain members of the jury,” Jordan said in a rush.
“Which members?”
The ones with Y chromosomes, Jordan thought. “The foreman, in particular. I think Ms. Martine’s physical attributes have, um, caught his eye.”
Matt Houlihan started to laugh. “You have got to be kidding. The witness is a professional forensic scientist.”
“She’s also quite . . . attractive.”
“What do you want me to do? Have her testify with a paper bag over her head?”
“The foreman keeps winking at her,” Jordan said. “I have reason to believe that he’s not concentrating on the task at hand.”
“Why does this happen in my court?” The judge sighed. “I will not stand for you talking about the witness this way, Mr. McAfee. Even if you can’t get your own mind out of the gutter, I have faith that the members of our jury can. Your objection is overruled.”
Jordan slunk back to his seat. The prosecutor approached his witness, shook his head, and continued. “Ms. Martine, why is DNA used to profile evidence?”
“Let me put it in simple terms,” she said. “You’re driving to work and you’re side-swiped by another vehicle. When you call to make a police report, they ask you to describe the car. The more information you give them, the more likely they’ll be able to track down the exact car. So, if you tell the police only that the car was blue, well, it’s not very helpful to their search, since there are blue trucks, blue cars, blue vans, of all makes and models. However, if you tell them that it was a blue Acura 1991 hatchback, with a sunroof and a SAY NO TO DRUGS bumper sticker, the easier it will be for them not only to find a car matching that description but also to determine that it was indeed the car that side-swiped you. The more characteristics you give, the smaller the pool of suspect cars becomes.
“Similarly, the more genetic characteristics I can give you about the evidence results in the more people I can eliminate. Therefore, when you do find a person who matches the profile, the less likely it is that someone else exists with the exact same criteria.”
“How complex is the analysis?”
“Very,” Frankie said. “By its nature, it has to be extremely sensitive.”
“What precautions do you take to avoid contamination during your analysis of the evidence?” Matt asked.
“I work on only one piece of evidence at a time, label it immediately, and close it before I begin work on the next piece. I always work on the evidence before working on the known blood samples, and clean my scissors, forceps, and work surface between samples. I change my lab coats and gloves frequently and use as many disposable supplies as necessary, so there is no carryover or contamination of DNA. Finally, I have designated samples during my analysis that contain no intentionally added DNA. If at any point in the procedure I detect DNA in these samples, I assume all the samples are contaminated, and I start over.”
The prosecutor turned around and slipped on a pair of plastic gloves. Then he held up a girl’s blouse, spotted with blood. “Ms. Martine,” he said, “do you recognize this?”
“Yes. It’s the blouse I was asked to test.”
Matt entered the clothing into evidence, and then asked Frankie to identify each swab and envelope and vial that had come from the rape kit. “After testing all these items, what were your results?”
Frankie slipped a chart onto an overhead projector. This was the point at which a forensic scientist usually lost her audience. Unfortunately, Jordan thought, grimacing, that probably wasn’t going to be the case here. The jury could see her legs, which—Jordan couldn’t help but notice—were damn nice.
Appropriately, Frankie did a striptease of the chart, revealing each line only as she spoke about it. “Line one hundred,” Frankie explained, “is everything I can tell you about the victim’s known blood sample. And each of those eight weird combinations of letters and numbers to the right is an area on the DNA chain. Think of it like that side-swiping car . . . the first column is the make of the car. The second column is the model. The third is the color . . . all the way up to the eighth column, the bumper sticker. At each location, the victim received one allele from her mother, and one from her father. For example, at the CSF1P0 location, Ms. Duncan inherited a type twelve from each of her parents.
Item
CSF
1P0
TPOX
TH01
VWA
D16
S539
D7
S820
D13
S317
D5
S818
100
12, 12
8,11
6, 7
17, 17
12, 24
9, 12
9, 13
12, 12
200
12, 12
11,11
6, 7
15, 15
13, 13
8, 8
11, 11
10, 12
Shirt
12, 12
11,11
6, 7
15, 15
13, 13
8, 8
11, 11
10, 12
Nails
12, 12
11, (8)
6, 7
17, (15)
12, 14, (13)
9, 12, (8)
9, 13, (11)
12, (10)
Thigh
N/A
8, (11)
6, (7)
17, (15)
N/A
12, (8), (9)
13, (9),(11)
12, (10)
“Line two hundred is the defendant’s known blood sample. Each pair of numbers at those eight loci are alleles he inherited from his mother and father.” She pointed to the row beneath that. “On the shirt Mr. Houlihan held up, I extracted DNA from the bloodstains. You’ll see that at each location, the profile of the stains matches the profile of Mr. St. Bride.”
“How many other people might have a profile that matches the evidence?”
“It’s not possible to DNA-type everyone in the world, so I apply a mathematical formula that helps me predict the answer to that question. According to my calculations, that profile is found only once in greater than six billion, which is the approximate population of the world.”
“Can you explain the next row to us?” Matt asked.
“I know that the DNA profile detected under Ms. Duncan’s fingernails is consistent with a mixture, because at certain locations, there are three numbers—and a person inherits only two alleles. This isn’t surprising. Ms. Duncan can’t be eliminated as a possible cocontributor to the genetic material in this mixture, since I expect cells from her own hands were present. Of particular interest is whose DNA is mixed with hers. And based on the numbers in the profile of Mr. St. Bride—row two hundred—he cannot be eliminated as a cocontributor.”
“What would have eliminated him, Ms. Martine?”
“If a number came up at a location that was nowhere in his own genetic profile.”
“But that isn’t the case in this particular mixture?”
“No,” Frankie said. “It’s two hundred forty million times more likely that the defendant is the cocontributor to that sample than a randomly chosen individual in the population.”