David Kessler

No Way Out

Saturday, 4 July 2004 — 23:40

It was only a set of fingers flying across a keyboard, yet they could work so much malice.

She watched in awe as her words appeared before her, the letters on the screen keeping pace with her fingers. What was so amazing was how little she had to change to wreak so much damage. All she had to do to alter the behavior of an entire computer program was make minor alterations to just two of the lines of the coding and then switch two of the other lines around. Hackers and “midnight programmers” would laugh at the absurd simplicity of it. Some of them might even have been mildly amused by the sheer audacity of it. But few of them would have condoned her objectives. Most hackers tended to be free-wheeling libertarians, not embittered racists. And she wasn’t even trained as a computer programmer, apart from one short online course she had taken recently.

But the irony went deeper than that.

Everyone knew the old cliche that you can radically change the interpretation of a contract by an ambiguous pronoun or the meaning of a statute by a harmless-looking punctuation mark. In England a diplomat and humanitarian called Roger Casement was said to have been “hanged by a comma” after he was found guilty of treason under a medieval statute. But who would have believed that the same was true of a computer program? And the biggest irony of all was that she couldn’t tell anyone — like the criminal who commits the perfect crime and wants to brag about it to others, but can’t, because if he tells other people, then the crime would no longer be perfect!

But so what?

She wasn’t doing it for fame or glory. She was doing it for justice — plain, old-fashioned justice.

As she continued her work, she glanced up and looked out through the window. In the distance she could see the flickering lights of the nocturnal city. It reminded her that there was a world out there beyond her private world of vengeance. But she forced herself to ignore the distraction. Her fingers continued to dance across the keyboard in the small pool of halogen light that fell upon the desk. The rest of the room was in darkness.

After a few more seconds of work, she paused, satisfied with the results of her labors. Then, with a couple of clicks on the left button of the mouse, she selected a menu item called “build.” This action inaugurated a two-stage process known to computer programmers as “compiling” and “linking.” It was this process that actually created the finished computer program. By the time forty eight seconds had elapsed, she had created a new version of the program.

And what a new version!

She thought about it now, almost wistfully. Getting the original source code had been rather tricky. She’d had to use some of her old contacts to break down the bureaucratic barriers. But many States had public records or freedom of information laws. She wished that she could infiltrate the altered program everywhere. That would be something of a coup! But she had to be realistic.

When she first started out, she had no idea that she would even be able to do it. It was more idle curiosity than a firm agenda that had prompted her to explore the possibility. But when she studied the documentation and asked a few questions of a professor to understand how the software worked, it suddenly dawned on her just how easy it would be.

Of course, slipping it in undetected would be the hardest part. There were various ways she could do it. One way was to hack into the server computers and upload the new program. But that was risky. The fact that an organization maintained a server that was accessible from outside did not necessarily mean that it was vulnerable. Interactive websites were usually protected by strong firewalls.

There was, however, another way to infiltrate the new version of the software that didn’t involve direct use of the internet at all — social engineering. The trick was to get the systems administrators to install it themselves. The key to this method was to make it seem as if it were a modification of a current program that they were already using. By packaging the program complete with forged letterhead, printing on the DVD surface, throwing in some fancy multicolor process-printed documentation and then sending it out by special courier, she could trick their Systems Administrators into installing the new version under the erroneous assumption that they were getting an upgrade from the software company.

It would be the ultimate software hack followed by the ultimate in social engineering.

But what was the new program? It was not one of those so-called “Trojan horses.” Neither was it a virus that could replicate itself. Nor yet was it a trap-door that would enable her to get into the system later. Indeed, once inserted into the system it would simply do its work.

And now she was going to make the niggers pay!

JUNE

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 7:30

Bethel was nineteen — too young to remember the Sixties and too bored to care about her grandparents’ reminiscences — like how her mother was conceived at the Woodstock festival.

Pathetic!

But the sound of Buffalo Springfield’s For What it’s Worth was ringing through her head, via the earphones of her iPod, as she stood by the roadside, waiting for help.

She knew little of the context of the song and nothing about the closing of the Pandora’s Box nightclub or the Sunset Strip Curfew Riots. But the voice of Neil Young was haunting. It was easy to sleep through high school civics classes — even to sleepwalk through the assignments and exams. She knew a bit about the Vietnam war and the civil rights struggles of the Sixties. But it was all superficial academic knowledge, of the kind she picked up almost by default while daydreaming about the proverbial football team quarterback.

It stayed in her mind not as a coherent picture, but as a collection of sound bites: “We shall overcome,” “I have a dream,” “Power to the People,” “Burn baby Burn!” The voice of anger still echoed across the decades. But it echoed faintly. A time-gulf separated Bethel from the turbulence that had almost ripped her country apart. And the time-gulf was ever widening, so all that was left of the ringing timbre of history’s voices were the fading reverberations of barely-remembered heroes. Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, the Chicago Eight. Names and slogans to Bethel, but no substance… except, perhaps, the occasional substances she used to take her mind off the boredom of academic learning.

But she liked the song.

It had a pleasant hook to it that made it stick in her mind. What really sent shivers up her spine was that haunting phrase at the end of chorus, urging the young listeners to pause and assess the situation. She had no more than the merest inkling of what it meant. Whatever it was, had “gone down” long ago.

It doesn’t really matter, she told herself. It belonged to her grandparents’ generation anyway. She belonged to another generation, the one that was more concerned with finding a job than changing the world. Bethel had known her own personal share of hardship in life, but it had been an exceptional episode and not something that affected others of her generation.

Her full name was Bethel Georgia Newton and she was a mixed bag of human elements. In the looks department she was all bleached blonde and classic cheerleader figure: a carefully cultivated complexion and polished-tooth smile. Neither svelte, nor-buxom, a kind of perfect “in-between” for her 5’6”, athletic, but in that soft, not-overdone sort of way, with well-toned leg muscles, but not rippling ones. On the socio-economic side she was middle class and far removed from the culture of the street, the stoop or the ‘hood. Yet when it came to experience of life she wasn’t entirely naive. She might not exactly have been streetwise, but she had tasted the bitter taste of life.

She stood by the roadside in her white tight-fitting T-shirt and shorts that showed every curve of her firm body, holding out her thumb every time a car went by. She thought it would be easy hitching a ride, with her breasts thrusting out in front, straining against her T-shirt, and the perfect ripe complexion of her thighs showing like white silk in the California sunshine. But people were paranoid, she realized now.

A few yards away, her car had broken down and she couldn’t even call for help because the battery of her cell phone was flat. She had made a half-hearted effort to fix the car herself, but she didn’t really have a clue when it came to car engines. So all she could do was flag down a Good Samaritan and ask them to take her to a garage where she could get proper help.

Secretly she was hoping that some good-looking man with technical skills and a cool family fortune would stop and rescue her, not just from the roadside but from the aimless drifting boredom that seemed to have engulfed her life lately. But she would settle for an elderly couple taking her down the road to a pay phone if necessary. Only she wasn’t even getting that.

Life was unfair.

And then her luck changed.

An aquamarine Mercedes slowed down as it approached her. A recent model and from the up-market end of the European car industry. The owner was clearly affluent… and probably young. By the time it had pulled over by the roadside, she could see that the driver, in his late twenties, was a black man.

What would my parents think? She wondered with a smile at the fleeting fantasy of turning up on her liberal parent’s doorstep with this young man in tow.

Think rather than say.

She knew that they’d be warm and welcoming in their words. But she wondered if they were capable of walking the walk as well as they could talk the talk. It occurred to her that even now she never really knew her parents. And yet here she was away from home, trying to find herself.

As the young man leaned out smiling and asked if she needed help, she could tell from his confident voice that this some one who was going places. She was drawn to his youthful good looks and quiet, cool self-confidence and she warmed to him instantly, even if his diction betrayed the lingering traces of a background that she half-suspected he was trying to conceal — or maybe just forget.

He took a look under the hood and after about a minute shook his head and said “I’m not really all that good with engines. I’m better with people.” He won her over with that line and a disarming smile. Two minutes later she was in the Merc and they were rolling along down the road, getting to know each other better. Somewhere along the line, she noticed that he had turned off the main road.

She was about to ask where they were going, when she caught a glimpse of his profile and saw his lips twist upward into a smile. But she couldn’t tell if the smile was friendly. And as the first traces of apprehension formed into a knot in the pit of her stomach, she realized that she was too afraid to inquire further.

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 8:50

“I’ve got butterflies in my stomach Gene,” said Andi as the car snaked its way through the streets of Los Angeles. A sharp turn later and the car began slowing down as the office building loomed up ahead.

“It’s too late to go back now.”

They both laughed. This was becoming a bit of an in-joke between them. They had both been nervous about leaving the Big Apple and crossing the continent to a new life on the West Coast. But Andi’s career had demanded it.

Andi Phoenix, sitting silently and brooding nervously, was in her late thirties. She had kept her looks through healthy eating, regular workouts and a bit of cosmetic surgery. Her breasts had been enhanced from 34B to 36D with silicone implants and she had taken a botox injection to remove the first lines of age. But the rest was from hard work and healthy living. The blonde hair came from a bottle; the original had been a decent but boring mousy brown. Changing the color had been a form of therapy after the rough ride of her youth, but the enhancements as a whole carried with them the payload of attention from men that she could well do without. She was a few inches shorter than the black woman who sat next to her, and some ways felt in her shadow.

Gene touched Andi’s forearm gently.

“Just remember this honey. They don’t know you either. But they were ready to take a chance on you.”

In the driver’s seat, in more ways than one, was Eugenia Vance, the six foot, muscular, black woman who had playfully wrestled with her in bed that morning — and won — as always.

They had met over twenty years ago, when Andi was still in her teens. Gene had helped Andi through her teenage crisis years, and they’d been together ever since. In all the time they had known each other, they never used the word “lesbian” to describe their relationship. It wasn’t denial. It was just that their every instinct railed against categorization. Neither Gene nor Andi loved “women”; they simply loved each other.

“I’m just wondering if this whole thing is a big mistake.”

Gene snorted her mockery at Andi’s self-pity.

“You’ve picked a hell of a time to start wondering girl!”

Here in California, Andi’s specialty was much in demand. She had majored in psychology before going on to get her Juris Doctor degree from the Northeastern University School of Law, where she thrived amidst its progressive atmosphere that encouraged social responsibility. But after graduation she had found the law to be an irritating environment in which to work. Most of her criminal work involved plea-bargaining rather than trial work and usually that meant helping criminals plead guilty to lesser charges — hardly the service of justice and way off from the ideals that had driven her into the legal profession in the first place.

Matters had come to a head after she contracted pneumonia, forcing her to take a prolonged leave of absence from the law firm that had initial hired her and held out so much hope and promise. But when she went back to work, she found herself welcomed with less than open arms. She was protected by labor laws from outright dismissal, but found herself increasingly sidelined. She joined another firm but then spent the next eight months playing catch-up.

It was in this period that her interest in the subject changed. Although there were innocent people out there needing to be helped, criminal law meant — for the most part — helping the guilty. And that was not something she particularly enjoyed doing. So she did the old “poacher turned gamekeeper” routine and got herself a job with the DA’s office, in the domestic violence unit, where she thrived for a while. Starting at the bottom of the ladder meant that she didn’t get to do much courtroom work. Most of it involved working directly with victims, reading reports and collating evidence. But she was happy to do this. It gave her a sense of purpose.

Paradoxically, it was only when promotion gave her more courtroom work that disillusion set in for a second time. Because she found herself doing exactly the same thing as she was doing before, but from the opposite side of the table: plea-bargaining with criminals. She found their lawyers to be vile, for the most part, and she realized how contemptible she must have seemed to the DA in her earlier days as a defense attorney.

At the same time, she had developed another interest: crime victim litigation. There was a growing industry involving the pursuit of civil remedies for crime victims and she very much wanted to be part of it. So she got a job working in that fledgling field for a large law firm, but realized very soon that she had hit the glass ceiling.

However, her employers were far from displeased with her performance and wanted to keep her on. They just didn’t have the right vacancy. But they made it very clear that there were more prospects of upward mobility on the West Coast and if she wanted it, there was a job waiting for her at their Los Angeles office.

She wasn’t altogether comfortable about moving to the West Coast. But that was where the work opportunity took her.

“And what if I don’t make the grade?” asked Andi, still seeking reassurance.

“Hey, listen,” said Gene firmly, “I don’t want to hear any of that. There’s nothing to stop you except fear — and if you let that get to you, I’ll be right behind you, ready to take a paddle to that cute little butt of yours.”

“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.

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 9:45

“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.

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 10:15

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.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the National DNA Index System.”

Bethel smiled nervously. But then she said something that struck Bridget as rather strange.

“What if his lawyers dig up stuff that they can throw at me?”

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 11:05

“So how big is this Department then?” Andi asked the lean bespectacled man in a light grey suit as they walked across a dark blue carpet past the desks in the open-plan office.

A mix-up about her starting date had meant that she spent the morning sitting in a room reading brochures and web-based material about Levine amp; Webster instead of beginning her induction and being introduced to the staff. The Human Resources Manager wouldn’t be back till Monday, so it was left to Paul Sherman — one of the partners in the firm — to lead Andi along through the maze of desks, as some of the younger (male) members of the staff leaned out from their shoulder height partitions to get a glimpse of the new girl. The women, for the most part, kept their attention to their photocopying or papers on their oak desks, only glancing round briefly to size up the competition.

“It’s not really a department,” Sherman replied nervously. “It’s more of a section in my department.”

Andi experienced the first hint of unease as these words wafted over her.

“I don’t understand. I thought I was going to head up a department over here.”

Sherman squirmed with embarrassment. He was only slightly shorter than Andi, yet she seemed to tower over him, possibly because of the nervous, shifting way in which he stood. He reminded her of some character out of a Charles Dickens novel, she just couldn’t put a name to it.

“Well my department covers torts and, for our purposes, tortious liability of criminals is a sub-section of that.”

Sherman seemed embarrassed, as if perturbed by Andi’s confrontational approach, but reluctant to follow suit.

“Well anyway, I won’t try to second guess you. When we’ve got a victim case to litigate, you’ll be the one whose desk it lands on. You’re the expert in that field. I’m just a humble negligence lawyer.”

Humble! That was it. He reminded her of Uriah Heap in David Copperfield!

The uneasy feeling was growing in Andi. This wasn’t what they’d promised her when they offered her the job. They had given her the job without an interview, based on nothing more than her resume and the recommendation of her department head back in New York. But what Sherman was describing now wasn’t anything like what they had described when they made the job offer. If anything it was a step backwards.

She had made this move because it had become clear to her that in New York she could only move sideways. But now it looked like she had been suckered into this and was going nowhere just as fast and without even the benefit of old friends to comfort her. She felt betrayed.

No, she told herself. Don’t prejudge. Maybe it’s not what it seems. Maybe they just have a less formal structure in this firm.

“So let me get this straight Mr. Sherman. Any crime victim wanting to sue the perp is mine?”

She was watching his face carefully now.

“As long as it falls exclusively within your remit. There might be some areas of overlap, in which case we’ll have to discuss it. But nobody’s going to go behind your back, let alone over your head. Everything’ll be done on a consensus basis.”

It was obvious that he was trying to sound encouraging: to make her feel at home. It was clear that they respected her or they wouldn’t have hired someone from the other side of the country and made such a generous pay offer, not to mention paying her relocation costs.

“I guess it makes sense. It’s just not what I had in mind.”

“Well let’s see how it goes,” he said encouragingly. “You’ll have a lot of autonomy. And in most cases no one will try to second-guess you. The other partners will probably defer to your judgment. You’re the specialist after all.”

“Okay,” said Andi brightening up. “Let’s get to work.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Sherman stopped, prompting Andi to do likewise.

“So where’s my office?”

Again Sherman looked embarrassed.

“Well it’s not really an office,” he said nervously. “As you can see we’re open plan here.”

“You mean only the partners have private offices?”

“Well, no, some of the others do too. But we didn’t have a spare room, apart from the conference rooms. You’ll get one too when we’ve got things sorted out. It’s just a matter of re-arranging things. In the meantime, you’ll have a booth in the corner — away from most of the noise… what?”

He had noticed the expression on her face. “What?”

“Look, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I’ll spell it out to you. This isn’t what I signed on for. I signed on to have an office, even head a department. Not to be an orphan or a step-child.”

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 14:40

“Well check out the ass on that!”

Alex shot an angry look at the leering redneck in torn jeans who was nursing the near-empty Bud can. The man looked back as if to say “wanna make an issue of it buddy?”

The truth of the matter was that Alex didn’t want to. But he was ready to. He was more afraid of the professional consequences to himself, as a lawyer, than the possibility of getting beaten up. The guy was bigger than Alex. But Alex had trained in krav maga — an Israeli martial art — and reckoned the odds at about fifty-fifty.

Not wanting to feed the redneck’s desire for attention, Alex returned his attention to the table that the lithe, 34-year-old, dark-haired, Chinese-American woman was bending over.

They were in the Embassy Billiards Club in San Gabriel. The place had been packed for the men’s snooker event — the fourth in the six-venue US tour. But the hall seemed half-empty as the woman in black pants and matching vest lined up her most crucial shot of the frame — if not the entire semi-final match. In America, where nine-ball pool was well established, and British snooker was a strange foreign animal, even the men’s game was only just beginning to get established — and then mainly in the cosmopolitan areas like New York and California. On both coasts it was helped by the Chinese-American population who in some cases loved snooker with the same passion as that of the native Chinese.

After a few seconds, the chattering settled down to a pall of respectful silence as the crowd held their breath with eager anticipation, wondering if Martine Yin could pull it off.

She took the shot with cool ease, not tentatively, but with the firm confidence of some one who knew that there were no prizes for second best. And when the last red ball in the chain dropped into the right corner pocket and the cue ball rolled slowly to a halt a foot away from the left cushion, the small crowd of appreciative aficionados who were there to watch the game and not just gape at Martine, let out a whooping cheer for the skill of not just sinking the pot but also getting the cue ball into an ideal position to set up the next shot.

And Alex was amongst those applauding wildly — although he had to admit that he was one of those who was there to watch Martine more than the game.

They had been going out, on and off, for over a year now — if you could call it going out. It had started after the Clayton Burrow case, when Martine had spent several months pursuing Alex for an interview. She was a TV reporter and she had covered what had now become Alex’s most famous case: the Burrow case. She had in fact been one of the reporters in the observation room adjacent to the death chamber when they got the fateful call to abort the execution.

And then, she had witnessed, albeit from a distance, Alex’s intense conversation with his legal intern followed by the intern’s arrest. This whole surreal episode had culminated in a high-speed car chase in the dead of night, ending in a fatal crash that unfortunately evaded the cameras of the news helicopters.

After the case, Alex had offered some considerable resistance to Martine’s interview request, and when they did finally talk about it, she got the impression that he was holding something back. At first, she had been determined to break his resolve and get in under his guard. But somewhere along the line, she sensed that what Alex was holding back had more to do with his personal feelings than with any hard facts about the case itself. She realized that notwithstanding the time-honored lawyer jokes, Alex was all too human and this in turn impressed upon her that there were limits to how predatory she could be in her own chosen vocation.

It was only after that, and because of this softening in Martine’s character, that the relationship between them really started to develop. And even then it was a relationship at a distance, which tended to stunt its growth. She was based in Los Angeles; he in San Francisco.

“I’d like to put one in your pot babe,” the redneck called out, as he swaggered to the bar to get a refill.

“Why don’t you can it,” said Alex turning round again.

“Wanna step outside and settle it?” the man challenged.

“Why don’t you both can it!” Martine snapped. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

By this stage, the referee could no longer hope that the situation would play itself out without his intervention. He called a couple of bouncers to escort the redneck off the premises. The redneck was all set for a punch up, when his friends hauled him off and convinced him that it wasn’t worth the hassle.

Martine turned back to the table and — taking a deep breath to regain her composure — potted the black and then another red. She had come to the table with four points and eight frames on the board against her opponents 61 points and eight frames, after a nail-biting battle of safety shots. Her opponent, a petite blonde, had missed a two-cushion escape from a tricky snooker and this gave Martine a final chance to save the match on this final frame.

But only if she made every shot.

Keeping her cool she made another black and then a red. But this time, the cue ball drifted towards the balk end of the table and she had to settle for a pink instead of a black. She knew that there were no more chances. After the pink she had to pot the last red and get on the black. She sank the pink and came a little too far on the final red. Not that she couldn’t pot the red. It was an easy shot in itself. But if she just rolled it in she would be on the wrong side of the black.

She had to play it with pace and come off three cushions in order to get back down the table to the black. But if she played it with pace, she also had to play it with deadly accuracy.

She took the shot with pace… a lot of pace.

The red ball was still rattling in the jaws when the cue ball came off the first cushion and moved at pace to the balk end. Still in a tense state after the would-be punch-up with the redneck, Alex held his breath and prayed…

The ball dropped into the pocket to shriek’s of delight from the crowd. And to top it all off — the crowning glory — the ball came to rest with perfect position to pot the black one final time before the clear up.

From there it was almost an anticlimax as Martine cleared up, yellow, green, brown, blue pink, red and black. But when the frame ended, there was thunderous applause. She had made a break of 58 and a frame-winning score of 62.

The crowd loved it when a match came down to the wire, however nerve-racking it might be for the players. Consequently, Martine found herself having to sign many autographs before she finally got to talk to Alex.

“You were great,” he said.

“Do me a favor,” she replied, “Don’t ever do that again.”

“What’d I — ”

“You know what I’m talking about. I don’t need you to get into fights for me. You don’t have to prove anything.”

“But he was — ”

She held up her hand.

“Let’s go grab a bite.”

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 15:15

“The reason we got a drug problem is ’cause the Man flooded the ghetto with cheap cocaine!” the black militant shouted into the microphone. “And the reason things haven’t changed brother Elias, is because we’ve still got Uncle Toms like you blaming the Brothers for what the white man did to us!”

The audience broke into loud spontaneous applause, especially the large group of the black militant’s own supporters.

Elias Claymore was enjoying himself, as the white supremacist on the other side of the studio struggled above the roar of approval to make his answer heard. It was guests like these who made Claymore’s ratings. The militants might get the anger off their chest, but it was Claymore who’d make more money.

Claymore was just as black as this militant guest of his. Now in his late fifties, of average build, his colorful life had run the gamut from left-wing radical to Islamic fundamentalist to neo-conservative and born-again Christian.

This was meant to be a three-way debate between secular black militants, black Muslims and the Klan. But the black militant had turned the debate on conservative blacks, including Claymore himself, and made the white supremacists in the studio — who had raised the drug issue in the first place — largely irrelevant.

“What they did to us is no excuse for what we’re doing to ourselves brothers!” Claymore replied. “We have to stop blaming others. We used to be slaves to the white man. Now we’re slaves to the white powder. I say it’s time for us to break the chains and set ourselves free once and for all!”

Again the audience burst into thunderous applause, except the small cadre of militants. Claymore looked around and saw the approval on the faces of most of the audience, black and white. The black militant had almost won them over, but Claymore knew that with a few well-chosen words he had won them back.

Then a man wearing a suit and a bow tie with a crescent on it spoke up.

“If you think that joining the white establishment is a solution, then you’re as big a fool as he is.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Claymore sneeringly.

“I mean you’ve jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. You’ve betrayed your people twice over.”

He was a tall, slim, dapper figure and he was known to be Claymore’s arch-enemy. The man was a leading member of the Nation of Islam. Claymore had once belonged to his sect, but had later become disillusioned with it after he fled to Libya while on the run from the police.

“Would you care to elaborate?” Claymore challenged.

“I’m talking about Islam, the religion of the black man, the religion you turned your back on when you became an apostate.”

“An apostate to Islam or an apostate to the Nation of Islam? The two are not the same. For example Malcolm X left the Nation of Islam but never turned his back on Islam. Yet that didn’t save him from getting murdered.”

This was one of his favorite challenges to his former sect. Malcolm X had left the Nation of Islam in disillusion both at its policy of separatism and at the practices of its leader. His disillusion became even more pronounced after making the Hajj — the pilgrimage to Mecca — and learning about the universal nature of true Islam. To Malcolm X — as to the Prophet Mohamed — all Muslims were part of one “Umah” … one community. Indeed it was the act of “Islam” — submission to the will of God — that had united the feuding tribes of the Arabian Peninsula, ending the “Jahilya” — the dark age that preceded Islam.

But Malcolm X had also become disillusioned with Elijah Mohamed personally, over the NOI leader’s sexual exploitation of teenage girls. The trouble was that in speaking out so frankly, Malcolm X created enemies. And in response to his outspoken criticism, Louis Farakhan, a loyal follower of Elijah Mohamed, made inflammatory statements about Malcolm X. Two months later, Malcolm X was assassinated by members of the Nation of Islam.

But the well-dressed man in the audience was not going to be drawn into a debate about who killed Malcolm X. The Nation of Islam had subsequently re-adopted their former enemy and tried to distance themselves from his assassination.

“You’re not like Brother Malcolm, Claymore, and you never will be! Brother Malcolm never did what you did.”

There was wild applause at that one. Everyone knew that Elias Claymore was not quite as respectable as he had now become. But Claymore was prepared for this.

“It’s precisely because of my own guilt that I must speak out,” said Claymore, casting a trained professional eye at the studio clock. “As a sinner, I have a duty not to remain silent. In the meantime, let’s all say a loud ‘thank God’ that we’re living in a country where no one has to be a slave unless he chooses to be. Thank you all, good afternoon and God Bless America.”

There was thunderous applause. The show was over.

As one of the cameras pulled back to let him pass, Claymore walked away, talking to various eager members of the audience and shaking hands with some of them.

He left the set to be confronted by the two uniformed policemen and a female detective who couldn’t have been more than thirty, if that. But what frightened him most was the implacable look on their faces. He didn’t know what was going on, but sensed that it was something serious. The faces of the TV staff hovering around them looked tense. The detective stepped foreword and flashed her shield at Claymore.

“Elias Claymore?”

“Yes?” replied Claymore, slightly nervously.

“Detective Riley. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

“What for?

“Rape.”

Claymore shot a look of panic at the producer and swallowed.

“Call Alex Sedaka! Now!”

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 15:30

“This is the best Chinese food I’ve tasted,” said Alex, expertly picking up a mouthful of Chicken Chow Mein with a pair of wooden chopsticks.

“Best at this price,” said Martine, her voice still tense from the incident back at the snooker tournament. “Let’s not exaggerate.”

They were eating at the Embassy Kitchen, just across the parking lot from the billiards club. Martine was right about the price — you could get a good meal there for seven dollars. But he felt he ought to stick to his guns about the quality. The only Chinese food that tasted better, to his moderately discerning palate, was that of his sister, who lived in Israel.

The area itself seemed like a bit of a dump. But in his capacity as a criminal lawyer, Alex was used to slumming it. And he suspected that Martine was too, in her line of work.

“Look, about what happened earlier.”

He was nervous, sensing that Martine was still angry.

“You don’t have to apologize. Just don’t do it again.”

Alex felt deflated. He hadn’t been going to apologize. But he wanted to clear the air.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of crap.”

“And you shouldn’t have to get into fights to prove your masculinity! Okay! You fathered two children. You paid your dues in life. You win battles in court — which is the battleground where thinking men fight and win battles. I don’t need you to beat up some redneck to prove you yourself.”

He was flattered that she said “beat up” not “get beaten up by.”

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything. But the way he was going, I figured it was distracting to — ”

“Oh gimme a break! You think arguing with him made it less distracting? Come off it Alex, You wanted to play the he-man hero. You wanted to show me that you’re not the wimp lawyer in a suit but the tough guy who can take care of his lady — like I’m gonna be impressed by that macho bullshit. Like I haven’t seen it, done it and bought the T-shirt.”

“All right maybe I over-reacted. And maybe I’m old fashioned.” He was leaning close to her now. “But then again, I think that it is a man’s duty to protect his lady.”

“And maybe you’ve also got some unfinished issues.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re still thinking about another lady felt you should have been able to protect.”

She saw the hurt in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I was out of line with that.”

“No it’s true. You’re right. I wasn’t there for Melody.”

“You couldn’t have been there for Melody. How were you to know that some looney-tunes with a Saturday night special was going to bush-whack her on the way home? Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Alex’s wife Melody had been killed by a gang-banger in the parking structure of the hospital where she worked. Melody was a doctor who had been working in A amp; E when two gang bangers from opposite sides of town were brought in the same night. What she didn’t know was that the one she was treating had shot the other one. She saved the one on her operating table, but the other doctor lost his. After that, the dead man’s homeys couldn’t get at the guy who killed their brother, because by then he was in jail — in solitary. So they held a counsel of war and decided that Melody had to pay.

By that stage, she probably knew she was in danger, but she refused to take it seriously. She even rejected an escort to her car, saying she was too old for a nanny.

Call it arrogance, call it self-confidence — either way, she paid with her life.

And Alex still blamed himself in some way.

“I just wish I could…”

He trailed off. But she knew what he was going to say. He wished he could turn the clock back. Just like everybody does.

But as his son — the physicist — had once told him: time doesn’t run backwards.

He tried to take his mind off it.

“Tell me how you made that trick shot?”

“You should get David to explain it. You see it’s all about Newtonian mechanics. If you hit the object ball quarter ball with pace, the cue ball moves off at an oblique angle, while — ”

Martine’s cell phone went off. She whipped it out and answered it with polished, professional speed.

“Martine Yin.” For the next half minute, she appeared to be listening intently. “Okay, I’ll be there in ten.”

She turned to Alex, looking acutely embarrassed.

“I know,” he said. “Duty calls.”

She thanked him for his understanding and left briskly. Seconds later, the roar of a car engine outside brought a wry smile to his lips as he realized that the predator in her might lay dormant but was far from extinct. She was still a news woman, poised to pursue a good story at a moment’s notice, just as he was a lawyer 24/7, even if he didn’t quite resort to ambulance chasing.

He managed one more mouthful of food, before his own cell phone blared out the familiar musical phrase from the Allegro of Dvorak’s New World Symphony.

“Hallo Mr. Sedaka?” said an almost desperate sounding male voice at the other end of the line.

“Yes.”

“I’m the producer of the Elias Claymore show. We’ve got a situation here and I was wondering if there’s any possibility of you coming to LA — ”

“I’m in San Gabriel.”

“Oh thank God for that! Mr. Claymore asked me to call you. He’s been arrested.”

“Arrested? What’s the charge?”

“It’s some kind of phony rape charge.”

Alex knew in that moment why Martine had been obliged to leave in such a hurry.

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 16:50

“Okay, there we are,” said the evidence technician, as they took the third buccal swab.

Like Bethel, a few hours earlier, Claymore was giving a DNA sample from the lining of his mouth. They hadn’t told him that the rapist had worn a condom or that the victim had scratched the rapist’s arm. The less they told him, the better their chances of being able to get him to incriminate himself by making a statement revealing first-hand knowledge of the crime, now that he had waived the right to remain silent. But they did subject him to a full surface examination in which they had looked for signs of scratches and found several.

Nevertheless this was not conclusive. The real test would be the DNA. They had several good samples from Bethel and now all they needed was a good match.

After the samples had been taken, Alex sat with Claymore for twenty minutes, going through where Claymore had been at the time of the alleged rape. Claymore had been very clear about the fact that he had nothing to hide and wanted to answer police questions. Alex, as an experienced lawyer, was wary of this. Firstly he knew that even guilty people sometimes think they can get away with it by talking to the police. Secondly, no matter how idealistic and dedicated a cop may be, he still wants to close a case and get on with the next one, for the simple reason that the sheer volume of crime — and thus police work — is so great.

To an innocent man, this latter can be a pitfall, Alex well knew. An accusation, a suspect with priors, and a high profile suspect at that! It would be all too tempting to use whatever they had to make sure that Claymore went down big time. And “all they had” apparently included a victim ID of the suspect. Of course that wasn’t definitive evidence like DNA. But it was strong and the cops seemed confident.

And the fact that Claymore wanted to talk was not entirely re-assuring. He knew all about the naivety of the genuinely innocent man who thinks he has nothing to hide. Alex had known Elias for a few years now, every since he had represented him at the plea-bargain for unlawful escape, after he came back to the United States to face the music. Alex had been impressed at the time by Claymore’s sincerity and genuine sense of shame at his past. But that meant little now. If a man could change once, he could change again. The only thing it did mean was that Alex had a certain amount of influence with him.

But lawyers take their instructions from clients; not the other way round. So when Claymore made it clear that he was determined to answer police questions, all Alex could do was say his piece and then step aside, while the interview took place. He would be present during the questioning and he’d step in if he felt he had to. Also, the mere fact that he had warned Claymore about the dangers, meant that his client would be wary of the tricks and traps that the cop might set.

So now, Alex sat there in silence while Lieutenant Kropf, the very tall, thin man who headed up the investigation used his semi-aggressive rapid fire technique to try and trip up the suspect.

“Okay so you admit that no one saw you at home at that time?” barked Kropf, at one point.

Alex was about to tell the lieutenant to stop wasting time. He’d had his answer and was just repeating himself ad nauseum. But Claymore held out a restraining hand to silence his lawyer.

“It’s not a question of admitting,” Claymore replied, trying to keep his voice level. I was alone. That’s a fact. It’s not a crime to be alone.”

“No, but it helps to have an alibi.”

“You think I don’t know that?” asked Claymore wryly.

In the tense silence that followed, Claymore looked around. The room was stark and bare. The furniture was limited to a table and three chairs, one for the lieutenant and one each for Claymore and Alex. Light entered the room from a high window located very close to the ceiling.

Another police officer, a detective, stood by the door but said nothing. He was there in case the suspect decided to get “physical”. He was also there to be a witness to protect the lieutenant from false accusations. Although the interrogation was being videotaped, with Claymore’s consent, and there was a technician on the other side of the one-way glass, there were times — on the way in and the way out — when the people were out of the watchful eye of the camera.

Also, the video camera might break down or run out of tape. Having the extra detective present was an added precaution.

“Can you think of anything else that might prove you were at home.”

Kropf was in his persistent mood.

“Like what?”

“Like a phone-call. Did anyone call you? Did you call anyone?”

Claymore shook his head. The monotonous drone of the air conditioning was beginning to take its toll. It was more irritating than the monotonous drone of Lieutenant Kropf’s voice as he kept up a steady stream of questions that carried with them more than a hint of quiet menace.

“I don’t remember.”

“If you called out from your phone then there’ll be a record on your phone bill. It’s all digital now so you should get an itemized bill.”

Alex was making a note of the suggestion. He sensed that the lieutenant was actually trying to be helpful: like he almost didn’t believe that Claymore was guilty.

“Okay,” Kropf continued. “If you’re confident on this one, we can get it now.”

The lieutenant was looking at Alex when he said this.

“How?” asked the lawyer.

“We can go to a judge and file a joint motion for a subpoena on the phone company records.”

“And you think the phone company’s going to haul ass tonight just ‘cause we wave a subpoena in their faces? Get real!”

Alex knew well enough what the lieutenant was up to. He was testing to see how confident they were. It wasn’t a legally binding test of innocence. But it was a good way to know whether or not he was wasting his time on a sure-fire loser.

“OK,” said Kropf, finally. “We’re not going to charge you client.” Claymore breathed a sigh of relief. “At least not right now. We’ll wait for the DNA results to come in and we’ll take it from there.”

Alex smiled. It was beginning to look like the storm had blown itself out before it hit dry land. But he noticed that Kropf looked far from deflated — like he still had one more card up his sleeve.

“Just one more question Mr. Claymore, what car do you drive?”

“Well I’ve been using taxis for the past couple of days.”

“Any particular reason?”

“My car was stolen.”

“Did you report it?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?

“I haven’t had the time.”

“What make of vehicle was it?”

“A Mercedes.”

“What color?”

“Blue.”

“A blue Mercedes?”

“Aquamarine if you want to get technical.”

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 19:30

“I’m beginning to think that nothing’s changed,” said Andi, bitterly.

They were sitting on the porch of their new house, dining alfresco in the California evening sun: penne pasta with chicken and mushrooms

“How d’you mean?” asked Gene, with measured sympathy. She wasn’t one to encourage self-pity, having seen — in the course of her work — what a self-destructive force it can be. Self-destructive and thoroughly seductive.

Andi attacked her food with a fork displaying such ferocity that Gene was forced to smile. It meant that Andi wasn’t succumbing to the demon of surrender. She was in fighting spirits and that was surely a good sign. She’d be out of it in no time at all!

“We uprooted ourselves from New York and relocated for what? It’s not a department. It’s just a meaningless title.”

“Give ‘em a chance honey. I mean it’s only your first day. Let’s see what they let you do.”

Gene was calmly re-assuring. She knew that Andi expected no less of her. It was a game they often played: Andi bitched about life and Gene pulled her back down to earth.

“I can just feel the vibes from the start,” Andi continued. “I’m supposed to be on the fast track for a partnership and yet I haven’t even got an office. They’ve stuck me in a glorified broom closet.”

Gene touched Andi’s forearm gently.

“I’m sure that’s only temporary.”

They ate on in silence for a few seconds. Andi was still sulking. But Gene was content to leave her to it. If Andi preferred to sulk for a while longer, that was her business.

I can’t be her mother all the time.

In the end, it was Andi who broke the silence — with a change of subject.

“So how was your first day?”

She couldn’t understand why Gene looked so upset.

“My first day? What? At the Center? Pretty hectic. I mean, I guess I should be used to it.”

“Are you understaffed?” asked Andi.

She knew perfectly well that they were understaffed. Rape crisis centers always suffered from a chronic shortage of employees, exacerbated by the low pay. They were the unwanted step-child of public expenditure in California, languishing even behind education. So when recession hit, the axe fell on their exposed and vulnerable necks. As a result of that, morale was low and the staff turnover rate was high. That’s how Gene got the job as soon as she applied, with nothing more than a four minute interview.

Not that Gene lacked the experience or training for the job. She had headed a Center in Brooklyn and had very impressive resume.

“Not only under-staffed, but also under-appreciated,” Gene echoed. “Everyone rails and rages against crime, but they’re more concerned with punishing the perpetrator than helping the victim recover from the trauma. Who needs to help the victim when you can get revenge. That’s the American way.”

This was unfair, and they both knew it. They both understood the desire for revenge all too well. But it was strange how guns always counted for more than bandages on the human balance sheet.

Now it was Andi who assumed a tone of sympathy.

“You’ve got something on your mind haven’t you?”

The voice was gentle. It was one of those spontaneous mid-conversation role reversals that characterized their relationship. Before, it had been Gene playing the firm but loving mother to Andi’s frustrated daughter. Now Andi was playing the sympathetic wife to Gene’s tormented husband.

“I had a case this morning…”

She trailed off, but Andi could read the rest of the sentence in the silence.

“They threw you in at the deep end?” This was something that Andi had been hoping for in her own job. But it wasn’t to be. Instead it was Gene who had the dubious privilege.

“Wha’d’you expect. Like I said, we’re understaffed.”

Andi put a gentle hand on her lover’s bare arm and noticed a scratch there.

“What’s bugging you? You’ve seen it all before. You know the score by now.”

A pained expression flipped briefly across Gene’s face.

“I’ve seen this before all right,” Gene muttered bitterly. “It’s the kind of case that sets off the talking heads on TV. Feminism versus race politics. A white girl raped by a black man.”

Andi, who had been taking a sip of her orange juice, gulped and put the glass down.

“The press’ll have a field day. It’ll probably turn into another ‘black rights versus women’s rights’ circus.”

“And don’t I know it Andi! The defense will raise the specter of the Scottsboro Boys and the prosecution will use everything they can throw at the defendant from Mike Tyson to O J Simpson.”

Andi nodded sympathetically.

“The old political correctness conundrum.”

“And caught in the middle of it is one frightened little girl, not yet out of her teens.”

“You think you can handle it?”

“Oh I can handle it all right. I’ve been there before, remember. The question is can the victim?”

“And can she?”

Gene shook her head, sadly.

“She doesn’t know what she’s letting herself in for.”

“Have they got a suspect?”

“Yes.”

“Has she ID’d him?”

“Yes. Only they released him pending DNA results.”

Andi sat forward, part eager, part concerned. She had known Gene long enough to pick up the nuances in her words as well as her tone.

“Well if she ID’d him then maybe she’s tougher than you think.”

“She’s not tough. She’s just naive. She doesn’t realize that she’s going to carry the can for two centuries of racial persecution.”

Saturday 6 June 2009 — 11:00

Albert Carter was an old man. Not a wise old man, not a crusty old man, not even really a frail old man. Just an old man who had lived a full life and been around the block a few times. He wasn’t in the best of health, having done his share of smoking and drinking, before he gave it up when he noticed it slowing him down a bit. But he was a lonely old man, having lost his first wife to divorce and his second to the grim reaper.

Oh yes, the Reaper.

There were many weapons in the Reaper’s arsenal, and Albert Carter couldn’t even pronounce the name of the disease that had claimed Hildegard.

His children were still around, but he had lost them to professional migration. He saw them at Christmas and on his birthday, but that was pretty much it. One lived in Utah and one in Boston. The one in Utah was a store manager and the one in Boston some kind of academic. He understood the work of the former more than the latter, but both had families and neither came out west very often.

So he spent his days, watching TV, reading the newspaper and — with diminishing frequency — bowling with his old friends. It was a dull, repetitive chapter towards the latter part of his book of life, but he had his basic needs and he didn’t want more. All he yearned for was a bit less arthritic pain. Oh yes, and he wished that the cops would do more to round up those gang-bangers who were turning the neighborhood into such an unpleasant place — he knew who they were… in a generic sort of way.

It was while he was watching the TV that he saw a report about the Bethel Newton rape case. They were saying how a famous local talk show host had been arrested and then released. They didn’t have any footage from the police station, but they showed a still photograph of the girl and stock footage from the man’s talk show. Apparently he’d been arrested after shooting the latest show, yet to be broadcast.

And that was when Carter got the feeling.

He didn’t remember the details too clearly — the whole thing had happened just too fast. But there was one thing that he remembered.

For a moment he hesitated, realizing that criminals could sometimes be vengeful towards people who “snitched.” But then he remembered his own, all-too-frequent words about the cowards who don’t speak out when criminals destroy their communities. He didn’t want to be like one of those people whom he routinely criticized. He knew now that it was his civic duty to speak out and he didn’t want to be like all the shirkers.

So he dragged his weary bones out of the comfort of his tattered, dust-ridden armchair and trudged over to the phone.

Friday 12 June — 9:40

Detective Bridget Riley was a victim chaperone, but not a counselor. Her duties involved being the principal point of contact between the investigating officers and the rape victim. The detectives investigating the case put most of their questions through Bridget. When they had to put questions directly or when others had to have contact with the victim, such as during the medical examination, the victim chaperone had to be there.

She had a sporty, athletic look about her, not the soft look of a movie queen, but the tough look of kick-boxer. Male colleagues found her attractive and her face, highlighted against a raven-haired background, was potential photographic model material. But what was a blessing in the world of Show Biz, could be something of a curse in the locker-room culture of the police.

Because of her looks, Bridget had been the target of sexual harassment by her colleagues. And like the proverbial “Boy named Sue” it had made her tough. She could take the complements with a smile and a shrug and when they became vulgar she hit back with a glib rejoinder like “in your dreams buster.”

When one of the rookies was bold enough to try and pin her against a locker, showing off in front of three of his friends, she deterred him from further action with a well-placed fist to the groin. He had been anticipating the knee and had been poised to block it with his leg, but the fist took him by surprise. Then she added insult to injury by asking him if he wanted her to kiss it better. The rookies never bothered her again; nor had anyone else in the department during the four years since.

At this moment, Bridget was sitting at her desk typing up a report on a domestic violence case for the DA’s office, when a female officer came over from the fax machine and dropped two sheets of paper on her desk. Bridget was a stickler for clarity as well as detail and so absorbed was she in getting the wording right that she let the fax lie there for three minutes while she played around with the phraseology of a single sentence.

Sarah Jensen, the Assistant District Attorney in charge of the Domestic Violence Division at the Ventura County DA’s office, was no less determined than Bridget to nail these “bastards” who beat their wives or girlfriends. But Sarah Jensen was a realist. She was also very ambitious. She knew that unsuccessful prosecutions damaged the reputation of the department, not to mention giving her a poor track record, personally.

She also knew that failures of prosecutions in such cases, gave right-wing politicians and news editors the chance to accuse the department of a feminist witch-hunt against men in the name of liberal political correctness.

So Bridget knew that she had to word the sentence carefully to give the impression that it was a winnable case. Whether it actually would be won was up to a lot of people: the prosecutor, the witnesses, the judge, even the jury. But Bridget was determined that the case should go to trial.

When she eventually looked at the fax, her eyes lit up. She scooped it up and rushed out of the room.

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 10:30

Elias Claymore’s Mediterranean-style villa stood in landscaped grounds on the sand of Montecito’s most prestigious beach and had breathtaking views of the ocean from nearly every room. Although the coveted syndication deal for his TV show had yet to materialize, he had done well out of his best-selling autobiography, his three follow-up books and the movie about his life.

To show for it, he had a huge living room with fireplace, bar and ocean view, a beachside kitchen, two beachside bedrooms each with a fireplace and a third at the back. Even the office had an ocean view. There was also a separate guest apartment, a large beachfront deck, a sunset view seaside spa, majestic trees and flowering gardens and 75 feet of private beach front.

Sitting on a lounging chair on the deck, looking out onto the ocean and thinking about his present surroundings, Elias Claymore realized that crime and repentance had served him well. It was a far cry from the ramshackle hut where he had been born and the rat-infested ‘hood where he had grown up. But how far had he really come?

“You can take the man out of the ghetto,” the racists had taunted. “But you can’t take the ghetto out of the man.” And much as it pained his troubled conscience, the racists were right on this one, albeit in the most literal sense. For a ghetto is actually a place of retreat where one is surrounded by ones own kind yet constantly under threat from those outside. And right now he felt besieged.

His mind drifted back to what his life had once been like. He used to think that the pain was all over. He had never forgotten what he had done. But after all these years he thought it would no longer come back to haunt him. Yet, the events of the past week had proved him wrong — and it was like a slow, drawn-out torture.

He tried to soften the pain by reminding himself what had driven him to do the things he had done and become the man he became. But those memories were even more painful. Like the time he was nine when two white policemen raped his mother before his eyes. He had tried to stop them, but one of them had grabbed him and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to watch while the other “pig” had pinned his mother to the ground, ripped her clothes and forced himself into her as she screamed and begged for mercy.

She had brought up Elias all alone, without the help of a man, for most of Elias’s childhood. She had always been a strong figure in his early years, dishing out the punishment but also protecting him from the bigger kids in the ‘hood. But she couldn’t protect herself from this. And Elias Claymore learned in those few minutes that the mother, who had been like a pillar of support for the entire world as he knew it, was powerless in the face of this invading force in their own home.

And through his childish eyes, little Elias knew why. She was a woman — and women were weaker than men. He couldn’t expect a woman to protect him. It was for men to be strong and to protect women… or violate them. That was how it was in other households. He had seen the local pimps slapping their girls around and he quickly learned that this was the natural order in the world. It was normal for men to dominate women.

But these men who had invaded his house and were now raping his mother were not their men. They were an alien presence. These were the “pigs” who beat up blacks just because they were black. These were the people who called him “nigger” and made him afraid whenever they walked by, knowing that he daren’t respond to their racist taunts. And now they were here in his home, doing… this thing… to his mother.

He couldn’t blame her for being weak. But it was her fault that they didn’t have a man to protect them. She had driven him away. That’s what one of his “brothers” had told him. She had called Elias’s father a “no-good, drunken deadbeat” and thrown him out of the house. But now he realized how much they needed a man in this household… and they didn’t have one because of her.

He realized in that moment that one day he would be a man. He would be big and strong and then there’d be hell to pay! Because then he’d be able to fight back… and he’d hit them where it hurt. He’d hit their weak ones — their women.

He remembered telling his mother this… and he remembered the hurt in her eyes…

When he came out of the daydream, he did not feel good; he was hurting. And not just on the inside. Even his body was aching from the painful memories.

He felt that something must have shaken him out of his daydream. But he couldn’t be sure what it was. Then it happened again and he realized: it was a loud, aggressive knocking on his door.

“Who is?” he called out nervously as he approached the door.

“This is the police! We have a warrant for your arrest.”

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 13:00

“This time we’ve got a witness,” said Lieutenant Kropf.

“Who?” asked Alex.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Alex had flown down to Los Angeles from San Francisco at barely a moment’s notice as soon as he heard of Claymore’s second arrest, having told his client not to say a word until he got there. He knew that the cops would try their usual tricks — telling the suspect that they were more likely to believe him if he spoke freely on the record, without getting all “lawyered up.” But Alex had been firm.

“Don’t fall for it,” he had warned. “The issue is not whether they believe you, but whether they’ve got a case. They’re capable of talking themselves into anything. You just stay cool and hang in till I get there. If they’ve got no case, they can’t act. If they think they’ve already got one then nothing you can say will make any difference.”

Claymore had told Alex that he had stayed silent — and by the way he said it, Alex believed him.

“What exactly did this witness see?”

Alex assumed that some one hadn’t just stood there watching a rape and doing nothing about it.

“He saw your client running away from the crime scene,” said Kropf, regretting it a moment later.

Alex picked up on it. So the witness was a man… or a boy. Alex wondered if it was a child. That might explain him watching and not taking action. But Kropf had already said that he had seen Claymore running away from the crime scene, not that the witness had seen the rape. That was a very different thing.

