Beyond Justice (17 page)

"In fact, we can’t tell just how competent you are, if we go by the conviction rate can we?"

Kumar’s jaw muscles rippled.  "My work is to identify evidence of identity theft.  It’s your job to draw conclusions."

"Seems to me you've got a bigger career as a professional witness than—"

"Objection," Rachel said, controlling her tone.

Kumar slapped the rail with an open palm.  "I take exception to that, sir!"

"You’re done, thank you," said Walden with his back turned to the witness.  He was already wrapping up his notes, already walking back to the prosecution’s table.

The redirect was nothing more than putting out the fire Walden had lit under Kumar’s chair.  If Walden’s cross had brought Rachel down even a notch, it wasn’t showing.   Kumar was the last of our witnesses, unless of course, I was to take the stand, which by law, I was not required to do.

But doing so would afford me the opportunity to present myself to the jury, my first-hand account of that fateful night, present myself as sympathetic and hopefully make it difficult for them to believe that I was capable of crimes.  But at the same time, I would surely fall prey to a vicious and manipulative cross-examination by a D.A. with a high conviction rate and low ethical standard.

It would all be moot after my DNA test results excluded me, however.  If ever there was a case-buster, DNA was it.  Through these tests, death row convicts are exonerated.  DNA is the linchpin of dramatic acquittals.  This along with the fact that I had no criminal record at all—not even a moving violation—would surely cinch it.

I was confident.

___________________

The jury had been sent to lunch half an hour early because the test results had arrived, hand delivered by a paralegal from the D.A.’s office who had probably been sitting on the report longer than they’d let on.

Back in His Honor’s catacombs, Rachel paced around like a caged panther while Walden stood behind one of Judge Hodges’ dusty wingback chairs, shifting from foot to foot.

Hodges opened the envelope and started thumbing through the pages from the crime lab.  If the perpetual frown etched in face had grown more or less severe, Rachel couldn’t tell.  Leaning against a window sill, she tapped her fingers incessantly until the judge’s eyes emerged from the report.  "Would you mind? I’m trying to read."

"Sorry," Rachel sighed.

"Your honor," Walden said, tugging on his necktie.  "Once again, I would like to ask the court to reconsider my motion to suppress this—"

"Will you give it a rest?" Rachel hissed.

Two minutes later Hodges stood up and held the pages out.  To whom, Rachel wasn’t certain.  But when the judge nodded to her, she knew.  Triumphantly, she stepped over to his desk.

As she read the report, however, her stomach twisted into a fisherman’s bend.  Her hands began to tremble and she dropped the pages on the desk.  Her throat was so dry that barely a pathetic squeak came out when she spoke.  "What...?  How’s this poss—?"

Walden came over, looked over her shoulder and made tsk-ing sounds.  "Counsel, you should have agreed to the motion to suppress."

She was too stunned to make a coherent response.  "But this report—"

"Proves that your client’s semen was found on his daughter’s body," Walden said, exhaling with self-satisfaction.  At that point, Rachel wanted nothing more than to kick Walden’s ass and impale his privates with the point of her heels.  She’d fallen straight into his trap.  Walden had in effect eliminated the possibility of suppressing the evidence, robbing her of a mistrial.  The judge had ruled that the evidence was admissible.  Rachel had all but demanded it.

"Your Honor?" she said, but didn’t know what to ask him.   He wouldn’t make direct eye contact with her.  "Your honor, please.  This is unfair surprise.  I’d like to request a continuance."

"No freakin’ way," Walden said.

"You keep quiet, Tom," Hodges said, jabbing a finger.  "I’ve known you to troll the depths, but this...this is low.  Even for you."

"All perfectly legal," he said, palms open, his face beaming with a toothy grin.

"Ms. Cheng," Hodges said softly.  "While I sympathize with your position, proper investigation on your part may have prevented this."

How?  Rachel didn’t command the resources that the District Attorney’s office did.  She was behind on her office rent and falling behind on her mortgage of which she was already three months behind and in redemption.   Another two months and, according to California’s non-judicial foreclosure laws, her home could simply be put on the market and sold by the bank.

Still shaken, Rachel’s lip quivered.  She fought to keep her eyes from welling up.  "Please, your honor.  I need some time to prepare a response.  Counsel has misled me—"

"You can’t prove that," Walden said.  "And besides, it’s perfectly legitimate for my rebuttal."

"—to believe that the evidence would be exculpatory.  I’m not prepared."

"Regardless, this is direct evidence.  Damning too."  Letting out a slow breath laced with a grumble, His Honor shut his eyes, removed his glasses and rubbed his temples.  "All right.  I’m giving you one day.  That’s all."

"But—"

"Do not test the court’s generosity, Ms. Cheng."

She nodded, gathered her papers and retreated from his chambers.  Then flew down the hallway and holed herself up in a ladies room stall.  She’d been bearing the weight of a tremendous burden for several months with a splintered match stick.

Rachel dropped her briefcase, stood there, one hand pressed against the wall, one over her mouth.  All her work and worries were collapsing around her.  She sobbed for a good fifteen minutes.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Rachel’s eyes were still red when she broke the news.  Mike Tyson might as well have nailed me with an uppercut.  "That’s impossible!" I said, gripping the edge of the worn table in the witness room.  I dropped into a chair.  "There’s no way—"

"Level with me, Sam."  Rachel’s voice trembled.  "They matched your DNA to the semen found on Bethie."

"No way in hell!  It’s got to be another setup."

"Chain of custody is air-tight.  It’s yours."

If I weren’t so perplexed, so utterly shocked, I might have been able to think more clearly and speak calmly.  But I couldn't.  I found myself raising my voice, pounding the table.  "They planted it!"

"Who, Sam?  Who?"

