No Way Out (3 page)

“My butt’s not so little,” said Andi, but this time with humor rather than self-pity.

In truth, Andi’s butt was fine, as any red-blooded male would have been only too happy to testify.

There was a hard side to Gene. But it was precisely Gene’s confidence in decision making that Andi loved most. On all the important matters, it was Gene who decided for both of them. It was Gene who had decided that they would come to live out here in California after Andi told her about the work opportunity. Andi would never have demanded it for herself, much as she had wanted it. She still lacked the self-confidence to stand up to Gene – to the world yes, but not to Gene. And Gene herself knew that Andi needed to make the move for her career. It wasn’t in Gene’s personal interests to make the move, but she cared too much for Andi to let that stand in their way.

So when it came to the crunch, Gene was ready to uproot herself and start again on the other side of the country.

It’s only a sacrifice if you give up the greater value for the lesser one, Gene had told herself, remembering the philosophy that had given her so much strength when she really needed it.

Andi’s happiness means more to me than my two-bit career. So it isn’t really a sacrifice.

What Gene loved about Andi was that she was gentle and soft on the outside, yet fiery and determined when her sense of injustice was aroused. It was a paradox that was expressed as eloquently in Andi’s eyes as in her words. The eyes had a strange quality that was as frightening as it was fascinating: those eyes could look both menacing and vulnerable at the same time. It was Andi’s eyes that Gene had originally fallen in love with. When Gene looked into Andi’s eyes the first time they met, the beseeching, helpless look quickly dissolved into anger… no, not anger… tenacity.

The law was a natural field of endeavor for her. But it had to be the right sort of law. She was a crusader for justice and she became passionate to the point of ferocity when confronted by injustice in any of its countless forms. Gene had always found it strange that Andi had been ready to work as a defense lawyer for so long. She may have bitched about it, but she stuck it out – even though it was evident that it was causing her pain and leaving her unfulfilled. But Andi had made her choice and Gene was a firm believer in people making their own choices.

As the car slowed down, Gene gave Andi an encouraging smile and then looked around at the office buildings of the town center. Andi smiled back, encouraged by Gene’s contagious confidence.

“Looks like we’re here,” said Gene, with an air of finality.

The car pulled up to a halt in front of a large office building. Andi unfastened her seat belt and opened the front passenger door.

“Wish me luck,” she said, taking a deep breath.

Gene looked at her with all the firmness of a strict parent still living in the mid-Victorian era. But the voice was strangely gentle.

“I won’t do that honey, ‘cause you don’t need luck.”

Gene slid her left hand behind Andi’s head, leaned over and kissed Andi on the lips. She had a way of making Andi feel good whenever the fear and self-doubt threatened to get the better of her. She had many ways in fact of massaging Andi’s ego. This was only one of them.

That’s why I love you Gene
, thought Andi, closing her eyes. But she didn’t say it. She just held on a moment longer than Gene did, almost clinging like a child, before letting go and getting out of the car. She wanted to stay something, but the jitters were still with her and she knew that Gene could sense it.

“Get in there and knock ’em dead honey!”

Andi closed the door and walked towards the building. Ignoring the names of the countless law and accountancy firms on the nameplates, she walked into the building and presented her ID to security.

Outside, Gene watched Andi enter the building like a mother watching her tearful kid vanish into the crowd of other children on her first day at kindergarden. Then she brought the engine to life with a roar, made an aggressive U-turn and drove back the way she came. She knew it was going to be a tough day for Andi – first days always are.

These thoughts were cut short by her cell phone. It was a call from the
Say no to Violence
Rape Crisis Center.

“Hallo,” said Gene, pressing the button of the hands-free set.

“Gene, we’ve just had a call from Riley.”

Bridget Riley worked at the sex crimes unit in the local police. And a call from Bridget Riley probably meant one thing: another woman had been raped.

“You’re kind of early Alex.”