Because Kropf had specifically said “saw your client” — not “saw some one.” That meant that an ID had already been made.

“Wait a minute, you put my client in a line-up when I wasn’t there?”

Alex knew perfectly well that they could do a photo line-up without the accused or his lawyer being present. But this was unusual when the suspect was already in custody. Then again, maybe the arrest took place after the line-up.

“We didn’t need to,” said the lieutenant, squelching Alex’s speculations. “He recognized him from the news reports.”

They hadn’t said anything about a witness at the time of Claymore’s first arrest. And even if he was right about the identity of the man running away, how did he know that it was from the scene of a rape? If he had known at the time, would he not have stayed to help the victim? Or given his name to the police? And would they not have said something about a witness at the time of the first arrest? And put Claymore in a line-up? But now they were saying that this man had recognized Claymore from the news reports. That meant that he didn’t stick around at the time.

Why not? Had he been afraid? Why would he be afraid if the rapist had run away? Was he afraid to get involved? Was he afraid of the police? Was he a criminal himself? Had he really seen something? Had he even been there? Or was he one of the legion of freeloaders who come out of the woodwork in high profile cases, looking to make a quick buck?

“Can I see his statement?” asked Alex.

“We haven’t charged him yet.”

This was true. If they did charge him, Alex would ask the DA. It would then become what was known as an “informal request” under Section 1054.5 of the Penal Code. That would give the DA fifteen days in which to give the defense a copy of the statement. And if he still hadn’t complied after that, Alex could take it to a judge and seek immediate disclosure or a delay proceedings until the disclosure requirement was met. The judge could also tell the jury about the DA’s failure and allow them to draw the own conclusions or even bar the witness from testifying. In extreme cases, the DA could even institute contempt proceedings against the DA or could. However, all of that was academic at this stage, because, as Lieutenant Kropf had said, they hadn’t yet charged Claymore — and it was possible that they never would.

Still, Alex had to protect his client from something called “impeachment by silence.” He could do this, by getting his client to invoke his right to remain silent. Even though he had made a previous statement, he could re-invoke the right now and be protected under the Caruto ruling. But he had another tactic to spring on them.

“If you show us the statement now, my client might be able to offer you some explanation. But if you don’t show it, we don’t actually know what we’re supposed to be answering, beyond your vague description.”

Kropf looked unimpressed at this feeble attempt to turn the tables.

“Explain what? Why your client was at a crime scene at the time of the crime? Or why he told us at the time of his first arrest that he was at home?”

Alex decided not to push it.

“The ball’s in your court Lieutenant.”

The door opened abruptly and Bridget entered. She signaled the lieutenant over and had a whispered word in his ear while the other detective kept an eye on Claymore. Alex noticed that she was showing her superior a piece of paper. The lieutenant was nodding seriously and the expression on his face looked grave. Alex suspected that this scene was being staged. He had seen this sort of thing dozens of times before, if not hundreds.

The lieutenant came back to the table.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asked Alex.

“Just cut the crap and spit it out,” said Alex.

“We just got back the results of the DNA test.”

Alex suspected that they already had the results before re-arresting Claymore. They wouldn’t have arrested him on the strength of the witness’s photo ID alone, when the test results were still pending.

“And?” asked the lawyer tensely.

“We didn’t have any DNA in the vaginal swab because the rapist used a condom. But the victim scratched the rapist’s face and so we were able to get a good DNA sample from under her fingernails. We’ve had the results in. Want to know what they were?”

“Spill it,” said Alex, realizing where this was going.

The lieutenant handed over the fax to Alex, watching his face for a reaction with a growing sense of excitement. But when Alex perused it, the emotion he felt was anger — not towards Kropf, but towards his own client. And when he showed it to his client, the look on Claymore’s face was one of confusion… and fear.

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 14:30

“Your Honor,” Alex Sedaka’s voice rang out confidently, “although my client has a criminal record, his last criminal conviction was over twenty years ago.”

They were in Court 13 of the Ventura Courthouse, in the same building where Claymore was being detained. It was a crowded courtroom that had recently been remodeled with backless spectator’s benches and a large cage for holding prisoners. There had been complaints about the new layout from defense lawyers, claiming that there was not enough room for them to talk to their clients in private. But the presiding judge had defended the new arrangement.

Being based up north in the Bay area, Alex had never had to practice here before, but he understood the court administration’s rationale. This was one of the busiest courts in the country, essentially a meat-factory for arraignments, scheduling motions and defendants’ pleas. It had to be designed with utility in mind, rather than comfort. And utility, in this context, meant the convenience of the court, not convenience of the lawyers. With 200 cases a day to process, user-comfort was a luxury that they couldn’t afford.

“Mr. Claymore has strong roots in the community,” Alex continued. “And for the last ten years has been a model citizen.”

In truth Alex was rather less confident than he sounded. The warrant for the second arrest had been a “no bail” warrant, because of Claymore’s past. Of course it had been issued before the judge had heard Alex’s carefully rehearsed arguments. But the fact that the warrant for Claymore’s second arrest had denied bail was a powerful indicator of which way the judge’s thinking was heading. Alex would have liked to file for an interim appeal. But he knew that his grounds were weak to non-existent. Denying bail to a man who had previously escaped from prison and stayed at liberty for several years was hardly unreasonable.

But his training and experience as a trial lawyer, permitted him to conceal the doubt — indeed required him to conceal it.

So it was with this turbulent mixture of emotions, that Alex was addressing the judge. Except that he was all too aware that he wasn’t addressing only the judge. The courtroom was packed with reporters and he knew how important it was to get the message out there into the stream of news as quickly as possible, to counteract the negative effect of Claymore’s well-known past.

It was inevitable that the media would dredge up Claymore’s history, and unlike Britain there would be no restrictions on public discussion of the facts of the case. Gag orders could be imposed at the judge’s discretion, but there was no automatic sub-judice rule in the United States as there was in Britain.

This was Claymore’s arraignment appearance — in effect his first appearance in court since his arrest, and predictably enough it had attracted a lot of public attention. As Alex sat down, a woman of about forty of average height with neat, jet black hair, rose from her chair to dispute the point. She was Sarah Jensen, the Assistant District Attorney who headed the Domestic Violence Division of the DA’s office. Alex had never crossed swords with her before but he was well-aware of her reputation. Some prosecutor’s are tough in their attitude and demeanor, but not really good at their jobs. Others were good but not tough. Sarah Jensen was both.

“Your Honor.” There was an angry, almost contemptuous edge to the voice. “Elias Claymore’s record is well-known and one part of it — which defense counsel conveniently failed to mention — is the fact that he not only raped six women in the past, but he also escaped from prison last time he was convicted and remained at liberty for several years. For this reason alone, he is a very serious flight risk.”

Alex was back on his feet.

“Your Honor, the Assistant District Attorney seems to have conveniently forgotten that my client returned to America voluntarily to serve out his sentence.”

It was Alex who, as a young law graduate who had only just passed his bar exams, negotiated the plea-bargain.

“And why should that outweigh the fact that he fled in the first place?” asked the judge, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

The judge was an old man, close to retirement from the bench. He had seen and heard just about every piece of bullshit that lawyers were capable of throwing at him, and if there were any new tricks to be learned — even from an experienced veteran like Alex — he would have been most surprised.

“Because it’s a more recent event, Your Honor. And in judging a man’s character, the court should give more weight to his recent past than his distant past.

He placed the emphasis on his key words, in the hope of neuro-linguistically “programming” the judge to respond as he wanted.

“You mean the fact that he returned to the United States to serve out his sentence after he escaped?”

“Precisely, Your Honor.”

The judge squirmed with mock-embarrassment and scratched his head.

“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, Mr. Sedaka, but he could hardly have done it before he escaped.”

The entire courtroom erupted with mirth at the judge’s wisecrack and Alex felt the frustration that goes with knowing that one faces an uphill struggle against a hostile judge — especially when the hostile judge has the law on his side.

The gallery was packed with journalists who had got wind of Claymore’s arrest. They sensed that this was the beginning of another media event, like the O J Simpson trial.

The ADA shook her head.

“Your Honor, if I might just add something at this juncture, there is nothing particularly confidence-inspiring in Mr. Claymore’s return to the United States, after he’d spent several years on the run as a fugitive from justice. He stayed away as long as he could hold out, until he decided that he preferred the comforts of an American prison to the hardships of a Third World dictatorship.”

Alex bristled with anger.

“Your Honor, anyone who thinks a prison is a comfortable place to be, should spend a couple of nights there.”

“I believe,” the judge replied solemnly, “that prison is supposed to be an unpleasant place… so that the inmates won’t want to go back there.”

Again, laughter erupted from the spectators.

“My point, Your Honor,” Alex replied, with growing irritation, “is that the Court should be guided in its judgment by considering the new Elias Claymore, not the old Elias Claymore. His absconding, like his criminal record, belongs to his past.”

“That’s something that the prosecution will no doubt dispute, and something that the jury will have to decide,” said the judge in his world-wary tone. “However, I’m inclined to accept that the defense has a valid point regarding the flight risk. The fact that Mr. Claymore returned to the United States to serve his sentence is a strong point in his favor. Also he does now have roots in the community. On the other hand I must also bear in mind the severity of the alleged crime and the fact that Mr. Claymore has a record for this sort of crime and the fact that he did once escape lawful custody.”

For almost half a minute Alex and the ADA waited in silence while the judge appeared to be considering his options.

“I feel that in this case, the accused’s record of escape outweighs any other factors. Bail is denied.”

Alex was angry.

“In that case my client stands by his right to a speedy trial.”

“That is your right, Mr. Sedaka. I’ll set the prelim fourteen days hence in Court 12.

In general lawyers are more amenable to a delay when their client is out on bail. Alex’s motive for refusing to waive the right was twofold. Firstly to put pressure on the DA — and thus indirectly on the judge — to reconsider the bail question. Secondly, if bail was to be denied, then he didn’t want his client sitting in jail for long. Jail is an unsafe environment at the best of times, and for a black man who was thought of as an “Uncle Tom” it was particularly dangerous. Black prisoners would hate him because of the perception that he had “joined the establishment” while on the other hand he could hardly expect any sympathy from cliques like the “Aryan Nation.”

Whether either of them would go as far as to try and kill him was another matter, but prison beatings were almost impossible to prevent. The only way Claymore would be safe is if he asked for isolation from the general prison population. But that would involve being put in a special section with all the sex offenders, including child molesters. Alex wasn’t sure if Claymore would be ready to seek this. Knowing Claymore, he’d probably try to tough it out — until it was too late. And this wasn’t an area in which Alex could advise his client. It was something Claymore would have to decide for himself.

After a brief whispered exchange, Claymore was led away to be taken back to the county jail that was also located in the building.

It was as Alex was walking away that he was approached by a dignified, sixty-something grey-haired man, who stiffly proffered his business card to Alex, by way of introduction.

“I’m Arthur Webster of Levine and Webster.”

“How do you do, Mr. Webster,” said Alex, tensely. “What can I do for you?”

“Let’s walk,” said Webster, indicating with his hand to the side exit from the court building. Alex was happy to comply, but felt alienated by the man’s manner, that appeared to straddle the fence between embarrassment and condescending arrogance.

“I should explain that we’re a local law firm, based in Los Angeles. We’re retained by the network that broadcasts Mr. Claymore’s show and we work extensively with SoCal Insurance where Mr. Claymore carries his liability insurance.”

“I’ve heard of you,” said Alex.

Webster seemed please by this.

“The reason I wanted to talk to you is because I understand that you’re actually based in San Francisco.”

“What of it?”

“Well Claymore’s insurance policy with SoCal Insurance includes legal liability and it occurred to us that it might be rather hard for you to represent Claymore down here in Ventura when you’re based up in the Bay area.”

“And you want…”

“We’d like you to step aside as attorney of record and let us represent Claymore.”

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 15:40

“You can represent him if there’s a parallel civil case. But I represent him in the criminal case.”

Alex was seated with the partners of Levine and Webster around the long oval rosewood table in the main conference room. Also present was Paul Sherman. The atmosphere had been tense even before Alex spoke. Now the tension had been ratcheted up to a new level.

“The policy covers everything — civil and criminal.”

“And if he’s found guilty, the insurance company’s going to send one of its directors to take his place in prison?”

“I mean it covers legal fees.” Webster insisted. “And the insurance company has specifically asked us to take the case.

“What they insurance company has asked you to do is irrelevant. Elias… Mr. Claymore — in other words, the client — has specifically requested my services.”

“Well in that case, he may have to pay you out of his own pocket. We are the designated law firm in the policy.”

Alex had kept his calm when Webster had first approached him and had agreed to this meeting “without prejudice.” But he was getting irritated now.

“I think Mr. Claymore is more than capable of paying my fees. And I’m more than capable of working pro-bono if necessary.”

“Oh come on Mr. Sedaka, you’re a one-man band. We’re a large law firm. We’ve got dozens of lawyers and a network of experts and other contacts that you can only dream about.”

“I’m not disputing your size, but that’s not necessarily an advantage. If the accused marches into court with an army of lawyers, that can actually count against him.”

“There’s also the logistical aspect. You’re up there in the Bay, we’re down here in the Basin. Ventura’s in our backyard. What are you going to do? Commute down from San Fran every day?”

“You seem to be assuming that the trial is going to stay in Ventura.”

“Are you going to move for a change of venue?” asked Sherman.

“I might. It certainly wouldn’t hurt if we could get it transferred to a county with better demographics.”

“I thought you wanted a speedy trial,” said Webster. “A change of venue motion will give them a pretext for a delay.”

“Also we’re in a better position than you when it comes to a change of venue,” added Sherman.

Alex’s ears pricked up at this.

“How so?”

“We’ve got a whole department for demographic analysis. And we work with LawData.”

LawData was a firm that provided support for law firms, including public opinion research and computer-based demographic analysis.

Alex thought about this for a moment.

“You may have a point. But it’s not for me to decide. It’s Claymore’s call. I’m his lawyer and I’m here for him as long as he wants me.”

“But you could talk to him,” said Webster, “convince him.”

“I’m not even going to try to convince him. The most I’m ready to do it put your offer to him.”

Arthur Webster leaned forward, like he was about to speak again. But a frail-looking man, who must have been pushing eighty, held up his hand to silence him. This was Aaron Levine, the senior partner in this firm. Webster slumped back into his seat and left it to his lifelong friend to address Alex.

“Could I ask you a question, Mr. Sedaka? Please don’t take this the wrong way, but is it a matter of professional pride? Because if so you needn’t worry. Your reputation precedes you. We all remember your remarkable achievement in the Sanchez case.”

The obsequious flattery was more irritating than the arrogance.

“It has nothing to do with professional pride. But I’m not just Elias Claymore’s lawyer: I’m also his friend.”

“Isn’t that all the more reason to step aside. A doctor wouldn’t treat a family member.”

Alex smiled at this. Levine was a playing the soft cop — a man of gentle persuation rather than blustering aggression. But Webster leaned forward again, unable to contain himself any longer.

“Just remember one thing Mr. Sedaka: we have resources that you can only dream about.”

“Then let’s pool our resources.”

This silenced them — Webster and the others — for a few seconds.

“What do you mean?”

Levine again. He was the only man in the room with the gravitas to break the silence, or the moral courage to meet Alex’s eyes.

“I’m offering you second seat.”

Webster’s intensity flared up again.

“We’re not asking for second seat. We want you to — ”

Again Levine’s hand silenced his partner.

“Could you elaborate?”

“Yes. Let’s work on this case together, with me as point man and your formidable resources to back me up. You pick your best man — or woman — to take second seat to report back to you.”

“But you lead?” said Levine, half-question, half-statement.

“I take first seat,” Alex confirmed in a tone of finality that made it clear that this position was not open to debate.

A cheerful smile graced Aaron Levine’s face, changing the mood for almost everyone.

“I think we can live with that,” he said, looking at Webster in a way that demanded his agreement. Webster nodded, his face taut to maintain its neutrality.

“Good. Then I guess we can roll up our sleeves and get on with it.”

The tension was collectively released from the lungs of those present and the awkward smiles spread like a contagion round the table.

“I think it stinks,” said Joanne Gale, a woman in her late thirties, sitting forward to meet Webster’s eyes. She was actually the only women partner in the firm.

“Why?” asked Webster.

“You know why. The man is a rapist.”

“A rape suspect!” Webster corrected. “And it’s never bothered you before.”

This was true. The firm had defended rape suspects before. Indeed Jo herself had taken first seat in several rape defenses — and in some of those cases there was little room to doubt the guilt of the accused.

“This is different. He’s done it before.”

“And he’s served his sentence,” said Alex. “But that doesn’t make him guilty this time. He’s not the same man now that he was then.”

“He got off lightly last time.”

“That’s not for us to judge.”

This was Webster again. Everyone else remained silent, including Alex. It was tempting to speak up in defense of Claymore, or even to lecture this woman on the finer points of legal ethics. But it wasn’t his job. If she had a problem with Levine and Webster being involved in Claymore’s defense, that was between her and her colleagues..

Again, it was left to Aaron Levine to break the silence.

“The question we should be focusing on is do we how do we go about winning? There’s not much kudos in losing a high profile case.”

The other partners, looked down or away, anything to withdraw from this pragmatic way of looking at the issue. Alex realized that the question was directed at him. He met the old man’s eyes.

“It's going to be an uphill struggle.”

“How steep uphill?”

Alex thought about this for a moment.

“There’s a lot of evidence for us to refute — not to mention that we still have to overcome the effect of Claymore’s past. It won’t be easy. The problem is I can’t desanctify the victim without seeming like a bully.”

“‘Desanctify the victim’?” Levine echoed softly.

Jo Gale spoke into the silence that followed.

“A euphemism for character assassination… used by sleazy shysters who like helping rapists and wife-killers beat the rap.”

Alex smiled, not in mockery, but out of respect for Jo Gale’s feisty attitude.

“I prefer to think of it as, leveling the playing field after the DA’s finished milking the sympathy of the jury for all it’s worth.”

“Well if you can’t ‘desanctify the victim,’” asked Jo Gale, “how do you propose to level the playing field?”

“By making Claymore seem harmless.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

Alex looked around the table to gauge the mood. It was obvious that no one else had anything more to say. This was turning into a grudge match between himself and Jo Gale.

“That’s very simple. A picture paints a thousand words.”

She rested her elbows on the oval-shaped table, and leaned forward, meeting Alex’s eyes implacably.

“And how do you propose to paint a picture for the jury without words?”

“By putting an attractive woman next to Claymore. She doesn’t even have to say a word on his behalf, just sit there looking comfortable and relaxed. That’s all it takes.”

Jo recoiled. It was an actual, physical retreat.

“You can forget it Mr. Sedaka,” said Jo. “‘Cause it ain’t gonna happen.”

Alex had to fight hard to resist the urge to smile.

Sherman, who until now had been leaning back in a desperate effort to make himself invisible, now sat forward, sensing an opportunity to earn some brownie points with the senior partners.

“There’s Andi Phoenix.”

All the other heads in the room looked round at him. But it was Jo who spoke — and her tone was audibly defensive, or rather passive-aggressive.

“Who’s Andi Phoenix?”

“She’s from our New York office. We needed some one to fill our victim litigation slot and she took the bait. She knew she wasn’t going anywhere in the Big Apple so she came out here.”

“Will she do it?” asked Webster.

“She’s hot and she’s ambitious. I know she’d just love a piece of the action. If you want a cute piece of ass to sit next to Claymore looking comfortable and keeping shtum, you won’t have any trouble convincing Andi Phoenix to take the seat.”

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 16:30

“I won’t do it!” said Andi, flatly.

This time they were in one of the smaller conference rooms: Andi, Paul Sherman and Alex Sedaka. When she was first summoned here, Andi thought she was going to be consulted about a civil lawsuit against a convicted criminal. It had been a rude awakening when she discovered what Sherman really wanted. In fact she had been so angered when he told her, that it would have had pacifying effect if he’d told her then and there that he was just joking and that what Alex really wanted to sleep with her.

She was standing by the window, half-looking out, half-glancing at this Laurel and Hardy pair of clowns. Alex met her eyes across the table, surprised by the ferocity of her resistance.

“Why not? It’ll be great experience for you — and a challenge.”

“Don’t patronize me. I’m past the stage when I need that sort of a challenge. And I’ve had plenty of experience back east — ”

“Oh my mistake,” said Alex, “I thought you came out here was because you hit the glass ceiling in the Big Apple.”

Andi felt like punching him in the face for the sarcasm. She felt like punching Sherman too for exposing her to it. But she contained her anger.

“That doesn’t mean I have to scramble for the dregs.”

“No one’s asking you to scramble. I’m coming to you remember. All I’m asking of you is your help for our client.”

“He’s your client not mine.”

“He’s Levine and Webster’s client,” Sherman stepped in. “That makes him your client too.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to prostitute myself defending him.”

“We’re not asking you to prostitute yourself,” said Alex. “We’re just asking you to stand up for the principle that a man is innocent until proven guilty.”

“Oh come off it Mr. Sedaka. What do you need me for? I’m a civil litigator.”

“You’ve had criminal experience,” Sherman cut in. “Working both sides of the fence.”

“There are plenty of criminal lawyers here with a lot more experience. Why do you need me?”

“Okay I’ll be honest with you,” said Alex. I don’t want you to play an active role. I just want you to sit next to him, make him look harmless. Look, you know the kind of pre-trial publicity this case is going to arouse — the sort of publicity it’s already aroused. They’ll drag in every incident from Claymore’s past. They’ve already compared him to O. J. Simpson. They’re going to savage his reputation before the case ever gets to trial. That’s what we’re up against.”

“And how do you think me sitting there next to him is going to refute all that negative pre-trial publicity?”

Alex met her eyes, trying to read her.

“When the jury sees a beautiful young women sitting next to him, it’ll melt away their prejudice. It’ll make him look like a normal, everyday human being. It’ll show them that he’s safe, harmless, inoffensive… not the monster that the prosecution is trying to make him out to be.”

“And you say you’re not asking me to prostitute myself?”

She was looking at him hard, telling him with eyes as much as her words that she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

“Look,” he said after a long pause and a deep breath, “Claymore has an image problem with Middle America. Everyone knows about his past, how he raped white women and said it was political. How he broke out of prison and fled to Libya. But he has the right to be judged by the evidence in this case — not his past history from when he was an angry and embittered young man.”

“I don’t deny that Claymore’s got a problem,” she conceded, shifting uncomfortably. “But trying to solve his image problem by asking me to sit next to him and make him look harmless is like… like trying to use my body to sell a product.”

“What product? We’re talking about a man’s reputation.”

“Then sell it like a reputation, with reasoned argument — not with head of bottled blonde hair and a pair of silicone-enhanced tits.”

Alex was about to argue, but again he fell silent as his face melted into a smile. He realized that there was an element of self-satire in Andi’s description of herself. Finally, he spoke again.

“Okay, you’ve nailed me. We’ve got to use Madison Avenue techniques. But you know what? We’re doing it in a worthy cause.”

“What you’re proposing goes way beyond Madison Avenue… more like Sunset Boulevard or Old Moulin Rouge.”

“All right Ms Phoenix,” said Sherman. “Let me lay it on the line for you. You’re an employee of Levine and Webster and I’m pulling rank.”

“Pulling rank?”

“Yes,” he said stiffly.

Alex said nothing. They were playing the old good cop / bad cop routine, and now it was Sherman’s turn.

“You seem to think you’ve got something to back it up with.”

“How about your future at this law firm?”

“My future?” she echoed, more amazed than afraid, more puzzled than angry. “I have a contract.”

“That cuts both ways. You’re refusing to work for one of our biggest clients.”

“Elias Claymore?” she asked incredulously.

“His insurance company.”

“Well if it comes down to it, I have a valid reason for not representing Claymore.”

“What reason?” asked Sherman.

“A conflict of interest.”

“What conflict of interest?”

“My… partner… she works at the Say no to Violence Rape Crisis Center. She might even be assigned to the victim in this case.”

“She could agree to hand over to another member of staff.”

“She may have had some contact with the victim already.”

“We can cross that bridge when we come to it. We can cite the defendant’s right to the representation of his choosing. You can agree not to talk to you partner about the case.”

“It’ll… put us under… strain.”

Alex noticed that she had mellowed in her objections: the tone of her refusal was no longer outright. But he also realized that things had been slipping away. And Paul Sherman wasn’t exactly gifted with tact. Alex knew that if he waited any longer, they’d lose her completely.

“Okay,” Alex cut in. “Try this.”

He half-turned and grabbed a couple of newspapers from a nearby shelf and threw them on the table.

“What are you doing?” asked Andi, her tone betraying her confusion.

“Wait!” he said, thumbing through the papers. “Just listen.”

Elias Claymore is the kind of man who expects people to believe he’s right whatever side he takes and whatever he says or does. When he was raping white women and calling it a revolutionary, political act, he expected us to think of him as a freedom fighter, not a criminal. When he fled to Libya and started preaching Islam, he expected to be thought of as a religious scholar. Then he ‘saw the light’ and found Jesus — as well as capitalism — and expected us to welcome him back to the fold with open arms. And like fools, we did. Now he’s accused of rape once again and, having come full circle, he asks us to believe that he’s an innocent man who is being victimized because of his outspoken political comments in the recent past.

“So what? Of course he’s going to get some hostile press.”

Alex wasn’t finished yet.

“Okay that’s the mainstream press. And it’s typical of the rest. Trust me, I’ve read through them all.” He pointed to a stack of newspapers on the cherry wood trolley beside the table. Now let’s see what black radical journals are saying.”

He grabbed another paper. This one was already open on the right page.

The chickens are coming home to roost for a Judas who betrayed his people for thirty pieces of silver. Elias Claymore, who once stood for the rights of his oppressed brothers now stands exposed as a hypocrite who places self-indulgence above any cause. This perennial campaigner, who keeps re-inventing himself whenever it suits him, has now run out of ideas and has finally reverted to type as a self-indulgent narcissist and egomaniac. Having turned against his own kind and sold his soul to the devil, he has now compounded his crime by bringing his brothers into disrepute.

When Claymore was a respectable figure of the Middle Class establishment, he was held up by conservatives as an exception to the rule, the black man who worked within the system and succeeded. This was in stark contrast to us “deadbeat” blacks who would never amount to much because we didn’t play by the white man’s rules. The rest of us only had ourselves to blame for our miserable plight because we were lazy and refused to abide by the rules and make use the system. But now that he has been exposed for what he really is, he will be held up as a typical example of the black everyman and the old stereotype of the black male, sex-driven monster will be resurrected yet again.

“Okay. That’s what we’re up against!”

“And you think…”

She stopped. There was no easy way to brush off an appeal to the fighting spirit within her. Bullying hadn’t worked, but this was quiet persuasion.

“Well what do you say?”

“I say…” She hesitated again., wondering if Alex could see the civil war raging within her.

Alex and Sherman looked at Andi, as if inviting her final answer. Ignoring Sherman, she stared back at Alex for a few seconds, breathing heavily as the stress of the argument slowly melted away. Then — not trusting her voice — she nodded her head in reluctant truce rather than surrender. He smiled gently as if accepting it with good grace.

“Okay,” said Sherman. “I’ll go now and leave you to start working.”

And with that, Sherman packed his papers into his attache case and left.

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 18:10

“The case took a dramatic turn today when it was revealed that Andromeda Phoenix — a civil litigator with Los Angeles law firm Levine and Webster — is to serve as co-counsel together with Alex Sedaka.”

Martine Yin’s voice was coming from the television window in the web browser on a computer.

“Ms Phoenix is in a relationship with a woman called Eugenia Vance, who works at the Say no to Violence Rape Crisis Center. In order to protect Elias Claymore’s right to the counsel of his choice, the court issued an injunction against Ms Vance having any contact with the alleged victim.”

Standing outside the courthouse, Martine was wearing her snooker vest, speaking to the camera in a dry, clipped tone. She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to depart from her trademark blue jacket, but she had worn the snooker vest a couple of times before and on both occasions had got a positive response in her mailbag. And she had a particular reason for wanting to emphasize her figure today. The network had been talking about putting her behind a desk in the studio and were evidently getting some funny ideas about parachuting in some ambitious spring chicken to fill her slot.

“Ms Phoenix’s participation was opposed by the prosecution. But after a long sidebar, the prosecution’s motion was denied. The DA’s office declined to say afterwards whether they would file an interim appeal.”

A woman’s hand reached out and clicked on the button to pause the news report. Then she returned her attention to the computer in front of her. With a click of a button she launched an E-mail package and started preparing a message to aphoenix@levineandwebster.com”.

This would put the fear of God into the bitch.

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 19:45

“So how did you manage to overcome her objections? asked Martine over her hors d’oevres of Torchon of Duck Foie Gras with House Poached Adriatic Fig in Muscat Wine.

A succession of light waves from the wrought iron candelabra rippled across the lace tablecloth. Ten minutes earlier, they had entered The Little Door. As they stepped through the wooden doors to the Patio, it had been like one of those movies where you pass through a gateway into another dimension. In an instant they had left the city behind them and entered a rustic world of bougainvilleas, ferns, a tiled fountain and a Koi pond. They could even see the moon through the open skylight.

“I don’t want this to end up on the evening news,” said Alex.

Martine made an up-and-sideways gesture with her right hand.

“Strictly off the record.”

This was one of Martine’s haunts. She had invited Alex here as a contrast to the slumming they had done last time, opposite the snooker hall. But Alex had no intention of letting her pick up the tab.

“We used a bit of gentle persuasion.”

He didn’t really feel comfortable telling her about the incident. It would probably make him sound like a bully. But the practice of law was a dirty business. They both knew that.

“We?”

Martine raised her eyebrows with a delicate smile as her hand — holding a piece of brioche toast — paused in mid-air, awaiting his answer.

“Paul Sherman and I.”

“You mean you blackmailed her?”

“I prefer to call it bribery,” he said with a guilty smile, after a short pause.

He attacked his own hors d’oevres of Farmers Market Butter Lettuce and Steamed Spring Vegetable, a light starter to allow room for his Filet Mignon and Roasted Fingerling Potatoes.

“So what was the carrot?”

This was a pun, alluding to piece of carrot poised at the end of his fork.

“I sold it as a fight for a man’s right to a second chance.”

His facial expression was nervous, as if he was expecting a torrent of skeptical laughter or a cutting verbal response. But Martine’s smile was both piercing and bewitching.

“And what did Sherman use as the stick?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come off it Alex. You were playing Good Cop / Bad Cop.”

He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, caught in the glare of Martine’s headlamps.

“Okay,” he acknowledged reluctantly. “You’ve got me. We did a little arm twisting.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. It must be pretty hard for her, with her lover working at a rape crisis center.”

“That’s a personal matter, They’ll just have to work it out for themselves.”

“You make it sound so easy. Imagine what it must be like for Eugenia Vance: one minute she’s doing her job, next minute she gets handed an injunction telling her she’s not allowed to have any contact with the victim.

“I’m sorry. I may have sounded a bit callous. But the judge didn’t exactly have a choice. He had to do it to avoid a conflict of interest.”

Martine’s face turned suddenly serious.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Alex had an uneasy feeling when he heard the words… and the tone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I also have a conflict of interest. I can’t cover the case and carry on going out with you.”

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 21:15

It was quite late when Andi arrived home. She had spent the day going over the case-file with Alex and then stayed on for a few hours after he left. It had been exhausting. They were racking their brains trying to figure out how they could refute the DNA evidence. All the other evidence could be effectively challenged and the seeds of reasonable doubt sown.

But the DNA was a problem — a real problem. It couldn’t just be swept under the rug. In the past, they might have been able to attack the science itself or throw up smoke screens to confuse the jury. But post O. J. Simpson, that was no longer an option. Most defense ploys are like magicians tricks that succeed because of their sheer surprise value, but can never be repeated.

But all of this was still way down the line. First they had to resolve the issue of trial venue. That was the big question that was going to come up at the pre-trial in two weeks time. And that was what Andi had to focus on now.

Gene was lying on the bed in her underwear in the dimly lit room, watching the wall-mounted TV, when Andi entered. Andi took off her street clothes in the walk-in closet by the door and then shuffled back into the bedroom barefoot and in her underwear, expecting Gene’s usual warm welcome. But this time Gene, lying on her side, didn’t even turn to look at her, leaving Andi hurt and confused. Gene was never cold like this, even if she was in a bad mood.

“Where have you been?” asked Gene, her eyes glued to the TV.

Andi was still perturbed by the fact that Gene was only presenting her with her back. She sensed that Gene had had a bad day as she climbed into onto the bed behind her lover, gently massaging Gene’s raised shoulder.

“At the office. I had a lot of paperwork to clear up. I’ve just started on a major case.”

“I know. I had a visit from a process server.”

Andi stopped massaging, but left her hands in place. She knew now what this was about.

“I was going to tell you. I didn’t think they’d serve it that quickly.”

“Are you angry?”

Gene turned round, brushing off Andi’s hands in the process. There were tears of anger in Gene’s eyes. This surprised Andi. It was very rare for Gene to cry.

“What do you think? I quit my job in the Big Apple and crossed the continent with you ’cause you couldn’t make it in New York and now you stab me in the back by getting them to serve me with an injunction so I can’t even do my job and help a rape victim?”

“It wasn’t my idea to get the injunction. I tried to use you as an excuse to refuse the case.”

“Use me as an excuse?”

“Conflict of interest. But they wouldn’t buy it. They said you could step aside.”

“You think maybe I didn’t want to step aside?”

“It wasn’t my decision.”

“You could have stepped aside! No one forced you to defend a rapist!”

“It’s my job,” she snapped, leaping off the bed. “And it’s alleged rapist!”

With these words, Andi stormed out of the room. With tears now streaming down her own cheeks, Andi went downstairs to the living room. She crossed over to the alcove that housed a desk and bookshelves, which they had set aside as a study and office. On the desk was a laptop PC, a docking station and a large monitor. Andi switched on the computer and waited for it to boot up.

When it had gone through its start-up routine, she clicked on an icon to launch an E-mail program and then clicked on a menu item to download her E-mail. It took a few seconds more for the computer to connect to the broadband and download the eMail. There were five messages. Four were from old, distant friends wishing her luck in her new job. But it was the fifth message that startled her. It read:

That rapist scum-bag Elias Claymore is unworthy of your assistance and deserves everything he gets. Make sure that you are not around when justice is finally delivered or you will only have yourself to blame.

Lannosea

An alarm bell went off inside her head, and the words “hate mail” flashed across her mind’s eye. But who sent it? And from where? Maybe they could be tracked down via their service provider. She scrolled up to the “From” field, and saw that it had come from a webmail address. It could have been sent from a public library or an Internet cafe. There would be no way to trace it to a person.

A range of emotions swept over her like a quick succession of waves. The first was a wave of fear; the second, anger. But if the first was a surfer’s tube-ride, the second was a tsunami.

And who the fuck was Lannosea?

Monday, 15 June 2009 — 10:25

“What’s she doing here?”

Elias Claymore’s reaction appeared to border on paranoia when Alex first brought Andi into the room at the Ventura Pre-Trial Detention facility that had been allocated for their conference.

“Allow me to introduce my co-counsel on this case,” said Alex. “Andi Phoenix.”

Claymore’s eyes darted away to Alex for a moment before returning to Andi, the suspicion lingering in his eyes.

“You didn’t say anything about co-counsel… nothing personal Miss Phoenix.”

“Oh, please, call me Andi,” she said, in a re-assuring tone that was clearly calculated to put him at ease.

She held out her hand warmly. Claymore hesitated before reaching out to shake it. Alex watched as they shook hands weakly. Then he held out his own hand, not to shake but to indicate a waiting seat. Claymore sat down, not taking his eyes off Andi. Andi followed suit, leaving Alex last to take his seat round the table.

“The first thing we need to talk about,” Alex began, “is a change of venue.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps I can explain,” said Andi.

She looked at Alex. He nodded.

“According to the latest stats, Ventura County has just under 700,00 °Caucasians and 17,000 African-Americans. That makes the state 2.1 percent Black and 87.5 percent White.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’m probably more unpopular with my own people at the moment.”

“I doubt that,” said Andi. “We’re talking about ultra-conservative Whites.”

Claymore tried to sound jovial.

“Well, hey… I’m a conservative!”

“I know Mr. Claymore and that might have worked if it was a minor charge. But this is rape and a lot of your natural supporters have already turned against you right now.”

“You’ve done an opinion poll?”

He grinned, desperately, trying to make light of the situation. Andi maintained her neutral face.

“We’re keeping an ear to the ground… and those are the vibes we’re getting.”

Claymore looked over at Alex, who nodded imperceptibly, content to let Andi earn her keep.

“In any case,” Andi continued. “We’re know from the stats that Ventura juries tend to be convicting juries.”

“What about Hispanics?” asked Claymore.

“Hispanics can be any race and they’re included in the black and white stats. But we have a separate figure of 287,000 Hispanic and Latino citizens. Of those, 272,000 are classified as White Hispanic. There are also some 50,000 Asian citizens who are likely to be hostile to working class blacks, but might admire you and a further 17,000 of mixed race who may be a bit more friendly. But those two groups combined are less than ten percent of the population.”

Claymore looked crestfallen.

“And what do we need? If we had the ideal choice.”

Andi was about to speak when Alex finally entered the discussion.

“Ideally, we’d have a jury of liberal whites.” He was going to elaborate on his reasons, but held back, realizing that it would sound just a little too cynical.

“So what can we do?”

Alex and Andi exchanged glances. In the end it was Andi who spoke.

“In the real world, the outcome of one controversial case can often have a knock-on effect on the next. In the O J Simpson case, the acquittal of the cops who viciously beat Rodney King was still fresh in the minds of the jurors. The truth of the matter is that a case that may be cast iron and watertight in the courtroom can fall apart in the jury room.”

“So are there any recent cases we can take advantage of?” asked Claymore. The cynical words fell uneasily from his lips.

“Unfortunately not. In this case, the key to winning was getting the right jury,” said Andi. “And that means holding the trial in the right district and then using challenges to prune and cherry pick the jury. Sometimes that might be as simple as getting a jury of the right ethnic group. In the O J Simpson case, the defense were able to get a predominantly African-American jury. In the Rodney King case it was an all-white one in Simi valley where a lot of cops lived.”

“And can we do that?”

Again Andi looked at Alex. Again he nodded to let her know that he was content to let her speak.

“In this case it’s a little more complicated. Even if we can get an all-black jury, it’s by no means certain that such a jury would favor you. Like you said, a lot of blacks have been alienated by your outspoken views.”

After a while, Claymore broke the silence.

“Could I ask a personal question Miss Phoenix? Did you volunteer for this job?”

Alex felt a stab of fear, wondering if Andi’s answer was going to be tactful or brutally honest. But whatever it was to be, he knew that he couldn’t interfere now.

“That’s not a personal question,” she replied with a reassuring smile. Claymore was watching her closely. “I…”

She looked at Alex. But his face offered her no hint of assistance. “I was asked by Mr. Sedaka to help, and I agreed. Alex was… most convincing.”

Alex coughed nervously. In front of him were several copies of the evidence report, at this stage a mere dozen pages stapled together.

“OK, I think we’d better get a move on. We’re working on some research for the change of venue motion, but in the meantime we need to review the evidence.”

He handed copies of the report to Andi and Claymore.

“The case against you appears to be made up of the following. One: a statement of the alleged victim including the second of two photo line-ups. Two: a medical report about the victim’s physical condition right after she reported the incident. Three: police photographic evidence of same. Four, a DNA comparison between crime-scene DNA and reference samples taken from you and the alleged victim. Five: eye-witness evidence after the alleged rape that you were seen running from the crime scene. Six: your arrest record — six counts of rape. We may be able to block that, depending on how we want to fight the case, but in practice it was so high profile, every member of the jury is going to know about it long before they enter the courtroom.”

“I don’t know where they got this stuff,” said Claymore shaking his head, “I mean all that other stuff.”

“Some of it’s easy enough to demolish,” said Alex. “The witness who saw you running away is weak. But the real problem is the DNA and the medical and photographic evidence. The visible injuries to the girl make it hard to argue consent and the DNA makes it equally hard to deny that a sexual encounter took place.”

“I don’t understand how they could’ve got DNA evidence.”

“How do you mean?” asked Andi, suspicion creeping into her tone.

“I never touched her. I’ve never even met her.”

“All right,” said Alex. “We’ll go into that in a moment. But first let me make one thing clear: we can argue that the sex was rough but consensual or we can argue DNA contamination and see if we can come up with anything. But not both. We have to nail our colors to the mast quite early. In effect you’ve already committed us to saying that it’s mistaken identity because of what you told the police. Technically we can still change your story, but it won’t look good.”

“But why should I change it? I never even met the bit…”

For a few seconds they all avoided each other’s eyes as they realized what Claymore had been about to say.

Monday, 15 June 2009 — 13:00

“There goes Uncle Tom.”

There was mocking laughter and jeering as Elias Claymore shuffled his way to the end of the table.

“Watch where you’re sitting!” snarled the man next to him, as Claymore barely brushed against him when he sat.

Claymore tried to ignore the taunts. But when he raised the food to his mouth, he felt a sharp elbow in the rib cage, making him drop it. He knew that this was the test. If he showed weakness now, they would make his life a living hell. He had to stand up to the bullies before they saw him as easy prey.

“Look cut it out!” he shouted, leaping to his feet and turning to face his attacker.

The man rose to face Claymore. They were evenly matched for size, but the man was a lot younger and probably a lot fitter.

“You talkin’ to me Tom!”

The words were backed up by an open-handed shove.

“Yeah you!” Claymore shot back, shoving the man equally hard.

Then the man took a swing at Claymore. Claymore ducked and dove in under the younger man’s guard, clamping on a side headlock and a hooking his right leg around the younger man’s left leg in a grapevine. The young man took a swing at Claymore with his left fist, which Claymore deflected with his open right. But he couldn’t avoid the younger man’s rabbit punch to the back of his head, a second before he swung the man round and grappled him to the ground.

At that point the whole place erupted into pure chaos as a nervous guard hit the panic button

Monday, 15 June 2009 — 16:35

“So when are you going back to LA?”

Alex was sitting with Juanita in the reception of their San Francisco office on the 15th floor of the Embarcadero Center. He had flown back that afternoon, after the consultation with Claymore, and was now briefing his paralegal on the background to the case.

“We’ve got the prelim in twelve days and I’m planning on pushing hard for a change of venue.”

“What are the chances?”

“Well the DA will fight us all the way. It’s Sarah Jensen. I don’t know if you’ve heard of her.”

“I’ve heard of her,” said Juanita. “Ventura County Domestic Violence section. The rumor mill says she’s got her sights set on her boss’s job.”

“And her boss has his sights set on Sacramento.”

“Exactly. Anyway, we already had a fight on our hands about Andromeda Phoenix taking second seat and we won that. But that’s ‘cause she didn’t really have a leg to stand on. That means she’ll be even more determined on this one. And she’s got time to do her homework so it’s going to turn ugly.”

“Maybe you should step aside and let it turn into a catfight. Assuming she’s good enough.”

“Oh Andi’s good. But I don’t know if she’s fully-”

The phone rang. Juanita picked it up.

“Alex Sedaka’s office… oh hallo, Ms Phoenix… I’ll put you through right away.”

She put the call on hold.

“I could have taken it here,” said Alex.

“I need this phone free for other calls,” said Juanita in her sharpest tone. “This is an office.”

“Okay boss,” he said, with a smile, as he rose from his chair.

Juanita put the call through to his office before he got there, making sure that his phone was ringing by the time he went through the door.

“Hi Andi,” he said into the handset.

“Hi Mr Seda — Alex. Listen, I’ve been working here with the demographic department at my firm and we’ve been trying to figure out which are the best counties to try the case. We’ve come up with a list of counties based on demographic analysis and some public prejudice questionnaires.”

“And which counties are they?”

“Well the best is Alameda. I emailed a file over to you. Take a look at the demography. It has about 300,000 Hispanics to 200,000 African-Americans and half a million white non-Hispanics. It’s also got 350,000 Asians, who may or may not be friendly to Claymore. We’ll have to run some surveys to check that out.”

“Okay. But the 200,000 African-Americans won’t necessarily be too friendly to Claymore.”

“No, but I was thinking about this white liberal issue.”

“What about it?”

“Well, you can cherry pick the liberals at the voir dire.”

“Yes, but whatever cherry picking we try and do, the prosecution will do the opposite.”

“I know that. But it’s a question of how many liberals there are on the panel.”

“Yes, but like you said, Andi, there’s no such thing as a white liberal county.”

“Alameda’s the closest you’ve got. Don’t forget Berkeley right on your doorstep.”

“You could be onto something,” Alex conceded. “The trouble is, the prosecution has ten peremptories too — and they’ill fight us every step of the way.”

“Only if you tip your hand.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you make it look like you’re afraid of a black jury and wary of Asians, they might just go for it themselves. The trick is to let the judge suggest it as a compromise.”

Alex thought about this for a moment.

“Andi, if you were here right now, I think I’d kiss you.”

Friday, 26 June 2009 — 11:20

“…In addition to the unfavorable comments on the talk radio stations, an opinion poll in the area has shown that seventy eight percent of the women and ninety six percent of the men in the district believe my client to be guilty.”

The judge in Court 12 at the Ventura Country Superior Court appeared to be listening attentively to Alex, giving no impression on his stony face of which way he was inclined to go. If he had formed an opinion, his face was not saying.

“Clearly,” Alex continued, “it would be impossible for my client to receive a fair trial in Ventura County under these circumstances. On the other hand there have been no such signs of prejudice in Sacramento.”

Andi was watching Alex as he spoke. Sacramento was eleven percent Black and eighteen percent Hispanic.

“Any addition to your earlier response Ms Jensen?” asked the judge, looking over at the prosecutor. Sarah Jensen rose, sweeping a strand of her black hair out of her eyes. She paused for a moment, as if trying to assess the judge’s current state of mind. This was a tricky matter, and one so sensitive that the entire outcome of the trial could hinge upon it. What happened here today could render everything that followed largely irrelevant. So the ADA had to pitch it right… just right.

“My only argument is what I said in response to the defense counsel’s earlier argument, namely that the voir dire should be sufficient to weed out any prejudiced jurors, as long as the panel is large enough. However, I would also point out that defense counsel appears to be trying to relocate the trial to a venue with more favorable demographics.”

“Are you suggesting that the demographics of Sacramento are likely to be pro-defense” the judge prompted.

“Not necessarily. But it does have a higher percentage of bla — of Mr. Claymore’s own ethnic group. ”

Alex knew that the ADA had to chose her words carefully. She wanted to accuse the defense of trying to get more blacks onto the jury, but by opposing it, she was effectively saying that prosecution was going out of its way to prevent that.

“But there’s nothing constitutionally improper about the demography of Sacramento is there?”

The judge was smiling as he said this. Sarah Jensen’s embarrassment was palpable

“I… we.. that is, the prosecution accepts that there is a case for a change of venue. And obviously it should be away from the south and possibly in the Bay area. But Sacramento would not be the best choice”

Alex saw his opportunity and pounced.

“If the DA is concerned about the demographics of Sacramento, the defense is quite amenable to a county where the demography is more to their liking, like Santa Clara.”

Sarah Jensen blushed. They both had the stats in front of them and Sarah knew that while Santa Clara County — Silicon Valley — was 2.7 percent Black and 62 percent white. But many of those white people were working in the computer industry, where there was a high proportion of liberals and libertarians, unlike the traditional conservatives of Simi Valley in Ventura. But Sarah Jensen could hardly use this in her argument.

“We would prefer San Mateo or Marin County — or even Napa.”

“What do you say, Mr. Sedaka” asked the judge.

Alex knew that he had succeeded in the first part of his objective: getting the DA and the judge to accept relocation to the Bay area. Now he had to get the judge to choose the one he wanted. That meant making it look as if he wanted somewhere else.

“Your Honor, we believe that many of the people who are most prejudiced against my client are actually those who the prosecution seems to think are biased in his favor.”

“Does that mean you agree to Ms Jensen’s suggestions?”

“Well we’d prefer San Joaquin or Solano. Maybe Contra Costa.”

“What about Alameda?” asked the judge. Sarah Jensen looked as if she was about to say something, when Alex spoke up quickly.

“Side bar Your Honor?”

The judge agreed. Alex and Sarah approached the bench.

“Your Honor,” Alex said putting on his most embarrassed tone of voice. “Alameda county is twenty percent Asian. It’s a well-known fact that a lot of Asians are prejudiced against Blacks and this would deny my client a fair trial.”

“Oh do me a favor!” said Sarah. “There may be some limited residual prejudice against working class blacks. But Claymore is hardly working class. Besides, Mr. Sedaka can use the voir dire to weed out any biased jurors.”

The judge turned back to Alex.

“That makes sense doesn’t it?”

Alex fought hard to maintain a neutral face and shrugged his shoulders.

“That depends on how reasonable the judge is when it comes to accepting challenges for cause.”

“Well I have to assume that a brother judge will be reasonable,” said the judge. “And if you think he abused his discretion you can always appeal.”

Alex used the full range of his acting skills to look like a man who was trapped.

“There’s also the problem of transportation. My office is in San Francisco and that means I’ll have to cross the Bay Bridge during commuter times.”

“Yet you were ready for San Joaquin or Contra Costa,” said the judge, sarcastically.

“Those were second choices,” said Alex feebly. “I still think Sacramento or Santa Clara jury would be more likely to approach this case with open minds.”

“Well you can file an exception for the record. In the meantime it’s decided. The trial will be transferred to Alameda County.”