"I don’t know.  Maybe Pearson, one of the CSI’s?"

"No, they got samples from the crime scene before you gave yours."

"Hell, a clerical error?"  This was so impossibly surreal I could barely think.

"They’ve got a fool-proof accountability system.  It’s no mistake.  Your semen was found on Bethie."  An entirely alien expression descended upon her pale countenance.  "I have to ask..."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I have to—"

"Ask me what!"

"Did you do it?  Sam, did you rape your daughter?"

"No."

"Did you kill her?"

"No."

"What about Jennifer—"

"No!"

"Aaron?"

"NO, DAMMIT, NO!"  Before I knew it, a chair flew across the room, smashed into the wall with a loud crash.  It had flown from my hand.  Rachel winced, tears flowing down her cheeks, breathing with a quiver, but eyes fixed with determination.  The door opened and an armed officer stuck his head inside.  "Problem, ma’am?"

She shook her head.  "We’re okay.  Thanks."

He gave her a doubtful once-over and said, "You sure?"

"Yes.  My client just got some very disturbing news and was...upset."

He looked at me doubtingly and said to Rachel, "I’ll be right out here."  The door clicked shut.

"It’s all over."  I sat down and buried my face in my hands.  As for how my semen ended up on the crime scene—I couldn’t bring myself to say "on Bethie"—I couldn’t think clearly enough to speculate.

"I’m sorry, Sam."

"You think I’m actually capable?"

"As your attorney, what I believe is irrelevant.  I have an ethical duty to zealously defend you to the best—"

"Yes or No, Rachel."

She stared at me for a moment longer than I would have preferred, then answered. "No.  I don’t believe you did it.  Nor do I believe you could."

"Good."  The tension ebbed as we held each other’s gaze.  I could breathe again.

"But I can’t get this evidence suppressed."  She went on to explain how the DA had tricked her.

"So we’re doomed.  What’ll we do?"

Rachel sat down across the table, reached out and took my hands in hers.  "With your permission, I’d like to ask Walden to reconsider the deal."

"We’ve been through this already."

"Not this close to verdict."

I tore my hands away.  "What makes you even imagine I’d change my mind!"

Gathering her papers and stuffing them into her briefcase, she stood and said, "All right.  We have a twenty-four hour continuance so I can study the reports and prepare some kind of a response.  You’d better get some rest and start thinking about..."  I knew what she meant to say, but the words were too fatalistic for her to utter.

"I know."  Besides Aaron, there really wasn’t anyone I felt compelled to see one last time, before... well, just before the final phase.

"If you need to contact me, call my cell," she said on her way out. 
"My land line’s been shut off along with my hot water.  I think electricity goes next week."

I stood up to see her to the door, but she didn’t so much as look back.  As she stepped through the doorway, I grabbed her hand. "Wait."

She looked up to the ceiling, shut her eyes as if my words were barbed.  "I have to go."

"Look, I’m sorry," I whispered.

"It’s okay, I understand."  She started off again, but I gently pulled her back to me.  It wasn’t my intention, but she ended up in my arms.  Before I could put some distance between us, she relaxed and leaned the back of her head into my chest.

My heart hammering, my head spinning, I couldn’t sort things out.  I backed away and turned her around to face me.  "I just wanted to say, thank you.  No matter what the verdict."

A tear escaped her eye.  "It’s going to be fine."

Chapter Thirty

Standing on the corner of Broadway and Front, waiting for Dave to pick me up, I almost felt like a free man.  Deputy Amarillas stood with me but didn’t say much, just kept his eye on me.  Shaded by the visor of a Padres baseball cap and dark sunglasses, I buried my face in the Union Tribune.  The last thing I wanted was to be recognized by my adoring fans.

The midday sun stretched high above the buildings.  My navy suit absorbed so much heat that I had to take the jacket off.  I kept shuffling my pant cuffs, self-conscious of the GPS anklet peeking out.

I looked at my watch, then to the deputy and shrugged.  "He’s running late.  Maybe traffic."  The poor officer kept eyeing the hot dog vendor on the curb.  Each time the stainless steel lid opened for a customer, steam from within lifted out carrying the savory aroma of Hebrew Nationals, sweet onions, and sauerkraut.

Amarillas stood ramrod straight, eyes hidden behind mirrored shades, hands on his hips.  He might have looked cool if he wasn’t licking his lips like a puppy in a butcher’s window.  It was, after all, lunch time.

I appreciated the State’s concern for my safety, but I was standing in broad daylight outside of the San Diego Superior Court.  Nothing was going to happen to me.

"You know what?  I’ll be okay," I told him.  "My ride’s just a little late."

"You sure, sir?"

"Go on, I’ll be fine."

He tipped his hat and nodded.  "I’ll be on the steps where I can keep an eye on you."  I thanked him and was tempted to buy a frank for myself, but I had lunch plans with Lorraine and Dave.  If they’d ever show up.

Just as I started to search for his number on my cell phone, I saw someone familiar, just across the street with a finger pressed into one ear, a cell phone into the other.  When I realized who it was, something ignited in my chest.  I couldn’t have been thinking straight, because a second later I was storming across Front Street.  Nearly got hit by a taxi cab, but I went forward and stood right over him as he spoke into his cell.

He looked up at me, clearly perturbed at my proximity.  "Can I help you?"

It was Brent Stringer.  I hadn’t seen him since he interviewed me for the "Superdad" article.

"I think you’ve done plenty, already," I said and removed my sunglasses.  I was expecting him to cower.  Instead, he shook his head and held up a finger.

"Call you back, okay?  Bye."  He flipped his cell phone shut and slipped it into his pocket.

"I just want to know one thing," I said, seriously trying to keep from smashing in the guy’s face.  "Why?"

"I just write the truth, okay?  The public has a right to know."