Alex Sedaka spun round to see a fifty eight year old black man standing there with a beaming smile. Elias Claymore was overdressed for SoCal at this time of year. But Alex knew that he was trying to avoid being recognized. Claymore didn’t usually like to draw so much attention to himself – because then he’d find himself surrounded by autograph seekers.

“I was at the front of the plane,” said Alex, reciprocating the smile. “First one off.”

“How are you doing, old buddy?” asked Claymore, rejecting Alex’s outstretched hand in favor of a warm, brotherly embrace.

Alex returned the greeting and then followed as Claymore led the way

“What’s happening with the show?” asked Alex as they walked towards one of the exits.

“The network renewed the syndication deal.”

Elias Claymore was the next big thing in talk show hosts, after his California-based show had gone national last year. He was tipped by some to become “next Montel Williams.” But others criticized this appellation in view of Claymore’s less than honorable past.

“How’s the love life?”

This was typical Elias, filling the silence with his cheeky humor.

“You know I’m married to my work,” said Alex with a twinkle in his eye. “That’s why I haven’t got time to watch your show.”

“Oh really? That’s not what I heard.”

“What
did
you hear?”

“Oh a little bird told me something about you being in a relationship with a certain TV reporter.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on the little bird grapevine.”

“Then how come we’re meeting for breakfast, not lunch.”

“I thought you’re shooting the show after lunch.”

“You could come and watch that too.”

“I’ll have to take a rain check. I’m seeing a…”

Alex’s smile was that of the proverbial angel caught out. Elias smiled back

“So the little bird was right after all.”

“It’s early days yet. Anyway these long-distance relationships don’t usually work out. She’s down here in SoCal and I’m up on  the Bay.”

“And you ain’t over Melody yet.”

Alex remained silent. They had been friends ever since Alex had represented Claymore, negotiating a plea-bargain a few years ago. And they had learned to trust and respect one another. But they had also learned to
read
one another.

“Wait a minute,” said Alex. “This isn’t the way to the parking lot.”

Alex was quite familiar to LAX and he had noticed that they were heading towards the curbside on the lower level.

“No parking lot today bro. We’re going by taxi.”

“Taxi? Isn’t that carrying this incognito business too far?”

“My car was stolen.”

“Stolen? When? How?”

“Two days ago.”

“Doesn’t your insurance provide a rented one in the meantime?”

“They do when I have time to get onto them. So far I haven’t even had time to report it to the cops.”

“When you say stolen, you mean… like… Carjacked? At gunpoint?”

“Heck no!” If they’d given me half a chance I’d’ve nailed the bastards. I got out to buy a paper.”

“I thought your Merc had digital ignition control? Isn’t that supposed to be hotwire-proof.”

“Not if you leave the keys inside.”

Alex looked at him wide-eyed.

“You’re kidding!”

Claymore held up his hands sheepishly.

“I plead guilty to stupidity Your Honor.”

They both laughed and carried on their friendly banter oblivious to the storm that was brewing in the background.

White.

The room was a cold, clinical white. It was supposed to be relaxing as well as hygienic and useful for showing up any evidence samples that might be inadvertently dropped. But stepping into it had the aura of entering something out of science fiction.

“Okay now just hold still,” said Doctor Weiner, holding the third swab between Bethel’s legs.

Bethel held still and forced her mind not to think about what was happening or what had happened. But the harder she fought to avoid it, the more painful the memories that flooded back.

“I don't understand,” said Bethel fighting back the tears. “How many swabs do you need?”

“We try to take several,” said Bridget, the twenty-something detective who was standing with her back to the wall a few feet away.

“But why?”

Bridget could hear in Bethel’s voice, the inner strength that the girl was trying to draw on to dam up the flood of tears that was aching to burst.

“Because sometimes the whole sample gets used up in the test and we may need to do back-up tests or give a sample to the defense in case they want to run their own independent tests.”