As they returned to their places, Alex continued his struggle to suppress a smile that was just itching to appear on his face.

Friday, 26 June 2009 — 12:05

“So what’s this weakness you’ve found in their case?” asked Claymore.

They were in a meeting room at the Ventura County Pre-Trial Detention Facility, where Elias Claymore was being held. Alex was taking the lead this time, while Andi sat in almost total silence. And he sounded quite enthusiastic.

“She changed her story… about the attacker’s age.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well initially she told the police that her attacker was in his twenties. They had a photo line-up — they even had a suspect tucked in there with the pictures — but she didn’t chose him.”

“I don’t understand. When they said she picked me from a photograph, I thought that meant she picked me from a book of mug shots.”

“No they don’t do that anymore. They discovered a long time ago that after looking at hundreds of pictures, the witness’s vision becomes so blurred, they can’t tell a stranger from their own mother. It actually led to erroneous arrests in the past and also let guilty people slip through the net. They sometimes use an artist’s impression or E-fit picture when they’re planning on asking the public to help find an unknown suspect.

“But in this case they used mug-shots as a cheap alternative to a line-up if they already had a suspect. It’s called a “photo-lineup.” Instead of hauling in a suspect and risking a civil rights suit, they use photographs of suspects mixed in with pictures of law-abiding citizens matching the description. In fact they can even use out of date pictures. As long as the picture of the suspect is up-to-date and as long as the faces in all the pictures matched the description of the suspect given by the witness, then the identification is valid.”

“But can they do that without my knowledge? Without an attorney present?”

“Sure can. US versus Ash, 1973. But we can challenge it before the jury.”

“But if she told them I was in my twenties, then what picture of me did they put in there? As I am now or when I was in my twenties?”

“When you were in your twenties?”

Claymore looked confused.

“Doesn’t that invalidate the whole thing?”

“No, you don’t understand, Elias. She didn’t pick anyone.”

“So what was all that bullshit about her picking me from a photograph?”

“That was later. After lunch she went back and told them that she’d had second thoughts and that the man who attacked her was older than his twenties.”

“But I’m fifty eight. How’d she get from twenties to fifty eight?”

“Good question. I think they were skeptical too, although their reports are written in that terse police language that doesn’t make it obvious what they were thinking. You have to read between the lines.”

“But I mean what did she say? Did she just come out with something like ‘he was twice as old as I said at first.’

Alex handed Claymore a copy of the statements. Claymore picked it up and started reading through it as Alex spoke.

“She said she now thought that he was in his fifties. But she explained that the reason for the change of heart was because she actually saw him.”

“What do you mean saw him?”

“I mean saw you. Not in the flesh, but on the TV. She said she was passing an electronics store and she saw you on a TV screen in the display window. It was your show. And that was when she realized — so she said — that it was you.”

“But I mean didn’t they notice the age difference. I mean you said that she said. But didn’t they ask her about it. Didn’t they ask her to explain the discrepancy?”

“They did, but she just said she was mistaken. She claimed that she was under stress. Which is reasonable.”

“But how can stress make her mistake fifties for twenties?”

“That’s the question they don’t seem to have asked. Or if they did, they didn’t receive any answer, as far as I can determine. And that’s the question that we’re going to ask if this case gets to trial.”

“But how come you didn’t notice this before? I thought you were on the ball man.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It looks like I took my eye off the ball. But you have to understand Elias, I was so pre-occupied by the DNA, I only speed-read her statements. Once I went back over them, it practically jumped out at me. But now that I’m onto it, we have an Achilles heel to attack. But they’re still going to keep hammering home the argument about the DNA.”

JULY

Wednesday 15 July 2009 — 12:40

“The defendant, Elias Claymore is charged with Rape Under section 261 Part a, paragraph 2 of the California Penal Code. How do you Plead Elias Claymore, Guilty or Not Guilty?”

“Not Guilty”

Claymore sat down, looking around the courtroom nervously. He had been brought here for the arraignment on the Information — the document filed by the prosecution within 15 days of the preliminary hearing, setting out the details and particulars of the charges. They were in Court 11 of the Rene C. Davidson Courthouse on Fallon Street in Oakland, before Justice Roberts the judge who dealt with the Master Criminal Calendar.

Alex remained standing.

“Your Honor at this stage I would like to renew my request for bail in accordance with my written submissions.”

Sarah Jensen — who had hung on to the case for the time being — rose to reply. But the judge stayed her with a raised hand.

“I’ve considered your submissions carefully Mr. Sedaka, but I see no reason to re-open the original decision to deny bail. This is truly an exceptional case in every sense of the word, but I am bound to consider the defendant’s past as an escapee and for this reason I cannot grant bail.”

Alex gritted his teeth. It was particularly hard on Claymore, because he was still being held at the Pre-Trial Detention Facility in Ventura to the Santa Rita Jail in Alameda County. To get to this hearing, he had been driven for six hours — across 375 miles from Ventura — to get here for this ten minute hearing.”

“In that case, Your Honor, I move that the defendant be transferred to the Santa Ritter jail.

The Santa Ritter Jail, in Alameda County had been modernized in 1989 and was now classified as a modern “mega-jail” complete with solar panels for power and a system of robotic carts to move food, laundry and garbage. However, despite this, it was heavily over-crowded and quite a violent place. There had been a number of “shank” stabbings there — several of them fatal. But Claymore was equally vulnerable in Ventura and at least in Santa Ritter he would be close to the trial venue… and close to Alex’s office.

“So ordered. Now, regarding the trial date. Does your client waive the right to a speedy trial?”

“No Your Honor.”

The judge peered down at the papers in front of him. If he had granted bail, Claymore would probably have been more amenable to waive his Sixth Amendment rights. But it was understandable, given that Claymore was to be held in custody, that his lawyer wanted the trial to take place as quickly as possible.

“I see that the Information was filed in Ventura County on the 26th of June. That means the trial must commence by the 25th of August. I also see that there’s a vacant slot on Justice Ellen Wagner’s docket in Court 7 between the August 17th and September 4th. Does that allow enough time for the trial?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Alex, nodding.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Sarah Jensen confirmed.

“So I’ll assign the case to that slot. Voir dire to commence on the 17th of August.”

Wednesday 15 July 2009 — 15:15

Later that day, Elias Claymore was looking around uneasily as he was escorted out of the central block where he had been processed to his assigned block. He had survived at the Ventura pre-trial facility, but this was a new and unfamiliar environment and he would have to go through the process of adapting and acclimatizing all over again.

As he shuffled along, he was torn between whether to keep his head low and avoid antagonizing anyone, or to hold his head up to show that he wasn’t a natural victim.

He opted for the latter and was surprised to hear some of his fellow inmates actually cheering him. That was an encouraging sign. But it didn’t alter the fact that prison was prison. He was familiar with it, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. He had never allowed himself to become institutionalized either before his escape or when he came back to serve out his sentence afterwards.

Since then, his financial success had accustomed in the lap of luxury. But the last month had re-acquainted him with prison and all its horrors. And in many ways this time it was worse. Last time around he had been a hero — at least in the eyes of his brothers. He was the freedom fighter who had stood up to the enemy. But this time he could feel the hostility all around him, and he could count on no one.

So when he walked now, it was with a sense of alertness and caution.

He was not looking forward to the trial. Alex was a good lawyer, but the evidence was stacked up against him. Worse still he feared that Alex didn’t believe him. And it was hard to take his mind off the case. If he didn’t think about the future, then all he had left to dwell on was the past. And that was even more painful. For it was not just his childhood that he had to contend with, but also his young adulthood — when he had turned from victim into victimizer.

He remembered the time he had followed a white woman home at the start of his campaign of vengeance and then forced his way into her house, smashing open the French windows from the garden to get at her. She had screamed as he approached her but he clamped his hand over her mouth to silence her. He then threw her onto the sofa and ripped her clothes off her. And as she begged and pleaded, he raped her.

But he didn’t hear her cries. He heard only those of his mother — those of his memory. But even those cries were drowned out by something else. In his mind he heard the smug voices of the callers to the talk radio station, who phoned in when they were discussing the rape of his mother. They came on the air one after another to say that the “black woman” was “lying” and that she was “probably just a hooker who didn’t get paid.” He was seeing the skeptical looks on the faces of the people on the TV show as some long-winded liberal lawyer tried to defend his mother’s reputation — not attacking the white “pigs” who raped her, just defending her reputation, but failing. And he remembered that the slanderous comments about his mother came from white women as well as men, speaking in their smug, sanctimonious middle glass accents about they “felt sorry” for this woman, but she “only had herself to blame.”

It had been incomprehensible to him. His mother had been raped before his very eyes, but whenever people discussed the case, those who claimed to speak for his mother were on the defensive, while the viciousness of the fascist pigs was never even talked about. His mother had complained to the police. But after his uncle had been beaten up and arrested on trumped-up drugs charges, she withdrew the complaint. It never even got to court.

That was white man’s justice — and white woman’s.

So when he raped white women as a “revolutionary act,” the pangs of guilt were numbed by the pain of anger.

His thoughts were truncated by large shadow in front of him and a sharp pain in his abdomen. He looked up to see a man in front of him. But in seconds the man was gone. Then he felt something wet against his flesh and he looked down to see blood accumulating on his torso.

Wednesday, 15 July 2009 — 16:30

While Andi sat in lounge at San Francisco International Airport waiting for her flight, she decided to check her eMail on her BlackBerry. Most of the messages were routine and work-related, but one of them gave her pause even before she read it. The reason it leapt out at her was because of the sender’s name: Lannosea.

What was it this time?

Andi moved the pointer to the message and then clicked. The message read:

You are playing with fire by helping that rapist nigger and that blackmailing sleaze-ball lawyer of his. If you had any guts — which you obviously don’t — you’d have told that slimy Sherman and that hypocrite Sedaka to fuck off when they badgered you into helping him. Instead you just lay down and spread you legs — figuratively speaking. I guess that makes you a rape victim too — or maybe just a whore!

Lannosea

A mixture of fear and revulsion broke out inside Andi as she starred at the message. Who was sending these messages?

She logged onto the Internet and quickly looked up Lannosea on Wikipedia.

Nothing.

She did a general search for the name but only found three listings. Two were flagged by warnings that they were dangerous websites that might contain spyware. The third was one of those question-and-answer websites and all it said was that Lannosea was one of the daughters of the ancient English queen Boudicca or Bodecea.

What on earth did it mean?

But there was another question nagging away at Andi. How did this “Lannosea” know that Sherman and Alex had badgered her into working on the Claymore case? She hadn’t told anyone.

Wednesday, 15 July 2009 — 18:05

Alex was reading through the report about the case, trying to find other weaknesses. So far, Bethel’s change of mind was the only one. But it looked like the most promising. The only thing that Alex was worried about was that it seemed like such an unlikely change of mind that he was wondering if the DA’s office had a trick up their sleeve.

Aside from that, he also had the problem that this was not a case that depended on the testimony of the victim. They also had DNA evidence. If Claymore had said that he had consensual sex with Bethel then it would have been a whole different ball game. They could have argued consent. Although the medical evidence and pictures made that difficult, the defense at least had breathing room.

But Claymore had closed the door on that by claiming that there had been no sexual contact between himself and Bethel Newton — and even that he had never met her.

That left Alex and Andi with the problem of explaining why she had accused him. Of course the obvious answer was that she had been attacked by some one who looked like him. Alex had even played a long shot by asking Claymore if he had an identical twin. But Claymore responded with such a withering look that he didn’t have to open his mouth for Alex to know perfectly well what the answer was.

The phone rang. Alex picked it up. Juanita told him that it was a call from the Santa Ritter jail. Alex said he’d take it.

“Hallo Elias.”

“Pardon?” said an unfamiliar voice.

“Oh I’m sorry,” said Alex, I thought you were some one else.”

“This is the deputy governor of the Santa Ritter jail. I’m afraid I have to tell you that your client, Elias Claymore, has been stabbed.”

“Stabbed?”

“Yes sir, but not fatally. He’s in the jail hospital. We have a fully equipped hospital here.”

“But how did it happen?”

“Usual story… a fellow inmate with a shank.”

Alex was surprised to hear this described as “usual.”

“How serious is it?”

“It was pretty serious. He was stabbed in the stomach. They’re still operating, but the anesthesiologist came out a couple of times and said it looks like he’s gonna make it.”

Alex breathed a sigh of relief.

“Did you catch whoever did it?”

“Not yet, but we’ve got CCTV so we’ll look at the tapes.”

“Okay what about security for my client?”

“We’ve got guards posted outside the operating theatre and we’ll keep him in protective solitary until the trial.”

Until the trial?

Alex sensed the full import of these words. If Claymore was found guilty and imprisoned, he wouldn’t be kept in solitary any longer. He might be transferred to an open prison, but he’d have to join the general population. Alex realized in that moment that this wasn’t just about his client’s freedom. If he didn’t secure an acquittal, Elias Claymore’s life wouldn’t be worth two bits.

Thursday, 16 July 2009 — 16:20

When he opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was. All he could see was that the walls were white. He tried to gather his wits. The last thing he remembered, he had been thinking about his early life and the crimes he had committed. Was that where he was now? In prison? Had it all been a dream? Had he never really been released? Or escaped?

He struggled to remember.

He had joined several black power groups as they struggled to liberate themselves — and some of them had used rather clever tactics. For example, they availed themselves of the Second Amendment right to “keep and bear arms.” But when the White Establishment decided that the second amendment wasn’t quite so sacred — now that the Brothers were asserting their rights under it — the movement split. Most of them didn’t want to risk their newfound support among the white liberals by falling afoul of the new gun laws. But Elias Claymore held out for continued bearing of arms, arguing that self-defense still required possession of guns and that in any case the White Establishment had no right to change the rules in the middle of the game.

After serving a one-year stint in prison for firearms offences, he came out angrier than ever and over the next two and a half years he raped five white women, after “practicing” his technique first on three black ones.

By this time, the Brothers regarded him as more of an embarrassment than an ally and it was widely rumored that it was one of his own who betrayed his hiding place to the FBI. He still remembered the day the Feds came for him. It was anger, not fear, that he felt as he saw the flickering lights in the distance and knew that he had nowhere to run from the vast convoy of lawmen that it had taken to bring him down.

He considered fighting to the death and taking down as many of the “pigs” with him as he could. It was not vainglorious courage. If he went to prison, he fully expected to be killed there. So he saw no reason not to make his last stand here and now. But he realized that if he could at least have his day in court, he would have the one thing that the White’s Man “free press” had denied him until now: a platform from which to speak and from which his message would surely be heard.

He was arrested and charged with six counts of rape, based on the testimony of those who came forward. Sentenced to nine years, he escaped after one, under the cover of a prison riot, with the aid of another group — this one basing its ideas on racially separatist version of Islam rather than secular revolution.

But three years in Libya and Sudan had shattered the illusion. He had seen corruption and double standards in Libya. Then when rumors of a US government plot to kidnap him started floating around, he moved on to Sudan. It was there that he saw how the blacks in the south of that country were treated as second class citizens. No amount of excuse-making and weasel talk could change that.

Yes, many of those blacks were Christians and their persecution was partially religious rather than racial. But so what? If that was their belief system, were they not entitled to it? Did it make any difference if their oppressors claimed that it was religion rather than race that reduced the Blacks of southern Sudan to the status of second-class citizens? Oppression was oppression and if he wasn’t prepared to make excuses for oppression in America then why should he make excuse for it here in the Third World?

And the more he spoke to the Christian blacks in the south of Sudan, the more he learned about their culture and ideas and the more he realized that he had fallen for some one else’s illusion. He had been led to believe that Christianity was the religion of the oppressors and that Islam was the natural religion of the black man. But it was here that he saw the other side of the coin. And America too was changing. Whatever its faults, America was growing and learning from its past mistakes. At least the American way had a future.

He had once said that indifference was impossible: if you’re not part of the cure you’re part of the disease. But as he looked toward his homeland — his real homeland, America — he saw that more and more people were becoming part of the cure. He had seen the first glimpse of it back in the sixties — in the freedom riders of all races. He saw it now in the newly enfranchised young who were asserting themselves politically as well as in more trivial ways. The same wind of change that had once swept colonialism out of Africa had blown “Jim Crow” out of America.

Yes, there was still injustice in America. But there was also resistance to that injustice. Yes, there was still suffering. But there was also hope. Yes there were the lingering after-effects of past injustice. But those lingering after effects would be swept away too, as long as good people kept trying and never gave up working together.

And it came to this: after seeking the truth in a foreign desert — a truth that almost eluded him — Elias Claymore saw the light of day and found happiness where he had started out, in his own backyard.

So at the end of three lonely years in exile, the prophet of conflict and bitterness finally returned home.

AUGUST

Monday, 17 August 2009 — 10:00

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! The Superior Court of the State of California, Alameda County, is now in session, the Honorable Justice Wagner presiding. All persons having business before the Court come forward and give your attendance and you shall be heard. God save this Honorable Court and the United States of America.”

Justice Ellen Wagner — a senior judge of the California Superior Court — took her seat in Court Number 7 of the Rene C. Davidson Courthouse in Oakland and the others followed suit. In her sixties, she was a striking, bespectacled African-American woman who projected dignity and gravitas from every pore. A veteran of the civil rights struggle, she had, in her youth, endured threats and even beatings as a freedom rider in the nineteen sixties. Along with a quarter of a million others, she had stood on the National Mall when Martin Luther King made his immortal “I have a dream” speech.

She had always claimed that her education began with the 1954 decision in the case of Brown versus Board of Education Topeka in which the Supreme Court ruled that racial segregation in publicly funded education was unconstitutional. But it was not the education offered by the system in light of the ruling that she was referring to. It was the education provided by the ruling itself. As a precocious eleven-year-old she had followed the case closely, encouraged by her aunt, who taught her to read. She had sat on her aunt’s porch, enthralled, as her aunt explained the more difficult words of the eloquent arguments used by civil rights lawyer Thurgood Marshall.

Thirteen years later, Marshall was appointed by President Lyndon Johnson to serve as the first African-American justice on the highest Court in the land. One year after that, Ellen Wagner fulfilled her own childhood dream by winning a coveted place to clerk for Marshall at the Supreme Court.

A panel of 150 veniremen was assembled in about twelve rows, sitting there looking nervous. This was quite a large panel, even for a felony case. But the judge was mindful of the fact that this was a high-profile case involving a popular and controversial public figure, and it was necessary to ensure that there was a large enough panel to allow for the many challenges for cause that were expected.

The veniremen had been shown a video explaining to them all about their duties as jurors and now after a day and a half of waiting around they had finally been brought into a courtroom. The question they had all been wondering about was whether they would be selected for the Claymore case. Not all of them wanted to. They knew that it was going to be a long case and they had jobs to do and lives to lead.

But some of them did want to be on the jury, for various reasons. Serving on a jury in a high profile case could be a passport to easy money. It was not unusual these days for jurors in high-profile cases to sell their stories to the press. Some of them “knew” that Claymore was guilty and wanted to “nail that bastard”. Others “knew” that he was the victim of a white man’s witch-hunt and wanted to save him from the clutches of a racist legal system. Yet others just wanted to tell their friends that they were on the Claymore trial jury.

Sarah Jensen was still on the case, in the prosecutor’s first seat. But now, she was assisted by Nick Sinclair, a short-bearded African-American lawyer in his mid-thirties, assigned to the case by the Alameda DA. The choice was not accidental. The DA wanted to show that this was a crime against women, but also to reassure society that it was not a race issue: hence the combination of Sarah Johnson from Ventura where the alleged crime was committed and Nick Sinclair from Oakland to create the right balance in the jury’s mind.

At the defense table, Claymore sat uncomfortably. Alex — a quintessential trial lawyer — was very much in his element. He leaned over and whispered a quiet last minute word to Andi.

“I don’t know this judge, but I she looks kind of tough, so I think we should set the program to assume that she won’t allow any of our challenges for cause.”

They were using a piece of software called JuryWizard. It allowed them to grade jurors according to how good or bad they were for their case and to prioritize who to cut or challenge without cause. If the judge allowed all or most of their challenges for cause, then they could use their “cuts” quite liberally to clear out the remainder of the undesirables. But if the judge was less accommodating, the peremptories had to be used more sparingly, to screen out the worst of the ones they didn’t want. They could set the software to allow for what percentage of the challenges for cause the judge would allow and it would flag and prioritise the ones they should cut.

The plan was that Alex would ask the questions and Andi would input the data.

“Something’s bothering me about this panel,” said Andi, her eyes glued to the prospective jurors.

“What?”

“There are hardly any blacks on it.”

“I know,” said Alex, “But we’ve agreed that it’s not necessarily a disadvantage.”

“Yes but it doesn’t make sense.”

“I guess it’s because they’re under-represented on the voting register. A lot of blacks still don’t register to vote.”

“You’re living in the past Alex. This is the Obama age. Besides, the jury’s also drawn from driver’s license registration.”

Alex waved his hand dismissively.

“It could just be a statistical blip. Let’s not make a mountain out of a hill of beans. There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ve got bigger things to think about.”

“Is the prosecution ready?” asked the judge

“Yes Your Honor,” said Sarah Jensen. “I appear on behalf of the People. Mr. Nicholas Sinclair of the Alameda County DA’s office is my co-counsel.”

Alex rose.

“Your Honor I appear on behalf of the defense. My co-counsel is Miss Andromeda Phoenix.”

He sat down.

“The People may proceed.”

“Thank you Your Honor.”

Suddenly — and quite out of the blue — Andi rose, leaving Alex looking surprised if not downright terrified.

“Your Honor, may it please the court, before we begin voir dire, I wish to lodge an objection to the panel.”

They all looked at her in confusion, including Alex.

“The entire panel?” asked Justice Wagner, with measured composure.

“Yes Your Honor.”

“Your grounds Miss Phoenix?” asked the judge, her curiosity aroused.

“Fourteenth Amendment, Your Honor, systematic exclusion of jurors on grounds of race in clear violation of the principles of Batson versus Kentucky, 476 U.S. 79, 1986.”

Justice Wagner peered down her varifocals at Andi, somewhat bemused. Alex, in contrast, was struggling, not to show his irritation. The case Andi had cited involved the prosecutor’s abuse of peremptory challenges to systematically exclude blacks from the jury.

“I’m not quite sure I’m following you Miss Phoenix. The jury hasn’t been empanelled yet. The voir dire hasn’t even started.”

“I’m referring to the clear statistical under-representation of African-Americans on the panel of veniremen. Alameda county is nearly fourteen percent black. On that basis there should be about twenty one or twenty two African-Americans on this panel. I can only see seven — sorry eight. This under-representation is clearly contra to Strauder versus West Virginia, 1880, upon which the previously cited Batson ruling was founded.”

“Ah yes Strauder,” said Justice Wagner, with a wry smile. “The case that held that States have the right to exclude women from juries.”

Andi looked flustered.

“I believe that at the time, the Nineteenth Amendment had not yet been passed, whereas the Fifteenth had. So the ruling merely reflected the state of play with regard to the constitutional position on voting rights for blacks and women respectively. In any event, the ruling remains in force and has been cited in other rulings.”

“Yes Miss Phoenix, one of those rulings being Hoyt versus Florida in 1961, in which the Court ruled that making jury service compulsory for men and voluntary for women did not violate the Fourteenth Amendment.”

Andi gritted her teeth.

“With respect Your Honor, the Fourteenth Amendment has always been interpreted as referring to racial rather than gender discrimination. The fact is — ”

“The fact is, Miss Phoenix, that the Washington versus Davis case of 1976, held that the legal test to be applied is intention-based not effects-based. The issue that the Court must consider is therefore not whether the result of a practice is racial disproportionality in the jury per se, but rather whether there was a deliberate intent to wholly or partially exclude a particular ethnic group from the jury.”

An astute observer would have noticed a pained expression on Ellen Wagner’s face as she said these words. But they might not have realized that the reason for this was because her own, highly respected, Thurgood Marshall had dissented in Washington versus Davis.

Andi tried again.

“Your Honor, that precedent was set in a federal case under the fifth amendment, citing the due process clause. My citation is of the Fourteenth Amendment at the state level, referring not to its own due process clause but rather to its equal protection clause. It was the wording of the equal protection clause that was explicitly cited by the Court in Strauder.”

“Be that as it may, Miss Phoenix, the ratio decidendis for holding that disproportionality per se is not a constitutional violation is as applicable to the Fourteenth Amendment’s ‘equal protection’ clause as to its ‘due process’ clause.”

“In that case, Your Honor I would also cite my client’s Sixth Amendment right to trial by an impartial jury.”

“Are you saying that failure to ensure racial proportionality in the venire panel would negate the impartiality of the final jury?”

Andi paused. She knew she would have to be careful here because this was in the presence of the venire panel. She didn’t want to alienate them by accusing them of bias.

“Side bar, Your Honor?”

“Approach.”

She approached the bench with Alex, who didn’t trouble to hide the anger on his face. Sarah Jensen and Nick Sinclair also approached, but took their time in doing so. The judge switched off her microphone and Andi leaned forward as she spoke in a whispering voice, forcing herself to sound less strident and more appealing.

“Your Honor, my point here is that with blacks so severely under-represented on the venire panel we have no chance of getting a truly representative jury. In a case such as this, with all its ramifications, it is vital that the jury be a true cross-section of the community. It is inevitable that there will be strong feelings all around in a case like this. All I’m asking is that we get at least a fair shot at an ethnically diverse jury to represent a true cross-section of the community.”

The judge looked over at the prospective jurors. It was obvious that there were indeed only eight blacks there. And based on what Andi had said, this was indeed a statistical aberration to say the least. Ellen Wagner’s next words were spoken in a more sympathetic tone than she had used until now.

“I can understand your concerns Miss Phoenix. But there’s no constitutional requirement that juries be ethnically balanced or diverse. Even venire panels can sometimes be imbalanced. It means nothing in the broader scheme of things.”

“But there is a constitutional requirement that there be no systematic exclusion on grounds of race, Your Honor. The fact that blacks are so grossly under-represented in the panel — and I can give you the statistics to back that up — means that they are effectively being excluded from the final jury. If they’re not on the venire panel in the first place then they can’t possibly get onto the jury.”

Justice Wagner looked over at the panel again, as if for reassurance.

“But jurors are summoned at random, Ms Phoenix. Do you have any evidence that blacks have been deliberately excluded from this panel?”

“No Your Honor. But it is statistically unlikely — extremely unlikely — that in so large a sample, blacks would be so grossly under-represented. For this reason there must be a prima facie assumption that something has gone wrong in the selection procedure.”

Sarah Jensen — who had been content to leave it to the judge to shoot down Andi in flames — now decided that it was time to enter the fray.

“Your Honor this is ridiculous. Statistical aberrations happen all the time. With such a large number of trials, it’s only natural that in some cases there should be a disproportionate number of one race or another. Has Ms Phoenix ever heard of mean standard deviation? Does she actually know anything about statistics? Or is the defense merely trying to cherry-pick the jury?”

The judge looked at Andi, addressing her in a tone that was firm, but not aggressive.

“Ms Phoenix, do you have any statistical evidence that a deviation of this size is statistically dubious, given the large number of jury cases that take place altogether?”

“No, Your Honor,” replied Andi sheepishly.

“Do you have any causal evidence that blacks were intentionally excluded from this venire panel?”

“No Your Honor.”

“Then your objection is overruled.” Ellen Wagner leaned back and looked at all of them. “You may return to your places.”

Monday, 17 August 2009 — 13:00

“What the fuck were you trying to do!”

It was the lunchtime adjournment, after they’d spent the morning on the not yet completed voir dire. Alex had barely waited to put some distance between himself and the reporters who had followed them out of the courtroom before letting rip at Andi. They were out of earshot of the press pack, but only just.

“I found a discrepancy in the jury panel and I had a duty to act on it.”

“You don’t have a duty to do anything without my permission!”

“If I hadn’t put our objection on the record before the voir dire, we might have lost the chance to invoke it on appeal!”

“ ‘Our objection’? ‘we might have lost’? Let me tell you something Andi. There’s no we and no our in this case. You’re not here to fight the case. That’s my job. Your job is to provide the softening, humanizing touch.”

“You’re evading the issue. If I hadn’t spoken up, we’d’ve been fucked.”

“That’s bullshit! We could have said we didn’t notice at the time.”

“Didn’t notice? It was practically reaching out and hitting you in the face. And if you didn’t notice until I pointed it out to you, then you must have been blind!”

“Look I don’t think you’re hearing me too good — too well. You don’t do anything in there without my say so.”

“I told you the problem, but you just ignored me.”

By now Alex was on the verge of shouting, a rare occurrence for him.

“And you think it’s good tactics to stand up in front of the people who are going to make up then jury and say to the judge; ‘I don’t want any of this lot, I think they’re biased!’ Look, let’s get this straight once and for all. I’m running this show. You’re just here for the ride. Got it?”

“I thought you wanted my help on this case.”

Her voice was weak, the self-confidence all gone.

“Look, I know you want to help,” he said more quietly. “But if you’re going to work with me, you have to play it according to my game plan. I picked you for my team because you look good and having Claymore sitting next to you makes him look non-threatening.”

“I told you back then, I’m not a prostitute.”

Alex seemed to lose his patience again at this.

“We’ve already been through all that!”

Andi stormed away angry and frustrated.

Monday, 17 August 2009 — 17:30

They had finally concluded the voir dire at around 16:45 in the afternoon, with neither prosecution or defense using up all of their peremptories. Justice Wagner had made it clear that she would extend the session past the normal time to complete the voir dire, and faced with that prospect a kind of fatigue had set in amongst the lawyers, making them less acrimonious and more amenable to compromise. Ellen Wagner prided herself on having a stronger constitution than most of these “spring chicken lawyers” and today proved to be no exception.

Consequently, they managed to select twelve jurors whom they more or less were able to agree upon, even if the defense weren’t completely happy with them. Andi had been wary of leaving some of their peremptory challenges unused, as precedent suggested that this might block their prospect of appeal based on her objection to the panel. But she had been equally wary of incurring Alex’s anger any further and beside that she felt confident that the novelty of her objection based on the entire panel, meant it fell outside the scope of existing case law.

After the last juror was selected, the judge decided to adjourn the session and postpone the swearing in till tomorrow. So Alex and Andi returned to the office to get some of the paperwork done. The tension between them had mellowed somewhat, but had not disappeared in its entirety.

Back in the office in the Embarcadero Center, Andi took the opportunity to spend the rest of the day looking at demographic statistics for other juries. Alex had given her use of the conference room as her temporary office, for the duration of the case. She felt rather guilty about this, considering that Alex’s own office was considerably smaller and had no natural light on its own, let alone a stunning view of the Bay. Juanita, whose reception desk was in the large open area of the office, had told her in confidence that the conference room had once been used by a legal intern and that it had some painful memories for Alex. She had decided not to push for more information, realizing that Juanita had said more than she intended and that it was something Alex certainly didn’t want to talk about.

Clicking on one link after another as she pursued the chain of data, she didn’t really expect to find anything. She knew that blacks were under-represented in juries for a variety of reasons. But she suspected that the results of her labors would be to find a high degree of variation from cases to case — proving the common opinion of the judge, the prosecutor and even Alex, that it was just a statistical blip in this case with no significance whatsoever.

And yet, part of her was still hoping.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” asked Juanita.

“Thanks,” said Andi, barely looking up. Juanita had seemed hostile when Andi first started working here, and Andi couldn’t escape the feeling that it might have something to do with their differing sexuality. But after less than a day, Juanita seemed to be much nicer — almost suspiciously kind — and Andi even began to have doubts whether her initial assessment of Juanita’s sexuality had been correct. At any rate, Juanita was a gentler soul than Alex… and certainly a gentler soul than Gene.

While she waited for the coffee, Andi returned her attention to the computer screen and thought about the issue that had been bugging her in court. Yes it was true that many blacks didn’t register to vote. But that was precisely why the State didn’t rely solely on the voting register, but used driver registration too. The one type of ownership that was impervious to socio-economic discrimination was car ownership. The widespread availability of cheap used cars meant that all but the most poverty-stricken members of society could afford one. And even if they didn’t own a car, most adult Americans could drive. And all of those drivers were included in the jury pool.

That was why it was so troubling to Andi. In a small panel, one might sometimes get uneven or disproportionate results. But this was a panel of 150. An imbalance of this size was quite an anomaly. Could it have been just a random accident? Contra to what Sarah Jensen had assumed, she did understand statistics — having taken a course in the subject as part of her psychology studies — and was fully conversant with such concepts of Standard Deviation and Mean Standard Deviation. But she wasn’t satisfied that the small number of blacks on the panel was the result of such random deviation.

And she was determined to find out for sure.

The door opened and Juanita came in with the coffee and a smile. Andi returned the smile, but quickly gave her attention back to the computer monitor, making it clear that she had no time for small talk.

The first thing to do was log on to the census bureau and pull up the jury records for the various voting districts. Then she started looking at the statistics for jury composition. It was a slow and tedious procedure, getting the statistics from the various districts in a series of downloadable computer files and then cutting and pasting them into the statistical software package that she was using. But it had to be done. Finally, after several hours of painstaking work, she had enough data to build some graphic display charts, showing the demography of the populations and the corresponding average jury pools.

When she looked at the results it was frightening. There was a statistical imbalance. But it wasn’t just this one county. It was quite a few others too!

And it went back five years.

Monday, 17 August 2009 — 18:10

“Once again, the case of Elias Claymore for the rape of Bethel Newton has managed to produce a surprise,” said Martine Yin. “And still before the trial has even started.”

The television flickered as the young man sat with his eyes practically glued to the screen.

“This time it was the defense making the surprises when this morning in court, Alex Sedaka’s co-counsel Andi Phoenix stood up to challenge the entire panel of prospective jurors. In a move that was quite unprecedented — or at least that hasn’t been seen since Sam Leibowitz’s celebrated defense of the Scottsboro boys — Ms Phoenix told the court that blacks were under-represented on the jury panel and moved that the panel be dismissed.”

The young man smiled with amusement as he pondered the irony of what was happening. He had been surprised when he heard about Andi Phoenix and her relationship with the woman who worked at the rape crisis center. It was a complete and utter coincidence. But an amusing coincidence nevertheless.

“However, the judge threw out the motion after some heated debate, culminating in a brief side bar.”

The young man considered going to the trial and sit there in the spectator’s section. But he realized that might be pushing his luck. There was however one aspect of the case that he wondered about. He had read a rumor on the web that this reporter and Alex Sedaka were in a relationship.

Monday, 17 August 2009 — 18:20

Alex was reading through the jury selection notes when he heard a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said, not looking up.

The door swung open and Andi came stumbling into the room holding a computer print-out, unable to conceal the excitement on her face.

“I’ve got something that’ll knock your socks off!”

Alex looked up, responding to her mood as much as her words.

“Surprise me.”

“It’s about the representation of blacks on the jury.”

“You’re not still going on about that are you?”

“There’s been a new development.”

She was gushing now. Alex’s face remained skeptical, but he put his pen down to show that he was giving her his undivided attention.

“What about it?”

“I’ve checked the figures for jury selection in California for the last five years and guess what? The pattern holds. Blacks are under-represented on venire panels in many counties, not just Alameda.”

Alex thought to himself for a moment.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that jury panels in many counties have consistently under-represented blacks by a statistically significant amount. I can show you some charts to prove it.”

Over the next few minutes she showed Alex how blacks were under-represented not only on juries but also on venire panels before the voir dire. To Alex it was quite convincing, but he wasn’t ready to go off half-cocked — not yet at least.”

“Okay now let’s slow down here. First of all there are certain somewhat mundane factors that might have the effect of reducing the number of blacks on jury panels.”

“Such as what?” Andi challenged.

“For example, rightly or wrongly, a disproportionate number of blacks are incarcerated in penitentiaries and corrections institutes and jails. They’re ineligible to vote.”

Andi was shaking her head.

“I got the stats for that and used the statistical analysis software to hold constant for it.”

“Hold constant?”

“Factor it in. The imbalance is still there when you take it into account. Don’t forget I have the figures from the voting register as well as census data.”

“Wait a minute, you have to be careful how you handle the data. The voting register excludes people incarcerated for felony convictions, but those serving time for misdemeanors can still vote. However, they can’t serve on juries.”

Andi folded her arms and pursed her teeth.

“Please give me credit for a modicum of common sense. I held constant for all incarcerations, including pre-trial detention. The pattern still holds.”

“Pattern?”

“I don’t mean the size of the imbalance stayed constant. Obviously it was reduced when I held constant for those variables. But a statistically significant discrepancy remained.”

“Meaning in plain English that it was too big to be a — ”

“Random deviation? Exactly.”

“Okay but you base that on the assumption that the use of driver’s license records would be sufficient to plug the gap left by under-representation of blacks on the voting register. But not everybody drives. Some people use the bus.”

“The DMV also issues non-driver IDs.”

“But only to those who request them.”

“Come off it! There isn’t an eighteen-year-old in the State who doesn’t want to buy smokes or booze. And once they’ve got the ID, they’re registered at the DMV. And that makes them eligible for jury service.

Alex shook his head, not to argue but merely as he struggled to take it all in.

“Okay, hold on a minute, let’s rewind. First of all how are juries chosen?”

“We’ve been through that over and over: from voting registers and car license records. I think they use property tax records too.”

“No what I mean is, once they’ve got the records how do they make the actual selection?”

“Well nowadays it’s done by computer.”

“And how does the computer actually do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, according to what criteria does the computer make its decision?”

“It’s random! That’s the whole idea!”

“Yes,” Alex persisted, “but how does something as deterministic as a computer make a random decision?”

He was remembering a discussion with David not long ago. David had tried to explain to him about “pseudo-random behavior in deterministic systems.” Of course David’s area of interest was cosmology and sub-atomic particles. But the discussion had fascinated Alex, even if he hadn’t entirely understood what David had painstakingly set out to explain to him.

“Okay let’s say the Court needs 200 prospective jurors for that week,” Andi began. “And there are a 50,000 eligible people in the district or county. The computer divides a 50,000 by 200 and gets 250. That means they need to summon one person for every 250 in the district. So the computer chooses every 250th name on the list.”

“That’s it?”

“Well no, not quite. If the computer just did that, then it would always choose the first person on the list and then all the other people at fixed intervals. So instead, what the computer does is it creates what’s called a ‘random offset.’”

“Random offset?” Alex repeated.

“Yes. What that means is that it picks a random number between one and 249. Then it counts that number in and picks that person as the first juror. So let’s say it picks the random number 187 as the random offset. What it does then is pick the 187th person on the list as its first selection and then pick every 250th person thereafter, until it gets to the end of the list.”

“Okay,” said Alex. “But how does a computer choose a random number in the first place? I mean isn’t everything in a computer mathematical and deterministic.”

He was remembering things that his son had told him.

“It uses something called keyboard latency.”

Alex was looking at her blankly.

“That means the speed at which the person at the keyboard types. What the software does is get the computer operator to type on the keyboard at random. It ignores what keys they press, because that might not be random, but it measures the time between keystrokes — or rather the differences in microseconds between one keystroke and another.”

“Okay.”

“But it doesn’t take the whole figure, it takes what it calls the least significant bit. That means like the last digit on the list of microseconds — that’s millionths of a second. Then the program uses this random input as the seed or initialization vector for the randomization algorithm that calculates a number between — in this case — one and two hundred and fifty.”

Andi paused to catch her breath. Alex paused to take it all in.

“But none of this explains why blacks are under-represented in this case,” said Alex.

“That’s exactly my point. If the software does its job properly, then they shouldn’t be. But all the stats I’ve looked at show that they are. That means that something’s going wrong.”

“But what?”

“I don’t know. But the judge did say causal evidence or statistical evidence. This is clear statistical evidence!”

“I don’t think we have enough to take it before the judge.”

“Why not?”

“Because if she rejected it once then she’ll reject it again.”

“But it’s different now! Then it was just one panel. Now it’s across the state for the last five years.”

“That’s going to make it even harder.”

Andi was surprised at this.

“Why?”

“Because if you tell her this, then any decision she makes will have implications for thousands of other cases, not just this one. And I don’t think she’s going to want that sort of responsibility. She’d rather leave it to the Court of Appeal instead of taking it on her own head.”

“So what are we going to do? Just drop it and walk away like we haven’t discovered anything?”

“No but we’re going to need to bolster our arguments.”

“How?”

“By finding some causal explanation for these stats.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

Andi thought about this for a moment.

“Maybe if we could find some glitch in the software.”

“Do you have the skill for that?”

“Probably not. I mean I actually tried to learn programming in C++, but I kind of… dropped out of the course.”

Alex pursed his lips.

“If it is a software glitch, I think I may know some one who can help.”

“Who?”

“My son, David. He’s a physicist at Berkeley. Get his number from Juanita and call him. Tell him you’re working for me.”

“For you?”

“With me.”

She rose, resignedly but didn’t leave the room. She just stood there saying nothing.

“Was there anything else?” he asked.

Now was the time to tell him about “Lannosea”, to ask him if he had told anyone about their private conversation when he and Sherman had pressured her into sitting at the defense table. It should be simple enough to tell him about the messages and ask him if he had any idea who could be sending them. But something made her hold back and she wasn’t sure what.

“No, nothing,” she said, realizing that now was not the time. When she opened the door, Juanita was standing there with a sheet of paper in her hand, poised to knock. Alex looked up as Juanita and Andi slipped past one another.

“We just had an eMail from Leary,” said Juanita.

Leary was the private investigator they’d hired to dig up some dirt on Bethel Newton.

“What does it say?”

She approached the desk and put it down in front of Alex.

“He’s found some dirt on the Newton girl. This isn’t the first time she’s made a rape accusation.”

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 — 12:40

“The prosecution will show that Elias Claymore is not the respectable man that he poses as,” Sarah Jensen was saying. The sea of faces in the spectator’s section of the courtroom on Tuesday reflected the interest in this case that had lingered beneath the surface for the last two months.

They had been told all about Elias Claymore’s background by the newspapers and broadcast media when the case first broke. Some of them were old enough to remember Claymore from his revolutionary days. But much of what they had been told by the media had faded from their memories. A spate of political crises, tornadoes in the mid-west, violence in the Middle East and stories about wife-beating among the Hollywood glitterati had driven the tales of Elias Claymore from their minds.

Sarah Jensen knew that she was not allowed to bring up Claymore’s priors unless he took the witness stand in his own defense. But her reference to him not being as respectable as he seemed, was a cunningly camouflaged reminder to the jury of Caucasians, five Hispanics and three Asians of what they all already knew.

“You will hear testimony to this effect from the victim herself — the girl whom he raped, who will identify the defendant as the man who raped her. You will hear medical evidence of her internal and external injuries proving that this was rape and not consensual sex. You will see photographs showing the girl’s external injuries, so that you will be able to judge with your own eyes whether the girl was a willing participant or an innocent victim. You will hear eye witness testimony of a man who saw the accused running from the scene of the crime towards his car in which he made a quick getaway. Finally, most irrefutable of all, you will hear scientific DNA evidence showing that the man who raped Bethel Newton was none other than the accused, Elias Claymore.”

Sarah Jensen sat down, keeping her face completely neutral. Alex knew that she had ended her opening statement too close to one o’clock for the judge to let the defense respond now. This ensured that the prosecution’s summary of its case would stick firmly in the minds of the jurors over lunch. It was the oldest trick in the book, and Alex had expected it. But there was very little he could do about it. He just had to pace himself right too, making sure that his own bombshells coincided with the appropriate adjournments.

Four hundred miles away, Eugenia Vance sat before a television set watching the proceedings on Court TV.

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 — 15:40

After lunch, Sarah Jensen began presenting her case. Andi had been curious as to the order in which she would call her witnesses. In the event, she adopted a fairly conventional approach and called Bethel Newton first. Her approach was gentle, putting Bethel at ease by leading her through the non-contentious events leading up to her encounter with the rapist: the car breaking down, the Mercedes stopping and the man giving her a ride. At all times, Bethel testified in a voice that was quiet but not weak.

“Then he dragged me out of the car, behind the bushes, and clamped his hand over my mouth. I managed to bite him but then he slapped me across the face. I felt a sharp blow and then I could feel blood in my mouth and I realized it was futile to struggle.”

“And then what happened?”

While she paused to compose herself before answering, Andi quickly scribbled a note to Alex saying: “we need to ask her if she knows my eMail address.” Alex looked at her blankly. Andi still hadn’t told him about “Lannosea”. But she knew that she could hardly expect him to probe this area, and risk the judge’s disapproval, without offering him at least some explanation. So she added to the note, the words: “I’ve been getting abusive anon E-mails.” He seemed to take it in very quickly and did not look altogether surprised. He nodded his head gently, as if understanding.

“He started tearing away at my clothes, not so much tearing them off me, more pulling them out of the way. Then he unzipped his pants and pushed them down slightly and then…”

She started to cry. Everyone in the courtroom sat in absolute silence while she pulled out her handkerchief and sobbed into it.

“Take your time Miss Newton.”

“And then he raped me.”

“How did he penetrate you?”

“Vaginally,” she said, in a little girl voice, trying to keep the words barely audible. “From the front,”

“And do you see the man who did this in this courtroom.”

The words seemed to have a toughening effect on her, as if she sensed the opportunity to regain control for the first time in her life. She puts her handkerchief away, no longer crying. Then she leaned forward and looked over at Claymore.

“Yes I do,” she said pointing at Claymore. “That man over there.”

“Let the record show that the witness identified the accused Elias Claymore,” said Sarah Jensen.

“So ordered,” the judge responded.

Sarah Jensen then went through a series of questions to put on record the events that happened afterwards: Claymore running away and driving off, a member of the public calling the police, the medical examination, the DNA sample, the photographs. All of these would be introduced at a later stage. But these questions were to establish foundation for their introduction.

At the end of the sequence of questions, Sarah Jensen looked over at the judge and said “no further questions.”

Then she sat down, trying to look sad or at least solemn, rather than triumphant. Andi noticed that Justice Wagner was looking over at the clock. It was five fifteen. She had done it again! She had timed it perfectly to coincide with the afternoon adjournment. That meant that once again the jury would leave the court with elements of the prosecution’s case locked firmly in their minds. This time it was the girl’s tearful testimony, and they would have the whole night to think about it.

Andi had been sure that Sarah Jensen was going to spin out the direct examination for longer, to wring the maximum amount of detail out of Bethel Newton so as to elicit the maximum amount of sympathy. That would still have left Bethel’s testimony in the jurors’ minds. But somehow it would not have been so damaging if they knew that there was more to come.

But with the direct examination over, the jury would feel free to start forming opinions about the case, and that could only hurt Claymore. The judge started speaking.

“In view of the hour, I think it would be appropriate — ”

“Your Honor,” Alex interrupted leaping to his feet. “I know that we only have a quarter of an hour, but I would like to at least start my cross-examination now — ”

“Is that really necessary Mr. Sedaka?”

“There are one or two points I’d like to clear up right away.”

“Very well.”

“Miss Newton have you at any time, since first making your complaint, contacted anyone involved with the defense?”

Oh very good, thought Andi, plant the idea in the jury’s mind. Even if it all fizzles out, it’ll keep them pre-occupied with it now, so they won’t think so much about her testimony.

Sarah Jensen was on her feet.

“Your Honor, is counsel making any specific allegations? Or is he just trying to cloud the issue with unsubstantiated allegations.”

“Approach the bench!” snapped the judge.

Alex and Sarah approached. Andi hesitated for a moment and then approached, ignoring the forbidding stare of the judge. Only Nick Sinclair stayed in his seat.

“Are you going anywhere with this Mr. Sedaka?”

“Your Honor, my co-counsel has been receiving anonymous eMail messages of an abusive and harassing nature. We wouldn’t for one minute suspect the prosecution of involvement, but this witness is another matter altogether.”

“How do you know it isn’t one of the thousands of whack jobs looking for his fifteen minutes?”

Alex turned to Andi, to let her answer.

“Your Honor, the content of the messages suggests that it’s some one with intimate knowledge of the case.”

“Knowledge that only this witness or some one on the prosecution team would have?”

Andi hesitated for a moment, embarrassed by the truthful answer.

“Well, some of the knowledge… appears to be.. things that not even this witness would know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Private conversations that I’ve had.”

Sarah was shaking her head, smiling with utter contempt. Justice Wagner ignored her.

“So what are you saying? That your office is bugged?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying. It just doesn’t make sense.”

The judge was silent for a few seconds, as if weighing up what she had just heard.

“Well when you do know what your saying, I may revisit the issue and allow the defense to resume this line of questioning. Until then, such questions are out of order.” Andi, was looking at the floor, unable to meet the eyes of either the judge or Alex. “I think we’ll adjourn for now.”

When they had returned to their places, Justice Wagner addressed the jury.

“Members of the jury. You will ignore that last question and refrain from any speculation about it. We will now adjourn until ten O’clock tomorrow morning. The jury are admonished not to form an opinion on this case until they have heard all the evidence and the case has been put to them, nor to discuss this case among themselves or with others or to permit it to be discussed in their presence. Court is adjourned.”

They all stood up as the judge left. But Andi remembered one thing from when Alex had asked the question about contacting anyone on the defense: Bethel Newton had looked absolutely terrified.

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 — 17:10

Outside, Alex walked over to Andi’s side to speak to her.

“I want to know about these anonymous eMails — including why you didn’t tell me about them before?”

“I’ve had a couple. The first one right after I agreed to serve as co-counsel. The second one came just after I blurted out my statement about the ethnic imbalance in the panel.”

“What did they say, the eMails?”

