“Oh, yes, Your Honor.” She held the report and pointed to a pair of peaks. “Look right there. In our business, those graphics really stand out.”
“And what do they tell you?” I asked.
“In the case of Kayesha Avon, we’ve got high-stringency matches to Jamal Griggs at eleven of the thirteen loci on his sample. So I know I’m
Probably Wesley the Weasel.
“Has the partial-match technique been used to solve any crimes, to your knowledge?”
“Familial searches have been used with great success in the United Kingdom and Wales,” Prinzer said, citing the cases of child predator Jeffrey Gafoor, serial murderer Joseph Kappen, and James Lloyd, the notorious shoe fetish rapist of Rotherham. “In this country, in 2005, the process exonerated a North Carolina man who’d been incarcerated for eighteen years and identified the killer who’d left his DNA on cigarette butts at the crime scene.”
“Does the FBI provide information on partial matches, Dr. Prinzer?”
“Not as of this time, Ms. Cooper. My colleagues and I are required to submit a request for the release of the information sought, along with the statistical analysis used to conclude that there may be a potential familial relationship between the suspected perpetrator and the offender.”
“Have you prepared the statistical analysis in the matter of Kayesha Avon?”
“Yes, I have. To begin with, Justice Department figures confirm that fifty-one percent of prison inmates in this country have at least one close relative who has also been incarcerated,” she said. “And in this case, the donor of the crime scene semen shares twenty of the twenty-six alleles with Jamal Griggs.”
“Can you tell us what that means, Dr. Prinzer, with a reasonable degree of scientific certainty?”
“Yes, I can. It means that we’re looking for Jamal’s biological brother. For his full sibling-same mother, same father. I believe that’s whose semen was in Kayesha Avon’s vaginal vault.”
I concluded my questioning and watched as Eli Fine wrangled with Mattie Prinzer. Prosecutors and members of the criminal defense bar took courses in DNA advances every six months to keep current with the technology. The Weasel must have thought his high-priced mouthpiece could bluff his way through opposing the search warrant application, but Fine was in over his head.
Moffett watched Fine struggle for half an hour. Finally the judge stood up and twisted his ring as he began to talk. “Let me help you out here, son.”
“Judge, I’m perfectly capable of-”
“Sit down, Mr. Fine. I’ve got some questions of my own.”
Moffett waited until the young man took his seat next to Griggs. “So, Doc, the FBI releases only perfect matches, am I right?”
“Yes, you are.”
“But in New York -you’re satisfied these partial matches are useful?”
“We’re one of the few states that generates them, along with Virginia and Florida. Many more allow law enforcement agencies from other jurisdictions to go into their databases if probable cause is established. We believe kinship searches have an enormous potential to solve crimes, to increase database hits by more than twenty percent all over the country.”
“Let me ask you this, Doctor. You know how many brothers Jamal Griggs has?”
I tried to keep a poker face. Moffett was a sleeper, sometimes coming alive mid-trial to hit on the one question that either the assistant DA or defense counsel had overlooked. He’d just handed Fine a gift.
Mattie Prinzer turned her head to the judge. “I have absolutely no idea.”
“Step down, Doctor. You know the answer to that, Alexandra?”
“No, sir.”
“This Wesley character, is he the only one?”
“I don’t believe so, Your Honor.”
Moffett snapped his fingers at the court officer nearest the side door of the courtroom. “Get me Chapman.”
In less than a minute, Mike walked back into the room.
“You’re still under oath, Detective. Have you ever met Mama and Papa Griggs, Chapman?”
“Mrs. Griggs is dead, Your Honor. I have spent some time with Jamal’s father, Tyrone.”
“And how many little Griggses did they produce?”
“Six children, sir. They have six grown sons.”
Eli Fine had one of the biggest shit-eating grins I had ever seen spread across his face.
“Where are they, Chapman, the other four?” Moffett was waving his arm in large circles, swinging the sleeve of his robe as he did.
“Tyrone Junior lives right here in Manhattan. The other three don’t check in at home very often.”
“How many of the Griggses’ sons have rap sheets?”
“Two that I know of, sir,” Mike said. “Just Jamal, and then Wesley took a few misdemeanor collars for drugs, before he moved his operation to the coast. None of those were designated for databank entry.”
“Let me make it clear, Your Honor,” I said. “We’d be more than pleased to take a swab from each one of Jamal’s brothers. We happen to know where Wesley is, and we know he has a history of criminal behavior.”
Harlan Moffett snapped his fingers again and pointed at the court reporter. “Take a break, Shirley.”
The portly middle-aged woman clasped her hands over her stomach.
“You believe in this stuff, Chapman?” Moffett asked. “These familial searches?”
Mike smiled at the judge. “I do.”
“You understand what she’s talking about, with these peaks and alleles and locusts?” Moffett said, aiming his pinky ring at Mattie Prinzer.
“
“Hear that, Jamal?” the judge asked before turning to Eli Fine. “And your objection to Ms. Cooper’s request?”
“Ms. Cooper’s plan is a violation of the Fourth Amendment rights of every single citizen whose DNA is in the California database. It’s an impermissible invasion of privacy, an unreasonable search and seizure.”
Someone in Fine’s office had prepped him to regurgitate the key legal buzzwords for his argument.
“Convicted felons give up lots of rights. Who’s your client, here? Jamal Griggs or Wesley?”
“Ms. Cooper’s made her application in the matter of Kayesha Avon. I’m opposing it on behalf of Jamal Griggs, who has been exonerated in this investigation. People who just happen to be related to criminals haven’t given up their own privacy rights. It’s genetic surveillance, Your Honor. It violates the Constitution.”
“So you’re protecting all the nuts and fruits in California, are you? And you, Alexandra?”
“Suppose Detective Chapman and I were working on a vehicular homicide case, a hit-and-run accident with an eyewitness who saw the whole thing. She tells us the make and model of the car and remembers the first three numbers of a six-digit tag. She gives us a partial plate.”
“Yeah?”
“Would you expect Chapman to just shrug his shoulders and back off from the investigation, or would you expect him to go to the DMV and search it for all the plates-every single one in existence-that include the numbers he was given?”
“We’re not talking about license plates, Your Honor,” Fine said. “We’re talking about human DNA. African Americans and Latinos make up a disproportionate amount of the database entries in every state, because of their representation in the criminal justice system. This-this wild-goose chase targets minorities and indigents.”
“You’re not disputing that the science works, then, are you?”
“I’m not conceding a thing. It’s an outrage that Ms. Cooper thinks she can go through every name in the database.”
“There are no names in there, Judge,” I said. “The forensic biologists can’t see any individual’s name in a database-every entry has a numerical designation. If there is in fact a match between the samples, then the techs
