My mind flashes to Michael Corleone, speaking to Pentan-geli after gunmen shot up his house. “In my bedroom, where my wife sleeps! Where my children come to play with their toys!”
I decide not to mention the
“No, I didn't,” she says before she explodes. “I'm not a policeman, Andy. I don't want this to happen in my house!”
“Of course you don't, Nicole, and neither do I. But …”
She's now more under control, but with an intensity in her voice that I don't think I have ever heard. It strikes me that I've never seen Nicole afraid. She did not grow up in a world where she ever had reason to be afraid.
“I do not want the awful people that you deal with in my life. Not the murderers, not the prostitutes, nor the other animals. I don't want it and I don't deserve it.”
“We don't know who did this. Or why.”
She shakes her head; as if I'm not getting it. “That doesn't matter. What matters is that it does not happen again.”
I start looking around, but I can't imagine that I'm going to find a clue. Tara sniffs around with me, though if she were going to be active in the case I would have preferred that she had barked during the break-in. My mind starts trying to put it all together: the debacle in the courthouse, the picture, the twenty-two million dollars, the attack on Willie Miller, the trial … somewhere in there is the answer, but I'll be damned if I know where.
I'm now talking out loud, but to myself. “It's all blending together.”
“What?”
I tell Nicole, “All the various elements, the photograph … the trial. It's like they're pieces of the same puzzle. But it doesn't make sense. How the hell could a picture my father took thirty-five years ago have anything to do with Willie Miller?”
“Whatever it is, it's not worth it. These people are dangerous. Andy, we don't need this.”
She's right, of course, but after all these years living with me, does she really think I can just drop it? Could she not know me at all?
“It might be a good idea for you to get away for a while.”
“Where to?”
“I don't know … one of your father's homes. Cannes, Gstaad, Aspen … pick a home, any home.”
“Why? Because you're afraid for me? Because you're not going to stop what you're doing? Because you're going to be a martyr? Because you're a bullheaded son of a bitch?”
“E. All of the above.”
She makes her decision. “No, Andy, I'm not leaving. I'm not the one who caused this problem, and I'm not the one who has to fix it.”
I HATE DNAMORE THAN I HATE OPERA. I HATE IT more than I hate lizards. I hate DNA more than I hate meaningless touchdowns by the underdog that cover the spread when I'm betting the favorite. I recognize that it is the greatest invention since fingerprints, and that it is an incredibly valuable tool to help justice to be served, but none of that carries any weight with me. I hate DNA because it's boring, because I will never understand it, and because it almost always works against me.
My meeting this afternoon is with Dr. Gerald Lampley, a part-time professor of chemistry at William Paterson College. Dr. Lampley used to be a full-time professor, a career which lasted until the justice system discovered DNA.
Once the people in criminal justice start using something, they need experts to explain that something to them. They pay those experts very well, hence Dr. Lampley's sudden loss of his burning desire to teach chemistry to college kids. And it's certainly not just DNA. There are people out there making a fortune because they understand and can explain to a jury how and why blood spatters. It's a crazy world we live in.
Experts generally testify for the same side each time, and Dr. Lampley is known as a defense witness. In other words, he tends to testify that DNA, his area of expertise, is unreliable. He doesn't take the position that the science is bogus, of course, since if he ever convinced the justice system of that he'd be back teaching chemistry full-time. So Dr. Lampley confines himself to testifying that the DNA is unreliable in the specific case at trial.
Dr. Lampley has had time to read the prosecution's brief on their intentions regarding DNA in the Willie Miller case. They are planning to use a new type of test, in addition to the PCR and RFLP tests they have been using. I ask Dr. Lampley in what way this new test is supposed to be better.
“The government claims that it is considerably more accurate.” He says “the government” as if he is talking about the Fynchmen.
I ask him to explain, and he tells me that if this new test turns up Willie Miller as a match, it would be a one in six billion chance that it is wrong. The old tests are down around one in three billion.
It would be amusing if it weren't so depressing. “One in three billion isn't enough for them?”
“The goal of science and scientists is to strive for absolute certainty.”
The basic issue here is whether or not we want to ask Hatchet for a Kelly-Frye hearing. Such a hearing would determine whether this new test is reliable enough to present to a jury. The earlier type of tests do not require such a hearing, since they've had Kelly-Fryes in the past, so Hatchet has his ass covered when he admits those tests as evidence.
A Kelly-Frye hearing takes the form of seven to ten days of excruciatingly boring and detailed testimony by scientists. They might as well be speaking Swahili, since the people listening are lawyers and a judge, none of whom have the slightest idea what the scientists are talking about. But the lawyers lawyer, and the judge judges, and the prosecution wins.
Five minutes into our conversation I make my decision about the Kelly-Frye: I'm not going to request it. We would lose anyway and it would be a total waste of time, but that's not why I'm not seeking it. If we ultimately lose the trial, and Willie is sentenced to death, I want to give his future lawyer an appeal based on the fact that his idiot lawyer Andy Carpenter never even asked for a Kelly-Frye hearing.
I'm more interested in talking to Dr. Lampley about the evidence collection in this case. It is in this area that DNA can often be attacked, and a case like this provides more opportunity than most. The evidence was collected at a time when DNA was in its relative infancy, and less sophisticated collection techniques were used. If we can show that this collection was faulty, then the results are useless to the prosecution.
Dr. Lampley agrees to study the case and the police work involved. This is not a particularly generous offer, since he's charging us three hundred an hour, but I agree. I don't tell him yet that I'm not going for the Kelly-Frye, since I'm pretty sure that would dampen his enthusiasm. With preparation and presentation, the Kelly-Frye would be worth twenty grand to him. It beats the hell out of grading final exams.
With the boring torture of talking about DNA at least temporarily out of the way, it's time to focus on Willie Miller's story, assuming Willie Miller has a story. I take Kevin and Laurie out to the prison with me, so that they can hear it firsthand.
Willie is already back in the main section, with only a small bandage to show for his fun in the rec room. His eyes almost pop out of his head when he sees Laurie. After I introduce everyone, Willie makes a finger-wagging motion back and forth between Laurie and me and says to me with a lascivious grin, “Uuuhhh … you and her?” When he does this, I become an instant proponent of the death penalty.
“Don't start, Willie. We're here to talk about you.”
Still eyeing Laurie, he says, “Man, your life is a hell of a lot more interesting than mine.”
I finally get him back on track, and we discuss the night of the murder. He thinks he remembers showing up for work that night, but everything after that is an alcohol-induced blank.
“Do you remember when you started to drink?” Laurie asks.
“You mean that night?”
She nods, and he says, “Nope. I wouldn't have, that's what's so weird. But I guess I did, huh?”
“According to the blood tests,” I say. “Have you ever had problems with alcohol?”
“Nope.”
“How long had you been working at that bar?”
“About six months.”
“Any problems before that night? Any incidents? Were you ever reprimanded for anything?”