“Like I said, they were full of abusive language. I can’t remember verbatim, but I’ve saved them. I can show them to you back at the office.”

“You said something about the writer knowing intimate details that not even the victim would know.”

She noticed that he had said “victim” rather than “alleged victim.” He would never have been that careless in Court.

“Whoever sent them seemed to know about things that happened at our private conversations.”

She was watching him carefully as she said this.

“What do you mean ‘our’ private conversations?”

“Yours and mine. Things that occurred when you and I were alone together.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as you practically blackmailing me into working with you on the case.”

“I didn’t blackmail you — .”

“That’s the way they described it.”

Andi realized that by classifying this opinion as “intimate knowledge” she was effectively saying that she agreed with that classification of Alex’s action.

“What else did they say?”

“They said I should have resisted your pressure and that I’m a ‘whore’ and Claymore is a ‘nigger scum-bag’.”

“And it was anonymous?”

“More or less.”

“Well what does that — ”

“It was signed ‘Lannosea’”

“Does that mean anything to you.”

“Nothing.”

“Did you look it up?”

“Yahoo and Google. Apparently, she was one of the daughters of the old English queen Boudicca.”

“I assume you did an internet search for other people with the same name?”

“I found four sites where the name came up: two foreign, one meaningless, one that gave the answer — about it being Boudicca’s daughter.”

“Alternative spellings?”

“Loads of results, but mostly foreign.”

“What about tracing the source — of the eMails?”

“They were sent via a webmail account.”

“From what my son told me, I understand they can still trace it through the message header.”

“Yes, but anyone sending this kind of message would probably use a public computer, like in a library or an internet cafe.”

“They might have security cameras at places like that.”

“We’d have to bring in the authorities for that.”

“Okay, let’s hold off on that Andi.”

“The thing I don’t get is how they knew about private conversations.”

Alex was looking at her with a skeptical smile.

“You think they really did bug the office?”

“It may sound crazy Alex, but there has to be some explanation.”

Alex smiled, mockingly.

“Well in that case, I’d better tell you what I’ve decided before we get back to the office.”

“What?” Andi felt apprehensive at Alex’s tone.

“You’re going to conduct the cross-examination tomorrow.”

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 9:10

Jerry Cole had never really amounted to much. At forty years of age, he was a lean, nondescript figure of average height and receding hairline. Such hair as he had was greased back, not in a stylish nineteen fifties style, but more in the manner of a lazy man who doesn’t want the bother of unruly hair and who uses grease as the easiest option for keeping it in place.

He had been working at the forensic science laboratory in Ventura County for half his life and all he had to show for it was a rented roof over his head. He didn’t own a car and didn’t even know how to drive. He was, according to everyone who knew him, feckless and barely capable of doing anything other than by rote. His job title was “Lab Technician,” but this could just as easily have been translated as Gopher. Unlike other younger technicians at the lab, he was never sent on courses that could improve his job skills because it was widely assumed that he lacked the aptitude for them

When he asked about this, he was told that the others were younger and thus “age-qualified” for courses that were designed to enable young people with ambition and initiative to progress. When he pleaded with them that he too wanted to progress. they told him that because of his low SATs and his poor results in the psychometric tests that he wasn’t eligible. He had felt bitter at the time, but too passive to do anything about it. Now he had come to accept it.

Most of the time he worked in the Forensic Alcohol Section, but occasionally he had to run errands for the Toxicology or Controlled Substance sections. Never for the DNA Section. But he knew how they worked and at times it could get chaotic. In fact the lab was chaotic. That was why he didn’t always remember to do things he was supposed to, you see, not because he was lazy or incompetent.

But his bosses didn’t always see things that way. That was why today he had been summoned by the Forensic Alcohol Supervisor, the head of his administrative section.

“You remember a month ago, you received an official caution about using a stale batch of testing solution?”

Cole remembered the incident very well. He had been acting under intense pressure in a busy lab and had grabbed the nearest batch of made-up testing solution. What he hadn’t realized was that it was an old solution that another technician had been using and was about to throw away. It could have been disastrous if he had used it because he was running tests on real-crime samples. Fortunately the other technician had spotted it just in time and intervened.

“Yes sir, but I’m more careful now. I always make sure it’s a fresh batch.”

“Well that isn’t exactly true now is it Mr. Cole.”

Jerry Cole’s face flushed.

“I don’t know what you mean sir.”

“You know that every three months, the Department of Health Services sends blood samples spiked with alcohol to verify that facilities such as the crime lab are getting accurate results?”

“Yes sir.”

In fact he didn’t know anything of the kind. But he was afraid to admit it. Also, he sensed where this was going.

“Well they did such a test last week and we have the results back. I’m sorry to have to inform you that you failed the test.”

“What… me personally?”

“Yes Mr. Cole. The samples were coded and the other technicians passed. You were the only one who failed.”

“I must have been under pressure sir, otherwise — ”

“It’s the same pressure for everyone Mr. Cole. You were the only one who failed and this was on top of your mistake a month ago with a live batch. You were given an official written warning then, so I’m afraid there can be no further warnings. We’re going to have to let you go.”

“But this isn’t fair sir.”

“It complies with the labor laws and I’m afraid the decision is final. Here is your written notice, effective immediately. We’re giving you one month’s pay in lieu of notice, plus lay-off pay for twenty years service which should see you through until you find a new job. Also you’re entitled to three weeks holiday and again we’ve given you pay in lieu of that. I’ll send a member of security to help you clear out your locker.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jerry Cole was on the streets and unemployed.

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 10:15

On the third day of the trial, the tension in court was even greater than the day before, as the judge took his place his place. This was to be the first time the defense had a crack at the accuser. Claymore was sitting at the defense table uncomfortably, the fear visible in his eyes.

Andi realized that while Sarah Jensen had acted wisely from the point of view of courtroom tactics, she had been less than kind to Bethel personally. For Bethel had had to go sleep last night knowing that the following day she would be subjected to a thorough and rigorous cross-examination.

But Andi realized that perhaps she was projecting her own discomfort that had left her tossing and turning in an almost sleepless night at the hotel last night. And to make it worse, she didn’t even have the comfort of Gene to hold her and reassure her. When she finally woke up — late — she felt as if she hadn’t slept at all.

After the Court was called into session, the judge looked up at the defense table and told Alex that he could begin his cross-examination. Andi thereupon rose and said:

“Your Honor, I will be cross-examining Miss Newton.”

Claymore tensed up when he heard this. Andi realized that Alex hadn’t warned him about the change of plan. Sarah Jensen rose from her seat.

“Your Honor I object. Lead counsel began the cross-examination yesterday. Absent a compelling reason, it would be quite improper for co-counsel to take over in the middle.”

Andi well knew why Sarah Jensen was objecting. A cross-examination of an alleged rape victim by a man would inevitably elicit sympathy for the victim, no matter how gently it was conducted. Whereas a cross-examination by another woman — especially an attractive one — allowed scope for some probing questions, and even a modicum of aggression.

Justice Wagner hesitated for a moment.

“No I think I’m going to allow it. Cross-examination barely started yesterday. And the defendant has the right to have his defense handled according to the best judgment of his counsel.

Sarah Jensen sat down reluctantly. Andi gave her a knowing look and then returned her attention to Bethel Newton.

“Miss Newton, would it be correct to say that when you got into the car, you didn’t know the man who’s car you were getting into.”

“Yes.”

Weakly.

“In other words you were getting into a stranger’s car?”

“Yes.”

“And were you not aware of the danger to which you were exposing yourself?”

“I know that it isn’t all that smart to hitch a ride, but I didn’t have a choice.”

“Are you saying that he forced you into his car?”

“No. But my car had broken down and I couldn’t use my cell phone. It had a flat battery — the phone, I mean.”

Andi kept a neutral look on hers face. She was forcing Bethel to elaborate on her answers, taking her into unfamiliar territory.

“But you were aware that there is always an element of danger when one gets into a stranger’s car?”

“Yes.”

“Assuming of course that you didn’t want what ultimately happened?”

“Objection,” Sarah Jensen interrupted.

“Sustained. Counsel will refrain from embellishing her questions. The jury will ignore defense counsel’s last remark.”

“You’re honor we have the right to raise the issue of what this witness actually wanted.”

“Is the defendant changing to a consent defense?”

“No, but the intentions of the witness have a bearing on her overall credibility.”

“Then phrase it as a question Ms. Phoenix, not as an inflammatory statement.”

“Miss Newton, did you want to have sexual relations with the driver of the car?”

“No of course not.”

“Then would not the wisest course of action have been not to get into his car in the first place?”

“I suppose so.”

“Yet you did get into the car?”

“I didn’t think about it.”

“Nevertheless would you not concede that by getting into a stranger’s car you advertised that you had less concern for the consequences than the average female?”

“Objection!”

Again Sarah Jensen was on her feet. Andi tried to sound calm as she replied.

“Your Honor, if I may quote a ruling of Justice Compton in the California Court of Appeal — ‘Under such circumstances it would not be unreasonable for a man in the position of the defendant here to believe that the female would consent to sexual relations.’”

“Your Honor, counsel for the defense forgets that Justice Compton specified that it only applied — quote ‘in the absence of an emergency situations’ unquote. In this case, the vict- witnesses car had broken down in the middle of nowhere and her cell phone battery was dead. Furthermore, the official grounds for the reversal was that the trial judge allowed the jury to consider the defendant’s previous conviction for a sex offense — for which he was still on a suspended sentence.”

Ellen Wagner nodded.

“I believe that it was also pointed out that if it were applied consistently it would also allow hitchhikers to rape drivers and allow drivers to rape male hitchhikers and hitchhikers to rape male drivers.”

Andi was feeling flustered. She had overplayed her hand and Alex was now looking at her with unconcealed anger. The judge continued.

“I am directing the jury as a matter of law that the act of getting into a stranger’s car does not in itself entail an absolute forfeiture of the protection of the law against rape.”

Sarah Jensen sat down, casting a smug side-glance at Alex, who in turn looked somewhat frustrated.

“Miss Newton,” Andi continued, “is it possible that the reason you felt you had no choice but to hitch a ride is because you were tired of trying to get your car started and anxious to get back into town?”

“Yes,” said Bethel, grateful for the chance to revert back to one-word answers. She had said in direct examination that she had been unable to restart the car on her own. She hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in wording that Andi had introduced into the questioning.

“And is it not also possible that, being tired, you may have been mistaken about at least some of the details of the event — not the major details perhaps, but at least the minor ones.”

“Yes,” said Bethel nervously. The prosecutor had looked away from her just after the question was asked and this was a pre-planned warning sign.

“For example,” Andi continued, “if you say you were raped, then there is certainly no reason to doubt you. If you say you didn’t give your consent to sex then you ought to know what you wanted and no one should question that. But is it not possible that you might be mistaken in what is, at the end of the day, just one of the details? Like the identification of the rapist?”

“The man who raped me is your client Elias Claymore,” she said with grit in her voice.

“But did you not initially tell the police that the man who raped you was in his early twenties?”

“I did at first.”

The voice was weak. But more significantly, Alex noticed that she was no longer relying on one-word answers, even when she could get away with them.

“Would you say that this accused is in his twenties?”

She looked round at Claymore

“No. But when I came back after lunch, I told them he was older?”

“Ah yes, when you came back. And that was when you also told them that you’d seen the rapist on a TV talk show.”

“Yes.”

“And how old does the accused look to you now?”

“About fifty.”

“Fifty eight actually. So how could you confuse him for a man in his twenties?”

“I don’t know,” she replied weakly, wiping a tear out of one of her eyes.

“And what made you realize that he was older?”

“Like I said, I saw him on a TV in a store window. He was presenting the talk-show. But I didn’t know who it was. Only I realized that it was him when I saw his face in close-up.”

“But you saw the rapist in close up didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you thought he was in his twenties.”

“I was frightened.”

“Frightened would hardly make fifty eight seem like twenties would it?”

“I was confused.”

“Are you sure you’re not confused now?”

“No.”

“You’re not sure if you’re confused?”

“No I mean I’m not confused now.”

“Is it not possible that at the second photo line-up you identified a man who may perhaps have, in his youth, looked like the man who raped you, but who in fact was a completely different man?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Is it possible that you saw an older man on TV who looked a bit like an older version of the man who raped you and so you decided that this man was the rapist?”

“No. Look I know what I’m saying! The man who raped me is that man sitting over there!”

Andi paused, put on the look of one who was hurt but still defiant, and spoke in a slow but impassioned voice.

“Is this the first time that you’ve accused a man of rape?”

Bethel looked over to the prosecutor who nodded discreetly. Andi could have made an issue of such non-verbal communication, but she chose to ignore it, putting pressure on Bethel to answer.

“No.”

The voice was weak and accompanied by a girlish sniffle.

“Is it not a fact that you made a similar accusation against a fellow high school student called Luke Orlando two years ago?”

“Yes.”

“And then you retracted it and admitted that you were lying?”

Claymore squirmed uncomfortably when he heard this.

“I wasn’t lying.”

“Then why did you admit that you were lying at the time?”

“Because after I withdrew the accusation, my family and friends were all pestering me to reinstate the accusation and that was the only way I could get them off my back.”

“Oh so you admitted you were lying after you withdrew the accusation?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t a lie! He did rape me!”

“So why did you withdraw the accusation if it was true?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no sounds came out.

“You can take a moment to compose yourself Miss Newton,” said the judge, gently.

“It’s complicated.”

“Would you like a sip of water?” asked the judge.

Without waiting for an answer, the judge signaled one of the bailiff’s to refill the water cup that Bethel had drained slowly while testifying under direct examination. When Bethel had taken a few sips and calmed down, the judge nodded for her to continue.

“I knew that if I followed through with the accusation I’d be subjected to this sort of thing… and…”

“What sort of thing.”

“Like… this…”

The tears were flowing again.

“Oh you mean cross-examination.”

“Yes,” said Bethel in a little-girl voice, her eyes squinting to dam up the tears.

“But isn’t that my job?”

“Yes.”

The voice was almost a whine by now.

“So you were afraid because you knew the prosecutor would do his or her job?”

“I was afraid of how he’d make me seem.”

“And how was that Miss Newton?”

“Like a slut.”

“Why do you think he’d make you seem like a slut?”

“Because that’s what they do.”

“They?” asked Andi, raising his eyebrows.

“Lawyers. Defense lawyers.”

“Is it only defense lawyers who do that sort of thing Miss Newton?”

At the prosecution table, Sarah Jensen tensed up. She knew that Andi was leading Bethel into dangerous territory, and she could object. But she couldn’t afford to let it seem to the jury as if she was protecting the witness from being tested. So she held back. With any luck Andi would just create sympathy for Bethel by attacking her in this way.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh I think you do. Didn’t the boys in your high school vote you the “slut of the year” in their student magazine poll?”

“Yes,” she cried, sobbing bitterly into her handkerchief. “But I wasn’t like that at all. I wasn’t a slut. It was just the boys being silly.”

“But they evidently thought it was true Miss Newton.”

Sarah Jensen finally rose to her feet like an avenging angel, realizing that she had let it go on too long.

“Your Honor,” this is hardly relevant to the proceedings. The witness objected to the way the boys had characterized her even at the time.”

“That may be,Your Honor,” Andi responded, “but the witness’s past behavior pertains to her veracity.”

Sarah Jensen tried again.

“That may be relevant to the previous rape accusation, Your Honor. But how the victim was characterized by others is another matter. This poll was done in a high school by a group of adolescent boys. It merely reflects the adolescent boys’ mentality. It hardly represents reliable evidence of the victim’s past behavior.”

Justice Wagner hesitated. After a few seconds, she spoke slowly.

“It may not be the most reliable evidence Ms Jensen, but it is evidence.”

“But it is not evidence of a form that permits cross-examination. If defense counsel wants to introduce this evidence, she should call the author of the student magazine article and the rules of hearsay evidence should be strictly applied.”

“That would surely restrict the content of his testimony to the point of rendering it worthless,” said the judge.

“In that case, let defense council call the boys who answered the opinion poll.”

“That would be extremely impractical Ms Jensen.”

“In that case I reiterate my objection to the evidence. If this evidence is deemed to be relevant, then at least it should be admitted in a form that lends itself to the test of cross-examination of its sources.”

“No I don’t agree Ms Jensen. I think it’s important to protect the accused’s right to a fair trial, and that includes testing this witness’s testimony, by allowing defense counsel to put these points to her,

Sarah Jensen sat down, frustrated. Emboldened by the judge’s decision, Andi pressed her advantage home, determined to make up for the earlier debacle about the Justice Compton decision.

“Miss Newton,” Andi continued. “Can you think of any reason why fifteen boys should unanimously vote you “Slut of the year”?”

“Because they’re a bunch of fuckin’ creeps!” she cried sobbing profusely.

“And is it not true, Miss Newton, that you took part in a student charity event dressed as a slave girl?”

“Yes,” she said, continuing to cry. She had been dressed more modestly than a girl — or man — on the beach. But in court it sounded so different from the reality.

“And on another occasion did you not appear as a stripogram”

“It was a kissogram!”

The court erupted into laughter, crushing her with the weight of total humiliation. She had tried to put the matter into context, to counter the poisonous seeds that this greasy shyster was sowing. But in retrospect, arguing over the terminology sounded farcical.

At the defense table, Claymore lowered his head and stared at the table in front of him, unable to watch what was unfolding before his eyes. But no one noticed Claymore. The last thing everyone remembered of that session, was Bethel Newton’s face with the tears of humiliation streaming down her cheeks. And amidst all the politics and legal shenanigans, it was all too easy to forget that this was a human being.

But no one looked at Andi, either. If they had, they would have noticed that she too was crying.

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 12:30

“You know that according to Bethel’s statement about Orlando, he assaulted her with one end of a little league baseball bat?”

Andi and Alex were in the car, driving back to the office across the Bay Bridge to finish some paperwork. The atmosphere was tense. They had been sitting there in stony silence until Andi broke the silence with her hint of moral criticism.

“I know,” said Alex, uncomfortably.

“And you also know that Orlando forced her to perform several sexual acts while threatening to bust head open.”

“I know she said he did,” Alex replied, still not giving anything away by his tone.

“And you think she made all that up?” asked Andi, contemptuously.

Alex shrugged. Andi spoke again.

“You know that another girl came forward at the time of the Orlando case and confirmed that Orlando had done the same thing to her?”

“Yes.”

“She said he pulled her hair and treated her like a rag doll, just like Bethel Newton said.”

“So?”

“And he boasted to her about having assaulted other girls and threatened to ‘rearrange her face’ if she told anyone. Do you think they both made it up?”

“How do you know all this?” asked Alex glancing sideways briefly to assess what she was thinking by the look on her face.

“It’s in the report. Pity you didn’t bother to read it.”

Alex’s face was neutral.

“I did read it,” he said coolly.

Alex kept his eyes on the road, but when he turned to check his blind spot she saw that the neutral expression had given way to feint trace of an embarrassed smile.

“You bastard,” she said coldly.

It was too quiet for anger; too lacking in intensity for passion. It was revulsion; the sort of revulsion one might feel towards an old piece of decomposing food. She turned her face to the road, unable to bear the sight of him any longer.

“We’re up against a century-old stereotype,” said Alex, “the black man as sex-driven predator who goes hunting for white women to violate. We have to counter that stereotype any which way we can — even if it means fighting dirty.”

“You’re still living in the past, Alex. That stereotype died with To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s been replaced by another stereotype, and one that’s no less pernicious: the lying woman who consents the night before and then screams rape the morning after.”

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 13:05

“The trial of Elias Claymore crossed an important milestone today as alleged rape victim Bethel Newton was subjected to a grueling cross-examination by defense co-counsel Andromeda Phoenix on the second day of the trial.”

Martine Yin was standing in front of a news camera giving her report, while a group of women behind her demonstrated outside the court building, shouting slogans demanding justice for rape victims.

“Cross-examination had been expected to last several days, but appears to have been cut short to avoid creating any more sympathy for the alleged victim.”

Andi was watching the report via the internet on the computer at her desk in Alex Sedaka’s law office when she heard a knock on her door.

“Come in,” she said, not looking up.

The door opened and Juanita walked in with two ice cold cans of diet coke.

“Oh hi Juanita.”

“How are things going?” asked Juanita, pulling up a chair and practically yanking the ring out of her diet coke can.

“Okay. Still slogging away trying to make sense of these demography and jury stats.”

“I thought you’d put that on the side.”

“Alex wants me to. He thinks we can break the prosecution case with old-fashioned courtroom methods. But I’m not so sure. And in any case there’s something not quite right going on. And I want to know why.”

Part of the cause of Andi’s obsession was the feeling that some one was operating against her in the background. All her efforts at demographic analysis seemed to have come to nothing when she walked into that courtroom and looked at the jury panel. To add to that, the obscene messages she had received had both angered and frightened her. She sensed that there was an enemy out there trying to stop her — and she was determined to stand up to that enemy.

“What exactly are you hoping to find?” asked Juanita.

“Well firstly, I guess I want to rule out any other explanation. But the more I look the more obvious it seems that the other explanations don’t work.”

“Maybe you just haven’t considered the right one.”

“Like what?”

Juanita shrugged and her eyes squinted as she gave Andi an awkward, embarrassed smile.

“Like whatever you haven’t thought of. If I knew, then one of us would have thought of it and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Great!” said Andi at the wry humor.

“What did David say, when you phoned him?”

“David? Oh Alex’s son. He told me about some case in Kent County, Michigan a few years when they found a glitch in the software that had been running for eighteen months. It excluded the higher number zip codes — which just happened to be the ones with the black population.”

“And what was the outcome?”

“Well I looked up the case and it turned out that the Michigan Jury Commission determined that the error was accidental so it didn’t result in any successful challenges to convictions. But I did a broader internet search and found that the Grand Rapids area has been plagued by other problems concerning minority representation in jury pools. They found things like greater laxity of standards in requesting jury exemption from black applicants than whites and also problems with which they were summoned to appear at.”

“And is it possible that that’s what’s happening in Alameda?”

“Well first of all it isn’t just Alameda. It’s… not exactly every county in the state, but certainly quite a few of them. I mean I haven’t yet been able to check all the counties, but I’d say around a third of the ones I’ve checked seem to have the same problem. The stats vary but it’s all to within one standard deviation.”

“It’s strange that it should be only a third.”

“Well no, that’s the other thing. You see not every county uses the same jury selection software. I’ve checked up online and there are at least four companies that supply jury selection software. I mean software for the courts, not the software that lawyers use to help with the voir dire.”

“And?”

“Well I was wondering if maybe the ones who are having the problem are all using software from just one of these companies and the ones who aren’t are using software from the other three. In other words, maybe one of the companies is selling defective software.”

“Have you checked it out?”

“I’ve tried to. But it seems that nobody in the court administration knows what software they’re using and nobody knows who does know — at least nobody I can get on the phone.”

“Well I mean somebody must know! And they can’t just refuse to tell you.”

“Well the problem is no one seems to know. They’d have to go back through the court admin financial records, to when the software was purchased. And no one wants to be bothered with that. Also the courts are exempt from the California Public Records Act, except for statements of itemized expenditure. So I requested statements from every county in the State from five years ago. Hopefully we’ll find it listed. But they have up to ten days to comply. And some of them have even written back to invoke the statutory fourteen day extension And that’s time we can’t afford. So far only one of the counties has got back to me.”

Juanita smiled.

“And is it one that has the low minority stats or one of those that doesn’t?”

“One that doesn’t.”

“So why don’t you presume that the problem is with software from one of the other three companies — I mean not the one used in the county that got back to you?

“That’s exactly what I do think. But until I’ve got responses from the others I don’t know which and that means can’t prove anything.”

“No but can’t you in the meantime, analyze the software from those three other companies? Or get David to?”

“I got the impression that David didn’t really have the time. He only agreed to help because his father wanted him to. Besides, there’s still the problem of getting the software. We still don’t know which of the other three companies its from. And whichever, it still comes from a private company. That means its proprietary, and using the Public Records Act will be a problem.”

Juanita thought about this for a moment.

“They’re a government contractor. Surely they’re still subject to an CPRA request?”

“They’re a contractor to the Courts and like I said, the courts are exempt from the act, apart from expenditure statements.”

“Maybe it would quicker to buy copies of the software from the various companies?”

“Probably would. The trouble is then all we’d have is the executable — or at best the object code.”

Juanita was shaking her head.

“Now you’ve lost me.”

“We need the source code to figure out what’s going wrong, if anything.”

“Oh I see.” Juanita was actually more knowledgeable about computers than she liked to let on. She had just taken a moment to get up to speed with Andi’s remark. “But isn’t it possible to — what’s that word — decompile it or something like that?”

“It is. And I can probably get a freeware decompiler online. But the output from a decompiler is so cryptic that it takes an experienced computer programmer to understand it.”

“And you’re not an experienced programmer?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Andi. “Barely more than a beginner.”

Andi raised her eye brows quizzically.

“Oh sorry, I guess I should explain. I started a course in C++ programming, but dropped out.”

“I’m sure David can help.”

“Until we’ve got the software, that’s a moot point. Also it’s not like off-the-shelf software. It’s very expensive and you pay for the number of seats.”

“Seats?”

“The number of parallel users. That means they’ll want to know where and in what manner we’ll be using it. And what are we going to tell them? ‘We want to analyze your software to see if it has a defect that causes African-Americans to be under-represented on juries.’?”

Juanita smiled.

“I see what you mean. The thing I don’t understand Andi, is how come you got the demographic jury data so quickly, if they’re so slow under the Public Records Act.”

“That’s easy. A lot of counties have already compiled their own demographic reports to monitor these things for internal admin purposes. The data was already out there. It was just a case of tracking it down on the internet.”

Juanita leaned forward conspiratorially

“You see I was just wondering if we could somehow get a copy of the software and present David with a fait accompli…get him to haul ass.”

Andi realized that Juanita was trying to be helpful. And maybe she was right.

“Do you think Alex would be ready to fork out for a copy of the software?”

Juanita smiled.

“Maybe as a last resort. But let’s try something else first.”

“What?”

“Are you in court this afternoon Andi?”

“No. The judge has some other business to clear up so we’ve got the afternoon free.”

“Private business or court business?”

There was an eager smile on Juanita’s face. It left Andi feeling awkward.

“Court business I assume.”

“So she’s still in the court building.”

“I assume so. Why? What do you have in mind?”

“Give me a moment.”

She picked up the phone and called a number.

“Hallo is that the Clerk to Justice Wagner… Yes I wonder if you can help me. My name is Juanita Cortez and I am the secretary to Alex Sedaka in the Elias Claymore case. I was wondering if you could find out from Justice Wagner if she would consider an ex parte emergency motion from the defense for a court order to obtain the software used by the court for jury selection” There was a long pause, and indistinct voices were heard in the distance. “Yes we can obtain the executable program from the court itself, but the source code would have to come from the supplier I assume… yes we can be there in person in half an hour! Thank you.”

Juanita put the phone down, here eyes gleaming.

“She’ll grant us an order for the executable from the court and schedule a hearing for the source code from the company that supplied the software. It’s called LegalSoft. But she’ll have to give them forty eight hours notice of the hearing.”

Andi’s face lit up.

“Yes!”

“We’d better get going now Andi.”

Andi stood up and grabbed her purse. “And on the way, I’ll tell you my theory about what’s really going on — if I can trust you.”

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 13:20

Martine Yin had wrapped up her reporting from the Claymore trial for the day. The court wouldn’t be reconvening in the afternoon and the TV station would simply run her earlier report again in the evening and on the late night news, filling in any additional details from the studio. She had hung around the court for a while, talking to some of the other reporters. But it was clear that nothing more was going to happen that day.

She had decided not to call Alex at the moment. By mutual agreement they had put their relationship on hold. It wasn’t just the conflict of interest in this case. It was the realization that based at opposite ends of the State, it just wasn’t going to work. It was ironic that now, when Martine was in the Bay Area and geography was no longer a problem, they had to avoid each other for ethical reasons.

So now she was making her way to her car, parked in the parking structure a couple of blocks down from the courtroom between Jackson and Madison, feeling somewhat down and dejected. She was missing Alex’s company and frustrated at having to stay away from him even now. Perhaps if she had felt in a better mood, she would have been more alert. But as it was, she simply walked, barely aware of what was in front of her, let alone what was behind.

Consequently, as she made her way to her car in parking structure a couple of blocks away, she didn’t notice that she was being followed by a young man — a young man whose excitement was growing at the prospect of what he was planning to do.

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 13:30

“So let me get this straight,” said Juanita. “You’re saying that you think it’s not a glitch but deliberate tampering?”

“That’s right. And it goes back for the last five years.”

They were crossing the Bay Bridge into Oakland, on their way to the Court Administration Building in Oakland. Juanita was at the wheel.

“But what does that mean? That it’s an inside job? Some one in the software company?”

Andi threw her head back, considering this.

“Possibly.”

“Well I mean, like, what else could it be?”

“Maybe some one created a different version and switched it for the original.”

“What like some one who worked at the Court?”

“At this stage we need to keep our minds open.”

“Yes, but… hold on a minute Andi. Anyone working in the court would only be working in one county. They’d have an opportunity to install it in one county but not a third of the counties in the state.”

“No, that’s why is aid we should keep an open mind. But you’re right that’s not a likely explanation. But maybe somebody hacked in to the computers at the courts?”

Juanita seemed to ponder this in the dim light of the lower section of the bridge as heavy traffic thundered overhead.

“Wouldn’t that be kind of hard? I mean don’t they have… what are they called… Firewalls?”

“Of course. If it was easy, everyone would be doing it. But some people have that kind of skill. But they wouldn’t just have to modify the software. They’d also have to find some way to slip it past the firewalls — and that’s probably a lot harder. Firewalls these days are quite sophisticated. A good server would only allow local superuser privileges.”

“So a remote installation would be blocked automatically.”

“Exactly. Anyway, the first thing we need to get the software and see if it has been tampered with — or indeed if it’s merely defective. The problem is that even getting the software might not help us. It could be one of the configuration parameters.”

“You mean like the set up,” Juanita asked.

“That’s right. In fact, that’s what happened in Kent County, Michigan. A configuration error told the database that there was a smaller total pool of prospective jurors and it just cut out the zip codes above a certain number.”

“But then you’d expect it to be just one county; not several, like in this case.”

Andi paused for thought again and then her tone changed as she looked to her left.

“You know something, Juanita. For a legal secretary you’re pretty smart about computers.”

For a minute there was silence and then they both broke into girlish giggles.

“There’s something else I don’t get,” said Juanita. “If some one had tampered with it — or even if it was just plain defective — how come no one discovered it until now?”

They were coming off the bridge now.

“Don’t forget, the only reason I discovered it now was because I noticed that there weren’t enough blacks on what was quite a large panel. Usually the venire panel is smaller to begin with, so this sort of imbalance wouldn’t stand out so visibly.”

“A smart lawyer like Alex would notice it, Andi.”

“From case to case yes. But he’d probably just think of it as bad luck or look for other more mundane explanations. I mean that’s exactly what he did.”

“But you didn’t agree.”

“No and I’ll tell you why not. You see we went to a lot of trouble to get a change of venue and I did a lot of prior research about the demography of the various counties. That meant that I approached the trial with some very specific expectations about the venire. When those expectations weren’t met it stuck out like a sore thumb. And it was particularly surprising because it was such a big venire pool. That meant we couldn’t explain it away as a random deviation.”

“But you haven’t told Alex your theory that the software’s been deliberately tampered with?”

“It’s not a theory. Just a hypothesis.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Not really.”

“Still… I think you should tell him.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You mean you’re afraid he’ll laugh at you.”

Andi didn’t reply. It occurred to her that Alex would confide in Juanita. And Alex was one of the few people who knew that they had put pressure on her to take second seat in the Claymore defense.

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 13:35

Alex had been surprised to get back to the office from a deli downstairs to find it empty and a note on his desk saying: “taken a long lunch break to have a chat with Andi.” But he knew better than to make a big deal of it. Juanita was too useful an asset to reprimand. And if she thought it was more important to have a heart-to-heart with Andi than to answer the switchboard then he wasn’t one to argue.

He realized that Juanita was better attuned to women’s issues than he, and he assumed it was something important. He was well aware that Andi still felt uncomfortable about working for the defense in this case. She was in a relationship with a rape counselor and she herself practiced law in the area of victim compensation. She had done defense work in the past, but it obviously wasn’t something that gave her any sense of satisfaction or fulfillment.

And today’s events had been particularly traumatic. It was obvious why Andi might have felt the need to take her to lunch and encourage her to get it off her chest. The important thing was that the case was going surprisingly well, and that was due — in no small measure — to Andi. She had seriously undermined Bethel Newton’s testimony without seeming like a bully. Yes, she had reduced the girl to tears. But the tears came only when it was revealed that Bethel had made a rape accusation in the past and then withdrawn it. That was not something that would sit well with the jury. And they would have serious doubts about Bethel’s claims now.

The office seemed strangely quiet with Juanita not around. The business was in fact growing and he knew that unless Juanita finished her degree pretty soon he’d have to take on an intern, like he had two years ago, or even an associate or partner.

He realized that Juanita would have set the switchboard to record incoming messages. Now that he was back, he ought to set it back to receive calls. But before that, he noticed that the message light was flashing and it said on the LCD display that there was one message waiting. He pressed the button to retrieve it.

“Hallo this is a message for Alex Sedaka. My name is Jerry Cole. I’m calling from Ventura County. I worked in the lab where the samples from the Claymore case were processed. I have some very interesting information about the lab and how those guys operate. Please call me at…”

Alex scrambled to grab a pen and write down the number.

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 13:45

“Andi? Earth to Andi.”

“Oh I’m sorry.”

The embarrassment was palpable.

“Where were you?”

“I’m sorry.” Even now, back in the real world, Andi seemed confused, reluctant to talk. “Sometimes when I’m thinking about a problem I immerse myself in it so completely, the world could end and I wouldn’t notice.”

Juanita brushed it off.

“The thing that puzzles me is how could anyone fiddle the jury software in such a way as to exclude blacks? I mean the data on the voting register and drivers license records wouldn’t include any reference to race — at least not the data that’s fed to the court administration for jury selection purposes.”

“I don’t understand either. But if I’m right then they must have found some way. Maybe they rigged it to screen out certain selected names?”

“Like what?” asked Juanita, almost laughing. “Jackson? Washington?”

“Or maybe first names.”

Juanita’s smile widened.

“LaToyah? Denzel?”

“Okay! Okay! I get the point.”

“Look I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make fun of you. But that’s one explanation that’s not going to fly.”

“Well maybe they rigged the software to screen out names from street addresses with large numbers of people with the same surname. In other words big families.”

“That would screen out a lot of Hispanics, and a lot of Irish and Polish Catholics. Oh yes, and a lot of Mormons!”

They both burst out into girlish giggles at the absurdity of it. As they fell about laughing, Juanita put a gentle hand on the back of Andi’s — a brief moment of intimacy, camouflaged as friendship.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you Andi. Are you still uncomfortable working on this case?”

Juanita realized that she had allowed a note of seriousness to intrude into her tone. But unlike her half-hearted attempts at probing Andi’s strange reaction a moment ago, she sensed that Andi would be grateful for the chance to get if off her chest. She knew about Andi’s dilemma over Gene and the rape crisis center. But she wanted to know how Andi felt about it now. Was she comfortable about what she was doing herself — regardless of what her lover thought about it?

But Andi hesitated for a few seconds before answering.

“I don’t know why defending a person has to be based on attacking the victim. I mean, sometimes you’ve got no alternative, but why can’t it be done gently?”

“How do you assassinate a witness’s character gently?”

Andi thought about this, realizing that she was thinking with her heart and not her head.

“Well I tried to with Bethel Newton. I tried to focus on the possibility that she made a mistake. But I was also obliged to use the dirt we dug about her previous rape accusation. If I hadn’t, Claymore might have been convicted, but then he’d’ve got it overturned on the grounds of inadequate legal representation. That would have hurt Alex too — and Levine and Webster.”

“That’s the way it works Andi. That’s the adversarial system. They put up their strongest case and we put up ours.”

“And for that we have to put the victim on trial?”

“That’s the way of the world Andi — the legal world at any rate. Alex calls it the ‘desanctification of the victim’.”

“That sounds like a nice way of describing an ugly process.”

“That’s exactly what it is Andi.”

“And what if you don’t find any dirt.”

“Well some lawyers use the hundred to ten approach.”

“Hundred to ten?” Andi echoed.

“It’s based on the theory that even a living saint has some enemies. And enemies means people who are ready to speak ill of that person. The idea is that if you talk to enough people who knew the victim, sooner or later you’ll find some one who’s ready to give you some dirt to throw at them. In fact you can usually find several people. Then you call as many of them to the witness stand as you can and turn the jury against the victim.”

“But why is it called the hundred to ten approach?”

“It’s based on the theory that for every hundred people who knew the victim, about ten are ready to say something mildly negative about the victim, four or five are ready to say something very negative and two or three are ready to say something extremely negative. Then you use as many of these as the judge lets you get away with.”

Andi thought about this.

“I suspect that if the victim was Alex you’d probably only have to speak to a handful of people to get the dirt you needed.”

They both fell about in hysterical laughter.

“We’re here,” said Juanita, still laughing, as the car pulled up at the white stone building.

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 15:15

“It’s going to be quite tricky without the source code.”

They were in David Sedaka’s office at the Berkeley Center for Theoretical Physics in the renovated LeConte Hall. He was sitting on a high-backed blue chair inside a huge wraparound cherrywood desk while Juanita and Andi — on similar chairs — sat facing him on the outside of the round end. It was the only part of the desk that wasn’t cluttered with papers, and that was because David had stacked them all up and moved them to the other side of the table to give them space.

“But you can decompile it at least,” said Andi, staring at David and admiring — in some inexplicable way — his geek-chic appearance. He was five feet six with unruly black hair and wore boxy, TV-screen glasses. She wasn’t drawn to him sexually, but he was the sort of person she could think of as a younger brother.

“Oh sure,” said David. “But without the original source code, I have nothing to compare it to for errors. And no explanatory documentation. All I can do is try to figure out how it works. And that’s going to take me some time. I hope I can finish before I fly out to Switzerland”

The room was flooded with light from a large window and the room itself was surprisingly large. Andi had assumed that academics lived in a very austere, comfortless world, all the more so when they were working in an old building that had been renovated to house a group of scientists who had previously been without a fixed home. David, they knew, had been a PhD for the last three years and was doing post-doctoral research into anti-matter. One of his predictions — that anti-matter can decay into photons without needing to come into contact with matter — was soon to be tested at the new Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland.

“I guess the first thing to look out for is lack of randomness,” said Andi. “Anything that interferes with the randomness of the selection, whether it has anything to do with African-Americans or not. I mean the glitch in Grand Rapids, wasn’t about race per se, it was about zip codes.”

“I’ll look for that and for anything that might interfere with referencing the database. Ideally we’d have a copy of the database itself. Maybe that’s where the problem lies.”

Computer programming as such, wasn’t his field. But like many physicists and others in science, he had some programming skills, along with his mathematical background and training. Also, he had a network of contacts on whom to call for assistance.

“We’ve got a hearing to get the source code on Friday. The software company’ll fight it vigorously and if they lose, they’ll appeal. So anything you can get from the executable will help. We might get the source code, but when is anyone’s guess.”

“I’ll decompile it right away, but I don’t expect to have time to look at it before the weekend.

“Whatever help you can give us,” said Andi, “I’ll appreciate.”

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 10:10

The prosecution’s first witness on Thursday was Dr Elaine Weiner, the doctor at the sex crimes and domestic violence unit who had examined Bethel. She was in her late thirties, but she exuded an air of confidence, like some one who had testified in court before and wasn’t intimidated by it. Of course, the real test would come when she faced cross-examination. But she showed no sign of one who was looking forward to the experience with dread. Quite the contrary, she gave Alex a brief, challenging eye contact that almost seemed to suggest that she was looking forward to crossing swords with him.

The first questions that Sarah Jensen put to Dr Weiner, established her qualifications, occupation and the fact that she was on duty on the sex crimes and domestic violence unit that night. Then the questioning turned to the facts of the case.

“And could you describe the events that occurred at ten fifteen of that morning?”

“Well at about that time, a girl whom I now know to be Bethel Newton was brought in by Detective Bridget Riley.”

“Can you describe her appearance?”

“She was bruised and shaken and visibly distressed. Her clothes were in disarray.”

“And what did you do?”

They were using the DOAR Digital Evidence Presentation System, which enabled the lawyers to present audiovisual evidence of a variety of types to the jury, whilst allowing the judge to over-ride anything that the jurors were not supposed to see. The judge, current witness and court clerk all had standard size computer monitors in front of them, whilst the lawyers had laptop computers and additional monitors at their tables. The jury had two huge monitors, positioned on the floor a few feet in front of the jury box, giving them all a clear view.

At any given moment, it was the lawyer conducting his examination who had control of what was displayed, subject to the judge’s override. Control could also be handed over to expert witnesses.

“I took her to the rape suite for a physical checkup and to collect evidence samples. Once at the suite, I had pictures taken showing external bruising to the alleged victim and conducted a forensic medical examination with a view to establishing the cause of her condition and to gather any potential evidence. Specifically, I took clippings from her fingernails and vaginal swabs for future DNA analysis. I placed these in the appropriate containers, sealed them and marked them for chain of custody. I then handed them over to Detective Riley.”

Sarah Jensen pressed the button that showed the pictures on the screens. Alex had stipulated to the pictures, in order to save time and avoid appearing to be unnecessarily stubborn, so there was no need to call the photographic officer who had actually taken the pictures.

“And can you confirm that these are pictures of Miss Newton on the day in question?”

“Yes, I can.”

The pictures showed bruising around her wrists consistent with restraint by a strong hand.

Sarah Jensen pressed the button to move onto the next image. Showing the evidence bags with Dr Weiner’s signature. The doctor was asked to confirm the authenticity of the signature, which she duly did. Later Sarah Jensen would ask the lab staff who had conducted the DNA tests to identify those same markings against the lab’s record log to confirm that this was the same evidence.

At the end of this fairly straightforward direct examination, Sarah Jensen said “your witness,” to Alex and sat down. The prosecutor expected some pyrotechnics on cross-examination, but Alex surprised her and the doctor by rising just long enough to say “no questions.”

The judge announced a twenty minute recess.

“How come you didn’t challenge her over the editorializing about Bethel’s state of mind?”

“The jury already heard it. And it wouldn’t make sense. Our defense is mistaken identity. Why shouldn’t she be visibly distressed?”

Andi shrugged.

In the press section, Martine left to do her report. She didn’t notice that a young black man in the spectator’s section was following her — just as he had yesterday. But then his efforts had merely been designed to learn her pattern of movements. Now he already knew the pattern.

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:00

“So, do you think it’ll help?” asked Alex, “or is it a complete waste of time?”

Alex had decided to phone David during the recess, to find out how he was doing with the jury selection software. He had been persuaded by Andi that it was worth looking into. But the question was, could David make any progress in finding any bugs in the software — with or without the help of his friends in the math and computing department?

“Like I told Andi, it might. But it’ll be a lot easier if we can get the source code.”

David Sedaka was in his office in the renovated Old LeConte Hall poring over a huge printout of the source code.

“We have a hearing on Friday to try and get it. But I can’t be sure we’ll succeed. Can’t you just break it down into sections or something and work it out that way?”

“Not from the machine code alone, no. That’s why I need the source code. In the meantime I can decompile it. That means I use a piece of software called a decompiler to reverse the process and create a sort of rough copy of the source code.”

“So why do you need to get the original source code if you can do that?”

“Two reasons. First of all, the original source code often has fields and arrays with self-explanatory names like jurorName and jurorList. When the source code is compiled into machine code, these self-explanatory names are lost and replaced with digital numbers. If you then decompile the source code, you don’t get the original names back. Instead you get more technical sounding names generated by the decompiler, like TextField01 or Array01.”

“I see,” said Alex, barely understanding.

“The other thing is that the source code usually has explanatory notes. Those notes can help some one reading the original source code to understand the program. But the notes are ignored by the compiler, or rather discarded completely. So that when you decompile the machine code, it doesn’t recover the explanatory notes.”

“How does the compiler know to ignore the explanatory notes when it’s compiling the original source code?”

“They’re sandwiched between special characters. Those characters flag the compiler to ignore them when generating the machine code.”

“Okay well we’ll try and get the source code at the hearing on Friday. Gotta go now. They’re going back into court.”

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:10

“The morning session of the trial got off to a pretty uneventful start today, with police doctor Elaine Weiner testifying about her initial examination of Bethel Newton.”

While David was talking to his son, Martine Yin was delivering her report facing Lake Merritt on the grass triangle between 12th and 14th Street in front of the main entrance to the Alameda County Court House. To her left and right were other news vans, from other stations, doing their reports.

“Though some observers expected experienced criminal attorney Alex Sedaka to conduct a probing cross-examination, testing Dr Weiner on her recollections of the events, especially after the withering questioning faced by alleged victim Bethel Newton yesterday, Sedaka chose instead to waive cross-examination altogether.”

The white stone facade of the majestic court building provided the backdrop as she continued to outline the events that had occurred in the courtroom minutes before. Her report would be accompanied by pictures by the press artist that had been scanned in the broadcast truck and transmitted to the TV station.

“It is not clear if this marks a change in his courtroom strategy or simply a recognition that some evidence stands on too solid ground to be worth challenging.”

The young man who had followed her yesterday was watching nonchalantly, from the corner of Fallon and 12th Street.

“It should be stressed, that at no stage did Dr Weiner’s testimony directly implicate the defendant, Elias Claymore. But it was used by the prosecution to establish chain of custody over the DNA evidence which is to be presented later today.

“Martine Yin, Eyewitness News, Alameda County Court House.”

She smiled at the lanky cameraman, but noticed that he was looking unhappy.

“Okay we had some cloud cover bang in the middle there. It may have screwed up the lighting. Do you think we can do the bit about waiving cross examination again?”

“We haven’t got time. They’re going to start again, any minute.”

“Okay in that case we’ll get a bite to eat and get back here for the lunch-time adjournment.”

And with that the cameraman and soundman got into the van and drove off. Rather foolishly Martine decided to walk across the grass to get back to the court building. However, even though she was wearing practical shoes, all it took was one misstep and she ended up losing her balance. It was not exactly flat on her face, but rather awkwardly on her side, taking it on her left arm. To their credit, the other news crews didn’t laugh or even smile. They just looked away with embarrassed smirks on their faces. Martine sensed their reactions and felt a stab of anger, or at least irritation. But she took a deep breath and rose above it.

She looked at her left sleeve. There was no mistaking it: the mud was visible on the blue, and wiping it would make no difference She could do the report in her blouse and snooker waist coat. But then she looked at her matching blue skirt and saw that it too had traces of mud. She could get them to do the lunch time report medium close or mid shot. She might even have time to put in a call on her cell phone to get them to bring a change of clothes.

But then she realized that her face and makeup were also a bit of a mess. She had her purse checked in at the court cloakroom. And they had makeup in the van. But she realized that she needed a complete change. She had a change of clothes in her car. But that was parked at the parking structure two blocks away. There was a kind of pecking order for parking cars in the vicinity of the court. The judge’s park there cars around the court itself. The lawyers tended to park in the parking lot of the nearby Oakland Museum. Reporters, witnesses and relatives of those involved in the cases parked in the parking structure two blocks away. That was where Martine would have to go during the lunch-time adjournment to change in her car.

But then she realized another problem. At the lunch time adjournment, all the other reporters would do their reports immediately. If she delayed hers to walk two blocks, take the elevator up four levels, change and then walk back, she’d be filing her report a lot later than the rest — and well away from the hour that a headline story like this merited. Also, if she rushed, she’d be glistening and nervous. The glistening could be taken care of with makeup, but not the nervousness.

She could phone the camera crew and ask them to stop by at the parking structure and tell them what to get. But she’d still have to change in the van and that would take time. Also, she didn’t feel comfortable now. She wanted to change immediately.

She looked at her watch again. She still had seven or eight minutes — and they never return from the recess bang on the dot. She knew that if she walked briskly, she could get to her car, freshen up, change clothes and still be back before they got to the substantive questions. They always started off with preliminary questions to establish the experts credentials and she knew that this time would be no different.

So she set off down 12th Street for the parking structure, two blocks away, unaware of the man who was walking a few yards ahead of her.

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:20

“All rise!” said a bailiff as the judge returned. When the judge was seated, the others followed suit.

Alex was tense when the court reconvened after the short recess. He knew that they were now about to hear the crucial make-or-break portion of the prosecution’s evidence.

“Are you ready to proceed, Ms Jensen?” asked the judge.

“Yes, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor. “My next witness is Doctor Victor Alvarez.”

A bailiff opened the doors to the witness anteroom and said: “Call Victor Alvarez!”

Victor Alvarez, a man in his sixties with an air of the academic about him, entered the courtroom. He was in fact the Technical Leader of the DNA section of the Ventura crime lab and had done the analysis himself because it was such a high-profile case. He was sworn in and then asked a few preliminary questions to establish his qualifications and the fact that he worked at the lab where the DNA profiling was done. This was followed up by a detailed explanation of what DNA is, using the DOAR Digital Evidence Presentation System to illustrate his testimony with a series of diagrams and pictures — all delivered in his “wise old expert” tone.

He explained that DNA is made up of four so-called “bases,” referred to by the letters A, C, G and T, and that these bases formed pairs, but only in a very specific ways.

“A always pairs with T,” he explained, “and C can only pair with G.”

When he fell silent from this preliminary explanation, Sarah Jensen was ready to move on.

