David Kessler - No Way Out

“Well let’s try it another way then. Instead of a percentage , let’s look at it as a number. How many African-American males in the United States would you expect to match this profile?”

Alvarez looked uncomfortable and appeared to be thinking about how to phrase his answer.

“About 37,000.”

The spectators gasped. The jury, to their credit, held their breath silently, although some did lean forward keenly. Alex knew that he had them.

“Let me let me be clear that I’ve understood this correctly. You are telling this jury that from a scientific point of view anyone of those 37,000 African-Americans could have been the source of the DNA was found in these nail clippings? ”

Alex had phrased the question cleverly. Of course, Alvarez could say that the real question should be what was the likelihood that a man who was identified by the victim, who had a prior record of interracial rape — a rape committed by someone driving a car that matched his car that he claimed had been stolen two days before the rape but hadn’t bothered to report — was innocent. But it was not for him to say that. That was an argument for the prosecutor to make out in her closing. He was here not to present arguments but to answer questions. And he could only answer within the scope of his field. And his field was DNA science.

Alex had asked from a scientific point of view and it was from a scientific point of view that Alvarez had to answer. He could try to embellish it or emphasize that his portion of the evidence was indeed only one small portion of the evidence. But the more he quibbled, the weaker and less significant and convincing his evidence would sound.

And because he was an expert, he knew that his duty was to answer truthfully without taking sides.

“Yes,” said Alvarez finally, swallowing awkwardly.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Martine squealed as Alex practically crushed the life out her.

“I was so worried about you.”

“I’m okay,” she said looking at him with amusement, tinged with guilt.

He well knew why. He was making a fool of himself in front of other people. But he had lost a woman he loved in the past and that too had been in a surprise attack, without warning. And at the back of his mind was the thought that the same had so nearly happened in this case too. He didn’t know how to handle this kind of trauma other than with an over-the-top show of affection.

She had told him that the man tried to rape her. But he might well have gone on to kill her to silence her. Alex had always wondered which was worse, for a loved one to go suddenly without warning and the chance to say goodbye, or for that same loved one to waste away slowly from some chronic or terminal disease, the life slowly sucked out of them by the invisible enemy.

For the victim, the quick death was probably the lesser of two evils. Who wants to suffer in agony for weeks or months without hope or dignity. But for the loves ones who are left behind, that lost chance to say goodbye, hovers over them like a cloud for all eternity, casting a pall over any new relationship however warm and loving.

And the prospect of the same thing happening again, was all the more dreadful.

That was why being here, holding Martine in his arms right now was more important than defending a thousand Elias Claymores, however innocent they might be and however worthy their cause.

“Alex…”

“Yes.”

“My… ribs.”

He released her apologetically.

They looked at each other in silence. Martine was the first to speak.

“Look… I just want to say I’m sorry about… that day in the restaurant… after the snooker tournament.”

“What do you mean.”

“I laid into you over you trying to be my knight in shining armor.” He was about to speak, but she held up her hand. “No let me say it. I mean I still think it’s a bit old-fashioned, you know. I mean… like… we’re not living in the age of Errol Flynn — and not John Wayne either. But that's your nature. You’re always going to want to be the Great Protector, because that’s what you are. Even your work is that of the protector — the protector of the innocent and the falsely accused. And I can’t fault you for that. That’s what makes you the man I…”

She trailed off.

“This isn’t going to work,” he said, almost regretfully.

A pained expression appeared in Martine’s eyes.

“Our relationship?”

“Putting it on hold. It’s not gonna work. We can’t fight it.”

She looked at him for a few seconds, fighting back the tears.

“You can’t pull out of Claymore’s defense. He’s counting on you. I’ll ask the network to take me off the case.”

“So we got the call about the 261-A at the parking structure on the Jackson-thirteenth Street intersection,” said the eager young rookie at the other end of the line, “and we race there with the siren clearing the way. But as we get close, we see the road is clear, so we cut the siren and keep cruising. Then the perp just shoots out of the parking structure exit without looking and wham … we T-bone him.”

Detective Bridget Riley had been reluctant to handover the case to one of her counterparts in Alameda County, but there was no way she could have gone up there to be with Bethel. She had too many other duties down here in Ventura, especially after Sarah Jensen had made it clear that she was not needed to testify at the trial, So she was surprised when she got the message from the Oakland police after leaving her desk for ten minutes to get a hot pastrami on rye.

They said it was about the Bethel Newton rape and that it was urgent. Bridget thought at the time that they might need her after all — or maybe that there was some problem with the written reports. Whatever it was, she called back as soon as she got the message.

“How hard d’you hit him?”

“Hard enough to deploy our airbags.”

“What about his?”

“His front airbags opened but it didn’t really save him ‘cause it was a side impact. He wasn’t even wearing a belt.”

“Well he wouldn’t if he was fleeing from an interrupted 261.”

“No and he paid the price for it.”

The patrolman sounded almost happy.

“What happened to him?”

She was half-expecting the patrolman to say he died.

“Broken collar bone, broken leg, concussion and whiplash.”

“You got him in custody?”

“They took him to ER and his leg’s in traction. But we’re got him under arrest and there’s a pair of officers stationed there — one at his bedside and the other in the corridor.”

“I’m crying for him already,” said Bridget, taking a bite out of her sandwich. They’d put too much mustard on it again. Mustard is supposed to bring out the flavor, not drench it. “Have you been able to question him?”

“Not yet. He’s still heavily sedated. But, get this. Who do you think the victim was?”

“Of the 261A?”

“Ah huh.”

“Britney Spears?”

“Nah come on… be serious.”

“I am serious. Who do you think I am, Uri Geller? How the fuck am I supposed to guess!”

“Okay it was Martine Yin.”

“The news reporter?”

“Right.”

“Well that’s very interesting, but you’re surely not suggesting that he picked her ‘cause she was covering the Claymore trial?”

“Not in itself, no. Although that’s a possibility to consider after what else we found out.”

Bridget was getting irritated with this rookie and his puerile games.

“And what did you find out?”