Alan Jacobson - False accusations

“Junior, did I call too late?”

“Johnny. Denise went to bed early. With this pregnancy, she’s been turning in around nine-thirty.”

“I’m just hitting my stride around nine-thirty.”

“I assume you’ve got info on those lot numbers forme.”

“Got something to write on?”

Chandler flicked the lamp on and grabbed a pad and pen from his night table drawer. He jotted down the information, then thanked Johnny. He hung up the phone and lay there, reading his notes.

“Shut the light,” Denise moaned.

“Huh? Yeah, okay, in a minute.”

“Who was on the phone?”

“Johnny. He got me some info on Phil’s case I’d asked him for.”

Denise rolled onto her side facing Chandler. “Phil’s case? I thought that’s done with, at least as far as you’re concerned.”

Chandler grunted.

“What does that mean? Are you done, or aren’t you?”

“It was just a loose end I was following up on.”

“What kind of loose end?”

“It’s late. I’d rather not go into it now.”

“You’re not going back out to California, are you?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just…the beer cans. The lot numbers stamped on the bottom of the cans they found in Phil’s Mercedes don’t match one another.”

“And this means…”

“Nothing. Probably nothing.”

She sighed and turned onto her back. “Then shut the light.”

“Yeah.”

Denise rolled back onto her side facing Chandler, “ Ryan, either tell me what’s bothering you or shut the damn light.”

He sighed, tried to rub the wrinkles from his forehead.

“Something’s on your mind,” she said, stifling a yawn.

He thought of closing his eyes, of trying to go back to sleep. But he was suddenly wide awake. He looked over at Denise, who was staring at him.

“Beer is brewed in fifty-five-thousand-gallon lots; when that lot is canned, the lot number is stamped on the bottom of the can. The lots are then sent to distributors, who deliver them to different retailers. They keep very detailed records, as required by law and as regulated by the state’s Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control. The lot numbers on the bottoms of the cans of the six-pack found in Phil’s car didn’t match. Two cans were from one lot, and the other four were from another. Johnny tracked down the two different lots and found out they were sold at different stores. Are you following me so far?”

Denise shook her head, yawned again. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t we finish this in the morning. You need your sleep-”

“The cans in his car were from different stores,” she said. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What else?”

“The two cans that matched were the ones that had Harding’s saliva on them; that lot was delivered to Food amp; More, where Phil ran into Harding that night. The other four cans were from another lot, which was delivered to a different retailer-Qual-Mart. When Harding’s house was searched, they pulled an unopened can from her refrigerator and an empty can from her recycling bin. Those two cans matched each other-they had the same lot number. They also had the same lot number as the two cans in Phil’s car that had her saliva on them.”

Denise was nodding. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning…probably nothing.”

She looked at him. “Is it nothing, or is it probably nothing?”

Chandler rubbed at his forehead again. “It could be argued that someone went by her house and pulled a couple of cans from her recycling bin. And that person could then have taken the cans and planted them in Phil’s car along with four cans from a six-pack purchased at Qual-Mart a few days later.” He paused, waved a hand at the air. “But it’s more likely that Harding bought two different six-packs at different times, and still had a couple of cans left in her refrigerator from the last time she went shopping. Like the eggs in our fridge. You go to the market, buy a dozen eggs, and there’s still a few left over from the dozen you bought a couple of weeks ago.”

Denise was silent for a moment. “Yeah, but if the egg analogy doesn’t apply here,” she finally said, “then you’re saying that Harding may not have done this. Someone could then argue that she was set up or even that Phil did it.”

Chandler was shaking his head. “I didn’t say that, Denise. I’m convinced Brittany Harding killed those people. Let’s not blow this whole thing out of proportion. You know me, I’m a perfectionist. Everything has to fit just right. She just got beer at two different times. There’s nothing to it.” Chandler rolled over to turn off the light, but Denise grabbed his arm.

“Wait a minute, Ryan.”

“What.”

“Regardless of your opinion, don’t you need to turn this information over to the court?”

“For what?”

“You’re supposed to turn over all pertinent information identified during the course of an investigation if it has any ability to aid either the defendant or the State.”

“Denise, this isn’t anything new, it’s just my interpretation of evidence the police already have locked away in their vault.”

“So?”

“So both sides have had the opportunity to study the cans, test them, and go over them with a fine-tooth comb.”

Denise thought about this for a moment, then shook her head. “I think you’re splitting hairs. But let’s say for a minute that you’re right, and you don’t have a legal obligation. What about a moral obligation? Doesn’t that count for something?”

“I hate it when you get all self-righteous.” He stretched across his pillow toward the lamp switch, flicked it off. “I really don’t feel like getting into a debate about this.”

“I can’t help it. This is what I do all day in school.”

“Well, you’re not in law school right now, I’m not one of your professors, and it’s almost midnight.” He pulled up the covers and let his head fall back onto the pillow. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. You need your rest.”

“Don’t just cut me off like that,” she said, turning the night table light back on. “This issue has nothing to do with being self-righteous, and it has nothing to do with being in law school. Besides, I’m already awake, Ryan. I want to finish this discussion.”

Chandler blew a long sigh through his lips. “Okay, fine. Try looking at it from a different perspective. Assume for a minute that the defense hasn’t thought of this lot number discrepancy. For all I know, they may have. But if they haven’t, by bringing it to their attention, I’d be helping Brittany Harding. A lot of the critical evidence against her could be brought into question. The saliva, lip prints, and DNA could be thrown out because the cans would naturally have her identifying marks all over them if someone took them from her recycling bin. At the very least, it could provide just enough reasonable doubt to get her off. If not in this trial, then on appeal. And regardless of what might come up at some later date, they’d never be able to try her again for that crime. Now why would I want to do that? Would justice really be served? Besides, I’d potentially be helping a murderer go free. That’s not me.”

“But it’s not about you. It’s about justice. It’s not your place to play judge and jury. Do you remember what you used to say? That our judicial system is the best in the world, but that it was full of loopholes?”

“It is. When a judge would let some asshole go free on a technicality, I’d head for the bathroom and puke.”

“You’d be tied up in knots for days. And I took the brunt of it.”

“What’s your point?”

“You had to find a way of dealing with it so it wouldn’t tear you apart. You accepted the fact that you had to take our system as it was, and work within its confines until new rules were made. You realized that taking the law into your own hands wouldn’t work. Otherwise, where would it leave us? Where would it leave society? If cops had the power to decide who’s guilty and who’s not on the spot and issue a sentence right there on the street, there’d be chaos. Until something or someone changes the system, the best way-the only way-is to turn over all the evidence and let the court do with it as it sees fit. As twelve impartial people see fit.”