“Now could you explain how you use this to identify the source of the DNA?”

“There are certain particular sequences of DNA that vary a lot from one person to another. It is these sequences that we use for DNA analysis in criminal detection.”

“And how do you do this?”

“We look for something called Short Tandem Repeats, or STR for short. These are short sequences of DNA, normally of length two to five bases. These short sequences are in turn repeated between six and fifteen times at particular locations or loci. For example, a sequence like-”

He clicked to show the next chart. It showed a sequence of letters:

G-A-T-A-G-A-T-A-G-A-T-A-G-A-T-A-G-A-T-A-G-A-T-A

“That’s a sequence of four bases at a location known as D7S280. In this case there are six repetitions of the sequence G-A-T-A. Such a repeated sequence is called an allele. At each location you have a pair of alleles — as we call them — which might be either the same or different. So a person might have the GATA sequence six times in one allele and eight times at the other. Or they might have identical sequences at both alleles.”

“And how does this help identify the person?”

“Well different people have different numbers of repetitions of that particular sequence. In this particular case it can vary between six and fifteen repetitions.”

“But between six and fifteen means only ten possibilities?”

“Yes indeed.”

“So there must be lots of people who match that particular sequence?”

“Yes indeed. But we don’t look at just that one sequence. We look at thirteen different sequences. For any one sequence, many people may have the same number of repetitions. But once you start looking at all thirteen different sequences at different locations, then the likelihood of two people having the same number of repetitions as each other in each of the various sequences is extremely small. But the problem is that sometimes the amount of DNA in the evidence sample is extremely small.”

“So how do you deal with that?”

“By increasing the quantity.”

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:30

Martine took the elevator to the fourth level of the parking structure feeling tense and flustered at the amount of time it had taken her to get here. She knew that the trial would have already started, but there was nothing she could do. She just hoped that she could get one of the stringers from the print press to fill her in on anything that she had missed.

There was nothing unusual to alert Martine as the elevator doors opened and she walked over towards her car. Parking structures held no fear for her, at least not in daylight. And there was plenty of daylight seeping in from the periphery to complement the strip lighting.

She pressed her combination on the remote key to open the car, ignoring the man moving things about on the front passenger seat of his aquamarine Mercedes in the adjacent parking spot. At the back of her mind, was the recollection that Elias Claymore’s missing car — like the one used in the rape of Bethel Newton — was the same make and color. And this man was…

She dismissed the thought, opened the driver’s door and slid into her car. She was just about to close the driver’s door when the man standing on the passenger side of the adjacent car lurched at her, shoved her hard into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him. Before she could scream, he clamped an iron right hand over her mouth, his thumb under her jaw holding it shut. With his free left hand, he operated the mechanism to incline the seat back until it was almost horizontal. Then he started ripping at her clothes.

In those few seconds, terror truly engulfed Martine. They were high up, on the fourth level of the parking structure, so people were less likely to come here than to the lower levels and wouldn’t hear her outside on the street. It was not the beginning or the end of lunch-time so this would not be a key time for people to arrive here or leave. And this man was holding her down, so that she couldn’t be seen by others on this level, even if anybody came. Also he was strong and easily able to withstand her pathetic attempts at resistance.

Her skirt had by this stage been hitched up and her panties and pantyhose ripped off completely. He was now struggling with his own clothes and Martine could feel from the contact between them that he was already aroused physically as well as psychologically. The only thing she didn’t know, as she struggled to reach into her pocket, was whether he intended to let her live when he was finished with her.

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:40

“So Polymerase Chain Reaction is a method of increasing the amount of DNA available for testing?”

Sarah Jensen was continuing her direct examination of Victor Alvarez.

“That’s right.”

“And how does it work?”

Alvarez pressed on the button to show an animation that he could speed up or slow down as he illustrated the process graphically.

“It involves heating and cooling the DNA in a special chamber called a thermal cycler, together with certain other chemicals called enzymes. This causes the DNA to unravel and split into separate strands and then each strand forms a new pair of strands with the other chemicals in the same way as it does in the body, with the bases forming pairs like I said before.”

“And how many times do you do this?”

“It can be anything from twenty-eight cycles to thirty-four. Each cycle doubles the amount of DNA.”

“But once you’ve got enough DNA for testing, how do you distinguish between DNA from the victim and DNA from the perpetrator of the crime?”

“We start off by defining threshold quantities. Anything that shows up in the test in a smaller quantity is simply treated as noise and therefore ignored. Then we look at the relative quantities of what’s left to identify what we call the ‘major contributor’ and the ‘minor contributor’. Next we compare the evidence sample to the victim’s reference sample to determine if the victim is the major or the minor contributor. We do the same with the suspect’s reference sample to see if the suspect matches the other contributor. If we find a sequence in the evidence sample that matches one found in the suspect’s reference sample, then we call that an inclusion. The more inclusions we find, the more likely it is that the suspect is the source of that DNA. On the other hand, if we find even one sequence that can’t be matched to the suspect or the victim, then we would call that an exclusion.”

“And how many exclusions does it take to exclude a suspect completely?”

“All it takes is one.”

Sarah Jensen paused and turned to the jury, to make sure that this had registered. They set their bar high to include a suspect, and proportionately low to exclude him.

“Now you spoke about the major and the minor contributor. Does that mean that the DNA in the evidence sample is always a mixture?”

“Not always. We can isolate the DNA from sperm using a method called Differential Extraction. We tried that in this case with DNA from a vaginal swab. But unfortunately, in this case, it turned out that there was no sperm in the sample. We then compared the DNA from another vaginal swab to the reference samples of both Bethel Newton and Elias Claymore.”

“And what did that show?”

“The test showed that it contained DNA from Bethel Newton but not from Mr Claymore or indeed anyone else.”

“And does exclude Mr Claymore?”

“No, it’s only an exclusion when the evidence sample does contain a mixture of DNA from more than one contributor. In this case, all the DNA came from Miss Newton, so that doesn’t eliminate anyone.”

“But how do you explain it the absence of any DNA from another contributor?”

“Well, in itself it’s consistent with two explanations. One is the absence of sexual activity. The other is use of a condom.”

“So what did you do then?”

“We then turned our attention to the nail clipping samples from when Miss Newton scratched the victim.”

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:45

Martine was gasping for breath now, struggling against the man’s weight upon her. He had now unfastened his belt and pants and for a brief, fleeting moment he lifted his weight off her so that he could pull them down. It gave her the chance she needed. Quick as a flash, she twisted her body and pulled out the small pepper spray canister. She knew, from her limited training, not to waste any time or effort trying to carefully position the canister. That would merely telegraph her intentions. She swung it close to his face, closed her eyes, held her breath and let out a large burst of spray,

The man cried out in agony and anger, twisting away from her onto the driver’s seat and rubbing his eyes — the very thing that one is not supposed to do. Martine herself was gasping and coughing from the back spray. She sat up, to make it harder for him to resume his assault and at the same time grabbed his throat, digging her thumb hard into the soft tissue. He let out another cry of pain, but this time managed to deliver a vicious punch to the side of her face. She was dazed by the force of the punch, but in some way it helped as it made her forget the discomfort of the back spray that was affecting her.

As she recoiled, she grabbed the handle of the front passenger door and tugged at it. Then she remembered that it had a security lock. Fortunately, she knew where everything in the car was. She pressed a button under the dashboard and the passenger door was unlocked. On her second attempt she managed to operate the door mechanism and open the door, but before she could push it wide enough to effect her escape, the man grabbed her arm again. She let out a scream of “fire!” remembering the old rule that people were more likely to respond to the word “fire” than “help.”

He silenced her by placing his hand firmly over her mouth. But it was the same hand that he had used to grab her arm — his other hand was still rubbing his burning eyes. With her arms and hands free, she pushed the passenger door open wider with one hand while using her other — reinforced by a powerful biting action of her teeth — to remove his hand from her mouth. Again he cried out in pain and retracted his hand to suck on the wound and the toothmarks.

Without waiting for him to make another move, she twisted away through the open door and ran out of the car continuing to scream “fire!”

The man knew that there was nothing more he could do to her. He heard the sound of other people coming and realized that he was now in danger. He didn’t know how many people were responding to Martine’s cry, or whether they were security guards or just members of the public. But whoever they were, even if they couldn’t stop him, they would still be witnesses who could identify him.

So he knew he had to flee, and moreover that he had to do so as quickly as possible. He couldn’t start her car as it was one of those modern high-tech ignition systems and he didn’t have the key. She must have put it in her pocket when she reached for the pepper spray. So he leapt out and dived back into his own car via the passenger door, slamming it shut, sliding across the seat and starting the engine as quickly as possible. By the time he had got the engine started there were two security guards charging towards the vehicle, apparently more concerned with stopping him than with helping Martine.

But he knew they wouldn’t shoot. Even if they were armed, they wouldn’t shoot. Their position would be legally precarious if they did. They might have grounds to detain him, but they sure as hell didn’t have grounds to shoot him. They didn’t know that was an attempted rape. For all they knew it could have been a falling out between a pair of lovers or an argument over a parking space. And the word she had shouted that had brought them running was not “rape” but “fire” — hardly grounds to shoot a man.

They tried to run into his path, but he just kept going, sending them spinning out of the way as they dived for cover.

He permitted himself a brief chuckle as he thought about their pathetic and futile effort to stop him. And now he was screeching his way down a series of ramps to get to the exit of the parking structure. A couple of times other cars, in the process of leaving the structure, came perilously close to crossing his path. But the ferocity with which he was driving forced them to hold back or swerve out of the way. So it took him only a minute to get to the exit on 13th Street.

But when he got there, in his desperation to escape, he forgot the most basic rule of driving: to look. And a second later, a speeding police car that was answering the call from the security guards, slammed into the left side of the aquamarine Mercedes, sending him reeling.

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:50

“The problem with nail clipping samples in cases where the victim scratches the attacker,” said Alvarez, “is that you normally find a large amount of DNA from the victim and only a small amount from the assailant.”

“And can this be resolved by the method you described earlier? Identifying the major and the minor contributor?”

At the defense table, Alex had noticed that Martine wasn’t sitting in the press section. He was idly curious about that but continued to concentrate on the Alvarez testimony.

“Unfortunately that is often impossible, because the sheer volume of DNA from the victim dwarfs the amount of DNA from the other contributor. And if you try to get round this by setting the detection equipment to a more sensitive level, you end up with a lot of background ‘noise’ as we call it.”

“So how do you solve the problem?”

“We turn our attention to a particular type of DNA that comes from the Y chromosome. Only men have a Y chromosome, so that means you’re limiting it to DNA from a man. We’re still looking for repeated sequences — just like with ordinary autosomal DNA — but this time it’s a set of twenty two locations on the Y chomosome.”

He clicked the button and showed an illustration of a strand of Y chromosomal DNA with arrows pointing to various marked sections.

“We use the same processes to break down the DNA into fragments and analyze them and then we get the computer to print out a report showing the length of the sequences at each of the marker locations.”

Sarah now assumed control of the presentation system and pressed a button. On the screen a report appeared.

“And is this your report in this case?”

“Yes.”

It was the first page of the report, stating that the suspect, Elias Claymore could not be eliminated as a suspect. Sarah pressed another button.

“And this is the second page?”

“Yes.”

“The second page showed the breakdown of the different fragment lengths at the different locations on the crime scene samples and the equivalent for the suspect.”

Locus

B. Newton (index fingernail)

Elias Claymore (ref sample)

19

17

17

385a/b

16, 19

16, 19

388

12

12

389-1

13

13

389-2

31

31

390

21

21

391

10

10

392

11

11

393

16

16

426

11

11

437

14

14

438

11

11

439

12

12

447

28

28

448

24

24

460

10

10

H4

11

11

YCA2a/b

17, 19

17, 19

450

8

8

456

16

16

458

18

18

464 a/b/c/d

13, 16, 17

13, 16, 17

“Now I see from this table that the lengths of the strands for the suspect and crime scene sample are identical. What does this tell us?”

“It tells us that there were no exclusions. This means that the suspect could not be eliminated as a possible source of the DNA in this sample from the victim’s fingernails.”

An eerie silence hung over the courtroom before the prosecutor spoke again.

“And were you able to establish the probability of a randomly selected male matching this particular DNA profile?”

“Yes. In the general population as a whole, this profile or ‘haplotype’ as we call it, is likely to occur in one in every four thousand males.”

“One in four thousand, is that correct?”

“Yes, one in four thousand.”

“Your witness,” said Sarah Jensen, turning to the defense table.

But as Alex was about to rise, the judge spoke.

“We’ll take a twenty minute recess.”

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:55

“Will he live?” asked the driver of the police car as the gurney was raised into the ambulance outside the parking structure.

“Oh yeah,” said the ambulance attendant. “It’s not life threatening.”

“Pity.”

There was a certain amount of macho posturing in this interjection. The cop was not, in fact, as hard as he was trying to sound. He was a rookie and had never killed a man before. Nor was he looking forward to doing so, although he knew that at some point in his career he might have to. Even the sight of Martine and her condition, couldn’t make him wish that the man was dead.

“It’ll be okay,” said his partner.

The rookie backed off as the ambulance crew closed the doors and drove off.

Martine was being treated in situ by a second ambulance crew. Another squad car had been summoned and a victim chaperone was taking her preliminary statement.

“So what do we know?” asked the rookie. His partner had been getting further information while he had stood aside, trying to calm down after the shock of the impact.

“Name’s Manning, Louis Manning. Has a string of priors for possession and dealing.”

“Anything for rape or indecent assault?”

“No. Just dope.”

“I guess that’s gonna change now.”

“Uh huh. He cornered her as she was getting into her car. She’s a reporter on the Claymore case.”

“No shit.”

The rookie looked over to where she was making a statement to the other team.

“She’s cute.”

“She’s gotta be. She does the TV news.”

The rookie looked away embarrassed when Martine noticed him starting.

“That her car?”

“No his. Hers is up on Level Four. She was getting into her car for a change of makeup or whatever and he was getting something out from the passenger side of his when he jumped her.”

“Didn’t she see him approaching?”

“His car was right next to hers.”

“Sounds like a setup.”

“Probably was.”

“She okay?”

“Think so. She maced him in the face so she must be pretty tough.”

The rookie looked at the Mercedes.

“You say he was a dealer?”

“That’s what his rap sheet says.”

“He must’ve been making some serious dough.”

“Oh yeh that’s another thing. She said that one thing that caught her attention just before he jumped her was the car, because it matched the description of the one in the case she’s covering.”

“What the Claymore rape case?”

“Yeah.”

“Well maybe we should check it out.”

“I was planning to.”

The older cop put in a call on his radio. About twenty seconds later the dispatcher replied.

“Those license plates come from a 1993 Pontiac Firebird licensed to one Louis Manning in New Mexico.”

“Okay thanks,” said the older cop. He looked over at his partner to make sure that had heard it.

“So he used his old plates,” said the rookie.

“That’s the way they do it. Steal a top-of-the range Merc to replace an aging Pontiac and transfer the legal plates to the stolen vehicle.”

“But we can check the VIN to trace the real owner.”

“Exactly.”

The older cop smiled. He’d seen it all before: the young, eager rookie showing off how much he’s learned. He’d been like that too, when he was rookie.

They walked over to the car as it was being hitched to the tow truck. The tow truck team stood back while the rookie and his partner opened the driver’s door and looked for the plate on the dashboard with the serial number. The rookie spoke into his radio.

“We need a make on Vehicle Identification Number 4DB-NG-7-zero-JX-9K-234-299.”

The dispatcher came back even more quickly on this one.

“That vehicle is registered with the California DMV as a Mercedes belonging to Elias Claymore.”

“Okay, thank you,” said the rookie, letting out a whoop of delight.

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 12:10

Martine was in the rape suite at the police station in the Frank H Ogawa Plaza. Unlike Bethel Newton, they hadn’t taken any vaginal or oral swabs or even nail clippings. But they had taken photographs of her injuries and tapings from her clothes to show fiber matches with Louis Manning’s clothes.

The victim chaperone dealing with her had told her not to be surprised if Manning tried to use a consent defense, but pointed out that her injuries would be corroborative of her version of events. There seemed to be a sense of gloom however, as if to make her aware of the fact that she could expect her reputation to be attacked by the defense lawyers as a matter of course.

That reminded her about one very particular defense lawyer whom she wanted to call. She asked if it was okay and when the victim chaperone said yes, she whipped out her cell phone and put in a call to Alex. She was expecting to get his message box, because he was in court, but was surprised when he answered in person.

“Martine where are you?”

“I’m at the police station up at the Ogawa Plaza.”

“Why what’s happening there?”

“I was attacked.”

“What?”

“Some one tried to rape me.”

“Holy shit! Who?”

“I don’t know his name. I got him with pepper spray and the cops busted him.”

“Are you all right?”

“A bit shaken, but everything intact.”

“Thank God.”

“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. I’m okay. Don’t worry.”

“I’m coming round there.”

“No need. I’ll probably be through here in fifteen or twenty.”

“I’ll ask for an adjournment.”

“There’s no need.”

“But I want to.”

She gritted her teeth, but felt a tinge of amusement at Alex’s reaction.

“Did anyone ever tell you, you’re very stubborn?”

“Only Mrs. Sedaka.”

“Melody?”

“No, my mother.”

Martine couldn’t help but smile at Alex’s reaction.

“Okay, you do whatever you must. Like I said, I’ll be here for at least the next half hour.”

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 12:15

“Let me see if I’ve understood this, Mr Sedaka. You want me to grant your request for an adjournment, so you can visit your girlfriend a few blocks away?”

Justice Wagner’s tone was condescending rather than indignant. But Alex was left in no doubt as to how she felt about what he realized might seem like a frivolous request.

“She’s not my girlfriend, Your Honor, just a professional friend. And she’s pretty badly shaken up.”

“But you said yourself that this was only an attempted rape and she hasn’t even been hospitalized.”

“Yes, but she must be in shock. It’ll probably hit her later.”

“And when it does, you can comfort her — this evening. But right now, we have a case to try.”

“Your Honor, if I’m forced to conduct my cross-examination while I’m thinking about this, it might affect my performance.”

“I hope you’re not going to try and make your client pay for your concern about your girlfriend — sorry, your ‘professional’ friend.”

“I’m not saying I’ll do anything less than my best. But my concern for Miss Yin is genuine and may affect my performance. And even if it doesn’t, my client might claim that it does. He might claim incompetent representation by counsel and use it as grounds for appeal.”

“Which would hurt your reputation.”

“And threaten to undermine the verdict.”

Sarah Jensen stepped in.

“Why can’t Ms Phoenix conduct the cross-examination?”

All eyes turned back to Alex.

“This is a very complex area of law and science, Your Honor, and my co-counsel may not be sufficiently well-versed in this area to-”

“Come off it, Mr Sedaka. Ms Phoenix is an experienced trial attorney. She has been a prosecutor in New York City as well as defense counsel. Unlike you, she’s worked the criminal courts from both sides and she’s more than capable of conducting a rigorous and thorough cross-examination of the witness.”

Alex found himself almost stuttering.

“Well… I don’t know. I mean my client might not agree to it.”

“Oh really?” sneered the judge. “A minute ago you were saying that your client wouldn’t want you to cross-examine because you were in emotional turmoil over what’s happened to your — to Miss Yin. Now your saying he desperately wants you.”

For once, Alex was lost for words.

“May I confer with my client, Your Honor?”

“Please do.”

Alex went over to Claymore and told him what had happened, prefixing his remarks by telling Claymore not to show any reaction on his face — an instruction with which Elias Claymore proved singularly incapable of complying. But worse than that, Claymore showed no sign of flexibility on this point.

“I don’t want her doing it! I want you to cross-examine.”

“But why? She’s a very good lawyer — and in some ways it’ll look better in the eyes of the jury if she does it.”

“She doesn’t understand the DNA science as well as you do. She’s too wrapped up in this computer business.”

“She can use my notes. It’s all there.”

“I don’t want it. Look, you pushed me into accepting her as second seat. And she did a good job on the Newton girl. But for this job, I don’t think she’s up to it. I’m the client and I ain’t taking any chances. I want you to cross-examine Alvarez.”

Alex could see from the look in Claymore’s eyes that he wasn’t going to give way. But he also noticed something else. Claymore was afraid — it was the DNA that frightened him more than anything else.

Seconds later, Alex was back at the judge’s bench.

“My client doesn’t agree, Your Honor. I’ll do the cross. But may I at least be excused after that?”

“Okay, we’ll adjourn for lunch when you’ve finished and we’ll cancel the afternoon session.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

On the way back to the defense table, Alex whispered to Andi.

“I don’t want Elias to hear this, but don’t be surprised if I race through the cross.”

“I understand,” Andi replied.

Seconds later, Andi and Sarah Jensen were seated at their respective tables. Alex remained standing.

“Proceed, Mr Sedaka.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” He looked down at his notes, flicking through several pages, and then looked up to meet the eyes of Victor Alvarez.

“Dr. Alvarez, you told us in direct examination that the test you carried out looked at twenty two markers on the Y chromosome. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“But is it not a fact that the generally accepted profile for the Y-STR Haplotype uses only eleven of those markers?”

“Yes but the more markers you use, the more accurate the test.”

“But is it not a fact that with Y chromosome DNA, to determine the probability of a random match, you don’t multiply the odds of each sequence to calculate the overall probability, but rather look it up in a database according to a mathematical formula?”

“Yes. That’s why it’s only four thousand to one.”

“And is it not also a fact that many of those people actually in the reference database are profiled with only ten or eleven markers?”

“So many of the markers that you tested for are in fact irrelevant and might in fact produce a greater sense of certainty than is realistic?”

Alvarez nodded.

“Yes, that’s true. But in such cases, the markers are simply ignored. So it doesn’t affect the final result one way or the other. Again, that’s why I said one in four thousand.”

“And is it not also a fact that the markers are not independent? In other words, men get all their DNA from their fathers so that fathers and sons and brothers — and even some cousins and second cousins — all have the same Y chromosome DNA?”

“Yes that’s true. But again, that’s why we use the database method and the mathematical formula that you referred to a moment ago. That’s why I said one in four thousand.”

Alex noticed that Alvarez had put his hand to his mouth when he answered, suggesting that he was if not lying then having to admit something that he didn’t want to admit or possibly that he was holding back part of the truth.

“And is it not also a fact that specific Y-STR haplotypes are more common in some ethnic groups than in others?”

“Yes.”

“So in other words, even if the probability of this particular haplotype in the population as a whole is one in four thousand, it’s somewhat more common in the African-American population.”

“Yes.”

“What is that probability?”

“About zero point two of one per cent.”

He put it this way to make it still seem rare. But Alex had other ideas.

“About zero point two? So you’re saying that one African-American man in five hundred has this same haplotype?”

“Yes, if you care to put it that way.”

Alex most certainly did care to put it that way. Alvarez was desperately trying to take the sting out of this point. But Alex was not going to let up.

“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.

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 12:50

“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.”

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 13:05

“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?”

“Now wait a minute, here’s where is starts getting interesting. We noticed that his car was a Merc.”

A chill went up Bridget’s spine.

“What color?”

She already knew the answer before it came back over the phone line.

“A sort of dark blue. I think it’s called aquamarine.”

“Please tell me you impounded it.”

“Well obviously! And we’ve got a CSI team going over it even as we speak.”

“Thanks. Now the next thing you need to do is check the ownership.”

“That’s actually what I’m calling you about.”

Something in the way the patrolman said this made Bridget realize that he was way ahead of her. It also made her realize that the bombshell was yet to come.

“Spill it.”

“We already checked the ownership, First, we checked the license plates and they belong to one Louis Manning.”

“Have you traced him?”

“No need. That was the name of the perp. We checked his driver’s license and it’s him all right.”

“Okay, so he also owns an aquamarine Merc and he tried to rape a reporter who’s covering the Claymore trial.”

Bridget was no longer as excited as she had been a few seconds ago.

“Now hold on a minute. I said the plates belonged to the perp. But they didn’t belong to the car. They were New Mexico plates and they belonged to his old car — a Pontiac Firebird.”

“You should’ve checked the VIN.”

“What kind of a jerk do you take me for? Of course we checked the VIN.”

“And?” prompted Bridget, not daring to get her hopes up.

`“It’s registered to Elias Claymore.”

“Holy shit!”

Several other people in the open plan office turned to look in the direction of Bridget’s booth when she uttered this exclamation. Profanity wasn’t exactly taboo in a police station, even for women, but it was rare for Bridget.

“Wait, it gets better! You see, I thought it was kind of a big coincidence, this guy having possession of Claymore’s car and trying to rape a woman who just happens to be covering the Claymore trial. So I pulled the records on the Newton rape and guess what?”

“I already told you, I’m not into guessing. Just tell me what you got.”

“This perp, Louis Manning… he’s the spittin’ eye of the artists impression of the man the Newton girl described.”

Bridget practically choked on her sandwich.

“But we’ve already got the man who raped Bethel Newton.”

“You mean you think you’ve got the man.”

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“All I know is we’re holding a man on an attempted rape charge who was driving Claymore’s stolen car and who looks just like the original description of the rapist.”

“So did Claymore when he was younger,” said Bridget, realizing that she was rationalizing.

“So what should we do?” asked the rookie.

“About what?”

“Louis Manning. I mean we can’t just ignore what we’ve got. We have to check it out.”

“Have you taken a DNA sample from him?”

“Not yet. We’re waiting for a warrant.”

“Why?”

“We weren’t sure if we had probable cause.”

“Are you kidding? On a 261?”

“261-A — it was only attempted rape.”

“That should still be enough to pass a Hayes test.”

“My captain didn’t want to take any chances.

“I just thought of something. What if they ask why we need a DNA sample when he never got past second base.”

“Don’t worry. What we said is that it’s to compare with skin and clothing contact samples. But in the meantime I just thought you should know.”

“Okay, well as soon as you get the warrent, take the sample and run it. Have the lab upload it to the California SDIS. Tell them to do a Y-STR comparison with the Bethel Newton rape evidence sample. In the meantime, I’ll tell Sarah Jensen what you’ve told me.”

“Sarah Jensen?”

“The ADA. She’s one of ours. She’s first seat and I think you’ve got a local guy — Nick Sinclair — in second.”

Bridget remembered that some cops resent out of zone intrusion. Still, he’d taken the trouble to contact her so he obviously wanted to help.

“Okay,” said the patrolman. “Just one thing?”

“Shoot.”

“What if you find something you don’t like?”

The patrolman sounded genuinely concerned.

“I don’t think we will. But we’ve got to cover all the bases — ‘cause if we don’t, the defense certainly will.”

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 13:30

Alex had lunch with Martine at the Slanted Door, the classy Vietnamese restaurant in the Ferry Building overlooking the Bay: a generous plate of Niman Ranch shaking beef with broken jasmine rice for him and grilled five-spice chicken with Massa Organics brown rice for her. He was trying to reassure her after what he thought to be the traumatic experience of the attempted rape. If he had been eating alone it would have been a “Miss Kentucky” chicken burger at Taylor’s, in the Embarcadero Center where he worked. But he always went up-market when he was with a lady, even if it was strictly platonic. In this case it was a mixture of the romantic with the paternalistic: the eager lover and the protective older man.

But she had made it clear that she wasn’t the delicate little flower that he seemed to think she was. She reminded him a couple of times during the conversation that she had fought off the attacker with pepper spray and it was Louis Manning who had fled in agony and was now in a hospital bed with a broken leg and collar bone.

But she had agreed to tell the network to take her off the Claymore case because of a conflict of interest. That meant that she and Alex were now free to start dating again. Alex even hinted that he wanted her to move in with him, but Martine made it clear that she valued her freedom too much for that. Alex well understood. He also remembered her reaction the first time she visited the house in Elizabeth Street, when she saw Melody’s strategically placed picture in several places. They had never discussed it, but he had made it clear that his late wife was still too important in his memory to remove the pictures and she had made it equally clear that she wasn’t sure if she could compete with a ghost.

So they had let it stand at the status quo, dating but not living together, taking it one day at a time, faithful but not committed to each other. And now they were poised to resume where they had left off.

It was mid-afternoon when Alex returned to the office. Juanita was at her desk, reading a law book as part of her night school course. She reacted, almost imperceptibly, to his entry, but didn’t greet him. Alex sensed that something was up — almost as if she was deliberately ignoring him.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“Yes. Andi has some one in there. Jerry Cole. You remember, you invited him over?”

“Jerry Cole? Oh yes. From the forensic lab in Ventura. I thought he was coming this evening.”

“His flight arrived at two thirty and he didn’t have anything else to do. So he phoned in and I put him through to Andi. She got him to come by taxi and she’s been talking to him for the last twenty minutes.”

They heard a door opening. It was the office that had been assigned to Andi — the one that Nat Anderson had once used.

“Alex, is that you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got Mr. Cole with me.”

He noted the use of the respectful title and surname and sensed that their guest had a fragile ego.

“I’m coming.”

Juanita signaled Alex over to her desk with a flip of her index finger. He leaned forward when she touched her lips conspiratorially.

“He takes his coffee weak, with plenty of milk.”

Juanita smiled and leaned back smugly, as if this was supposed to be telling Alex something. He had no doubt that it was, but couldn’t for the life of him figure out what.

Seconds later he entered the room where Jerry Cole and Andi were standing. Andi ushered him in, while Cole hovered nervously in a tense, fidgety manner by the chair opposite the desk from which he had just risen. Andi closed the door behind Alex, who found himself facing a thin man of about forty with a stooped posture who kept rubbing his hands together in an almost obsequiousness manner. He felt the same feelings towards him that Andi had felt towards Sherman that first day at Levine and Webster, only more so. The man reminded him of Uriah Heap in David Copperfield.

“Alex this is Jerry Cole. As you know, he works in the same lab as Victor Alvarez.”

“Oh please, sit down,” said Alex, pointing to the chair. Cole sat down, awkwardly, looking around as if another chair for Alex might materialize from nowhere if he just waited long enough.

To put him at ease about the fact that he was standing, Alex went and stood by the window, while Andi took her seat.

“Did you have a good flight?”

“Oh er, yes.”

They had paid for his two-way flight and even for him to stay overnight and return tomorrow, so it wouldn’t be so stressful, making the round trip in one day.

“Mr. Cole,” said Andi, “why don’t you tell Mr. Sedaka what you told me.”

Cole took a nervous breath and started speaking

“First of all I can tell you something about the conditions in the lab. We were hopelessly understaffed. That’s why we have a huge backlog of cases that are deemed less important. And that means there are loads of samples waiting to be tested and scanned into the system.”

“And is that relevant to the Claymore case?” asked Alex. “I mean are there samples sitting there that you think could clear my client?”

“Well I didn’t see the tests being done on the Claymore or Newton samples but it’s relevant in the sense that we work under so much pressure that it’s very easy for mistakes to be made. Sometimes we had lab assistants with no college qualifications working virtually unsupervised.”

“And what sort of things can go wrong in practice? With DNA I mean?”

“Well the most obvious danger is cross-sample contamination.”

“How can that happen specifically?”

“Well you know about Polymerase Chain Reaction to increase the evidence sample.”

“Yes.”

“And you know that if there’s even the slightest contamination that gets into the sample before they put it into the thermal cycler then the contamination gets multiplied along with the evidence sample.”

Alex nodded.

“I believe it’s called allele drop-in.”

Cole looked surprised.

“Oh you know about it.”

“Of course.”

Alex was by now getting irritated. He thought that this man would have some specific information that would help them. But all he had were the vague generalizations about DNA labs in general that Alex had already learned from his preparation for this case.

“Well the thing is, I remember they were very busy on the day that the Claymore sample was tested. I know because the lab assistant who tested it seemed very nervous.”

Alex picked up on this.

“What was his name?”

“Steven, I think. Yes… Steven Johnson.”

“And do you have any idea what he was nervous about?”

“No, not really. I just noticed he was nervous. You have to remember it was busy for me too.”

“Do you also do DNA analysis?”

Cole appeared not to have heard the question, almost like he was in a trance.

“Mr. Cole?”

“Oh sorry… no… no I didn’t. I worked in the Forensic Alcohol Section. Sometimes I had to cover for some one in the Toxicology or Controlled Substance sections. But not DNA.”

Alex noticed the flicker in Andi’s eyes. She had picked up on the past tense. Alex, of course, had already known this. Cole had told him. But he hadn’t been so willing to say why and Alex wasn’t ready to close in on that yet.

“Any particular reason for that?”

“No, it’s just the way it was. We all had our jobs to do and different lab assistants worked in the different departments.”

Alex decided to plump for a wild guess, based on Jerry Cole’s apparent age.

“But weren’t you the most senior of the lab assistants working there?”

Jerry smiled proudly.

“Yes I was.”

“Then surely they should have let you work in the DNA section. I mean, let’s face it, that must be the most important section there — certainly the most prestigious.”

“Yes but the head of the lab was against me because…”

He trailed off into embarrassed silence.

“Anyway, I didn’t work in the DNA section.”

Alex realized that the time had come to probe the issue of the past tense.

“But you don’t work there any more — at the lab I mean.”

There were two possibilities and both involved Cole being pushed rather than taking a walk of his own free will. The better scenario was that Cole knew too much and was sacked to silence and discredit him. The less attractive alternative was that he was sacked for some legitimate reason and was now looking for revenge. In fact it was more complicated than that because even if it was former, the lab would probably claim the latter and if it was the latter, Jerry Cole would no doubt hide his shame behind the former.

“No, they fired me.”

“What for?”

“They said I made some mistake on a test batch. Normally, if you make a mistake like that, they send you for retraining. But in my case they decided to sack me.”

“But you did make a mistake, though,” Alex pressed on. “I mean it’s not like they made it up, surely?”

He left it to Andi to monitor Cole’s face. Alex just wanted to hear Cole’s reply.

“I don’t know. I mean they say I did, but I have no way of knowing. It’s not like they showed me the results in writing. They just told me I’d messed up, pointed out that I’d had one warning already and then gave me fifteen minutes to clear out my locker. They didn’t even let me work out the day or the week or let me say goodbye to my friend.”

Alex picked up on the singular, but ignored it.

“Did you say you already had a warning?”

“Yes, I mean I did make a mistake before that with a live batch. It was just an accident, using a stale solution that I thought was fresh. But that just goes to prove what I said about working under pressure.”

“Did you say anything to anyone about that Steven Johnson looking nervous?”

“What?” Again the loss of attention span, or maybe just a misunderstanding of the question.

“Did you express your concerns about Steven Johnson to anyone?”

“Oh… er… no. I didn’t even really think about…”

Alex realized that this precluded any possibility that they might have sacked him because he knew too much. Realizing this, Alex also realized that there was nothing more that they could get out of Jerry Cole — at any rate, nothing useful. Feeling only mildly sorry for the man and not wanting to waste any more of his valuable time, Alex looked at his watch.

“Yes well, thank you very much Mr. Cole. You’ve been a great help.”

Cole got up awkwardly as Alex walked to the door and opened it.

“So when are you calling me?”

“We’ll let you know,” said Alex, hustling Cole towards the door. Cole became slightly agitated at being forced to make such a rapid departure.

“Because I really want to testify,” said Cole, anxiously. “I think I can make a difference.”

Alex was nodding towards the open doorway for him.

“Well thank you again. And don’t worry. We will let you know.”

Cole looked like he wanted to say more, but the implacable look on Alex’s face warned him that he could only expect anger if he persisted. Alex gently but firmly hustled Cole out across the reception area and closed the door behind him. Then he turned back to Andi who was looking at him expectantly. He straightened his tie and took a deep breath, looking at first at Andi and then Juanita.

“Are you gonna tell us boss?”

It was Juanita with that taunting smile across her face.

“We can’t use him.”

“You think he’s a psycho?”

This was Andi.

“Oh no he’s legit. It’s just that the prosecution will tear him to pieces. Trust me, Cole won’t thank you for putting him through it and won’t help Claymore in the least.”

Andi nodded at Alex’s logic. But she had more to say.

“And yet I can’t help thinking that what he said was actually true.”

“I’m sure it’s true. Look we know what it’s like in forensic labs these days. Everything he said made perfect sense. But it’s all just a collection of cheap generalizations. It’ll take more than generalizations to save Claymore — especially if we send in a meek Christian to face a lion like Sarah Jensen.”

“No I don’t mean that Alex,” said Andi.

“Mean what?”

“About the generalizations. About the high pressure atmosphere at the lab. I think he may have been on to something when he said that the technician who handled the crime sample looked nervous. I think he may have been telling the truth. I think he may well have seen something… something specific”

“Oh come off it Andi, you don’t think they sacked him ‘cause he saw too much? I made sure to cover that one — he said he never told anyone.”

“No I’m not saying they sacked him for it. I’m sure they sacked him for a legitimate reason. I’m sure he was careless and they gave him a warning and he screwed up again and they decided that enough was enough. I accept all of that. It’s just…”

“What?”

“It’s just that I still think he may be right about the lab technician. Just because they sacked him for a legitimate reason doesn’t mean he’s lying when he says the technician was nervous. Cole may have seen it at the time and thought nothing of it — or at least not cared enough to do anything about it. But that doesn’t mean he’s lying… or even imagining. I think he may have really seen it. And he’s been thinking about it ever since they sacked him.”

“But what if he is right?” Juanita stepped in. How are we going to prove it when we haven’t got a reliable witness to put up there on the stand.

Andi thought about this for a few seconds.

“I think maybe we should subpoena the worksheets from the lab’s log book.”

“They should’ve supplied them as part of the discovery.”

“But they didn’t. That’s another thing that sets me thinking.”

Friday, 21 August 2009 — 10:20

The Friday morning session was taken up with legal arguments in the judge’s chambers. It started off pretty well for the defense, when they filed a discovery motion for the log book work sheets from the Ventura forensic lab. Sarah Jensen responded that this wouldn’t be a problem and after a quick word with Nick Sinclair, she replied that the prosecution didn’t oppose the motion and even had a copy of relevant pages in her file already. The copy was handed to the clerk who made copies for the defense and judge and it was marked as an exhibit for future reference.

The truth of the matter was that it would have been hard to impossible for Sarah Jensen to oppose the motion. But in any case, she was grateful to the defense for stipulating to the chain of custody on the DNA, which spared the jury having to hear several boring witnesses and shortened the trial by maybe a day or two. So she flagged them through on this point, confident that there was nothing in the work sheets that they could use against the prosecution. She had been through the work sheets very carefully and it all looked like routine. Everything was signed in and out. There were no gaps in the timing and no excessive handling of the evidence as far as she could see. Indeed if there had been excessive handling, it would in all probability have been in the chain of custody stage before it reached the lab. The fact that the defense had waived the right to question the chain of custody witnesses, meant that they didn’t expect to find anything in that regard. Still, she was curious as to their sudden interest in the work sheets.

However, after the relative tranquility and agreement of the parties on the work sheets, matters became somewhat acrimonious when a third party entered the picture.

That third party was LegalSoft, the software company that had created the jury selection software used by the Alameda County courts, as well time-management software, also used by the courts.

“Your Honor the source code to this software is clearly proprietary information and a trade secret,” argued Melvin Kenney, the lawyer for the company, a 6’5” former Notre Dame full-back. “Furthermore it is not covered by the California Public Records Act as it is private. And as to the fact that it is being used by the court, I would point out that the courts are also exempt from the CPRA. Accordingly my clients should not be forced to hand it over.”

Andi — who for once had been given the green light to argue the matter herself, because of her superior knowledge about such matters — pressed on with her arguments.

“Your Honor, counsel is attacking a straw man. Our motion has nothing to do with the CPRA. It’s a subpoena motion for evidence relevant to the defense, pertaining to our client’s Sixth Amendment Rights. The Court has already conceded that if the defense can establish that there has been intention-based interference with the ethnic composition to the jury then it will amount to a Sixth Amendment violation. We have been able to establish some fairly severe statistical discrepancies but the only way we can establish their cause is to analyze the software. As to the secrecy element, we will of course be bound to refrain from disclosing what we discover outside the confines of the courts and we accept that. So LegalSoft have nothing to fear in that regard.”

“Your Honor,” Kenney continued. “This information could be prejudicial, as it could lead to law suits against LegalSoft — and could have other severe consequences to the smooth operation of justice.”

He smiled smugly at this, prompting a look of anger from Justice Wagner. But she contained her anger. What had antagonized her was that he was hinting that if the defense found anything wrong with the software could open the floodgates to appeals in criminal cases, leading to large numbers of convicted criminals — most of whom were probably guilty — being released onto the streets. In theory such people could be retried, but with the passage of time and fading witness memory — not to mention logistical problems — that would be unlikely in practice. But no judge could allow herself to be swayed by this argument. Ellen Wagner’s decision had to based on law and let the chips lie where they fall.

However, before that, Andi had something to say.

“Your Honor, if the software is defective, then it is right and proper that there should be lawsuits-”

“But not right and proper that our client should be forced to incriminate itself,” Kenney interrupted

“It isn’t incrimination if it’s a civil matter.”

“But there is no automatic right to access to trade secrets to help in a lawsuit against a private company.”

“But we’re not trying to start a lawsuit against anyone, Your Honor. Our aim is purely to protect our client’s Sixth and Fourteenth Amendment rights.”

“But it could have that effect Your Honor,” Kenney shot back, “as a by-product of the defense’s actions.”

“Your Honor the rights of a company against the vague — at this stage phantom — threat of a lawsuit must take second place to the rights of a defendant in major felony case to a fair trial.”

Justice Wagner, homed in on this.

“But you must admit that the same potential findings that will trigger concerns about the fairness of the trial would also trigger likely lawsuits against the company.”

Andi thought about this for a moment.

“Actually the opposite is probably the case Your Honor.”

This silenced Kenney, and even the judge looked confused.

“Would you care to elaborate on that, Miss Phoenix,” Ellen Wagner prompted.

“We don’t think there actually is a problem with the source code. Our belief is that it is not the source code that is flawed but rather the executable program.”

“Then I don’t understand why you need the source code at all. Why would it help?”

“Because, You Honor, it can help to show discrepancies between what the executable program is doing and what it is supposed to be doing.”

“In what respect?”

“We think that the original software was problem-free but that it has been tampered with so as to produce these anomalous results. In other words, the problem is in the executable program. But in order to prove that, we need to compare it to the original source code.”

“If there is any tampering, Your Honor, which counsel has yet to prove!”

“We’ve already established the statistical discrepancy that cries out for an explanation, not only in this case and not only in this county, but in quite a number. The defense submits that this is sufficient probable cause to give us a court order to obtain a copy of the source code.”

The judge, looked over at Kenney to see if he had anything to add. He shook his head, having already made his position clear.

“I think I’m going to grant this order.”

Kenney’s frustration was palpable. It was inevitable that he would file an appeal before the day was out. But in the meantime, Ellen Wagner was satisfied that she had done the right thing. She turned to Andi.

“Do you want it in printed form or electronic?”

“Electronic is quite sufficient.”

“OK, LegalSoft is ordered to provide the defense with a copy of the source code in electronic form by ten O’clock Tuesday morning.”

Friday, 21 August 2009 — 12:30

“The arguments took place not only outside the presence of the jury, but also the press.”

Martine Yin’s replacement — a twenty something blonde — was reporting on the latest events from the Court. She had been pulled, at short notice from her duties as the weather girl and she thought this was her golden opportunity. But she didn’t really have a firm grasp of what she was reporting on, because although she had followed the case on TV, she didn’t really understand the finer points of criminal law. Most of what she was reporting now, was on the advice of Martine, who had kindly agreed to advise her, to help make sure that her reports were accurate and clear.

“We do not know what was decided in these discussions, but we can confirm that in addition to the lawyers for Elias Claymore and the prosecution, there was a third party present in the judge’s chambers. This third party was believed to be a lawyer representing LegalSoft, the software company that supplied the Alameda court — and many other courts in the state — with software used by the court service. This includes jury selection software.

“Earlier on in the trial — on the first day, in fact — co-counsel Andromeda Phoenix objected to the entire panel from which the jury was to be chosen on the grounds that African-Americans were under-represented on that panel. Ms. Phoenix’s objections were overruled, but the matter could be raised again on appeal.”

Gene Vance used the remote in her left hand to turn the sound down on the TV, while picking the phone handset in her right hand.

“Hi, I’d like to book a flight to San Francisco International… yes, this afternoon.”

Friday, 21 August 2009 — 14: 50

In court, on Friday, the prosecution was rounding off its case. They had presented Bethel’s heart-rending testimony, albeit dented by Andi’s surgical cross-examination. They had called the medical expert who had examined Bethel to confirm that she had internal injuries consistent with rape. This would go a long way to corroborating Bethel’s claim that she had been raped. But to bolster her identification of the rapist, they had relied on Victor Alvarez, who had been forced to concede that because of the quality and type of DNA, the statistical probability that Claymore was the rapist was not as strong as they would have liked it to be.

So now, Alameda ADA Nick Sinclair was questioning Albert Carter, an independent eye-witness, unconnected to any of the other parties, in an effort to put Elias Claymore at the scene of the crime. The idea was that even if the defense could attack any and all of the elements of the People’s case, the prosecution could counter that it was the combination of several different types of evidence that made their case so strong: victim, eyewitness, medical and DNA. And if Claymore took the stand, they could bring up his priors for similar offences.

“Then I started walking over in the direction of the screaming,” the elderly Carter was saying. “But I didn’t want to get too close… I guess, I was afraid.”

“And then what happened?” asked Sinclair.

Carter hesitated, looking around the court nervously.

“Well I hid behind a tree, just in case I was seen. I mean I didn’t want to be seen.”

“And what happened then?”

It was clear that Carter needed prompting, or at least encouragement. But the ADA knew that he couldn’t be lead the witness. This was direct examination and leading questions were not allowed. Sinclair knew that he was getting there, but slowly. However, he was growing increasingly worried about how he would stand up to cross-examination. With a little bit of gentle coaxing he was telling the jury what he saw. But how coherent would he sound when subjected to one of Alex’s withering cross-examinations?

Of course Alex would have to go carefully: he wouldn’t want to create sympathy for Carter. But Sarah Jensen knew Alex very well. Even with a few quiet, polite questions he could completely disarm a witness and throw him into confusion. And Carter was a timid old man to begin with.

“Mr. Carter?”

“Then?” echoed the witness nervously. “Well that was when he ran passed me.”

“Who ran past you?”

“Well… the man.”

He was getting nervous.

“Could you tell us if you see the man in the courtroom?”

Carter pointed to Claymore with an unsteady hand.

At least it brings out the jury’s sympathies, thought Nick Sinclair.

“That man over there.”

“Let the record show that the witness indicated the accused Elias Claymore.”

“So ordered,” said the judge.

“And from which direction did he run?”

“Well… from the direction of the woman screaming.”

“And where did he run?”

“To a car. He got in the car and drove off.”

“And what sort of car was it?”

“One of those European cars. I think it was blue… I didn’t get the number.”

“Thank you,” said Sinclair smiling with relief. “No further questions.”

The ADA sat down sat down. Carter was about to leave the witness stand.

“Oh just a minute,” said Justice Wagner. “I think counsel for the defense wants to ask you a few questions.”

Carter, turned back and re-entered the stand, looking somewhat disoriented. Nick Sinclair smiled inwardly at this. When Carter wilted under Alex’s bullying, it would create sympathy for him, and thus for Bethel too.

But after a brief conference at the defense table, it was Andi who rose to cross-examine. She flashed a reassuring smile at the witness. He knew that she was supposed to be the enemy. But she seemed so inoffensive that he was forced to smile back nervously.

“Mr. Carter,” Andi began gently. “You say that you were hiding behind a tree is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“And were you hiding your face as well?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well if you stuck your head out from behind the tree, then wasn’t there a danger that some one might see you — the very thing you were trying to avoid?”

“But I didn’t stick my head out. I kept it hidden.”

“So how did you see the man when he ran past you?”

“Well he ran past the tree. I saw him when he ran past the tree.”

“Are you saying that he turned to look at you as he ran past the tree? Like he knew you were there?”

“No. He just ran straight past like a bat out of hell.”

“Like a bat out of hell?”

“Yes.”

“So he didn’t turn to look at you.”

“I just said he didn’t,” snapped Carter, irritated.

“Then how did you see his face?”

“Well I saw… I mean he… well I mean he didn’t look at me but I could see part of his face. I mean…”

“Part of his face?”

“Well… the side of his face.”

“When he ran past you.”

“Yes.”

“Like a bat out of hell.”

“Yes!”

Carter looked over at Nick Sinclair. She was lowering her head and avoiding his eyes.

“OK let’s review what we’ve got,” said Alex. “You heard screams, you were scared, you hid behind a tree and a man ran past you very fast without turning to look at you.”

“I didn’t say he was running fast.”

“You said like a bat out of hell.”

“Did I?” asked Carter, confused.

Andi paused to let Carter’s response sink in.

“No further questions.”

Andi sat down, letting her head drop. Nick Sinclair rose with as much dignity as he could muster.

“I have no redirect Your Honor.”

“The witness is excused,” said the judge.

Carter was escorted gently off the witness stand by a bailiff, as Andi looked on with what looked like a trace of sympathy. Sinclair sat down and Sarah Jensen rose. She regretted rounding off on a low note. It would have been better if Carter had been bullied on cross-examination, instead of simply being made to seem like the absent-minded old man that he was. But Carter’s testimony was intended as the icing on the cake. It wasn’t really essential. Even Bethel’s evidence, with its uncertainty over the attacker’s age and her past accusations of rape wasn’t really essential.

