putting the cat back into the bag. They could kill me or Lewis or you or C.C.—” I looked at Joe “—but it wouldn’t change the results. Science always speaks for itself.”
“Unless it’s the O.J. trial,” Lewis sniped, re-hashing another of his pet peeves. “Then some fancy-pants lawyer will find a way to twist the science into so much bullshit. Oh. Sorry about the lawyer thing, Joe. And pardon my language, Sister.”
“Trust me, Lewis,” C.C. replied. “You can’t work a prison ministry if you have any sensibility at all about language. Besides—” she winked at him “—I think even Jesus Christ himself would agree there are some occasions and injustices when only a well-placed f -word will do.”
Lewis laughed out loud. “A woman after my own heart.”
I bet, I thought. I had never seen him so goofy over anyone.
“And I’ve heard every lawyer joke there is. But remember, I’m one of the few good ones. I’m quite concerned, though, because it seems like Billie’s a target,” Joe said, his rich baritone filled with worry.
“What about asking your father for a bodyguard?” Lewis asked.
“No chance. I don’t need some overgrown steroids-ridden leg-breaker babysitting me.”
“Oh. Too late.”
“What?”
“Too late. I already called your father and someone by the name of Tommy Salami is going to be minding you starting tomorrow.”
“Lewis!” I snapped. “Give me a break. Not Tommy Salami.”
“Sorry, Billie, dear. Your dad insisted, and I think it’s a good idea. So we’ll test the damn evidence and at least know where we stand. Until then, you get Tommy Salami.”
I sighed.
Lewis gave me a dirty look. “I’m ignoring you, Wilhelmina, darling.”
Joe howled. “Is that your real name?”
“No,” I snapped. “It’s Billie, for real—after my grandfather. But Lewis likes that little joke. Now half the lab thinks that’s my real name…. Let me ask you, Joe, have you and C.C. ever taken on a case only to discover the man was still guilty as sin?”
C.C. nodded. “But only once. We get requests to look at cases every week—dozens of requests. From there we ask the person or his or her relatives or supporters to fill out an extensive form. I also meet people in the course of my ministry. Between the forms, phone interviews and my own contacts, we weed through and take a very limited number of cases, with the priority given to men on death row.After a while, you do get intuitive about guilt or innocence. The guilty ones always have similar stories—it’s never their fault, and by that I mean nothing is their fault. If they beat a woman but didn’t murder her, according to them, even the beating was deserved—‘But I didn’t kill her.’”
“Charming,” Lewis said sarcastically.
“Like I said, we’ve only been wrong once. And with David Falco, I’m not only one hundred percent sure. I’m one thousand percent sure.”
“Well, DNA won’t lie, so let’s hope you’re right,’ Lewis said. “Let’s hope this guy is worth all the trouble.”
“I still marvel at the DNA aspect,” Joe said.
“I admit that I still don’t understand it completely,” C.C. added. She picked up her wineglass and took a sip, her fingers delicate around the goblet. She looked as if she would be at home in a Botticelli painting, rather than a twenty-first-century murder case.
“Basically, C.C., DNA is like your own personal bar code.” I used the metaphor I often utilized when I lectured at colleges on DNA technology. “Now, as humans, you and I and Joe and Lewis share certain DNA versus, say, a lion or a snail. We share our human DNA. But we have about three million base pairs of DNAthat are unique to us—every person’s is different except for identical twins. And so a person who leaves the tiniest of DNA fragments at a crime scene—under fingernails or a small swab of semen—leaves his or her genetic fingerprint. The problem—or actually, you could consider it
“Unless it’s the O.J. trial,” Lewis sniped, re-hashing another of his pet peeves. “Then some fancy-pants lawyer will find a way to twist the science into so much bullshit. Oh. Sorry about the lawyer thing, Joe. And pardon my language, Sister.”
“Trust me, Lewis,” C.C. replied. “You can’t work a prison ministry if you have any sensibility at all about language. Besides—” she winked at him “—I think even Jesus Christ himself would agree there are some occasions and injustices when only a well-placed f -word will do.”
Lewis laughed out loud. “A woman after my own heart.”
I bet, I thought. I had never seen him so goofy over anyone.
“And I’ve heard every lawyer joke there is. But remember, I’m one of the few good ones. I’m quite concerned, though, because it seems like Billie’s a target,” Joe said, his rich baritone filled with worry.
“What about asking your father for a bodyguard?” Lewis asked.
“No chance. I don’t need some overgrown steroids-ridden leg-breaker babysitting me.”
“Oh. Too late.”
“What?”
“Too late. I already called your father and someone by the name of Tommy Salami is going to be minding you starting tomorrow.”
“Lewis!” I snapped. “Give me a break. Not Tommy Salami.”
“Sorry, Billie, dear. Your dad insisted, and I think it’s a good idea. So we’ll test the damn evidence and at least know where we stand. Until then, you get Tommy Salami.”
I sighed.
Lewis gave me a dirty look. “I’m ignoring you, Wilhelmina, darling.”
Joe howled. “Is that your real name?”
“No,” I snapped. “It’s Billie, for real—after my grandfather. But Lewis likes that little joke. Now half the lab thinks that’s my real name…. Let me ask you, Joe, have you and C.C. ever taken on a case only to discover the man was still guilty as sin?”
C.C. nodded. “But only once. We get requests to look at cases every week—dozens of requests. From there we ask the person or his or her relatives or supporters to fill out an extensive form. I also meet people in the course of my ministry. Between the forms, phone interviews and my own contacts, we weed through and take a very limited number of cases, with the priority given to men on death row.After a while, you do get intuitive about guilt or innocence. The guilty ones always have similar stories—it’s never their fault, and by that I mean nothing is their fault. If they beat a woman but didn’t murder her, according to them, even the beating was deserved—‘But I didn’t kill her.’”
“Charming,” Lewis said sarcastically.
“Like I said, we’ve only been wrong once. And with David Falco, I’m not only one hundred percent sure. I’m one thousand percent sure.”
“Well, DNA won’t lie, so let’s hope you’re right,’ Lewis said. “Let’s hope this guy is worth all the trouble.”
“I still marvel at the DNA aspect,” Joe said.
“I admit that I still don’t understand it completely,” C.C. added. She picked up her wineglass and took a sip, her fingers delicate around the goblet. She looked as if she would be at home in a Botticelli painting, rather than a twenty-first-century murder case.
“Basically, C.C., DNA is like your own personal bar code.” I used the metaphor I often utilized when I lectured at colleges on DNA technology. “Now, as humans, you and I and Joe and Lewis share certain DNA versus, say, a lion or a snail. We share our human DNA. But we have about three million base pairs of DNAthat are unique to us—every person’s is different except for identical twins. And so a person who leaves the tiniest of DNA fragments at a crime scene—under fingernails or a small swab of semen—leaves his or her genetic fingerprint. The problem—or actually, you could consider it
Similar Books