By this stage, Bethel Newton had been photographed from all angles, examined by a female doctor and had vaginal swabs and nail clippings taken. They had intended to take combing from her pubic hair, but she was shaven. They had also taken buccal swabs to use as reference samples. Bethel’s body was now – in police investigative terminology – a “crime scene”. And the vaginal swabs and nail clippings constituted “crime-scene samples” or “evidence samples – samples which had come into contact with the rapist and were potentially contaminated by his own DNA.

“I don’t see what good this’ll do,” said Bethel.

“We can distinguish between different contributors. That’s what your reference sample is for. In fact we now have powerful techniques for isolating DNA from sperm.”

“But he used a condom.” She remembered how deftly he had held her down with the weight of his body while putting it on, before he penetrated her. It was like he knew exactly what he was doing – like he had done it before. Some men are experts with bra straps. This man was an expert at rape – and an expert at minimizing the trail of evidence that he left behind. He was what criminal investigators call “forensically aware.”

“We don’t expect to find any identifiable sperm in the vaginal swab,” explained Bridget. “But we have to check anyway.”

Bethel shuddered, but kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t expected it to be like this.

“You scratched him too, don’t forget,” Bridget added. “That could give us a skin sample or even a blood sample and that in turn will give us his DNA. Also we might find traces of the condom itself. He might have thrown it away nearby.”

“And how does that help?”

“Oh, in a variety of ways. For example, condoms are made of a variety of materials, and contain substances known as exchangeable traces, like lubricants, spermicides and powders to stop the rolled up condom from sticking to itself.”

“So what?” said Bethel, bitterly. “How does that help you catch him in the first place?”

Bridget took a deep breath and spoke gently. “Okay, well let’s say we find an empty condom packet by the road near where it happened, if it has fingerprints on it, and if he has a criminal record, we’ll be able to identify him and issue a warrant. And let’s say we find some exchangeable traces from the condom in the swabs we took from you – that means substances like lubricants and spermicides and anti-stick powders – we can compare them for chemical similarities to any condoms we find in the suspect’s possession or for that matter any chemical traces in any condom that he discarded nearby. Or if he discarded the whole packet, we can analyze the exchangeable traces in them and compare them to your evidence sample.”

“So what’ll that prove?” Bethel spat out contemptuously. “That he has the same type of condoms?”

Bridget put a comforting hand on Bethel’s shoulder.

“Evidence is like a jigsaw puzzle, Bethel. If we can put enough pieces together we can nail him. Fingerprints on a discarded packet or condom can link the condom to the suspect. Semen in the discarded condom can link it to the suspect. Matching trace chemicals between the condom and your samples can link the condom to you. The DNA evidence can then strengthen the case against him considerably. And if we can match his DNA to the DNA from those other crimes then before you know it he’s going down on multiple counts of rape! And
you’d
be the one who can claim the credit for stopping him.”

Bethel knew that the flattery was part of a well-meaning game. Still, she warmed to the compliment and nodded, pretending to accept Bridget’s logic.

In fact, a bond was beginning to form between them. But this was only natural. From the moment Bethel had staggered into the police station, Detective Bridget Riley had accompanied her.

Bethel had been reluctant to go through the whole rape examination procedure. Several times she had almost backed out of it. But Bridget had convinced her to go through with it, pointing out that the bruises and internal injuries showed that the rapist had used considerable force.

“There’s virtually no danger he’ll be able to argue consent,” Bridget assured her. “They sometimes get away with that in date-rape cases, but this wasn’t a date. Unless we goof-up badly, there’s no way he can use it here. And once we ID the man, if we’ve got a good sample from any of the swabs or nail clippings, the DNA’ll get him.”

“It didn’t help with O J Simpson!” she spat out bitterly.

“That was an exception. The cops were sloppy about how they handled the evidence. That gave the defense a window of opportunity to make it look like there was reasonable doubt. Remember the jurors were still angry over the Rodney King fiasco. But it couldn't happen again.”

“But first you’ve got to catch him,” said Beth tentatively.

“We’ll check his DNA against the California SDIS, and the NDIS in Washington.”