The scientific evidence was what counted in this case. In cases where the eye-witness or victim testimony is weak, scientific evidence was crucial. And in this case it was conclusive. The danger was that the jury would hold this debacle with Carter closest to the forefront of their memories. Therefore Sarah Jensen would have to remind them of the formidable scientific evidence in her closing.

She would take advantage of the O J Simpson trial, in which the DNA evidence was classified by one ignorant juror as “a whole lot of nothing.” This jury was educated enough to understand DNA evidence and would react differently. But there was something else she had to do first.

“Your Honor, the prosecution rests.”

Justice Wagner looked up at the clock on the courtroom wall opposite her and then at Alex Sedaka.

“Will the defense be ready to proceed on Monday morning.”

“Yes Your Honor.

“Then this court is adjourned until ten O’clock Monday morning.”

“All rise!” the bailiff intoned.

The lawyers, Claymore, jurors and spectators all stood. The judge rose with her customary dignity and left the courtroom. Andi and Alex started gathering up the papers in front of them. Claymore was standing with them, looking embarrassed. He wanted to ask them what his chances were, now that the prosecution’s case was nearly over. The truth of the matter was that there had been no surprises and Alex had by now had the chance to study the juror’s faces.

Throughout the case against him, Claymore had sat there in silence, not even leaning over to Alex when he wanted to tell him something. Alex had warned him against any behavior that might make him seem anxious or concerned. Instead, if he had anything important to say, he was to write it down on a note in front of him. Alex would see him writing and read it without turning his head.

But now before he was led away back to jail, he wanted to know where things stood.

“What do you think?” asked Claymore, quietly.

“How do you mean?” replied Alex, not really anxious to answer the question that he understood only too well.

“What are my chances?”

Alex didn’t look at his client as he put the last of his papers into his attache case. He still believed in his client, but he had a duty to be candid and honest.

“I won’t bullshit you Elias. We’ve got an uphill struggle ahead of us.”

Friday, 21 August 2009 — 22:15

“Mm, that feels good,” said Andi as Gene’s hands moved up and down, her thumbs squeezing Andi’s shoulders and upper back.

The room was dimly lit. Andi was lying on the bed in her underwear, while Gene gave her an intense yet soothing and relaxing massage. When Gene had turned up unannounced at Andi’s hotel room, a beaming smile had lit up Andi’s face. But now as she recalled the week’s events, the stress and strain of the trial began to take its toll.

“And the judge isn’t going to do anything about it unless we can prove that there was deliberate tampering,” Andi continued. “But the thing I’m worried about is that we just find some accidental glitch in the software that’s reducing the number of African-Americans on jury panels.”

By tacit agreement, Andi and Gene had suspended their rule against talking about the case together, although Gene was still prevented by an injunction from any contact with Bethel.

“But at least that’ll help in the future,” Gene comforted.

“Yes but it won’t help in this case.”

“You shouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Claymore isn’t exactly the most deserving client.”

“But he is the client and I’ve got a duty to do my best for him.”

“Then do your best. But don’t beat yourself up over it if the judge doesn’t accept your arguments. You’ve done your best by presenting the arguments. The rest is out of your hands.”

“It’s just that I can’t help feeling that this is some sort of a test of my integrity.”

Gene’s hands stopped working Andi’s shoulder muscles.

“You’re not on trial Andi. Elias Claymore is. The only duty that you and Alex Sedaka have to Claymore is to give him the best of professional services.”

“But how can I be sure that I am giving my best?”

“Judging the by the TV coverage of the trial, I’d say you’re going above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Then how come I feel this case slipping away from us?”

“Maybe that’s because the outcome of the case isn’t in your hands.”

Andi turned her head slightly.

“How do you mean?”

Gene’s voice became surprisingly gentle.

“Has it occurred to you he might be guilty?”

“It occurred to me. But I think — I know as a lawyer I should be thinking with my head, no my heart — but I think that he’s innocent.”

“Are you sure that isn’t just what you want to think? The evil man redeemed by repentance? Good ol’ Christian forgiveness and the fairy story ends with ‘they all lived happily ever after.’?”

Gene was about to start massaging again. But Andi swung round into a sitting position, her feet touching the carpet. She looked lost in thought.

“Are you coming to bed now?” asked Gene.

“Not yet. I forgot to check my E-mail today.”

And with this, Andi stood up and went over to the desk. She switched on her laptop and logged on to the office network at Levine and Webster to download her E-mail. There was only one message, but when she saw it, she felt that claw of fear and anger ripping at her insides. The screen contained the following message.

You are still helping that slimy nigger rapist. By helping him you are stabbing your sisters in the back and your blood will be upon your own hands!

Lannosea

The first thing Andi felt was a jolt of anger. But as she thought about the message, she remembered that she had never really made any effort to find out who this Lannosea was. Whatever the cause of the anger of this “Lannosea”, it must have a background. She knew that Lannosea was the name of one of the daughters of the ancient English queen Boudicca. But why would anyone choose such a name?

Determined to find out more. she typed in Boudicca and looked up the wikipedia entry. It didn’t give the names of Boudicca’s daughters but it stated that when their father Prasutagus — a vassal of Rome — died, the roman’s seized his kingdom, flogged Boudicca and raped her daughters.

Raped her daughters?

So that was it!. “Lannosea” was a rape victim. — maybe even one of Claymore’s former victims!

All of a sudden things were different. Andi realized that she was not being taunted by some evil creature motivated by hatred, but rather by a victim who was motivated by anger.

And she couldn’t hate a victim.

She tried to tell herself that she was only doing her duty. Once she took on the case, she had to give it all her professional skill. But that sounded like the pathetic excuse of every other pragmatist who ever sold his conscience down the river for a quick buck or an easy life. She knew now that she had been rationalizing when she justified taking the case. She had become like one of those people whom she despised — a mercenary, devoid of conscience.

As this ugly realization swept over her, she broke down in tears, her face resting her on her arms and her arms on the desk, her whole body shaking from the violent sobbing.

Saturday, 22 August 2009 — 09:00

It was Saturday morning, and David Sedaka was in his apartment in Berkeley, studying the decompiled jury selection program. He didn’t yet have the source code — LegalSoft had at least until Tuesday to produce it and even then would probably appeal. So all he had to work with in the meantime, was the decompiled source code, without any programmer comments and with hopelessly counter-intuitive names for the variables and arrays.

Still, now that his working week was over, and he was relaxed and in his own home, he was able to give it his undivided attention The trouble with most modern “Object oriented” computer programming is that it doesn’t really have a beginning, a middle and an end. It jumps around and branches off in all directions. But it does have a so-called “main object” which is the control center of all this branching. So if he wanted to debug the program it made sense to start off by looking at its “Main” object and see where these branches led.

It was at the Main object that David was staring now, as he tried to figure out how it held the other parts together. To make it clearer he started drawing a flow chart, showing how the parts connected and branched. In effect he was reverse-engineering the way in which the program was created in the first place.

It was then he noticed a small discrepancy. He chased it up by looking at how the program handled duplicates — that is names that were in both the voting register list and the Department of Motor Vehicles list.

And that was when he realized!

Saturday, 22 August 2009 — 09:20

“Just ignore it,” said Martine.

Alex had been about to reach for the phone when Martine spoke.

He had invited her for Friday evening dinner and she had stayed the night, entranced by his home-made, gefilte fish, chicken soup with kneidelech and chicken schnitzel with potato kugel. His mother had taught him to cook, but it was from Melody that he had learned that sometimes the way to a woman’s heart was through her stomach. He hoped that the ghost of Melody had been smiling down on him last night, as he availed himself of this knowledge to take the first delicate steps towards moving on from the pain of the past.

“It could be important.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be the Sabbath?” she asked with a girlish grin, as he reached for the phone

“Don’t be cheeky,” he said, picking up the phone with one hand and smacking her bottom playfully but firmly with the other.

“Hallo,” said Alex, his greeting almost masked by Martine’s squeal of pain, or delight.

“What was that?” asked David.

“Oh, er hi David. Nothing. I was watching the TV.

“That’s not like you. You’re usually all work and no play.”

“I guess the case is taking it’s toll. Anyway it’s not like you to phone this early on a Saturday.”

“I know, it’s just that I’ve had some results looking at the jury selection program.”

Alex sat bolt upright and signaled Martine to be quiet. David’s tone had been ever so calm and measured that anyone else hearing it would not have known how tinged with excitement is was. But Alex Sedaka had known his son for 26 years and he could tell when he was gripped by excitement.

“What did you find?”

“The solution! To the jury selection software problem! I’ve found out how the software was rigged! I mean I’ve discovered what the tampering actually does.”

“So tell me!”

David’s tone took on the aura of embarrassment.

“I’m not sure if I can explain it to you.”

Alex wasn’t in the least bit offended. He was, at worst, mildly irritated.

“Oh don’t do the old ‘ignorant father’ routine. I need to know.”

“Okay, but look, it’s hard to explain it in words alone. I may need to show you some things. I can drive round there.”

Alex didn’t want David coming round there now. Obviously he would have to tell him at some point about how the relationship with Martine had progressed. But now was not the time.

“Can’t you eMail them over? Besides, Andi needs to hear it too.”

“Maybe you can get her to come round as well. That way I can show you the print outs and diagrams and everything.”

Alex had to think quickly.

“I’ve got a better idea. Let’s do one of those three-way video conferences that you’re always on about.”

“Okay. We can use Oovoo. Phone Andi and tell her to log in, then you log and I’ll log in and I’ll invite both of you. You just have to accept the conference and we’re up and running.”

Saturday, 22 August 2009 — 09:30

It was Saturday morning and Bethel was miserable. Last night she would normally have been out on the town with her friends. As a double rape survivor she kept trying to tell herself that she had almost recovered. Almost, but not quite. The experience of testifying at the trial and listening to the other witnesses, brought it all flooding back. And now when she should have been out having a good time, she was sitting at her friend’s home feeling miserable and depressed. She was staying with her friend Linda for the duration of the trial. At the end of the trial she would go back to her parents and try and get on with her life. Not that she was sure what “getting on with her life” meant any more.

She had planned to go back to college. But the idea no longer held its appeal. She couldn’t face people after the rape — the second rape. She couldn’t face men. She had gone out on a few dates since the rape, but they always made her feel cheap and dirty. Not that they were aggressive. Most of them went out of their way to be respectful, almost to the point of timidity. But the kid gloves treatment reminded her that she was damaged goods. It was as if they were saying to her that they didn’t want to touch her. Or if a few of them became bold enough to touch her, she flinched away from them.

And this rape had in some way affected her more than the first.

The first was date rape. It had hurt her deeply at the time. But somewhere along the line, she had seen it coming. Orlando had been building up to it the whole evening. Although she didn’t want to have sex with him, she had been mentally prepared for the rape as she saw Orlando’s frustration steadily degenerate into anger and then violence when he didn’t get his way, like a frustrated child throwing a tantrum. And because he was such a big child and she was alone with him, it was obvious long before it happened that she wouldn’t be able to hold him off.

Also, she knew that Luke Orlando had suffered for it too in some ways. He had lost friends as a result of it: his friends knew full well that he had raped her — just as they knew he had raped the other girl who came forward at the time, but whose case was never heard.

But this time it was different. When she got into the Mercedes with that smooth-talking man, she hadn’t expected it all. She had heard all the racist generalizations, but it was precisely for that reason that she was determined not to be intimidated by them.

The last time she was raped, some of the men she knew had even offered to “beat up that bastard”. But that did nothing to ease her pain. They were seeing it in terms of revenge. But they were missing the point. What she wanted was not revenge but empowerment. Perhaps, in a way, that was really what men wanted too. Perhaps revenge made men feel empowered.

But in any case, the feelings of empowerment eluded her. When she had testified in court, she didn’t feel empowered, in spite of all the pep talks they had given her at the rape crisis enter. The opening bars of “For what it’s worth” rang out from her cell phone.

It startled her out of her thoughts and jarred her into awareness of her surroundings. More to the point, it brought her down to earth and made her realize that in the real world she was just a weak little girl. She looked at the display and it showed a number, but not one that she recognized. She wondered who was calling. She didn’t like answering the phone when was alone. Since the rape she had been afraid of strangers. Even strangers at the other end of the phone frightened her.

And so now, listening to the phone ring, the apprehension grew inside her as she wondered who it was. Her hand tried to find the phone, fumbling its way around the low table. But fear held it back. Eventually, her curiosity overcame her fear. She picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” she said abruptly, putting on a Mexican accent that she could hide behind, in case it was some one she wanted to avoid, by pretending to be some one else.

“Is that Bethel?”

It was a woman’s voice… a familiar voice… but it sounded distorted.

“Who is this?”

“Who wants to know?” would have sounded corny.

“You don’t know me. My name is… you can call me ‘Lannosea’.”

“What do you want?” Hearing such a strange name made Bethel nervous. Anyone using a name like that had to be a weirdo. And the she didn’t need a weirdo in her personal space on top of all her other problems. But the fact that it was a woman was reassuring.

“I want you to know that Claymore isn’t going to get away with it… and neither is Alex Sedaka.”

“What… what do you want?”

“I want you to know that there’s some one out there fighting for justice… fighting to give you justice.”

“You said… Alex Sedaka.”

“He raped you too, figuratively speaking.”

A streak of terror went through Bethel like a lightening bolt. This woman was reading her mind. She was telling her the thoughts that had been going through her head only a few minutes ago.

“What are you going to do?”

“I intend to make sure that all those who have harmed you are punished. I intend to give you the justice that the system has denied you.”

Bethel was apprehensive, but no longer fearful. This woman was not her enemy. But she knew that she had to be careful what she said. It was one thing to wish for revenge, it was another to be associated with it. And yet the voice gave her a note of hope. This woman was in some way her kindred spirit — a woman who could read her thoughts, feel her pain, almost with the same heart beating inside both of them… whoever this woman was.

“Thank you,” said Bethel quietly. “Thank you,” she said again her eyes squinting against the tears that were now flowing freely.

“Be strong,” said the woman’s voice at the other end of the line, gentle yet hard. “Be strong and courageous. Justice will soon be with you.”

Saturday, 22 August 2009 — 10:20

“OK, let’s hear it,” said Alex.

They had set up the three-way video conference, with Alex sitting at his desktop computer in his home office on the main level of the house, while Andi was sitting with her laptop at the desk in her hotel room. Alex and Andi had passively logged on to the Oovoo program and David Sedaka had then invited each of them to join. All they had to do was click “Accept” and the three way conference was up and running.

“It works like this. First of all, the original jury selection program was written in such a way that it didn’t have to use it’s own database. It logs on to the databases for voting and driver’s registration in the relevant district of the State and take the names of all prospective jurors in that district from both databases. That way it’s assured of the most up-to-date voter and driver records.”

“OK,” said Alex, nodding.

“The next thing it’s supposed to do is screen out any duplicates — that is any names that appear on both the voting register and the driver’s license records. There are usually quite a lot. So far so good?”

“I’m still with you.”

“All right, the next stage is to screen out persons known to be ineligible. That means people in prison, people with felony convictions or recent misdemeanors, etc. All clear?”

“Absolutely.”

David was being brisk about it, Alex gave him credit for that. He was also being careful not to go too fast, summarizing each stage quickly and then stopping to make sure that Alex had understood.

“Okay finally when all that’s done, the algorithm picks the jurors using a randomization procedure that I told you about before to get the initial random number.”

“OK, I understand all that,” said Alex impatiently. “But how has it been tampered with?”

“Well remember I said that first it draws up the list of potential panelists living within the relevant district. Then it cuts out the duplicates from the list before going on to make the actual final selection.”

“Yes?” said Alex hesitantly.

“Well I don’t know if this is the result of tampering or just bad programming, but what actually happens in the program is that it doesn’t cut out the duplicate names from the overall list before it draws up the panel. Instead it draws up the panel first and only then cuts out the duplicates from the actual list of panelists if there are any.”

“Holy shit!” said Andi

“Well does that make a difference?” asked Alex, confused.

David was about to answer when they heard another sound from Andi, this time somewhat muffled.

“Oh hi Gene, I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Hi Andi,” Gene’s voice came back, even more muffled.

Alex was surprised.

“I didn’t know…” he trailed off into silence.

“She came up to join me for the weekend. Instead of me going back to LA.”

“She just got there?” asked Alex, confused.

“No she came up yesterday evening. She was just went out to get breakfast while I was taking a shower.”

“Okay, well anyway,” Alex pressed on, “how does it affect the program if it cuts out the duplicates from the original list or the panel. It still cuts them doesn’t it?”

“Do you want me to explain it David?” asked Andi.

“If you want to.”

“It’s all a matter of statistics. It means that people who are on both the voting registration and the driver’s registration are more likely to be chosen. And because blacks are under-represented on the voting register — or at least were — it significantly reduces the likelihood of them being chosen for jury service.”

Alex was struggling to take it all in.

“And you think this could explain the discrepancy on the panel we had at the start of the trial?”

“That was probably a pretty severe case,” said Andi. “The discrepancies that I discovered in my research are somewhat less extreme than that. But when combined with other factors like African-Americans being excused more easily from jury service upon request, I think we have a credible explanation of the extent of the problem.”

Alex was still confused.

“I don’t understand. Are you saying that lots of factors caused the problem?”

David stepped in.

“I think that what Andi is saying — and I would agree — is that this defect with the software has made a significant contribution to the problem. There are other factors that have aggravated the problem — factors that are quite well-known in certain jurisdictions. But the problem wouldn’t be nearly so big if it wasn’t for the peculiar way that this software deals with duplicate names.”

Alex could finally permit himself to smile.

“We’re going to have to take this to the judge. We’ve finally got the proof.”

And with that, they ended the three-way conference.

“Good news?” said Martine, as she slinked into the room in a T-shirt and black lace panties, carrying a tray with some sheets of paper and two cups of coffee.

“You should know,” said Alex with a smile. “You were eavesdropping.”

“I was not!” she said with mock indignance.”

“Honey, I know you. You’re a reporter — as well as being a woman. That means you can’t help yourself.”

“Well for your information what I was actually doing was looking through these worksheets from the lab’s log-book.”

“What?” he blurted out as he snatched the papers from the tray. “That’s a privileged document, practically spilling the coffee in the process. It’s not supposed to be looked at by anyone outside the defense team — least of all a reporter.”

“I already told you. I’m not on duty.”

“You’re on duty twenty-four, seven. Like I said, I know you.”

“Then you should know that my word is my bond.” And just to twist the knife she added: “like a lawyer.”

“Like a gangster, more like,” said Alex, his tone still gruff. But he couldn’t conceal the smile on his face.

“Well in this case, I’m acting more like a paralegal for the defense, because I’ve actually discovered something that might be useful.”

Alex had been about to come back with another mock-angry response, when he was stopped by his sudden understanding of Martine’s words.

“What do you mean?”

“Take a look Steven Johnson’s last entry before he did the amplification on the nail clipping sample.”

Alex flipped through the pages and scanned the relevant lines.

“He checked out reference sample for Elias Claymore.”

Alex thought about this for a moment, sensing where this was going. Martine smiled and nodded.

“Why would he need to do that? And then look at when he checked it back in.”

Alex could hardly believe what he was reading.

“Just four minutes later.”

Monday, 24 August 2009 — 10:15

“And how does that amount to racial discrimination?” asked Justice Wagner.

She was sitting at her desk, in her chambers, on Monday morning, with Andi, Alex, Sarah Jensen and Nick Sinclair. A court stenographer also sat in the room. Although this hearing was being heard in camera, it still formed part of the record and therefore the proceedings had to be transcribed, in case the judge’s decision became the subject of an appeal by one of the parties.

Alex had filed the dismissal motion as soon as the morning session opened, but left Andi to do the talking, as she had a better understanding of the technical aspects of the issue.

“Your Honor,” Andi continued, “It is a well-known fact that African-Americans are less likely to register to vote than European Americans. That’s why the state tries to even the odds by using driver’s license records. This problem with the jury selection software effectively undermines that equalization measure and causes African-Americans to be under-represented on jury panels and thus on juries. This is clearly in breach of the sixth and fourteenth amendments.”

Justice Wagner raised a skeptical eyebrow and turned to the prosecutors.

“Do you have any response to that?”

Sarah looked over at Sinclair, to give him the first chance to respond. He nodded and took his cue.

“I understand the essentials of the defense argument. However, I would remind them that the fifteenth amendment right to register to vote has been enshrined in the Voting Rights Act of 1965. If some African-Americans have chosen not to avail themselves of this right, then it is entirely by their own choice. Personally, I would encourage all citizens to avail themselves of all their rights. And I think it’s safe to say that recent political events have encouraged many more to do so. However, this is a free county and people cannot be forced. Voting is a right not a duty. I therefore cannot see that the exercise of this choice in a particular way by certain people is in any way a violation of the accused’s fourteenth amendment rights to the equal protection of the law.”

Alex stepped in, knowing that however much Andi might know about computers and statistics, when it came to matters of constitutional law, she was out of her depth. That was his specialty and it was for him to explain it to the judge.

“Your Honor, I have no wish to dispute the argument that the failure of some African-Americans to avail themselves of their voting rights is a matter of personal choice. However, I would argue that the issue that the Court must concern itself with here is not the choice itself, but rather the consequence of that choice as it affects a third party who has no control over their behavior, namely the defendant. Voting may be a civil right, but jury service is a civic duty. The failure to be available for jury service — in conjunction with this software flaw — effectively infringes the constitutional rights of defendants.”

Alex realized that by putting his argument in the plural, he was jeopardizing his chances — as he was alerting the judge to the fact that the ruling would have monumental implications for other cases. So he quickly reverted to the singular.

“The defendant is entitled to a fair trial by a jury that truly represents the community at large. The defense would further point out that the need to ensure at least the possibility, not of racial proportionality in the jury, but rather of racial diversity is the reason why jurors should not be excluded on grounds of race. Indeed, this was the basis for the decision to use driver’s registration records in addition to voter registration. As this need has already been recognized and enshrined in the law by the decision to use driver’s license records, it would be wrong to retreat from it now.”

When Alex fell silent, Sarah Jensen joined in, quick to cash in on the psychological weakness in Alex’s arguments.

“Your Honor I would point out that a ruling in favour of these arguments would have dangerous implications not only for other cases pending but also for past convictions by juries selected by this-”

“I am well aware of that!” Ellen Wagner snapped back in angrily. “And it is not something that I can take into consideration in reaching my decision.”

Nick Sinclair leaned forward hesitantly.

“Your Honor there is one other aspect of this matter to consider.”

“Yes?” the judge prompted.

“The defense has not yet had a chance to view the source code from the original jury selection software. Their entire argument has been based on their analysis of the executable program that they have decompiled.”

“But that’s the one that the Court Service is actually using,” said Andi.

“Yes but we don’t know whether the original was like that too.”

“What are saying?” asked the judge, looking squarely at Sinclair.

“I’m saying that if the original source code is different to the current version, then the defense can argue that the software has been tampered with deliberately and then the People would have to concede that this shows that any discrimination arising out of the tampering is indeed intention-based. But if on the other hand the original source code is substantially the same, then it would imply that the problem is simply a flaw in the program design, and any adverse consequences to ethnic minorities would thus simply be a by-product of this flaw. As the Court is applying an intention-based test of discrimination, in accordance with the earlier precedents, and not merely an effects-based test, the Court does not yet have any basis for granting this motion. Only if and when the defense is able to prove that the software has been modified by some unauthorized party outside the company that designed it, can they argue that there is evidence of intention-based discrimination.”

The judge turned to the defense lawyers. Andi looked crestfallen. Alex’s face and body language showed no emotion.

“Assuming that LegalSoft’s appeal is blocked and you get the source code tomorrow, how soon after that do you think you can have a definitive answer to this question?”

Alex turned to Andi. This was her territory — and David’s.

“I’d say that if we get the software my Ten O’clock tomorrow, as per the ruling, then we can have a definitive answer within a few hours. We can rename the variables and arrays in the decompiled version to match their counterparts in the original source code and then just run a straight text comparison to look for any changes.”

“So you think you can come up with a definitive answer by, say, Wednesday morning.”

“I’m sure of it,” said Andi.

The judge turned to the prosecutors.

“Will the prosecution want a copy and a chance to call its own expert?”

Nick Sinclair looked at Sarah. She was leading the case and it was her call.

“No Your Honor. But could I ask if, in the event of the defense establishing that there was such tampering, is the Court minded to grant the defense’s motion for a mistrial, bearing in mind the People’s other arguments — and if so will this be with or without prejudice?”

Sarah Jensen wanted the reassurance, that if a mistrial was declared, they would at least have the chance to bring a new trial with a fresh jury.

Ellen Wagner thought about it for a moment.

“I will take this matter under advisement. There’s no point jumping the gun until we know whether or not this was deliberate tampering.”

The judge was about to adjourn the hearing, when Alex remembered something.

“There was one other small matter, Your Honor.”

“”Yes, Mr. Sedaka,” said the judge, sighing irritably.

“The defense would like to call Steven Johnson, the lab technician who processed the scene sample from the nail clippings.”

Sarah Jensen became highly animated at this.

“Your Honor we have had no notice of this — and Mr. Johnson is not on the defense witness list. If the defense wanted to call him, they had ample time to notify us.”

“Your Honor, something has come up that makes it vital to the defense case that we call this witness — if the trial goes ahead. In any case, the prosecution has forty eight hours before the trial continues to look into this witness. Furthermore it’s not as if this witness is unknown to the prosecution. He works at the very lab that they have relied upon in this case. And he was the lab technician who processed the evidence sample upon which the prosecution has placed such heavy reliance.”

“Yes, I can’t see any valid reason to deny this request, Miss Jensen. You may call Steven Johnson Mr. Sedaka. Will that require an adjournment for the five day notice period Ms Jensen?

“Mr. Johnson is an employee of the state and I’m sure the Ventura lab would be ready to release him at short notice.”

“In that case this Court is adjourned until ten O’clock Wednesday morning.”

Monday, 24 August 2009 — 11:50

The forensic laboratory in Ventura was as busy as it had been the day they had processed the nail clipping sample from the Bethel Newton rape case. The initial evidence samples from the vaginal swabs had already been processed with the intention of uploading the profile into the National DNA Information System database and cross-checking against other crimes. But after the failure to find any sperm DNA had thwarted that. They would have pressed ahead if they had felt confident of finding any autosomal DNA from the perpetrator in the crime-scene sample. But they realized that the nail clippings were probably only good for Y-STR DNA, and this could not be uploaded to the NDIS.

So it was only when they had a suspect and after they had processed the reverence samples that they got round to the amplification, separation and detection of the nail-clipping evidence sample.

Now, today, it was like any other day at the lab. Evidence was checked in, registered, filed, in some cases processed and reports written up. It was like a factory. The staff had no emotional attachment to any of the cases, whether it was about blood alcohol, illegal substances or DNA. They simply did their bit, according to the work rota assigned to them.

Consequently, Steven Johnson was thoroughly engrossed in his work, when the process server appeared. Ordinarily such unauthorized personnel would not have been allowed into the lab. The server was a bailiff attached to the court and as such was able to flash her credentials at security and get waved through without even putting in a call to the DNA section where Steven Johnson worked.

“Steven Johnson,” said the bailiff, fulfilling the technical requirement that she identify the subject by name, even if he had already been pointed out to her.

“Yes?”

She noticed that he was smiling. Young men often smiled when they saw her. She took advantage of his disarmed state to hand him the envelope, that he took without question but with a look of curiosity in his eyes.

“You’ve been served.”

The bailiff was such a battle-hardy and seasoned veteran of this kind of mundane leg-work that she didn’t usually pay attention to the recipient’s reaction to being served with a subpoena or court order. The only thing she was on guard against was the possibility of the recipient becoming violent. In this case, Johnson’s slight frame and meek manner precluded that danger. But still, she noticed that even before Johnson opened the envelope, he already looked afraid.

Monday, 24 August 2009 — 21:30

The hotel room was in semi-darkness, the light coming from a floor lamp. Andi was sitting on the couch working at on her laptop computer. It had been a frustrating day, culminating in the judge postponing her decision on the dismissal motion. Now they had to wait till tomorrow to get the source code.

And there was no guarantee that they would get it. LegalSoft would almost certainly file an appeal. Whether the appeal court would agree to here it was another matter. But if they did then they would grant a stay and set a date for a hearing with all parties present. That could drag the matter out for another week. The best thing they could hope for was that the appeal court would refuse to hear the appeal or grant a stay and the company would have to hand it over by tomorrow morning at ten. The trouble was that hope was all they could do. They certainly couldn’t count on it.

Of course the defense could also go on the offense and file an interim appeal against the court’s refusal to grant their dismissal motion based on what they had already found out. But there was no guarantee that such an appeal would be granted — the judge’s reasoning regarding the intent-based test was legally sound. Besides, it was premature. It was just that even waiting till ten O’clock tomorrow was maddeningly frustrating for Andi.

In the meantime, tonight, she just wanted to unwind and forget about it. So she logged on to her Internet account and downloaded her E-mail. There were several messages from her Internet friends from Europe and the Far East. But there was also one that struck fear into her heart yet again when she saw the name: Lannosea:

So your dirty little plan to get that rapist shit-bag off on a technicality didn’t work? And that leaves you back at square one, you cheap little cunt. That’s what your sisters think of you, you know. That’s really all you are! You didn’t really think you’d away with it did you? By the way, I was the one who changed the software to keep the niggers off juries. And if you try and fuck with me bitch, you’ll be fucking with the wrong woman. You understand?

Lannosea

The language was getting more vitriolic. This person was angry. But who was it? The name Lannosea — and her reasoning about it being another of Claymore’s victims — suggested that it was a woman. But the language was what one would expect of an ultra-misogynistic man.

And how did Lannosea knew about her attempt to get Claymore off “on a technicality?” How many people knew about that? And which of them could be doing this? Which of them might say something indiscrete to let other people know?

She couldn’t think. Her head just wasn’t clear enough. She needed help; she knew that now. She reached for the phone and called David Sedaka. He knew about computers and the internet. He could help her. And she could trust him, she knew that.

“Hi listen David, it’s Andi here… Andi Phoenix… fine, how are you… good… listen I need your help, that is, I’d like your help… if you think it’s something you can do. But you must keep this completely secret from everyone, at least for the time being.”

Over the next few minutes, they set up a plan to try and trace the person sending the messages. It started with her copying the messages she had already received to him, including the full internet header. This showed the path that the messages had taken over the internet. It couldn’t trace the message all the way to its source. But it might just lead them back to the service provider for the place where the messages were sent from. This would probably be something like an internet cafe. But at least it was a start.

The next thing she had to do was give David direct access to her internet account. This entailed a loss of privacy. But he hade it clear that this was something she would have to do if she wanted the person caught.

There was a knock on the door, shaking Andi out of her concentration. Andi looked up.

“Who is it?”

“Your lover.”

Andi tossed the laptop aside, raced to the door and opened it.

“You were supposed to be going back to LA,” said Andi as Gene stepped forward.

“You sound disappointed,” Gene replied, encircling Andi’s waist with her arms.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” Andi replied, sliding her hands up Gene’s arms and interlocking her fingers behind her lover’s neck.

“I couldn’t stay away from you babe.”

Gene was about to kiss her when Andi turned away.

“But don’t they need you back at the rape crisis center.”

Gene looked long and hard into Andi’s eyes and tightened her grip around her, emphasizing that she was a prisoner in her arms.

“They need me all right. But right now I need you more… and I think you need me to.”

There was a questioning tone in Gene’s words, and Andi felt a slight, barely perceptible, slackening of Gene’s grip — as if Gene too needed reassurance.

“Of course I need you.”

There was a few seconds of hesitation and then their arms encircled one another and their lips met in a tender but hesitant kiss.

Tuesday, 25 August 2009 — 10:30

David Sedaka was at his desk in his office at the Old Le Conte Hall when he got a phone call from his father.

“Hi dad.”

“Busy?”

“I’m always busy,” said David, looking around his cluttered office in the Le Conte Hall.

“We’ve got the source code.”

“Great! Send it over!”

“Can you look at it right away?”

“Like I promised.”

Barely a minute later, David had downloaded the source code and was opening it in a word processing program on his Linux-based system. Then it was a simple of matter of selecting the “Compare with” option and selecting the file in which he had stored the decompiled version of the program. The difference were highlighted in red, with a line through the deletions and an underline beneath the insertions.

As soon as he scrolled down, he could see that he was right. The original source code version correctly removed the duplicates from the combined temporary database before selecting the panel. For that reason it had a large area for the temporary database, but a small area for the array that held the names and details of the venire panel. But on the decompiled version this was reversed. The array had been deliberately enlarged to allow for the theoretical possibility that all the names would be duplicated. And the removal of duplicates took place after the panel selection was made, with the address pointer for the program redirected to the jury panel array instead of the temporary database.

And that could only mean one thing: this program had been deliberately tampered with! Some one had evidently modified the source code and then recompiled the program and distributed the modified version.

But how could they do that? How could they get the Court Service in many counties to accept the modified version of the program? Could it have been an inside job? Some one within the company?

That would explain how they obtained access to the software — and also might explain how they had managed to get the Court Services to accept it.

But was it likely that some one inside the company would have the motive to do that and the means to avoid detection? Or had it been some very clever and devious outsider?

David had no way of knowing. All he knew was that he had discovered enough to be able to testify under affirmation that this software had been deliberately sabotaged.

He reached for the phone to call his father.

Wednesday, 26 July 2009 — 11:40

“However, I am not convinced by the arguments of counsel for the defense that the facts when taken as a whole amount to a violation of the defendant’s constitutional rights.”

They were in the judge’s chambers on Wednesday morning. Justice Ellen Wagner had heard the defense’s factual submissions about the software, which the prosecution did not challenge and had then retired for an hour to consider her judgment. Neither side wanted to present any more legal arguments, because they both felt they had covered that ground already.

When the lawyers trooped back into her chambers at the end of that hour, Justice Wagner looked solemn. But neither side had any inkling of which way her judgment would go. Now she was delivering her judgment, a devastating blow to the defense with the court stenographer present to record the decision.

“I accept, in the light of the defense’s uncontested claims of fact, that the jury-selection software has indeed been tampered with and that it is a strong possibility that this tampering was done with the express intention of reducing the likelihood of African-Americans and possibly other ethnic minorities from being selected for jury service.

“However, a strong possibility falls short of a probability, let alone a certainty. It is quite possible that the person or person’s who tampered with the software did so for reasons entirely unrelated to racial discrimination. They may, for example, have thought that they were improving the software in some way. In this regard I would note that the defense has failed to offer any evidence of fact that the modification of the software was done by someone outside of the company that developed the software in the first place. It is still within the bounds of possibility that the modification was done by some one within LegalSoft and that there is another more recent version of the source code within the company archives, that has been inadvertently overlooked.

“Furthermore, even if the modification was done by some one outside the company, and even if it was done for the explicit purpose of causing racial discrimination in the composition of jury panels, that would only be the motive of the malicious party who modified the software. That does not mean, however, that such was the intention of the Court Service or the government in using the maliciously modified software. Inasmuch as the test to be applied is intention-based and inasmuch as the Court Service appears to have used the software in good faith, I cannot see that this constitutes a sixth or fourteenth Amendment violation.

“I should also point out that in the case in Kent County, Michigan, cited by the defense — where there was an entirely different but also accidental glitch in the software that had a deleterious effect on the ethnic diversity of juries — they did not at the time select their juries from anything other than the voting register. Indeed they did not start using driver’s registration and state income tax records for jury selection in parallel with voter registration until the year 2007. Thus, it can be seen, there is in fact no constitutional requirement that any source of data other than voter registration be used for jury selection. As Mr. Sinclair has noted, the right to vote exists for all, even if some fail to avail themselves of it. And whilst I am persuaded by Mr. Sedaka that the effect of that choice, upon third parties such as the accused, is of some relevance, I am not, convinced that the magnitude of such effect is sufficient to find in favor of the defense in the present case.

“I would note, in this regard, that under-representation of African-Americans in the voting register is probably less prevalent now than it used to be at any time in the past, and almost certainly less prevalent in this state than in many other states.

“Finally, I would note that my reasons for this decision are cumulative and that it is for all of these reasons, taken as a whole, that I am minded to come to this decision.”

Oh very clever, thought Alex. Make it a mixture of law and fact to avoid giving the defense an opening to apply for an interim appeal.

“Accordingly,” the judge continued, “the defense motion for dismissal of the charges is denied.”

For a few seconds, nobody said a word. However, there was a subtle difference in how the parties took the ruling. While Sarah Jensen looked smug, Nick Sinclair looked decidedly uncomfortable. And while Alex remained calm, Andi gritted her teeth angrily.

Wednesday, 26 July 2009 — 11:55

“There’s nothing more we can do about it at this stage.”

Alex, Andi and Claymore were on the same floor as the courtroom, in a room reserved for meetings between lawyers and their clients. They were trying to explain the judge’s ruling, with Alex taking the lead. But it was rather hard, if only because the judge’s rulings had been so unexpected. But then again, perhaps it shouldn’t have been.

“Why is she so hostile?” asked Claymore.

“She wants to prove she’s color blind,” said Alex.

“That’s bullshit!” Andi cut in. “She doesn’t have to prove Jack shit — and she knows it!”

“Then what’s your theory?”

“It’s ‘cause she doesn’t want to take the fall when the shit hits the fan. She’s probably hoping the prosecution screws up some other way.”

“Why?” asked Claymore, confused.

“’Cause that way they’ll be no appeal.”

“So wait a minute… you can appeal?”

“Yes, but not an interim appeal. We have to wait for the verdict.”

“And if I’m found guilty and we do appeal?”

“Then it’ll go all the way to the Supreme court and when it does, they’re gonna have to reopen thousands of cases. That’s what Justice Wagner’s afraid of.”

“What I mean is… what are my chances… on appeal

There was no disguising the fear in Claymore’s eyes. Andi let Alex reply.

“The Supreme Court is quite conservative. They’ll resist it. But if we can create enough of a stick, we’ll have a whole lot of other law firms joining us. It could produce a groundswell that’ll seriously rock the boat. That’s what Andi meant about the judge hoping the prosecution screws up. If she can find some other grounds to dismiss — nothing to do with jury selection — then my guess is she’ll take the bait. If not… it’ll go to the jury.”

“And what are my chances with them?”

Alex shook his head.

“I gave up trying to second-guess juries a long time ago.”

He looked at Andi.

“Which leads to the next question: to take the stand… or not to take the stand.”

“I want to testify.”

Alex was shaking his head.

“That may not be a good idea.”

“I don’t have a choice. I need to show them I’m human.”

“It could backfire.”

“If I don’t do it, I’m burned. Look… they’ve seen the girl… and they feel sorry for her. Hell, I feel sorry for her! She could be their daughter. I need to show them I’m human too.”

Alex looked at Andi, appealing to her to explain.

“It’s not as simple as that. Let’s say Sarah Jensen gets to cross-examine you.”

“I can handle Sarah Jensen. I’ve been doing public speaking for half my life. I know how to put a good case.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. You say you can ‘handle’ her. But what does that mean? If you get the better of her, all the jury’s gonna see is a strong man getting the better of a weak woman. Well that’s exactly what rape is.”

“And if she gets the better of me…”

He let it hang in the air. Andi picked it up.

“Then you end up looking like a liar who’s been trapped by some one smarter than himself.”

“But if I don’t take the stand it’ll look like I’m running scarred.”

“The judge will direct the jury that they’re not allowed to infer guilt from your silence. He has to.”

“And the jury’ll ignore it as soon as they start deliberating — if not before that.”

Andi spoke up.

“For what it’s worth, my opinion is that you must testify.”

Alex gave Andi a hard stare. This wasn’t part of the script.

“Wait, let’s not get carried away here Andi. We do have other options.”

“Like what?” asked Claymore.

“Like attacking the prosecution case.”

“I thought you said it was strong.”

“But it does have weaknesses.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that Beth’s account was implausible.”

“That’s not the way I saw it. I looked at the jury, man — they sympathized with her.”

“Sympathized, yes, But that doesn’t mean they bought it.”

“What, they don’t think she was raped.”

“Raped, yes — because she’s got medical evidence to back that up.But the way she changed her story about the attackers age is something they still can’t quite swallow.”

“But what about the DNA?”

Alex and Andi looked at each other: Andi to inquire, Alex to warn her off. Now was not the time to get Claymore’s hopes up about a possible line of attack against the DNA. Besides it might all come to nothing.

“We’re working on it,” said Alex diplomatically. “We’ve already established that it’s not as strong as they tried to make out. Y-chromosomal DNA is good for narrowing down the investigation, but it’s useful for identifying a single guilty person.”

Claymore was looking at Andi.

“Do you think I’m guilty?”

She squirmed with embarrassment. Alex looked like he wanted to intervene on her behalf, but held back. It was obvious that Claymore wanted an answer and wouldn’t accept any evasion.

“I’m a lawyer Mr Claymore… and lawyers don’t act on their personal feelings. They act on their professional skills. You were accused of a serious crime and it’s my duty to help Alex give you the best defense. I can’t say if you’re innocent or guilty. But sometimes the greatest test of courage is standing up to the enemy within. My duty is to put aside any feelings I might have and fight this case to the best of my ability.”

“Then let me ask you another question,” Miss Phoenix. “You said she’s too young to remember the seventies or eighties. Do you remember me from then?”

There was a hesitant silence.

“Why do you ask?”

“I want to know how much prejudice there is against me in that jury of thirtysomethings that Alex empanelled — with your help.”

“I was only fourteen when you were arrested for the rapes in 1984. I remember reading about the case. But I was more into parties and dating at that age. I wasn’t exactly civic-minded or politically precocious. But even if they didn’t read about it then, they would almost certainly have read about it now, when this case broke.”

“I… I want you to know something Miss Phoenix… I’m not proud of what I did. But remember that I came back to the United States to serve out my sentence when I saw that all those middle-eastern countries weren’t exactly heaven on Earth for the black man.”

“That may be. But there are some people who think that you should have been sentenced to life for the what you did. Raping six women isn’t something that middle-America forgives easily — even if you did become a born-again Christian afterwards.”

“Eight,” Claymore’s choked-off voice came back at him.

When Alex met Claymore’s eyes he noticed a couple of tears forming in the corners.

“What?

Claymore took a deep breath and the tears start to roll down his cheeks as he spoke.

“I raped a total of eight women. Six of them came forward and testified against me.”

Alex stared at his client in stony silence for a few seconds and said: “I stand corrected.”

The tears were flowing more freely from Claymore now.

Look…” Claymore began, in a tone that seemed to be almost pleading. “I can’t expect forgiveness for my past. I know that I caused pain to other people — and the pain and suffering that my brothers and sisters went through was no excuse for what I did to others. But I’ve paid the price for it in more ways than one. Since I came back to America to serve out my sentence I haven’t been able to touch a woman. In a way I’m still in prison.”

A cynical smile graced Alex’s face as he watched Claymore dry his eyes with the back of his hand.

“If you can do that again in court, we’re home and dry.”

Wednesday, 26 July 2009 — 12:05

“Why don’t you just come clean and tell us the truth. You know we’re going to get you when the DNA results come through?”

Detective Bridget Riley had already had quite a tiring morning. Starting early, she had driven to LAX from Ventura then flown to San Francisco International and finally driven to Oakland in a rented car, getting caught up in the morning logjam on the Bay Bridge.

Now she and Detective Nadis of the Special Victims Unit at the police station in the Frank H Ogawa Plaza were questioning Louis Manning in his hospital bed at the Alta Bates Medical Center. They would have preferred to haul him in, but his leg was still in traction and would be for several weeks. He was, however, under arrest and able to talk. So they read him his Miranda rights and started questioning him. The only trouble was, he wasn’t talking. He had waived his right to an attorney, but that was just about all he waived.

“If you’re so sure of that, why do you need me to confess? Besides, I could be lying if I do confess.”

Manning smiled smugly. Nadis leaned over him and spoke quietly.

“Maybe, but DNA doesn’t lie.”

“You haven’t got the DNA results yet.”

“But we will,” said Nadis, leaning over Manning aggressively. Bridget put a hand on the detective’s shoulder and eased him back. She didn’t want him doing anything that might undermine their case, if the DNA did prove positive.

A part of her felt sorry for Manning. He never had a chance. He didn’t even know who his parents were. To him a parent was an indifferent social worker who changed every few months. But other people get over that sort of thing. Not everyone who goes through social services comes out a criminal at the other end.

“What if I confess and then the DNA shows I’m innocent. Then folks’ll go ‘round sayin’ you beat a confession outta me.”

“I somehow don’t think that’s going to happen,” said Bridget.

“Then I don’t see why you want me to confess.”

“The judge might go easier on you if you confess.”

Manning smiled again, taunting them with his good spirits.

“Do you want the judge to go easy on me?

Nadis leaned over the table practically shoving his face into Manning’s.

“You know what I want you piece of shit? I want the judge to throw the book at you!”

“Then maybe it’s better if I don’t confess.

Detective Nadis was about to grab Manning by the throat, when Bridget stepped forward and stopped his hand. “You think its clever, terrorizing innocent women.”

“Not all women are as innocent as they’d have you believe.”

Wednesday, 26 July 2009 — 12:10

Andi was standing before the judge in the fully-assembled courtroom, looking somewhat nervous.

“Your Honor, the defense calls Elias Claymore.”

A gasp of surprise went through the courtroom. Alex had decided that once again, she should do the honors. Claymore was accused of raping a woman. So a woman must guide him through the minefield of his direct examination, before she abandoned him on the even deadlier minefield of Sarah Jensen’s cross-examination. Claymore stood up and walked to the witness stand. The Clerk held out a Bible for him.

“Place your left hand on the book and raise your right hand,” said the clerk.

He complied.

“Do you swear, so help you God, that the evidence you give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“I do.”

The clerk took back the Bible and withdrew and Andi Pheonix began her direct examination.

“You are Elias Joshua Claymore?”

“Yes.”

“Could you tell the court were you were on June fifth of this year between nine and eleven in the morning?”

“I was at home, reading through background material for my afternoon show.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“It was a weekday. I always read the background material in the morning. The show goes out live in the afternoon and I read the material in the morning to prepare for it.”

“Did anyone see you there?”

“No.”

“Mr Claymore, did you rape Bethel Newton?”

“No,” Claymore replied, it was only a moment’s hesitation. But it was enough to damage his case.

Damn! thought Alex, as he looked on helplessly.

No matter that there were a dozen legitimate reasons for his hesitation. No matter that he was a man carrying the burden and baggage of his guilty past. That momentary hesitation was enough to inflict a mortal wound upon his defense. Andi didn’t seem to notice this. She just ploughed on with her questioning.

“Have you had any form of sexual contact with a woman since you came back to America of your own free will to serve out your sentence?”

“I’ve been haunted by what I did for many years. Since I came back to America I haven’t been able to touch a woman.”

“No further questions.”

Andi sat down. Sarah Jensen rose slowly and waited a few seconds before commencing.

“Mr Claymore, you say that no one saw you at home during the hours in question. Did anyone telephone at that time?”

“No.”

“So no one can actually confirm your alibi?”

“That’s right.”

“Tell me something. You say you haven’t been able to touch a woman since you came back to America, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever fantasized about touching a woman, since you came back?”

Andi was about to stand up to object. Alex put a subtle, restraining hand on her forearm.

“I… I guess so.” He was hesitant again. “Sometimes I’ve thought about it.”

“Have you ever fantasized about raping a woman since you came back?”

Andi looked round at Alex, the look on her face bordering on desperation. He shook his head gently. Claymore who had seen this, remained silent, a glazed stare in his eyes, as if he were remembering something.

“The witness will answer the question,” said Justice Wagner firmly.

“I could never do a thing like that. Not now. When I look at women, I see people I’ve hurt.”

Andi glanced at the jurors with her peripheral vision.

“I didn’t ask whether you did anything like that now. I asked whether or not you fantasized about.”

“No, of course not. I’ve been a different man since I came back. I put my past behind me. I’ve never thought about that sort of thing. Not since I came back.”

“So does that mean you don’t remember raping those girls?”

“I… I remember it. I’ll never forget it.”

“But you don’t remember their faces?”

“Oh yes… I remember their faces. I see them every night, in the darkness… when I’m alone in my bedroom.”

“You relive the ordeal?”

“Yes.”

“So you do think about raping women?”

“I… I…”

He didn’t know what to say. What to him was reliving a nightmare from which he couldn’t escape, was to her the savoring of sadistic memories from his past — and he could see by the looks on the jurors’ faces that they accepted the prosecutor’s version, not his.

“According to the records from the TV station, a call to your number from your producer was logged out at nine-twenty. How do you account for that?”

“I must have been in the bathroom. The toilet must have been flushing when the phone rang. Sometimes you can’t hear the phone when the toilet’s flushing.”

Sarah waited in silence, to allow the juror’s skepticism to kick in.

“Was your car in the driveway on the day in question?

“No, it was stolen two days before.”

“You mean you reported it stolen?”

“I mean it was stolen.”

“Did it ever show up again?”

“You know what happens when a car gets stolen. They strip it down and you never see it again.”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“It hasn’t been found. I rented one.”

“And what make and color of the car that was stolen?”

“An aquamarine Mercedes.”

“Just like the victim described. No further questions.”

Sarah Jensen sat. Andi stood up to salvage as much as she could on redirect.

“Just a couple of questions to clear up some things. Mr Claymore your car was stolen on the third of June?”

“That’s correct.”

“And at that time, Bethel Newton wasn’t even in the State of California.”

“So I understand.”

Alex sat down smiling. Claymore looked at him tensely, then at Andi.

“Re-cross?”

Sarah Jensen stood up again.

“When did you report your car stolen, Mr Claymore?”

“I…” he trailed off. “I told the cops about it when I was arrested in connection with this case. I intended to report it before that but-”

“I’m not interested in what you intended Mr Claymore, only what you did. No further questions.”

The judge looked over at the clock above the main entrance.

“In view of the hour, I think we’ll adjourn for lunch. The court will reconvene at two-thirty.”

“All rise!”

Everyone stood. The judge left through the door beside her bench. Alex and Andi started gathering up their papers as Claymore walked up to them from the witness stand, a member of the sheriff’s department standing nearby just in case he got any funny ideas. He was looking at Andi, and the look was gentle, almost embarrassed.

“I just want to thank both of you for what you’ve done for me.”

He was looking, not at Alex Sedaka, but at Andi. She nodded, embarrassed.

“I have to go,” she said uncomfortably. “I’ll meet you back here at two-thirty.”

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 14:45

“So Mr. Johnson,” said Alex, “you amplified the sample in the thermal cycler?”

“Yes,” said the nervous eighteen-year-old boy on the witness stand. He was thin, but not tall and could easily have been two or three years younger than his age.

Alex had called Elias Claymore first in accordance with the general rule that the defendant should be called first, if he was to testify at all. Some jurisdictions required it, in order that the defendant should be in the same position as other witnesses subject to the rule of the court — i.e. not able to hear testimony already given by witnesses for the same side. But even if it had not been required, Alex realized that Andi was right about the jury having to hear from Claymore to make them more sympathetic to his cause. She had done a creditable job, despite Claynore’s early slip-up and Sarah Jensen skillful cross-examination.

But now Alex was planning to unleash both barrels and expose a vulnerability that he thought he had discovered in the People’s case.

He had obtained the judge’s permission to treat Steven Johnson as a hostile witness. This did not mean that he could bully or badger the witness — indeed it would have been counter-productive to do so — only that he could ask the witness leading questions directly. Thus many of his questions sounded like statements.

“Does Dr Alvarez keep a close eye on you when you work?”

“What do you mean?” asked Johnson nervously.

“Well you’re only eighteen. And you’re not a scientist, just a lab technician. Doesn’t he have to keep a close eye on you to make sure you don’t make mistakes?”

“Not at all. As a matter of fact he lets me work unsupervised.”

“Isn’t that a bit risky? I mean wouldn’t it lead to a certain amount of jealousy and conflict and interfere with good working practices?”

“Why should it lead to jealousy?” asked Johnson, sounding confused.

“Well if he lets you work unsupervised, while he keeps such a close eye on the others-”

“He doesn’t keep a close eye on the others.”

“Oh you mean all the lab assistants work unsupervised.”

Johnson suddenly realized that he had said too much,

“No. I mean… not all the time.”

“Oh I see, you mean some days he says ‘today I’m going let you all work unsupervised’ and other days he says ‘today I’m going keep a close eye on you.’ Is that right?”

“No, it’s not like that?”

“Then what is it like?”

“It depends on… the circumstances.”

“You mean on the workload?”

“Yes.”

“So when the lab’s not busy he keeps a close eye on you?”

“Yes.”

“And when it’s busy he doesn’t.”

“Yes — I mean no!” He had already realized that he had gone too far, and he knew that there was no way of covering his tracks completely. But with every answer he gave, he seemed to be digging himself in deeper. “I mean he always keeps an eye on us, but not as close as when it’s less busy.”

“But not on you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He doesn’t keep a close eye on you at all. Is that right?”

“No. He keeps a close eye on me too.”

“But you said he lets you work unsupervised.”

“Yes, but not completely unsupervised.”

“What do you mean not completely unsupervised? Isn’t that like being a little bit pregnant?”

“I mean, he doesn’t stand looking over my shoulder but he he’d notice if I make a mis-”

“Yes Mr. Johnson?”

“If I made a mistake.”

Alex asked his next question, quietly but firmly.

“And did you make a mistake?”

“No.”

But he was squirming when he said it. The mere fact that the lawyer asked the question, and looked at him with those piercing eyes, was enough to make him squirm. He could have been innocent and had nothing to hide, but those piercing eyes would still have made him squirm.

“Were you busy that day?”

Johnson looked over at Sarah Jensen. Alex half turned and looked back and forth between the two, emphasizing Johnson’s helplessness and rubbing the jury’s collective nose in the fact that Johnson was seeking help from the prosecutor.

“The witness will answer the question,” the judge said firmly.

“We were fairly busy.”

The word “fairly” was a desperate attempt to straddle the fence — and Alex knew it. He could see right through Johnson’s attempts to stick to the safe middle ground. With “fairly busy” the witness knew that he could go either way, depending on the thrust of the next question.

“So busy that Dr Alvarez had to let you work unsupervised?

Johnson could evade no longer.

“I guess.”

“Why were you busy?”

“I don’t understand.”

He was genuinely confused, and thought he had made another blunder.

“It’s a simple enough question. Why were you busy?”

“Because… I guess… because we had a lot of work to do.”

“And not enough people to do it.”

“I guess.”

“In other words, the reason you were busy is because there wasn’t a big enough staff to handle the work load?

“Yes,” replied Johnson.

“And so, if you had a lot of work to do at the lab and not enough people to do it, you would have been under pressure to get a lot of work done in a short amount of time.”

“Yes,” Johnson admitted, his voice now weak.

Sarah Jensen rose to her feet.

“Your Honor, perhaps Defense Council is being vague and repetitious.”

“Mr Sedaka?”

“I was establishing foundation, Your Honor.”

“Well let’s say that you’ve established it. Perhaps you can now cut to the chase.”

Sarah Jensen sat.

“Mr Johnson, let me ask me this: under the circumstances that you described, did you forget to do things you were supposed to do?”

“Like what?”

“Like being careful to avoid mishandling the sample.”

“Objection Your Honor. Lacking in specificity.”

“Rephrase Mr Sedaka.”

Alex looked down at the worksheets before him.

“Before you amplified the evidence sample, what did you do?”

“I… don’t remember. I mean I’d have to check my worksheet.”

“I actually have a copy of your worksheet here.”

Alex handed two copies to the clerk who handed one to the judge and one to Johnson. The prosecution didn’t need a copy as it was they who had given a copy to the defense. Johnson took it, his hands shaking.

“Now could you look at the lines above the line in which you amplified the evidence sample from the Bethel Newton case.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“I returned a back-up copy of the Elias Claymore reference sample to cold storage.”

“And could you look at the line immediately before that.”

“Yes.”

The voice was weak to the point of bordering on non-existence.

“Could you tell us what you did then?”

Johnson hesitated for a long-time.

“I signed out a back-up reference sample of Elias Claymore.”

On his chair, next to Andi, Claymore leaned forward, sensing a glimmer of hope in his fragile defense.

“And what was the time gap between these two actions?”

Steven Johnson looked down at the worksheets, but Alex sensed that he knew the answer to this question already.

“Four minutes?”

“And what was the purpose of taking out Mr Claymore’s back-up reference sample and then putting it back four minutes later?”

Johnson started crying.

“I contaminated on the evidence sample!”

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 14:50

Bridget Riley and Detective Nadis had finished at the Alta Bates hospital and written up their reports at the police station. Now she was being driven over to San Francisco International Airport by Detective Nadis when a call came through on Nadis’s cell phone. He listened mostly, prompting occasionally with grunt or an “uh-huh.” When he had finished, it was hard to disguise the miserable look on his face.

“You look like you’ve just been tagged by the Grim Reaper,” she said, trying to put a humorous spin on it.

“That’s what I feel like,” Nadis replied.

“Why what is it?”

“We’ve just had the DNA report on the comparison between Louis Manning’s reference sample and the Bethel Newton evidence sample.”

“And?”

“It’s a match.”

Bridget felt a stab of shock.

“But it also matched Claymore.”

Nadis’s face screwed up.

“It’s Y-chromosome DNA. That’s not as accurate as regular autosomal DNA. They said on the TV that one in five hundred African-Americans is likely to have this same DNA. And the defense pointed out that there are something like thirty seven thousand or more blacks with that profile.”

“So Claymore can say it was Manning,” Bridget said. “And Manning will say it was Claymore. And they’ll end up both getting off.”

“Unless we get some other evidence.”

Bridget raised her eyebrows.

“We’ve got other evidence. And it points to Claymore.”

“But that smart-ass defense lawyer is poking holes in the evidence.”

“And now we’ve got to disclose this to him.”

She looked glum. Nadis tried to take it philosophically.

“Well you know what they say: ‘Shit happens!’”

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 14:55

As Alex took in what Johnson had just said, the boy himself just stood there sobbing covering his face with his hands.

“Would you like a few minutes to compose yourself?” asked Justice Wagner.

Johnson shook his head and struggled to continue.

“Why did you contaminate it?” asked Alex.

“What?”

It was almost like he didn’t remember where he was.

“The sample — the nail clipping sample?”

“I didn’t do it deliberately.”

“But when I asked you about taking out the reference samples, you said that you did it to contaminate the evidence sample.”

“No it wasn’t like that! I didn’t take out the reference samples to contaminate the evidence sample. I’d already contaminated it.”

“How?”

“I just sneezed.”

There was laughter in the courtroom. Justice Wagner silenced it with a steely-eyed stare.

“You sneezed.” Alex echoed. He wasn’t trying to sound incredulous, especially as he didn’t want to disrupt the flow that he had got Johnson talking. He just didn’t quite manage to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“I felt it happening, but I just couldn’t stop myself.”

“But weren’t you supposed to be wearing a mask, in order to prevent just that sort of thing?”

Johnson looked helpless, even though he had already exposed himself and could hardly say anything to make it worse.

“I was supposed to… and I was going to. I’d just thrown away the old one and was about to put on a new one. But… like you said, we’re working under so much pressure… I just forgot.”

Alex knew that this wasn’t everything however. This was going to be painful but he had to press on.

“So what happened when you sneezed? Did it blew the sample off the table? Did it blow it onto the floor?”

Alex knew that he was being rather cruel here. He was hinting at “On top of Spaghetti” Tom Glazer’s parody of “On top of Old Smokey.”

“No, but I knew it had been contaminated.”

“So what did you do?”

Johnson looked terrified.

“What do you mean?”

“You said that you checked out the back-up reference samples after you contaminated the evidence sample. Why?”

“Because I wanted to create a new one.”

A gasp went through the courtroom

“A new sample?” asked Alex.

“Yes.”

“And did you create one?”

“Yes,” Johnson answered, his timid voice barely audible.

“How?”

“Using the reference sample the suspect. I took a small quantity and ran it for 34 cycles in the Thermal Cycler for PCR.”

“But didn’t anyone see you?”

“No one was watching me. Everyone was doing there own thing. Like I said, we were all working under pressure.”

“But afterwards? Didn’t they see that it wasn’t a nail clipping with congealed blood?

“It was a destructive test. Afterwards there’d’ve been nothing left.”

“And it was this fake evidence sample that was then separated and detected and matched to the defendant?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” said Sarah Jensen, rising swiftly to her feet. “The question is compound and calls for a conclusion of the witness. This witness didn’t do any of those other tasks, and unless he actually saw them being done, he isn’t qualified to say that they were. And given that he has already stated that the lab was busy, I think we can safely rule out that possibility.”

Alex knew that he had them on the ropes now. That was why Sarah was objecting on such petty, technical grounds — because he had them beaten.

“Would you like to rephrase that question, Mr Sedaka?”

“Yes, certainly. Mr. Johnson, was it this fake sample that you signed off on?”

“Yes,” he choked, the tears flowing profusely now.

“No further questions.”

He sat down looking solemn. Andi was smiling, but trying not to. Of all the reactions, Claymore’s was the strangest. He was looking at Andi with a blank, neutral look on his face.

“Any redirect?”

“No Your Honor,” said Sarah Jensen, uncomfortably.

Ellen Wagner, looked at the Steven Johnson as he sobbed uncontrollably into his hands.

“The witness is excused. I will not issue a bench warrant for the arrest of this witness at this time. However, I am sure that the DA will look into this matter and take the necessary action in due course.”

Steven Johnson left the stand, his body shaking as he sobbed. Alex rose, keeping his face neutral.

“Side bar Your Honor,” said Alex.

“You may approach.”

Alex, Andi and Sarah Jensen approached the bench.

“Your Honor,” said Alex, “in view of the fact this evidence isn’t merely tainted but downright fake, I think that an uncontested motion for dismissal with prejudice would be in order.”

The judge turned to the Prosecutor, expectantly.

“Any objection?”

“Your Honor, this evidence may be tainted,” she replied half-heartedly, “but we have a reliable back-up system in place.”

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 15:00

Gene Vance was watching the trial at the rape crisis center. She had returned to LA, explaining Andi that she was needed here and couldn’t take any more time off. But her mind wasn’t really on the job.

A strange sensation of confusion wafted over her as she tried to take in what she had just seen. One moment the case against Elias Claymore looked rock solid. The next moment it was on the verge of collapse. Gene didn’t know much about law in general but she knew about rape law in particular and there was no way the prosecution case could survive the shocking revelation that had just emerged in court.

No matter what the strength of the victim testimony, it was the DNA that incontrovertibly linked the rape to Claymore. Without that, Bethel’s contradictory accounts of the assailant’s age would make it impossible to convict him.

But now it was all starting to unravel.

Gene could only guess at what they were talking about at the sidebar. The microphones were switched off for that. But she assumed that there was some technical quibbling about whether the charges could be dropped without prejudice so that they could conduct a retrial without the tainted evidence. Not that they would. But it would be a face-saving formula for the prosecutor. She could leave the courtroom still projecting that they could prosecute Claymore again. The DA would announce that they were dropping the charges later. If the judge required that the charges be dismissed with prejudice, then it would be a crushing humiliation for Sarah Jensen and she would take the rap, because the DA’s office needed a scapegoat.

Gene felt sorry for her. But she felt even more sorry for Bethel. Bethel wanted some semblance of justice. Now she was getting nothing. She would be leaving the court empty-handed.

That wasn’t right.

Gene picked up the phone and called a number.

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 15:05

“What do you mean?” asked Justice Wagner, leaning forward.

“We had three nail clipping samples, two from the index and middle finger of Miss Newton’s left had and one from the thumb of her right. These samples were all stored separately, so as to ensure that if they had to be tested destructively, some portion of the sample would be preserved. Therefore although the sample that was used in this test was lost, there were in fact two other samples available for testing purposes and these two samples are still in storage at the Ventura lab. I suggest that the Court grant a continuance so that we can process and test one of these samples.”

Alex was getting increasingly irritated, as he sensed victory slipping away.

“Your Honor, if this is so then why did this witness create a fake sample. Why did he simply not check out one of the spare samples?”

“I think the answer is obvious,” said Justice Wagner. “He didn’t want to admit his own mistake. Also he may not have known about the other samples. He only knew what he was told. Maybe they gave him just the one evidence sample and told him to test it with no other instructions. At any rate, the other samples exist, so they can be tested.”

“Your Honor even if this is so, in view of the behavior of this employee of the lab and the failure of the lab to stop him or even detect his misconduct, my client has legitimate grounds for concern over the reliability of any future testing procedures done by this lab until the matter can be thoroughly investigated. Moreover because of the evidence on record already, I would submit that this jury is tainted by that false evidence.”

“You could always move a mist-trial without prejudice, Mr. Sedaka. That way we could start again with a new jury.”

Alex hesitated. He was about to launch into another objection, on the grounds that this would enable prosecution witnesses to avoid the pitfalls that they had fallen into the first time around. But then he realized that it might have the opposite effect. Alvarez could only answer according to the science and whatever the new tests showed, he would have to testify accordingly. But Albert Carter and Bethel Newton herself might be reluctant to testify at all — after the humiliation they been put through on cross-examination.

“I’m ready to accept that, Your Honor.”

But now Sarah Jensen was panicking.

“Your Honor, that would be extremely disruptive and would cause considerable distress to several prosecution witnesses who are clearly emotionally fragile and who have been testifying in good faith.”

Ellen Wagner thought for a moment.

“At this stage we don’t know what the results of the tests will be. There seems to be no point in anticipating the results. If the new tests exclude the defendant then the matter will be decided for us. If not then I’ll hear legal arguments as to how to proceed at that stage. In the meantime, how long will the tests take?”

Justice Wagner had turned to Sarah Jensen when she asked this.

“We’ll be using Y-STR again so four or five days should be enough.”

The judge turned to Alex.

“In the event that the new tests fail to exclude the defendant will the defense be ready with legal arguments by Monday morning?”

“Yes Your Honor.”

“Ms Jensen?”

“Yes Your Honor.”

“All right, this case is adjourned until Monday morning.”

Wednesday, 26 August, 2009 — 18:00

Andi hadn’t told Gene about the adjournment. Instead she decided to do what Gene had done at the weekend and surprise her lover — in this case, with an unexpected mid-week visit. Of course Gene might catch a TV news report in which they’d mention that the court wasn’t due to reconvene until Thursday. But she was unlikely to make anything of it. And if she did, she’d phone and ask Andi if she was planning on coming home.

It would be nice to surprise her.

She decided, when she arrived at the airport in the early afternoon to go home while Gene was at work and have a hot dinner waiting for her in the oven, to be served on their best china on a lace tablecloth, complete with candlelight and wine. It was a long time since they had done anything romantic.

The house had been empty when she got home and she took this as a sign that Gene was working late as usual. Now as she prepared Boef Bourguignon in an empty house, she felt guilty about leaving Gene to shoulder this burden alone while she had been up in Oakland, fighting for that lowlife who was — as Gene had said — so unworthy of her efforts.

But at least, she told herself, it enabled her to surprise Gene with a beautifully laid table, when she finally came home. The only trouble was that as eight O’clock went by and blended into nine O’clock, there was still no sign of Gene. At first Andi tried to keep the food warm for Gene’s arrival, but had finally given in and turned it off altogether, rather than let it get overdone and dried out.

But now with nothing more to do but wait, a desolate loneliness swept over her. Being here alone, made her feel uncomfortable and she realized now how uncomfortable it must have been for Gene all these days in her absence.

Seized by guilt she went out to her car and drove off to the rape crisis center.

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 20:30

“Hi Bethel. How are you holding up?”

“Okay,” Bethel replied weakly.

“Did you see what happened in court?”

“Yes… on the TV…”

“Me too.”

“Oh.”

Bethel had been staying at a witness hostel in Oakland because she had to continue attending the trial until she was discharged, in case either party needed to recall her as a witness. But after the adjournment she had got a message on her cell phone that had changed all that

“I was afraid they were going to throw the case out.”

“But they didn’t,” said Bethel.

“I know. I guess now we know why the DNA implicated Claymore.”

“Yes but now that they’ve found out…”

Bethel trailed off, unable to get the words out.

“I know, I know. But that was always the risk. You know what the Italians say: Que Sera, Sera.”

“What?”

“What will be, will be.”

“Oh.”

Beth started to cry.

“Hey listen. I don’t want to hear any of that. At least you gave the bastard a good scare.”

“Yes but that’s not what I’m worried about.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Even if Claymore is cleared, that doesn’t make you a liar. And they can’t touch you. All it means is that it was a case of mistaken identity.”

“No, you don’t understand! I scratched you too!”

“What are you talking about?”

“When I dug my finger’s into your arm. Don’t you remember?”

There was a moment’s hesitation.

“That was your right hand. I’m sure of it.”

“Yes you’re right. I mean my right. I mean…”

“Well which of your hands did they take the nail clippings from, left or right.”

“The left I think. No wait a minute. I think they took from both. Two from the left and one from the right.”

“Okay well never mind. That’s nothing to worry about. They’re using Y chromosome DNA, and only men have that. Anyway, there’s nothing to compare it to — nothing from me I mean.”

“All right.”

“Okay well anyway, get a good night’s sleep… and stop worrying.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“There’s something else… something weird happened on Saturday.”

“What?”

“I had a call from a woman. I don’t know how she got my number. But she said that she was going to make sure that Claymore got what he deserved.”

“And it wasn’t anyone you know?”

“It sounded familiar, but it was a bit distorted.”

“Did she say how she got your number?”

“No.”

“Did you ask her?”

“I didn’t think about it at the time. She caught me off guard.”

“And did she say who she was? Or what she was? I mean what she did, I mean.”

“No… but I think she said her name.”

“Her name?”

“I mean she told me a name, but it was kind of a weird name.”

“Well what was it?”

“I think it was something like… Lannosea. At least that’s what it sounded like.”

“Lannosea?”

“Yes. Does it mean anything?”

“No. But I think I’d better Google it and see what comes up.”

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 21:05

As she drove to the rape crisis center, Andi continued to dwell on her guilt feelings as she thought about what she was actually doing: helping a rapist who had allegedly reformed but who had grown rich on the strength of his notoriety. And yet in terms of professional ethics she was doing nothing wrong. It was these negative thoughts that went against the canons of her profession. People in her line of work were not supposed to get emotionally involved in their cases.

Fight like hell for your client no matter what you personally believe. But if they go down for the crime, you’ll know at least that they were given a fair trial and the system worked.

And what if, on the other hand, you manage to save them when they may in fact be guilty? How do you live with that?

She knew the answer. The system has its own kind of natural selection in the long run. A criminal who makes a lucky mistake may go one of two ways. They might learn from the experience of almost going down for the crime and be so frightened by the experience that they go straight. Or they might get cocky and think that they can carry on breaking the law with impunity. That might seem bad, but the more they break the law, the greater their chances of getting caught in the future.

That’s the way the system worked. It didn’t catch all the bad guys and it didn’t necessarily always spare the innocent. But in a rough and ready sort of way it balanced itself out and maintained some semblance of equilibrium..

And yet it made her feel uncomfortable. Even one injustice was one too many, especially when it was a crime like rape. But Andi knew that she couldn’t allow herself to get personally involved — neither with the client not the alleged victim. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. But not everyone can switch off their emotions like that.

The hardest thing was that she wasn’t sure if Claymore was guilty or not. He talked like an innocent man, even in the privacy of a conference with his own lawyers. And yet Bethel Newton insisted that he was guilty. The scientific evidence also suggested guilt, albeit inconclusively.

As she withdrew from these painful ruminations, she became aware of her new surroundings. Somehow she had arrived at the rape crisis center without noticing the journey. As she pulled up in the parking lot at the back of the building, she dreaded to think how she must have been driving on the way here.

She got out of the car and swept into the building, still rigid with the tension that she couldn’t shake off. An armed female guard recognized her through the video-intercom and pressed the button to open the first of the reinforced glass doors. Andi entered the “airlock” as she thought of it and the guard opened the inner doors to let her into the building. They exchanged a smile as Andi went up the stairs to the first floor.

A few steps at a languid pace took her to Gene’s office halfway down the wide corridor. But when she looked through the small porthole-type window in the door to see if Gene was alone, she got a surprise. For there was her lover engaged in earnest conversation with Bethel Newton.

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 21:30

Louis Manning was in a private room at the Alta Bates Medical Center, handcuffed to the bedrail, with a uniformed police officer sitting by the bed at all times. He had now been charged with the attempted rape of Martine Yin, but the arraignment had been postponed as he was in no position to be moved. His broken leg was still in traction. But at least it was a private room.

He smiled at the irony that he was getting better medical treatment as a criminal than he ever had as an ordinary citizen. However, he knew that his leg had healed enough to permit escape as soon as the opportunity arose. The trouble was that the opportunity had yet to arise. He felt confident that he could walk — or at least limp — but he certainly couldn’t run.

And the fact that he was handcuffed to the bed when not eating, meant that he could not run away when the officer left his bedside, as occasionally happened.

He had considered other options such as stabbing the officer in the eye with a syringe and then grabbing the keys for the handcuffs. There were sometimes syringes within reach, especially when they injected pain killers into the bag of his saline drip. But he dismissed the idea on two grounds. Firstly, the syringe was never inserted into the saline bag and then left unattended. When the saline bag was injected there was always a nurse or a doctor nearby. Secondly, even if there were no other persons nearby, sticking a syringe into the cop’s eye would cause the officer to scream with pain, thus attracting the attention of others, thereby making escape more difficult. He had to contend with the reality that he might not be able to walk but only hobble and for that reason he needed to escape quietly, without attracting the attention of anyone.

But he was working on another plan, and he was implementing one stage of it now as the nurse approached him with his night sedation. Because a hospital is a busy place, even at night, the patients were offered night sedation to help them sleep. The sedation came in the form of a tablet to be orally imbibed. But what Manning had been doing these past few days was not swallowing the tablet, but rather holding it under his tongue and swallowing the water that was offered with it.

It was a tricky operation, but he managed it with ease, once again. Under the tongue, swallow, hand back the plastic cup, wait twenty seconds or so while the nurse went away, reach for a tissue and spit it out into the tissue under the guise of coughing or sneezing. When the cop went to relieve himself, he would add the pill to the collection that he had accumulated, wrapped in a single tissue in the bedside cabinet. He was building up a nice little consolidated supply of sleeping pills and when he was ready, he would make his move.

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 21:35

Andi stood there for a few seconds, thoroughly confused.

Gene wasn’t supposed to have any contact with Bethel Newton. She was under a legal injunction.

What was Gene doing talking to Bethel now? And did this mean that she had been in contact with her the whole time leading up to the trial? How long had this been going on?

She needed to know. But would Gene tell her? If Gene was doing things behind her back would she open up now? Should she confront Gene and demand to know what was going on?

The trouble was that Bethel Newton was in there too. If she went in now and confronted her lover, then what sort of effect would it have on Bethel? It would be frightening… traumatic. And Bethel had been through enough trauma to last a lifetime.

What right do I have to add to her suffering by storming in there now to demand answers?

Her beef was with Gene.

And in any case, if she went in now and they had a scene, she had a duty as an officer of the court to notify the judge. That would lead to a mistrial and the whole process would start again, with Claymore still in custody. She had a duty to him too. He was in prison, in solitary confinement, living every day in fear that another inmate would kill him. If she caused a mistrial now, the next free slot for the trial might be months away. They couldn’t even argue that this would be a violation of his right to a speedy trial — because the defense would have caused it, or at least contributed to it. She couldn’t condemn Claymore to several more months in jail awaiting trial. She had to find a way to deal with this sensibly.

An idea struck her. It might still lead to a mistrial, but it was worth a shot.

She turned sharply and walked out.

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 21:40

“So it looks like both the Claymore and Manning tests are invalid,” said Sarah Jensen.

She had tried to call Detective Riley earlier in the day, after the courtroom debacle with Steven Johnson. But she was told that Bridget was in transit, and she couldn’t reach her on her cell phone. Bridget was now back at home in Ventura and Sarah Jensen was filling her in on what had happened in court yesterday, with particular emphasis on the afternoon’s proceedings.

“Still, it’s funny that both results were positive.”

“Yeah, weird that,” said Sarah. “But the evidence sample they compared it to was falsified, so the old result doesn’t mean jack shit.”

“Yes but that’s what worries me. What if it happens again with the back-up sample? What if we get two matches?”

“It could happen. Sedaka’s already established that there are 37,000 African-Americans with that same haplotype.”

“I have a bad feeling about this. I think Sedaka’s going to try and throw up a smokescreen.”

“He’s done that already. We’re just going to have to point out that the DNA isn’t the only evidence against Claymore. It’s just one piece of the puzzle.”

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 22:30

It was late that evening when Andi came home. Gene was curled up on the couch in the den. She had been the TV, but she leapt to her feet up when Andi entered.

“Where were you? I was worried about you!”

“What do you mean?” asked Andi coldly.

“I found the dinner you cooked. Where d’you go… Andi?”

Gene had finally noticed the anger on Andi’s face. The next thing she knew Andi’s hand was lashing out towards her. Instinctively she covered against it and blinked. But what she felt against her forearm was not a blow, but the light slap of a piece of paper. When she opened her eyes a split second later, she saw that the paper was an envelope. Andi made no effort to hold on to it and let it slip from her fingers. Again, acting more on instinct than thought, Gene caught the envelope before it hit the ground.

“You’ve been served,” said Andi coldly.

It took Gene a second to understand what was happening as she looked into Andi’s piercing eyes and saw the intractable look. She tore open the envelope and opened up the folded page to see a subpoena ordering her to be available as a witness on Monday the thirty first of August until discharged by the Court in the case of the State of California versus Elias Claymore.

“What is this?”

“I’m calling you as a witness.”

Gene looked at Andi helplessly, while Andi looked back, if not with confidence, then at least with anger. In this moment, their roles were reversed.

“Why?”

“I have a duty to my client.”

Then, without another word Andi turned abruptly and stormed out.

But Gene realized that Andi could not remain strong for long. And only now, in Andi’s absence, with the spell of anger broken, did Gene succumb to concern for Andi rather than fear for herself.

She leapt to her feet and ran out after her lover, flinging the front door open just in time to hear Andi’s car roars to life and watch it speed away. She looked on helplessly. Then, unsure of what she was going to do next, she walked slowly back into the house.

Thursday, 27 August 2009 — 01:20

Paul Greenberg sat at the console of the computer, with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand, reading the science fiction book that he was holding in the other. It was a strange way to be celebrating his 24th birthday. But when you look like a speckled “nerd” and think like one, you may as well act like one. In any case, the county of Ventura paid good money for Systems Administrators to watch over the network at the Ventura County Government Center, the building that housed the pre-trial detention facility, the Court, the forensic lab, and the Local DNA Database Index.

And on the graveyard shift, it wasn’t even hard work. At just after one o’clock in the morning there was virtually nothing for him to do. But there had to be a Systems Administrator there at all times in case anything went wrong with the network. The network and its peripherals had to be able to operate 24 hours a day. He was, in effect, the night-watchman over a mass of silicon.

Thus it was completely unexpected when the phone by the computer console broke the silence with its inordinately loud ring — so unexpected that it made him jump. The switchboard operated 24/7, but when people called the direct line, it rang louder.

“IT department.”

“Hallo could I speak to Linda please?” said a woman’s voice. There was something warm and strangely seductive about the voice. But then again, most women’s voices were seductive to an computer geek like Greenberg.

“Linda?” echoed Greenberg

“Linda Black,” said the woman.

“There’s no Linda Black here. Are you sure she works nights?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

The woman sounded irritated. It put Greenberg on the defensive.

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard of her. Are you sure you’ve got the right department.”

“What do you mean department?” Now the woman sounded bewildered. “Who are you?”

“Paul Greenberg. I’m the systems administrator.”

“Systems what?”

“Administrator.”

It gave him a good feeling to say that. All of a sudden he felt as if he were the chief of operations some major in control room. The woman sounded like she was getting flustered but now she had given him a chance to flash his credentials at her. He hoped she was suitably impressed.

“Wait a minute, that isn’t Ritchie’s Pizza?”

“No it isn’t.” By now Greenberg was thoroughly amused. “This is the California government center.”

“Oh God, this is so embarrassing,” replied the woman, gushing awkwardly. “I was calling my friend Linda at Ritchie’s pizza. Gee you must think I’m a right kook.”

“It’s all right. We all make mistakes.”

“Look I’m sorry I disturbed you. You must be terribly busy.”

There was an awkward silence, as if she was waiting for him to say something.

“No, not really. It gets kind of boring on the graveyard shift. I mean the system has to be manned twenty four hours a day just in case the network goes down, but it’s basically only used during the day.”

“Did you say network?”

“Yes.”

“What, you mean like computers?”

“That’s right,” said Greenberg, enjoying the warm enthusiasm in her voice.

“I don’t really know much about computers. My ex-boyfriend tried to explain it to me once, but it was all too technical for me.”

She did sound impressed… and she said ex-boyfriend.

“Well it’s a field that’s got too much jargon. But it’s really all very logical.”

“Oh I’m sorry, I guess I should… My name is Barbie… Barbie Jackson.”

Barbie?

Greenberg smiled.

You couldn’t make it up.

“Paul Greenberg. You can call me Paul.”

“Thanks. And you can call me Barbie. So what exactly do you do Paul? I mean what’s a… what did you call it… Administrator…”

“Systems Administrator.”

“Is that like higher than a programmer?”

Greenberg smiled at the prospect of enlightening this neophyte. She sounded like she was in awe of his knowledge already. Maybe he’d get lucky with her.

“Not exactly. I mean I am a programmer. But that’s not my job here. I’m in charge of the system as a whole. I make sure that it’s working okay, that all the computers on the network are okay, that everything gets properly backed up and all the passwords stored safely.”

“You mean you know everyone’s password? I guess they must really trust you.”

“No but if they lose it I can access their files and give them a new password. I mean they do trust me I guess. I’m what’s called a Superuser.”

“Superuser?” she repeated, rolling the words on her tongue. “That sounds kind of sexy. What does it mean?”

He smiled, his ego well and truly buttered.

“It means I’m a highly privileged user.”

“You make it sound so exciting.”

Looking around at the dimly lit room, he realized that he had built it up out of all proportion with a few simple words. It was time to let her down gently.

“Believe me it’s not. It’s actually rather boring.”

“Oh!” She sounded disappointed. “I always thought that sort of work was terribly exciting. I mean how do you do all these things or get the computer to do them. Do you have your own special privileged user password?”

“That’s exactly it. I have a password which the computer recognizes as a Superuser password and it gives me access to all sorts of things that other users don’t have access to.”

“My ex-boyfriend used to have a password for his computer. But I knew what it was.”

She sounded like an airhead. But so what? She was fun, and she seemed to like him… at least over the phone.

“What was it?”

“It was a four letter word,” she said, giggling.

He was now sure of his airhead theory. But then again, she had a kind of naive charm? It wasn’t her head that he was interested in. He imagined her with platinum blonde hair, silicone-enhanced breasts and wide child-bearing hips. That was the marvelous thing about the phone — and the Internet — you could imagine the other person as whatever you liked.

“A lot of user’s are like that. They pick a four letter word or a derogatory comment about their boss.”

“I bet you don’t. You sound too smart for that.”

He had the slightest inkling that she might be schmoozing him.

“I can just imagine you picking some long-winded off-the-wall password like rumplestiltskin.”

Well at least she reads children’s stories, he thought.

“No, I use a short password. They’re easier to remember and harder to mistype.”

“I can understand the bit about typing, but I’d’ve thought it doesn’t matter how long the password is, as long as it’s something you’re likely to remember.”

“Well I always use my mother’s maiden name.”

“Isn’t that two words?” she asked with another girlish giggle.”

“Just the surname,” he said.

“Okay, well I won’t ask you what it is. Listen, I’ve got to go now ‘cause I promised Linda I’d call her. I hope she’s not too busy. Look, maybe I could call you again tomorrow.”

“Sure. I’d like that. I’m on night duty all week.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Can I call you during the day?”

“No, I'm only on nights: ten at night till six in the morning.”

“Okay I'll call same time tomorrow.”

After she hung up, Paul Greenberg tried to get back into his book. But he couldn’t concentrate on it anymore.

Thursday, 27 August 2009 — 10:50

She called again in the morning at a time when she knew he would be off-duty.

“Ventura County” said the switchboard operator, answering the call. It was a woman’s voice, one of those artificially cheerful telephone voices that dripped saccharine from every word.

“Could you put me through to the IT System’s Administrator,” said the woman on the other end of the line. Her voice was deeper than the last time she called. Now she was trying to sound more like a serious educated professional than an airhead. She didn’t want her call to be diverted to some lackey away from the computer console.

“Who’s calling?”

“Oh, er Barbara,” the woman replied. “Barbara Jackson.” She sounded flustered, almost as if she had forgotten her name.

“Just one minute.”

“Systems Administration,” said a man’s voice.

“Hallo, can I speak to Paul Greenberg please.”

Now she sounded like the airhead again. The voice was higher, almost squeaky.

“I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. He’s on nights this week.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” said the woman, sounding deeply embarrassed. “I guess I’m making a bit of a fool of myself.”

“I don’t understand.”

The Systems Administrator sounded confused, but there was a kind of enthusiasm in his voice. This meant that she “had” him.

“Well I spoke to last night. I got a wrong number and we started talking. He sounded kind of cute.”

“Oh yeh he-”

The Systems Administrator broke off. The woman well knew why. He had been about to say “he told me all about you,” presumably as he signed off and handed over in the morning. But realized it would have been tactless. It would have made Paul seem like a gossip.

“Yes?”

The Systems Administrator fumbled for something else to say instead.

“He’s working nights all this week.”

realized that he had said this a moment ago.

“I don’t suppose you could tell me if he… no I shouldn’t ask.

“What?” asked the man, smiling. He was enjoying listening to her. She had this kind of girlish way of babbling about her, just like Paul had said.

“Well I was just wondering if he had a girlfriend.”

The System’s Administrator was grinning broadly at this. No wonder Paul couldn’t stop talking about this woman.

“Not as far as I know.”

He will pretty soon though, thought the Systems Administrator. It sounds like his luck is changing.

“He hasn’t?”

Greenberg’s colleague realized that he had made a faux pas

“I mean he just broke up with his girlfriend. He’s kind of… um…. Upset about it. But he tries not to show it.”

“Oh… well…I was wondering if you could tell me a couple of things? I know I should ask, but it’s just that I’m… kind of curious.”

“Like what?”

If she hadn’t sounded like such an airhead, his suspicions would have been aroused by this question. But she sounded too dumb to be a threat to security.

“Well like, he said he was five feet ten.”

There was muffled laughter at the other end of the line.

“Was he lying?” she asked, almost overdoing the girlish indignance.

“Well, I mean, not exactly lying… maybe just exaggerating.”

“And what about his eyes? What color are they?”

“What did he tell you?”

“Ah, no,” she said with another little nervous giggle, “ if I tell you that, then you’ll just say the same thing.”

“Well I’ve never really looked at his eyes.”

“Typical of a man! Could they be blue?”

“I… I think so.”

The Systems Administrator breathed a sigh of relief. If she was some sort of a criminal, with infiltration in mind, she certainly couldn’t slip in a ringer based on a mere description of Greenberg’s eyes and height.

“Okay now this time, you have to give me a straight answer without any help from me. How old is he?”

“Twenty four.”

“Do you… “ she broke off for a couple of second. Oh God this is gonna sound really silly.”

“No, go on.”

“Do you… by any chance… know what his star sign is?”

“I’m not sure. Oh wait a minute! Yesterday was his birthday.”

“So he’s a Virgo!” She blurted out enthusiastically. “And I’m a Taurus! That makes us compatible.”

She asked a few more questions. But that was really all she wanted.

Saturday, 29 August 2009 — 11:25

The fingers of “Lannosea” were flying across the keyboard. She didn’t even need to go to the public records office. All the records of births, marriage, divorce and death had now been put on-line and were available on the same terms as at the public records office itself. It always amazed her that so many people relied on a person’s mother’s maiden name for security purposes, despite the fact that some one’s mother’s maiden name is a detail so easy to obtain. She knew his name and she knew his age. She could search through the records based on his name and the quarter of the year in which he was born. But having his exact date of birth made the process even quicker.

So, after getting the information from the daytime systems administrator, she

had logged on to the public records and looked for the record of Paul Greenberg’s birth based on his age and birthday. This record included his mother’s maiden name: Ruth Berman. And he had already told her that he used his mother’s maiden name as his password.

But yesterday they might not yet have scanned the electropherogram from the new DNA profile into the computer. It normally takes four days from start to finish, and the judge had ordered it on Wednesday. They probably wouldn’t even run the actual comparison until Sunday morning. That meant that she had her window of opportunity now.

Using the information she had, she set about gaining access to the Ventura Local Database Index System. It took her a while to track down the IP address of the server that hosted the LDIS but once she did, she used the Telnet protocol to take her to the root prompt and from there she typed in “pgreenberg” as the username and “Berman” as the password. Her reasoning was that Greenberg was evidently a lazy person for using such a short and obvious password to begin with, so it was probable that he used some form of his name as his username.

In a matter of seconds, she had root control over the LDIS server!

She downloaded copies of the evidence sample file and Claymore’s reference sample file. She then copied over the data from Claymore’s reference sample file to the evidence sample itself, thereby bringing the evidence sample file into line with the Elias Claymore reference sample. Finally she deleted the old evidence sample file from the server and uploaded the false evidence sample file in its place.

When Alvarez got the report showing a perfect match, Claymore’s fate would be sealed.

Sunday, 30 August 2009 — 13:50

“You’re spoiling me,” said Alex, as Martine served him a plate that was full to toppling point.

Alex had invited Martine again for Friday evening dinner, which they had prepared together this time.

Like last week, Martine had stayed the night, as he had predicted she would from the overnight bag in her hand when he answered the door. But this time, she had stayed over till Sunday and was now reciprocating his culinary hospitality by treating him to a traditional English Sunday roast, complete with roast beef (he drew the line at pork), roast potatoes and parsnips, sage and onion stuffing, Yorkshire pudding, Brussels sprouts, carrots and peas.

“So they said they’ll courier the results over?” asked Martine

“As soon as they get them.”

They were talking about the DNA results of the new tests. They were due to get them today, in preparation for the Court hearing tomorrow.

“Any bets on what they’ll show?”

“Not with me. All bets are off.”

“She was looking at him across the table.”

“You look uncomfortable.”

“It’s the waiting,” he said.

“What about it?”

“The waiting is the hardest part.”

“For us or for Claymore.”

Alex shrugged sheepishly.

“You’re right. Here we are feeling sorry for ourselves when it’s Elias who’s fate is hanging in the balance.”

It was later, when they were clearing away the plates and loading up the dishwasher that the doorbell rang Alex went to answer it, looking through the spy hole first. It was a man in a brown uniform, a courier. Alex had been expecting this. He opened the door and signed for the envelope. In his excitement, he was already ripping it open as he walked back to the dining room.

“The DNA results?” asked Martine, meeting him in the corridor?

“Yes.”

Alex flipped past the first page to look at the crucial second page with its results. And what it showed was not good news.

Locus

B. Newton (index fingernail)

Elias Claymore (ref sample)

Louis Manning (ref sample)

19

17

17

17

385a/b

16, 19

16, 19

16, 19

388

12

12

12

389-1

13

13

13

389-2

31

31

31

390

21

21

21

391

10

10

10

392

11

11

11

393

16

16

16

426

11

11

11

437

14

14

14

438

11

11

11

439

12

12

12

447

28

28

28

448

24

24

24

460

10

10

10

H4

11

11

11

YCA2a/b

17, 19

17, 19

17, 19

450

8

8

8

456

16

16

16

458

18

18

18

464 a/b/c/d

13, 16, 17

13, 16, 17

13, 16, 17

Much to Alex’s disappointment, it showed that the Y-STR profile of the sample marked as “Reference, Elias Claymore” did match the Sample, with no exclusions. Not that this made him guilty. They had already established that the chance of a random match between the evidence sample and an African-American was 1/500 and that was confirmed on this report too. It’s just that after the way he had exposed Steven Johnson’s tampering, it was bitterly disappointing.

The question was, could he block this evidence? Technically, the prosecution had rested their case. Even if the case wasn’t dismissed, Alex could argue that the prosecution could not introduce this report, as they could not now introduce any new material, except to rebut new evidence. And the defense had offered nothing to rebut. They hadn’t offered any evidence that purported to show that the DNA was not from Elias Claymore. They had merely discredited the evidence purporting to show that it was.

On Monday morning he would move that this new evidence be excluded. If the judge granted the motion, the prosecution would then move to dismiss the case without prejudice, intending to go for a retrial. Alex would then argue that there were no grounds for dismissal, as it was not a procedural error in the trial, but merely a careless mistake at the lab. He was already planning his argument:

“The prosecution have introduced flawed evidence that had now been discredited and they are now looking for a second bite of the cherry. But that is not what the law says, Your Honor. The law says that if the prosecution were sloppy with the evidence they introduced then they must live with the consequences.”

But then he noticed another line on the report that stated: “Neither Elias Claymore nor Louis Manning can be eliminated as suspects on a basis of this comparison. He flipped over to the grid with the comparison. So focused had he had been on comparing Elias Claymore’s line to that of the evidence sample, that he had missed the other line — that of Louis Manning. And the numbers of repetitions in that line also matched the evidence sample.

Then in the Frequency of Occurrence Estimates, it gave the figure for Caucasians as 1/4000, for Blacks as 1/500 and for Hispanics as 1/6500.”

So the cops or the DA had a second suspect? But who was this Louis Manning? And why was his name so familiar? Whoever he was, this report referred to him as a suspect. But he hadn’t been mentioned in the first report. Maybe he was some one who had come to the attention of the police since then. But why had Alex not been notified? Maybe it had only happened recently.

“What is it?” asked Martine, seeing the look on Alex’s face.

“There’s another suspect. And he also matches.”

“Let me see!” she said, snatching the report from Alex’s hand.

“Oh my God!” she blurted out.

“What?”

“It’s Louis Manning.”

“That name sounds familiar.”

“Good God! For a lawyer, you sure could use a bit more attention to detail. That’s the name of the man who tried to rape me!”

SEPTEMBER

Sunday, 30 September 2009 — 22:15

Paul Greenberg was sitting at the console of the network server looking at an information log-on the screen. It was one of the routine checks that he did at the start of his shift. He took his role as Systems Administrator very seriously, so the first thing he did whenever he started his shift was run a series of checks to find out in what state the system had been left by whoever was last on duty as Systems Administrator.

It was while he was making these routine checks that he noticed something unexpected. He leaned forward and peered intently at the screen. What he saw shocked him. It showed him logged on earlier during the day. That didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t even here at the time. He was on nights.

He typed in an instruction and called up another screen-full of information. Not only did the user log show him as logged on to the system, but the activity log even showed him uploading and downloading files — something that he hadn’t done all week. The only time he would download or upload files was if he was requested to help staff members of law enforcement agencies who were having trouble using the system.

A few more information requests typed in at the keyboard gave him a clearer idea of what had happened. Some one had accessed the system from outside, via the web server and not only gained “root” control over it, but from there gone on to gain access to the DNA database server via the network server. That could mean trouble.

He transferred his attention to the DNA database server and checked the activity log there. And what he saw filled him with horror

Some one had remotely deleted a file and replaced it with another.

That wasn’t right! The DNA server wasn’t supposed to be accessed remotely at all — and certainly not with superuser privileges. It was a Local DNA Database Index, with the emphasis on the word “Local”. It was only supposed to be used by the local DNA lab in the government center itself. Indeed one of the conditions for the LDIS being allowed to upload to the California SDIS and the NDIS in Washington DC was that they use dedicated, unswitched lines. But some hacker had evidently bypassed this by logging on to the web server for the building and maneuvering their way through the internal trusted connections. And what was worse — Greenberg realized — they had done so by impersonating him.

He had to tell some one. But at this time there was no one to tell. He had to find out more. He had a long night ahead of him.

Monday, 31 August 2009 — 10:15

It was Monday morning and once again the lawyers were in Justice Ellen Wagner’s chambers to deal with the issues arising out of the results of the DNA tests.

As they were all familiar with the results already, Justice Wagner was taking the initiative. Right now, she was speaking and the others were listening.

“We have now established that neither Elias Claymore not Louis Manning can be eliminated as suspects based on the DNA alone. As matters stand now, the jury are aware of the falsification of the original DNA evidence by Steven Johnson. As they have been made aware of this, it cannot be held that this will have a prejudicial effect against the defendant. However, the new evidence cannot now be introduced by the prosecution because the prosecution has rested its case.”

Sarah Jensen leaned forward.

“Your Honor, we would seek to introduce this as rebuttal evidence.”

Justice Wagner looked at Sarah Jensen with condescension bordering on contempt.”

“You’ve got to kidding Ms Jensen. There’s no way this could be considered rebuttal.”

“Steven Johnson was a defense witness Your Honor. It’s in response to his testimony. Therefore technically…”

She trailed off, realizing just how weak her argument really was. Justice Wagner spoke.

“This isn’t rebuttal of Steven Johnson’s evidence. This is new evidence. You’re not challenging the fact that the State’s own DNA testing was flawed by Steven Johnson’s carelessness and subsequent chicanery. You’re asking for a second shot to make up for the fact that your original DNA evidence was discredited.”

Sarah Jensen remained silent.

“I can understand your concern. You fear that if I declare a mistrial, even without prejudice, you won’t be able to persuade Bethel Newton to testify at the retrial after what she’s been though already. Mr. Sedaka, you’re also caught on the horns of a dilemma and you don’t know whether to push for a mistrial or not. I’ve made it clear that I won’t grant a mistrial with prejudice, but will simply order a retrial. You fear that if the case goes to retrial, Bethel Newton might yet be persuaded to testify and will be better prepared this time around. You also fear that a retrial will deny you the benefit of having discredited the prosecution’s DNA evidence and even open the door to the people introducing the new DNA tests, although you will, for your part, be allowed to introduce the fact that that the genetic profile also matches Louis Manning.”

“I can do that now, without a retrial, Your Honor.”

“Except that if you do, then I would have to rule that you have opened the door to the prosecution introducing all the results of the new tests including the fact that they match the defendant.”

“That’s not fair Your Hon-” Andi blurted out.

She was silenced by a slight motion of Alex’s index finger. The judge continued.

“It’s perfectly fair Ms Phoenix. In order to introduce the facts pertaining to Louis Manning, the defense will have to introduce the results of the new test itself. Once the defense does that, the prosecution will be able to introduce whatever else is in those same tests. There is no way that the results can be separated or isolated.”

“So the question that you both have to ask yourselves is would you rather continue or go to a new trial. As I have stated, I won’t grant a mistrial with prejudice. But I will consider either a mistrial without prejudice followed by a retrial or proceed with the present trial. In the event that you agree to proceed, I will leave it in the hands of the defense whether it wishes to introduce the new test results or not.”

“I don’t understand, Your Honor,” said Sarah. “Why should the defense have the prerogative of deciding about the admitting tests results if we agree to proceed?”

“Because as a matter of law, the prosecution has rested and cannot now introduce new evidence. This is a court of law Miss Jensen, not a court of whims.”

Now it was Alex’s turn to sound confused.

“In that case, Your Honor, why is the Court not making its own decision as to whether to carry on or go to a retrial.”

“Because, Mr. Sedaka, this issue has become very complicated. Although I ultimately have the authority to decide, I can see that this is a dilemma for both parties. Whatever ruling I make, some one is liable to be dissatisfied, possibly both of you. So I’m leaving the matter in your hands — yours and the prosecutor. I’m going to adjourn this hearing and give both sides an hour to try to come to some agreement. Then if you agree, we’ll do whatever you both agree upon.”

This was a very clever way to forestall subsequent objections — especially from the defense. There were pros and cons to both courses of action, and if the judge ruled unilaterally, they could lodge an exception for the record and then if the verdict went against them, they could appeal on the grounds that they had opposed the judge’s ruling. This way Justice Wagner was effectively giving the parties themselves the right to decide — albeit camouflaged under the guise of seeking agreement between the parties.

Of course they might still not agree. But the defense would have to make its position known. That meant they would have to make up their own minds where they stood in the face of this dilemma.

“What if can’t come to an agreement?” asked Alex.

“Then I’ll have to make a decision. But I will ask both parties to state their positions for the record — including their fallback position.”

Alex knew that he had to play for time. And he had to get some answers before he committed himself to a position that could land his client in prison for the rest of his life.

“Your Honor, these test results were the first time we were apprised of even the existence of Louis Manning, let alone his potential involvement in the case. As Your Honor may or may not know, Louis Manning — assuming that it is the same Louis Manning — was arrested for attempting to rape my… for attempting to rape a reporter who was covering this trial. Now he appears — somehow — to have become a credible suspect in this case. So much so, that the police or the DA decided to compare his DNA to the evidence sample. Before we are able to make a rational decision as to whether we would prefer to continue or start afresh, we would like to file a discovery motion for everything the prosecution has on Louis Manning as it pertains to criminal convictions and the reasons why his DNA was tested in this case.”

Sarah Jensen looked panic stricken.

“Your Honor that’s a pretty tall order at short notice.”

“We’ve wasted enough time on this. I see no reason why you can’t provide the arrest report and his record by, say, five PM tomorrow. And to give the defense the opportunity to study the material we will reconvene at ten O’clock on Wednesday morning.”

Monday, 31 August 2009 — 10:40

Victor Alvarez was at his desk in the corner office of forensic science lab when a tired and haggard looking young man walked in.

“Dr Alvarez? My name is Paul Greenberg. I’m the night Systems Administrator at the Ventura government building. I’m here about the LDIS server.”

“What is it?” asked Alvarez tensely. When the Systems Administrator on the graveyard shift walks, bleary-eyed, into the office of a Technical Leader at the forensic lab, it’s obvious that there’s a problem.

“It looks like somebody’s hacked in to database.”

Alvarez went into damage control model.

“Snooping or sabotage?”

“They deleted a file and replaced it with another.”

“Which file?”

“The new evidence sample from the Elias Claymore case.”

“Mother of God! How did they do it?”

There was a long pause before Greenberg spoke again.

“It looks like they used my ID.”

“Your ID?”

“Yes.”

“But how did they get it?”

“I’m still working on that. What I can tell you is that according to the user-log, they also downloaded Elias Claymore’s reference sample.”

“But wouldn’t they have needed your password?”

Again the embarrassed pause.

“Yes they did. But like I said, I don’t know how they got it.”

“Can’t you undelete the over-written file?” asked Alvarez.

“It’s not as simple as that. The original file hasn’t just had its title deleted: it’s been double-deleted — physically over-written.”

“Is that normal?”

“No it isn’t normal. But it’s been done. It looks like someone deliberately changed a file and then set out to destroy any trace of the original.”

“And when was this done? Before or after the last comparison between the suspect samples and the back-up crime scene sample?”

Greenberg looked at the activity log

“After the chemical analysis, but before the database comparison.”

“So you mean the last comparison was done using this tampered sample file?”

There was alarm in Alvarez’s voice.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Damn!” The frustration was mounting. “Okay, you say the evidence sample file was over-written. Does that mean it can’t be recovered?”

Greenberg thought for a minute.

“Well we do a backup tape every day at six p.m. but it looks like this tampering was done after the new profile was uploaded and before the back up was done.”

“So we’ve lost it for good! And the test was destructive so we haven’t got the sample anymore. Shit!”

“There is something else we can try. If I can take a look at the computer that was used for the scan, I can check the outgoing packet log for the upload to the LDIS server.”

“Does it keep that data?”

“Only as a temporary file. But when the system deletes it, it doesn’t do a double delete like the hacker did on the database. It just frees up the area of the disk for reuse. If there hasn’t been much more activity on that computer, I could recover the temporary packet log file with a standard utility and recover the raw data.”

“OK can you do that ASAP?”

“We have to. Let’s take that server out of use right away.”

“Okay and then when you’ve done that, run another comparison between the restored crime-scene sample and both reference samples: that’s Elias Claymore and Louis Manning.”

“Will do.”

Greenberg was about to say more, when he suddenly remembered the airhead who had phoned up a few days ago. He hadn’t told her the password. All he had told her was that it was his mother’s maiden name. But he hadn’t told her what that was. He had been hoping that she would call him back after she phoned during the day and asked one of his colleagues all those questions about him. They had teased him mercilessly about that afterwards.

She had asked about his age and his eyes and his zodiac sign!

He realized what had happened. She had “social engineered” him — and one of his colleagues. Once she had his birth details it would have been no problem to find out his mother’s maiden name. But she had sounded so dumb on the phone.

An act of course!

How could I have been so stupid?

He tried to put it out of his mind as he looked at the file allocation table. Then he remembered something else.

“Dr Alvarez, I noticed that there are also extra reference samples file for Elias Claymore, Bethel Newton and Louis Manning. According to the properties, these are mitochondrial DNA profiles.”

“Yes that’s right. We do mitochondrial DNA profiles on reference samples as a matter of course. But we decided to use Y-STR on the evidence samples.”

“And you haven’t got any more evidence samples?”

Alvarez thought for a moment.

“Let me just check.”

He typed in something at his own computer and smiled.

“Oh I’m wrong. There’s another nail sample — the thumb of the victim’s other hand.”

Greenberg smiled.

“Well maybe it would be a good idea if addition to the new Y-STR test we also do a mitochondrial DNA profile on that last piece of evidence — just to cover all the bases, ‘scuse the pun?”

Alvarez smiled.

“That’s a good idea. I’ll get right on it.”

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 — 6:45

Andi was sleeping in her hotel room in San Francisco, or at least trying to. It had been a sleepless night as she had tossed and turned, after yesterday’s events in court. She had been expecting to call Gene as a hostile witness, but that had all been postponed till Wednesday. So all Andi could do was worry. She had finally managed to fall asleep in the wee hours of the morning. But the silent peace of her early morning slumber was not to last long. It was shattered by a heavy pounding on the door. Squinting against the dawn light, she staggered downstairs to answer, and looked through the spy-hole to see several police officers.

What on earth was going on?

“Yes?” she shouted through the door.

“FBI, ma’am! Would you mind opening the door?”

She opened the door in haste.

“Special Agent Caine Ma’am,” he said, flashing a badge in her face. “Are you Andromeda Phoenix?”

“Yes,” she replied hesitantly.

“I have a warrant for your arrest,” he said, holding out the warrant, “and another to search these premises.”

“Arrest? What’s the charge?”

“Illegally, accessing a government computer without authorization.”

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 — 10:35

“Your Honor,” said the diminutive but feisty lawyer, “my client is a man of limited means but has strong roots in this community where he has lived for twenty seven years.”

Andi was sitting with a group of other unrelated defendants in a crowded District Court, along with dozens of other defendants. She felt uncomfortable with Alex sitting next to her, yet comforted that he was there. It was embarrassing to feel that she needed his assistance, yet reassuring that he had dropped everything else he had to deal with — at a moment’s notice — to come to her aid.

There were also quite a few journalists milling around. Usually an arraignment court isn’t a particularly newsworthy venue. But some one had tipped off the press about the celebrity defendant and so there were a lot of reporters, packed in along with the usual suspects and the low-life shysters looking an easy fee — “court-house leaches,” Alex called them.

“Bail is set at fifteen hundred dollars,” said the arraignment judge. “Next!”

Andi and Alex were signaled to step forward by a bailiff. When Andi took her place before the judge, Alex went with her.

“Case 08-31-09-2346, United States versus Andromeda Phoenix,” said the clerk, rattling if off like a machine-gun. “US Code, Title 18, Part I, Chapter 47, Section 1030, Paragraph 2, Clause C, Unauthorized access to a computer used in interstate communication, one count. No priors.”

“Is the defendant represented by counsel?”

“Yes your Honor,” said Alex. “Alex Sedaka. I appear on behalf of Miss Phoenix and my client pleads Not Guilty.”

“Does the prosecution oppose bail?”

“No Your Honor. The accused has no priors and strong domestic and professional roots in the community. Therefore the prosecution does not see her as a flight risk.”

The duty prosecutor knew that she would make bail regardless. Although Andi had been living in the community for less than three months, it was now her home and she had an unblemished record.

The US Attorney in charge of the case would probably offer her a plea-bargain on the lines of probation and maybe community service — teaching computer skills to disadvantaged kids. She wasn’t really a threat to anyone. As far as he could tell she had just got overzealous trying to get information to help her client.

“Your Honor,” said Alex, “in view of the prosecution’s favorable statement, I would ask the court to release the accused on her own recognizance.”

“Any objection from the government?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“In that case the defendant is released on her own recognizance. I’ll set the pre-trial thirty days from now. Hopefully the three of you should be able to work something out by then.”

This was a coded suggestion from the judge that they should agree on a plea bargain.

Andi and Alex were led away by a bailiff to a Clerk to get the paper work sorted out. Later, a horde of news-hungry reporters swarmed around them as they left the Ronald V. Dellums Federal Building — actually two buildings nicknamed the “Madonna Buildings” because from above their pyramid-shaped roofs were vaguely reminiscent of the singer/actress’s pointy bras of the late nineteen eighties. The building, which housed, amongst other things, the Oakland Division of the US District Court, Northern California District, consisted of two 18-story towers interlinked at ground level by a three-story glass atrium and near the top by a two-story sky bridge.

Alex put a protective arm around Andi as he shepherded her through the gauntlet of reporters.

“Ms Phoenix,” asked a man, thrusting a microphone into her face, “does this case have anything to do with your defense of Elias Claymore?”

Alex turned her away without a word, shielding her from the reporter’s inquisitive eyes with his arm. A female reporter was poised on the other side, waiting to pounce.

“Ms Phoenix is it true that you logged on to the CODIS database in a desperate search for evidence to exonerate your client?”

“No comment!” snapped Alex angrily.

The female reporter pushed closer and held out her microphone close to Andi’s mouth.

“Ms Phoenix?” she persisted.

Alex pushed the microphone away.

“Ms Phoenix has no comment,” he said again, firmly.

As the barrage of questions continued, Alex forced a path through the crowd of reporters and guided Andi to Juanita’s waiting car. They got in the back and Juanita floored the pedal before Alex even had the chance to say “drive.”

“I’m glad to see you’ve finally learned the art of keeping your mouth shut,” said Alex as the car roared away from the prying eyes of the reporters.

“She’s going to pay — the fucking bitch!” said Andi.

“It’s no use getting angry now. We’ve just got to figure out who’s behind this and nail ‘em.”

“Oh I know who’s behind it all right! It’s that bitch Lannosea!”

“The person whose been sending you the eMails?”

“Of course it is! Who else could it be?”

“But do you know who that is?”

“Not yet. But I intend to find out.”

“How?”

“I think it’s one of Claymore’s victims from the past”

“What makes you think that?” asked Alex.

“The things she said… the anger… the bitterness.”

“Well if you’re right then she shouldn’t be too difficult to find. That reminds me — call David.”

“Why?”

“When I told him about your call from the courthouse he told me that had some results on some probes. He said you’d understand.”

Without another word, Andi pulled out her cell phone and pressed two keys.

“Hi Andi. Glad you made R-O-R.”

“How d’you know?”

“I heard it on the radio. Where are you now?”

“I’m in Juanita’s car, with your dad. We’re on our way back to the office.”

“I see that Lannosea has upped the ante,” he said wryly.

“It looks like it.”

“Anyway listen, you remember those probes I set up on your account? Well they’ve created a traceroute log of what happened these past few days.”

“What did you find?” she asked eagerly.

“That unauthorized access to the DNA database was done via your office Wide Area Network but it ultimately traced back to the hotel where you were staying.”

Andi froze.

“They’re doing it from the hotel?”

“It’s worse than that. I was able to get the MAC number of the computer they were doing it from.”

The MAC number had nothing to do with Apple Mac computers. It was an identification number that identified an individual computer.

“And?”

“It came from your laptop Andi.”

“My laptop!”

This sent a jolt through her. When could it have happened? She had her laptop with her at all times as far as she could remember. The only time when she had left it was when it was in the car when she went into the rape crisis center. Could some one had got into her car, used her laptop — via the WAN of Levine and Webster — and then switched if off and left the car looking untouched all the in the space of a few minutes?

“Is it possible for some one to spoof a MAC number?”

“A few years ago I’d’ve said, yes, but only if it was a very experienced hacker. Now anyone who can do an internet search can download an off-the-shelf MAC spoofing program. You can get an evaluation version free or the standard version for thirty dollars.”

“But how would they have got my MAC address to spoof it? Only the IP address is transmitted with the message header. The Mac address is only transmitted to the initial service provider.”

“Maybe that’s where they got it. From the company WAN.”

“You think some one at Levine and Webster.”

“If the hacker could access the network there then they might be able to get the MAC address from there, if you use the laptop at work. Does anyone else have access to your computer — I don’t mean just now, but generally.”

Andi hesitated. She knew the answer to this. But didn’t want to think about it.

“Gene wouldn’t have the knowledge to do this sort of thing.”

“Gene?” he sounded surprised. She forgot that he didn’t know what she had found out last Wednesday. As far as the rest of the world knew, Gene might have the opportunity, but she wouldn’t have had the motive.

“She has access to my laptop… some of the time. But not recently.”

“And as you say, she wouldn’t have had the knowledge of how to spoof a MAC address… let alone a motive.”

“So what do we do next? asked Andi.

“Well, there’s something you should be thinking about. Let’s take an off-the-wall scenario and consider what if some one did somehow manage to gain temporary access to your laptop. We know that the person downloaded a file from the Bethel Newton rape case.”

“So?”

“That means then they might have left some tell-tale sign on your computer.”

“Holy shit! I almost missed that!”

“Well what I suggest is that you check it out when you get back to the office. Let me know what you find. In fact, if you can connect it up with PC Anywhere, I’d like to do a hard drive image.”

“Okay. Thanks David. Bye.”

She put the phone away and became aware of Alex’s eyes upon her.

“Good news?”

“It could be Alex… it could be.”

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 — 11:05

Twenty minutes later they were back in the office. Alex had decided not to quiz her about this latest development immediately but to let her calm down first. Her animated conversation with David had perked her up somewhat but when he asked her about the “good news” she had refused to elaborate. He sensed that she didn’t want to jinx it by talking prematurely. She would tell him in her own good time.

So now Andi sat alone in her office, searching through the laptop’s hard disk for any trace of what was downloaded from the DNA database. She was checking deleted files too. If Lannosea had really managed to gain access to the computer to log on to the Ventura LDIS and downloaded anything, then even if she subsequently deleted it, the ghost of the file would probably still be there on the system. Even if she overwrote it completely, there should be a record in the activity log.

She had to find it.

File, by file, deleted file by deleted file, she searched the disk, using a range of software tools and utilities devised for system management. Finally she saw something that made her eyes pop open. There was a file called EliasClaymore.dna and then another called nailmidfngr.dna. As she looked further, she discovered something very interesting. The nailmidfngr.dna file had been created locally on this computer, whereas the EliasClaymore.dna file had simply been downloaded.

But then as she continued to look through the deleted files, she found the shadow of another downloaded file, also called nailmidfngr.dna. This had been downloaded at about the same time as EliasClaymore.dna and then deleted. It was clear that the hacker, had downloaded the EliasClaymore.dna file and then used it to create a false evidence sample file. But why also download the real evidence sample file if they were planning to overwrite it on the DNA server with a fake one?

Maybe it was because they needed to refer to the metadata in the file header, to get it right on the forged version. Or maybe Lannosea had originally planned to create a fake Elias Claymore sample — using the real evidence sample — and then changed her mind and decided to do it the other way round.

Andi decided to compare the forged evidence sample file with what she presumed was the real one.

But what she saw this time made no sense. Because the original evidence sample file that had been downloaded and deleted was the same as the new one that the hacker had created.

Why overwrite a file with another identical copy?

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 9:20

“But that doesn’t make sense,” said Bridget.

She was talking on her cell phone to Victor Alvarez, from her car at San Francisco International airport, having flown in to be available to help Sarah Jensen on this, the most crucial day in the trial of Elias Claymore. It was going to be an uphill struggle winning the case if it continued. And if it didn’t, they’d have a hell of a job persuading Bethel Newton to testify at the retrial.

“That’s exactly what Paul Greenberg said. But he checked and double-checked. The fact is, whoever did it, all they did was delete the genuine evidence file that had been uploaded from a computer at the crime lab and then uploaded an identical copy from the remote computer where they were hacking in from.”

“But why would anyone do that?”

“Maybe the person who did it didn’t know that it was the same profile. Maybe they meant to upload something else and instead uploaded the same file they’d already downloaded.”

Bridget was trying to concentrate on what Dr Alvarez was telling her while at the same time navigating her way out of the airport parking lot. She didn’t relish the prospect of the morning drive across the Bay Bridge in commuter time.

“Do we know who did it?”

“Greenberg said he’d passed on some information to the FBI. I heard on the radio that Andi Phoenix was arrested in connection with it. But the hacker may have hijacked her computer with a Trojan, or spoofed her IP address. At any rate, she was released R-O-R and we’ll have to wait for the evidence hearing.”

“In any case, that still doesn’t help us resolve the question of who is actually guilty.”

“Not in itself,” said Alvarez. “The way things stand now, we’ve got two suspects, neither of whom can be eliminated by the DNA, and in both cases the chances of a random match are 500 to 1.”

“It’s worse than that, Victor. We’ve got one suspect who was identified by the victim and another who matches the age of the perp. We’ve got one who matches the description of the perp and the other who used to match that description when he was younger. We’ve got one suspect who owns a car that matches the one described by the victim and another who was caught driving that car with false number plates. We’ve got one suspect who was a rapist in his youth and another who has no priors for rape but was arrested when he tried to rape a reporter who’s covering the case.”

“The thing is,” said Alvarez, “I haven’t been able to get through to Nick Sinclair or Sarah Jensen on their cell phones. And I don’t want to leave a message with the Alameda D.A. ‘cause that might dump ‘em in the shithouse.”

“They’re probably crossing the Bay Bridge. I know Nick Sinclair lives in San Francisco and I think Sarah Jensen may be staying there. She’s been driving in with him.”

“Well, if I don’t manage to get through to them, you’d better tell them.”

“But surely it doesn’t make any difference if the results are the same.”

“Well that’s just it. You see there are some additional results.”

“What do you mean ‘additional’?” Bridget replied.

“We had one more nail sample — a third sample… from the other hand.”

“But how does that help? You said the computer guy managed to recover the original evidence sample file from the second test. Why would a third sample make any difference?”

“ ‘Cause this time we ran a mitochondrial DNA test on it.”

“And you’ve got the result?”

She could hardly contain her excitement.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It excludes Claymore but nearly matches Louis Manning.”

“Nearly matches? What does that mean, like a sibling? A cousin?”

“Hold your horses lady! Let me explain. Okay you know that siblings and cousins who are related by the maternal line have identical mitochondrial DNA sequences in these regions.”

“I know that.”

“But two maternally unrelated people have about ten differences on average.”

“Yes but you said it nearly matches — what does that mean?”

“Well if the samples differ in two or more places they’re not related. If the samples are identical, then it means they’re related. And if there’s a difference at only one location, then it’s inconclusive.”

“And is that what we’ve got in this case? One difference?”

“No that’s the funny thing. What we’ve got in this case is two differences.”

“But you said that counts as an exclusion.”

“Well officially yes. But it’s actually quite surprising too find a difference of only two. Like I said, normally if they’re unrelated you’d expect to find about ten differences.”

“So what the heck does it mean?”

“Well there is one complicating factor that we always have to consider.”

“Surprise me,” said Bridget, realizing that Alvarez was enjoying this game of I-know-something that-you-don’t-know.

“Mutation.”

“Mutation?”

“Mitochondrial DNA mutates as the cells grow and divide.”

“Yes I know what mutation is but what’s the bottom line? Are you saying it could be from Manning — and the two differences are due to mutation?”

“I wish it were that simple Bridget. The problem is that we can tell which sample is the mutated one and which is the one from before the mutation.”

“You can tell?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the problem? I mean that’s good isn’t it? It be more of a problem if we couldn’t tell?”

“The problem is that the mutation is in the evidence sample, not Manning’s reference sample.”

“So?”

“You don’t get it do you? Okay let me spell it out to you. The evidence sample is older than the reference sample that we just took from Manning. But that means that older DNA has a mutation and the newer reference sample doesn’t have it.”

“But that makes no sense,” said Bridget. “Can mitochondrial DNA unmutate?”

“Of course not! That’s the problem!”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 10:05

“I want to know why you subpoenaed her?”

Alex and Andi were on their way into the judge’s chambers, hanging back and keeping their distance from Sarah Jensen and Nick Sinclair.

“Not this time Alex. You twisted my arm enough before, now you’re going to have to defer to my judgment and trust me.”

“At least tell me what she’s going to say.”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well tell me what you’re calling her to say… what you’re hoping she’ll say.”

“That’s another way of asking the same question.”

“I could decide not to let you call her. I’m still lead counsel in this case.”

“Then you’ll be blowing our best chance to clear our client.” She stopped, forcing him to do likewise and looked him in the eyes. “Your call Alex.”

Alex Sedaka looked at Andi Phoenix and saw a different woman to the one he had been working with these past few weeks. Here was a woman who was poised and self-assured. There was no trace of fear in her eyes this time, nor even a trace of doubt. This was a woman who knew that she was standing on rock-solid ground.

But it was the word our that tipped the scales. She had said “out best chance” and “our client.” That meant she was fully committed to the cause.

Alex shrugged his shoulders and smiled, a silent acknowledgement that she was in the ascendancy and a tacit sign of consent to her request.

The judge was already waiting for them in her chambers. They sat down in front of her, looking at Sarah and Sinclair, who looked uncomfortable.

“This in camera hearing is now in session,” said Justice Wagner. “All right, now I assume Mr. Sedaka that you have now had time to read the arrest report and record of Louis Manning.”

“Yes Your Honor.”

He had read it through from start to finish, amazed at what it revealed. Not only did Louis Manning look like Bethel’s original description and the FaceID image of the of the rapist, but he was also caught driving Claymore’s stolen car — thus proving what Claymore had said all along about his car being stolen. But the question Alex asked himself was how could he introduce it, without also introducing the results of the new tests that tended to incriminate Claymore too?

“And have you decided whether you wish to go for a mistrial without prejudice or to proceed with the case.”

“We’d like to proceed, Your Honor.”

Ellen Wagner turned to the Sarah Jensen and Nick Sinclair.

“And the People?”

Nick shrugged his shoulders. Sarah spoke.

“We’re only prepared to proceed if we can make the results of the new tests available.”

The judge turned to Alex.

“Any decision on that Mr Sedaka?”

“Not yet Your Honor.” The judge looked surprised. “We don’t yet know if we need to. Until we know, we can hardly be expected to decide.”

“But the prosecution has to decide whether they want a mistrial or to go on. How can they decide on their position if they don’t know your decision on this point?”

“I can understand their dilemma, but as a matter of law we have the right to decide whether or not to use a particular piece of admissible evidence at any time during our presentation of our case. Disclosure applies to what might be submitted in evidence, not what will be. Even the prosecution’s disclosure doesn’t oblige them to call a witness of present any particular evidence. The prosecution knows that this evidence exists and is admissible. That means it might be presented by the defense. We’re not obliged to notify them ahead of time what we intend to do, only what we may do. They’ll have to make their decision on that basis.”

“And when will you know if you’re going to introduce the test results?”

Alex looked at Andi, inquiringly. She spoke.

“After we’ve called our next witness: Eugenia Vance.”

“Your Honor that’s another matter that I wanted to talk about,” said Sarah. “We were given no prior notice of this witness until after she was issued with an emergency subpoena.”

The judge looked hard at Andi.

“Yes she has a point there doesn’t she Miss Phoenix? You obtained this emergency subpoena via the Ventura County Superior Court, bypassing normal procedure and protocol.”

“Your Honor, I know that it’s customary to obtain a subpoena from the trial court, but in this case, time was of the essence. I knew that the witness might be reluctant to come so that meant we’d have to give at least the statutory five days notice or she’d file for a postponement. And we didn’t want any more delays in the proceedings. The case was due to resume on Monday and it was late at night last Wednesday when we realized that this witness had relevant testimony. I was in Ventura County at the time, as was the witness. Therefore I resorted to the expedient of obtaining the emergency subpoena from the Ventura court for Your Honor’s subsequent approval.”

“And what exactly is this relevant testimony that this witness is expected to give,” asked the judge.

“Well we don’t actually know that she will give it Your Honor. We were also planning on asking the Court for permission to treat Ms Vance as hostile.”

“It gets better and better,” Sarah muttered under her breath, almost breaking into laughter.

“Okay, well let’s assume for a moment,” said the judge, “that she does give the evidence that you’re hoping for. What evidence is that?”

“We believe that Ms Vance has been in contact with Bethel Newton, in violation of her promise not to do so. We think that she may have been influencing Miss Newton’s testimony.”

“Great!” said Sarah slapping her thigh. “If that’s the case the Court should grant a mistrial without prejudice and Ms Phoenix should step aside on grounds of a conflict of interest. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, she should also have to step aside over these pending charges of hacking into the DNA database.”

Andi looked round at Sarah and spoke quietly, whilst technically still addressing the judge.

“I may yet have to step aside. But I think it’s in everyone’s interests that this case be expedited. It’s already dragged on longer than expected and we’re running up to the end of the slot in the docket that this case was assigned to.”

The judge spoke, to regain Andi’s undivided attention.

“Miss Phoenix, is there any particular reason why you believe that Miss Vance has been influencing Miss Newton?”

“Yes Your Honor, but I’d rather not state it just yet. Let’s just say that Ms Vance was… observed talking with Miss Newton by… another person….”

“If so, she would be in contempt of court.”

“I know Your Honor.”

“And you want to ask her this in direct examination?”

“Yes Your Honor.”

“And to do so effectively you need to be able to treat the witness as hostile.”

“Yes Your Honor.”

“And you believe that if the Court gives you permission to do this, you can expedite the outcome of this case one way or the other.”

“Yes Your Honor.”

Ellen Wagner looked at Sarah, expecting further objections. But this time Sarah remained silent and offered a slight shrug.

“I think that I’m going to allow this witness to be called and allow the defense to treat the witness as hostile.”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 10:35

They ought to have been enemies, but a bond of sorts was developing between Louis Manning and one of the cops who was guarding him. Maybe it was because this particular cop was going through a rough divorce and hadn’t quite managed to reign in his subconscious misogyny. Maybe it was just because they were thrown together and sharing a set of common experiences borne of mere proximity.

But for whatever the reason, the bond was there. That was why the cop had been only too happy to bring Manning a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the corridor, when he had asked for one, and also to bring one for himself. However Manning remained handcuffs in accordance with Police Department rules. Fortunately this didn’t prevent Manning from drinking coffee with his free hand. So he and the cop sat before the TV, their coffee cups in hand.

“Can you turn it louder?” said Manning.

They were watching Court TV and were avidly following the Elias Claymore trial. For the last half hour, they had been treated to a long session of analysis by various lawyers and other experts, including a former prosecutor a current defense lawyer and a jury psychologist. Now there were murmurings and a flurry of activity and signs that the court was about to reconvene.

Suddenly Louis Manning clutched his chest and started coughing.

“What’s the matter?” asked the cop.”

“Ha… ha… heart.”

The cop understood immediately and, putting his coffee cup down on the bedside cabinet, went running from the room to summon a nurse or a doctor. As soon as he was out of the room Manning went to work, getting the sleeping pills out of the bedside cabinet and dropping them into the cop’s coffee cup. He saw no need to stir it, as the heat of the coffee would surely dissolve them well enough. Then he went back to feigning the coughing.

The cop came back into the room with a nurse. He increased the time spacing between coughs, giving the impression of bringing it under control and then spoke to the nurse.

“Sorry, the coffee went down the wrong way.”

The nurse looked at the cop irritably. He shrugged sheepishly.

“I thought you said it was your heart?” said the cop.

“Sorry. I thought it was. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start a panic.”

The nurse gave him a quick check and then left. The cop settled back into his chair with his coffee, keeping his eyes on the TV. But his mood had turned decidedly colder.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 10:45

When the Court convened and the judge was seated, Andi rose confidently.

“Your Honor the defense calls Gene Vance.”

The bailiff opened the door to the witness room.

“Call Gene Vance!”

There was a tense moment as Andi held her breath, wondering if Gene was going to appear. Andi had not had any contact with her for a week and wasn’t sure if she would even turn up. She had hoped that Gene would call her and make the first move towards making peace. But she realized that Gene was probably thinking the same thing. Besides, how could they make peace between them when this was still hanging over them?

And how could Andi let it go when she still had a client whom she was sworn to serve according to her highest professional standards?

After what seemed like about half a minute, Gene emerged from the witness room into the courtroom. A few steps into the room she stopped and looked nervously at Andi. There was no anger now, nor even a trace of resentment; just a look of self-pity, and the residual trace of confusion. The bailiff took a step towards her and guided her to the witness stand.

The Clerk established with a quick question that she was an atheist and gave her the card to affirm.

“I do solemnly affirm that the evidence I give the court shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

The clerk sat down, leaving Gene to face the penetrating stare of the woman who had once been her lover.

“You are Eugenia Vance?” asked Andi.

“Yes.”

She asked Gene to state her address for the record. It sounded silly, asking her to state the address, which they still technically shared. But it was part of the formality of trial proceedings and she had to do it.

“Miss Vance I won’t waste any time here. I’ll come right to the point. You work at the Say no to Violence Rape Crisis Center in Los Angeles, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And in that capacity did you have occasion to meet a young lady by the name of Bethel Newton?”

“Yes.”

“And were you on June twelfth served with an injunction to refrain from any contact with Bethel Newton?”

Sarah Jensen was poised to stand up and object if Andi crossed the line. But she sensed that something was going down and she wanted to hear the rest. Gene said nothing. Andi continued.

“We have already heard from Bethel Newton how she initially thought the rapist was a young man in his twenties and then changed her mind and said it was a man in his fifties. Did you have anything to do with this?”

“What do you mean?”

Gene was clearly nervous. She knew what was happening; they both did.

“Did you put her up to it?”

Justice Wagner stepped in.

“Miss Vance, you do not have to answer that question, as it may incriminate you on charges of contempt of court and obstructing justice.”

“But you can answer if you want,” added Andi, giving her lover the hard stare. “Did you put her up to it?”

“Why would I do that?”

Her voice was trembling now. The roles had now reversed completely. She was the weak one and Andi had finally done the thing Gene always feared: seize control.

“Is it not a fact that twenty seven years ago, Elias Claymore raped you?”

The courtroom was filled by a huge collective gasp.

“Elias Claymore raped white women.”

“But before that, he raped three black women to ‘practice’ his technique — as he described it in his autobiography. And you were one of them, weren’t you Gene? You were the first. But unlike most of the other victims, you never reported it.”

Sitting between Andi and Alex, Claymore looked nervous — indeed terrified.

“He never paid the price for what he did.”

Several jurors leaned forward in their seats. Andi waited for a moment, unsure of how far to go. This was the woman she loved, and she was destroying her… in public.

“What gave you the idea of framing Elias Claymore, after all these years?”

Gene choked as she tried to speak, and tears began to roll down her face as she struggled to regain her composure.

“After Bethel looked at the mug shots in the first photo line-up… and didn’t see the man who raped her… she came back to the Rape Crisis Center to see me. She was crying. I knew what she felt like, because I’d been through it myself. I knew that feeling so well that I couldn’t bear to see it again… So I just rushed up to her and met her halfway across the room. I put a comforting arm around her… just like I did with another frightened little girl many years ago.”

Again she paused to damn up the flood of tears. Then she took a deep breath and continued.

“I offered her a set of darts to throw at our ‘poke his eyes out’ dart board. That’s a cork board with pictures of known rapists on it. The caption under the board says; ‘Rapist scum-bags of history.’ It’s basically just a therapeutic tool we use to help rape vict- rape survivors work off their pain.

“Bethel started working off her anger by throwing the darts at the board. When she’d thrown a set of three darts at the board, she went over to pull them out and start again. But when she got there and saw the pictures up close, she stopped. You see she thought she recognized a face on the board. It was a picture of a young man and she thought it was the man who raped her. She started talking to me excitedly telling me that it was the man.”

“But it wasn’t,” said Andi. It was a statement, not a question. She had more or less figured it out.

“No. It couldn’t have been the man who raped her because it was an old picture of Elias Claymore. I knew he was in his fifties now and she’d said the man was in his twenties. So I realized that the real rapist had to be another man who just happened to look like Claymore when he was younger. And I had to break this news to her after she was sure that she’d found the right man. I had to let her know — right after she got her hopes up and was sure that the rapist was about to be caught — that he wouldn’t be, because it was the wrong man. I had to look at the crestfallen look on her face when I told her that it was just a man who — when he was younger — looked a bit like the man who raped her. I had to watch her face contort in anguish and disintegrate into a torrent of tears when she took it all in. I had to see her beautiful young face ripped apart as she realized that the rapist wasn’t going to be caught and punished after all.

“And I remembered how Elias Claymore — the man who raped me — wasn’t punished for that crime either… because, unlike most of his other victims… I never had the courage to come forward in time.”

“And that’s when you got the plan? When you broke the news to Bethel that it couldn’t be the man whose picture she had seen on the dart board?”

“When I saw her reaction.”

“Okay, when you saw her reaction, you decided to get her to accuse Claymore.

“Yes. I saw the chance to make him pay for what he did to me.”

“You used Bethel Newton. You manipulated her.”

“I didn’t manipulate her. I gave her the choice. I told her what happened to me and suggested the idea that she could help to punish the man who raped me and then later, if he was ever caught, some one else could help punish the man who raped her. But I didn’t force her. She wanted to do it. And I thought it would be therapeutic for her.”

“For her? Or for you?”

“Do you really have the right to ask me that question? Do you know what it’s like to bottle up the pain all these years, knowing that the man who inflicted the pain hasn’t been properly punished? Do you know what it’s like to watch him transformed by a public relations machine from a villain into a national hero? Do you know what it’s like to-”

She broke down, unable to hold back the tears no longer.

Andi looked on helplessly, realizing that she had gone further than she intended. She looked sideways at Claymore and wondered if it had been worth it. Did he really deserve her help? Did Gene really deserve to be destroyed like this to get Claymore off the hook?

Claymore, for his part, was shrinking into his seat, as if trying to disappear from view, as if he at least had a sense of shame. But did that really matter? Surely it reaches a stage when it’s too late for regrets? When one cannot be forgiven no matter how much remorse one feels or shows?

But then again, Andi realized, perhaps that was true of her too.

The judge’s voice came out of nowhere to fill the silence with a gentleness that seemed appropriate for the situation.

“Does the defense have any more questions?”

“No Your Honor.”

“Ms Jensen?”

“No Your Honor.”

“Under normal circumstances I would order the witness taken into immediate custody. However in view of the circumstances, I think the DA might want to deal leniently with her. Is that the case?”

“Yes Your Honor,” said Sarah Jensen, rising slowly from her seat.

“In that case the witness is excused.”

Gene was led shakily from the witness stand by a bailiff, sobbing wildly as she walked away. As her cries faded into the distance, Sarah Jensen requested a side bar.

“Approach the bench,” said the judge said.

They approached the bench for a side-bar, Sarah, Nick, Andi and Alex. Sarah Jensen spoke.

“Your Honor, I’d rather not put the Newton girl back on the stand. If it was hard for that last witness, then we can all imagine what it would be like for her.”

Ellen Wagner nodded.

“If you meet with Ms Newton in private,” said the judge, “would that be sufficient to give you what you need for a motion to dismiss?”

“There is still one outstanding question, Your Honor,” Sarah Jensen replied, “The DNA. I know that there’s only a one in five hundred possibility of a random match, but there are some issues we’d like clarified.”

“Your Honor,” said Andi, “I think I may be of some assistance here. As you know, yesterday I was arrested by the FBI on Federal charges of illegally accessing a government computer — specifically the server for the local DNA database of the Ventura Sheriff’s Department crime lab.

Go on,” said the judge.

“Well it appears that some one else accessed it and tried to frame me. They logged on using my IP address and a spoofed version of the MAC number of my computer and basically deleted a file and then uploaded an identical copy of the same file.”

“And what is the relevance of this?”

“Well it appears that some one has compromised the Ventura LDIS. This means that until further checks have been made, we cannot trust in the integrity of the local database — at least as it relates to this case.”

“But you said that they uploaded an identical file, Miss Phoenix,” said the judge. “That means that they may have tried to frame you, but they didn’t actually change any of the evidence.”

They were distracted by a sound at the back of the courtroom. Bridget Riley had just entered and was trying to get Sarah Jensen’s attention.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 11:20

“Can you believe that?” asked Manning, grinning from ear to ear.

They had just watched Andi’s questioning of Gene Vance and those amazing courtroom scenes. The cop was barely taking it in, but Louis Manning was on the verge of laughter.

“Man those bitches must really be suffering now.”

And this time he did laugh. The cop looked at him with disgust and tried to mouth the words “you bastard.” But it wasn’t the courtroom scene that he was talking about. It was what was happening to himself. Because he now felt himself overtaken by a sudden wave of drowsiness and he realized that it was the coffee.

Manning had spiked his cup while he was out of the room. It had to be.

Why else would I suddenly feel so tired?

He realized that he had to so something. Drawing on his last reserves of strength, he staggered to his feet and lurched towards the door. Manning was constrained by his leg in traction, but somehow managed to maneuver his body so that he could stick out his free leg off the bed, using his foot to trip the cop as he closed the gap between his desperately weary body and the door.

Although it was only the briefest and mildest of contacts between his shin and Manning’s foot, the sudden, unexpected interruption of his motion — coupled with his precarious state of balance to begin with — sent the lethargic cop sprawling to the floor. He landed with a heavier thud than Manning had intended.

Still conscious, albeit barely, he looked round to see Manning struggling to extricate his leg from traction.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 11:35

Fifteen minutes later they were reassembled in the courtroom after a short recess granted by the judge to clear matters up. Bridget Riley had briefed Sarah Jensen and they now all realized that it was Louis Manning and not Elias Claymore who had raped Bethel Newton. They had to avoid saying so explicitly, in order not to prejudice the case against Manning. But at the same time, the defense wanted some kind of acknowledgement that Claymore was innocent.

“Your Honor,” said Sarah Jensen, “in view of certain new evidence that has come to the attention of the People, we move that the court declare a mistrial with prejudice and that the charges against Elias Claymore be dismissed.”

“Mr. Sedaka?” said the judge.

“The defense has no objection.”

“So ordered. The charges against Elias Claymore are hereby dismissed with prejudice. The defendant is free to go. Court is adjourned.”

Andi felt a wave of relief. But it was tinged with disappointment. There was still some unfinished business. She and David Sedaka had discovered proof that the jury selection software had been tampered with. Yet although the judge had passed the buck — understandably so — it was still something that had to be dealt with.

Then there was also the matter of the illegal accessing of the DNA database and the attempt to frame her. And of course there were the malicious eMail messages that she had been receiving. She assumed that it was all the work of the same person: Lannosea.

But the question remained: who was Lannosea?

“All rise!” intoned the bailiff.

Everyone in the courtroom stood. Only when the judge had left did the court erupt into pandemonium. Several bailiff’s held back spectators as Andi, Alex and Claymore walked out the courtroom quickly. Outside, Alex spoke to Claymore.

“We can go to the main lobby if you want to talk to the press.”

“No thanks. I just want to get my tail out of here. You can talk to the press if you like.”

“OK, leave it to me,” said Alex.

He walked off down another corridor while Andi and Claymore continued walking to the side exit that took them to the Museum parking lot. When they got there, it was deserted.

“Just tell me one thing,” said Claymore. “How could you help defend me after…”

He was too embarrassed to finish the sentence.

“After I knew that you had raped the woman I love?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll let you into a little secret. I was also raped once.” He looked frightened at these words. “After Gene was raped she started working at a rape crisis Center in New York. And then when I was raped, I was referred to that same center. That’s how we met.”

“That’s it?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Yes.”

“Then how could you help me?”

“Because I was raped again — this time by a colleague. Not literally raped, but figuratively speaking. My hands were tied and I was forced to conform to his will. Only this is the last time it’s going to happen. I’m never going to have to look at him again. It’s just a case of taking the plunge and moving on.”

She walked off angrily, got into a red Ford Mustang and drove off

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 11:45

Louis Manning was struggling to pull the cop towards him. The floor was smooth but it was hard to get the necessary leverage. With his right leg in traction and his right wrist handcuffed to the bedrail, it was very hard getting into position. Sticking his free leg out had been easy enough. But reaching the cop’s ankle with his hand was somewhat harder. So it used up precious time getting the necessary grip and dragging him back so that he could fumble for the key to the handcuffs and free his hand.

The cops had become blase. There was supposed to be one in the room and one outside. But they had scaled it down to just one who was free to leave the room as long as Manning was handcuffed to the bed — as he was most of the time, except when eating. The only time there were two of them together was when a change of shift was due. The next change of shift was some hours away. And the doctors only came round at set intervals, in the morning and afternoon. But at any time a nurse might enter the room to change his saline drip, inject painkilling medication or do any of the myriad tasks that drew nurses into the room at seemingly random intervals.

After unlocking the handcuffs, it was a further problem getting his leg out of traction. He wasn’t even sure how well he could walk with it still in the cast, but was surprised to find that it was relatively easy. But he couldn’t run with it obviously. It was even hard for him to bend down, but necessary, as he had to move the unconscious cop to the other side of the bed, so that he would not be so readily visible to anyone who might take a casual look into the room.

However, the hardest part, was putting the pants on. The cast was too thick for the leg. Of course, he could cut them. But that would attract attention. And that would defeat the purpose. He wanted to escape undetected. Walking away in a police uniform with a leg slit up to the thigh would hardly be traveling incognito. So he struggled to pull the pants up without tearing them.

He was just doing the belt when a nurse came into the room. She had walked in several steps before she noticed that the bed was empty and recognized Manning as the patient. She turned and was about to scream when Manning reached in to the belt, pulled out the taser and zapped the nurse, bringing her quietly to the ground with a much softer thud than the one made by the cop when he had fallen a few minutes earlier.

“I’ve got an old score to settle,” he said, stepping over her semi-conscious form as he walked to the door and left the room.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 13:05

Elias Claymore was watching the 42 inch plasma TV in his Balcony Suite at the Hyatt Regency, San Francisco. He had decided not to travel back home right after the trial, especially as he knew he would be hounded by reporters. So he had phoned Alex and caught up with him when Alex had finished with the reporters. Alex had invited him back to the office, but Claymore had been reluctant to go there, anxious to avoid Andi’s disapproving gave. So, at Alex’s suggestion, he had booked this huge luxury suite at the Hyatt Regency in Building Five of the Embarcadero Center, with a private 30-foot balcony and a magnificent view of the Bay Bridge through dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows.

He was sitting in the suite’s lounge, drinking a cup of coffee as he watched the TV report on the evening news about the outcome of his case. Alex had told him about Martine having to step aside from reporting the case for ethical reasons and he had been curious as to how her replacement was covering it. But what he really wanted to know was how he was being portrayed: as the aggrieved party or the lucky villain?

The reality was, that the reporting was quite neutral and objective. The reports made it clear that he was innocent, but there was no hint of any emotion in the coverage, let alone sympathy. And as it was rolling news, it was becoming somewhat repetitious.

But something else was troubling him.

He went to the phone and called Alex. Juanita answered.

“Alex Sedaka’s office.”

“Oh hi Juanita. Listen I was wondering if I could have a word with Andi.”

“She’s not here.”

“Has she been there today? Or has she gone back to LA?”

“No, she hasn’t. Weren’t you with her when your case was dismissed?”

There was only the mildest note of suspicion in her tone.

“Yes but I haven’t seen her since then. Do you know if Alex has seen her? Or spoken to her?”

“Just a minute. I’ll ask.”

She put him on hold and he heard music.

“Hallo Elias.”

It was Alex.

“Yes, hi Alex. I was wondering if you’d seen Andi. We split up after the hearing and…”

He trailed off.

“No I haven’t seen her,” said Alex. “Is it anything I could help with?”

“Well no not really. Have you… have you spoken to her… since the hearing.”

There was a pause.

“Look, Elias… is there something wrong?”

Claymore sighed and tried to focus on how to explain it.

“Well it’s just that we… that is, she… she seemed a little bit upset when we parted.”

Again the silence from Alex’s end of the line.

“Did anything happen?”

“It depends what you mean by happen.”

“I mean did you have an argument?”

Alex sounded irritated when he said this, as if he resented that Claymore was being so coy. Or maybe she had said something to Alex.

“No not really. I mean not exactly an argument. But she said something that-”

“What?”

“No I mean it’s not like it was one thing in particular. It was like… it was like she blamed me for what she had to put Gene through.

Another pause.

“Yes, I can see why that might have upset her. I guess it’s possible that she’s gone back to LA to be with Gene.”

Claymore didn’t buy this.

“I think after what happened in court…”

There was no need to finish.

“No you’re right,” said Alex. “But I don’t know where she is. Maybe she’s gone somewhere to work off her anger.”

“Do you know how she’d go about working off-”

“I really don’t know Elias. Look she may be jogging, she may be drinking, she may even be sitting in her hotel room sulking.”

“Do you have the number of her hotel? Or her cell phone?”

“Yes I do. Actually she’s also staying at the Hyatt Regency. But if you exchanged rough words, it might not be too good an idea for you to call her. I’ll call her now and if I get through I’ll let you know.”

It was the best Claymore could hope for.

“Okay thank you.”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 13:20

Eleven stories down from Claymore, Andi was in her room swigging vodka and popping pills. She was supposed to check out today and return to LA. But there was no way she could go back to that house — not now. She wasn’t afraid of Gene. It’s just that the atmosphere would be too cold.

So instead she took comfort in the bottle, and when that wasn’t enough she resorted to tranquilizers. The last time she had been on such a self-destructive spiral was after that time that she mentioned — all too briefly — in her parting words to Claymore: the time she had been raped.

Then it was Gene who had got her through the crisis. But this time she couldn’t call on Gene for support. Gene was the crisis.

Is it what Gene did to me or what I did to her?

It was all too fuzzy and unclear. Gene hadn’t set out to do anything to her. Gene had merely set out for revenge against Claymore, having finally spotted the chance years later. But it was a reckless kind of revenge that hurt the innocent as well as the guilty. Bethel Newton was now robbed of her chance to see the real rapist brought to justice. Despite the mitochondrial DNA, they’d have a hell of a job proving Louis Manning guilty after Bethel had clearly identified Claymore in court. The DNA might prove sexual activity, but the defense could still attack Bethel personally, claiming that it was consensual and that she couldn’t tell fantasy from reality.`

They might have done this even without Gene’s interference, citing the previous incident with Luke Orlando — as Andi herself had done, to her eternal shame. But the false accusations against Claymore and the ridiculous change in the rapist’s age from twenties to fifties and then back again, would undermine her case completely.

But there was something even more troubling to Andi. She realized that even now she wasn’t thinking about Bethel or even Gene as much as herself. She had been with Gene for so many years and now the fortress that they had built together — them against the world — had been destroyed.

But the hardest part to bear was that it was not Gene who had destroyed it. Gene could have had no way of knowing, when she embarked upon this crazy venture, that Andi would end up defending Claymore. That was why Gene had been so upset when Andi took on the case. Not because of what Claymore had done per se, but because it clashed with her plan for revenge. But by then it was too late to back out of it. By that stage there was no way she could stop it. She could hardly tell Bethel to withdraw the accusation against Claymore — not after she herself had urged Bethel to make that accusation in the first place.

But Andi had taken a conscious decision to go after Gene and force her to confess in public to suborning a witness. Yes, everyone would tell her that she had done her duty, that she had been right to put her emotions aside and act in strict accordance with the law and professional ethics.

Yet it feels so wrong!

She had done the “right” thing and in the process destroyed the woman she loved and thus also destroyed her relationship with her lover.

The phone rang. She couldn’t bear to communicate with a fellow human being, but instinctively she reached for the handset.

“Yes.”

“Andi… it’s Gene.”

“What do you want?”

Her voice was hardened by the edge of bitterness and guilt.

“Are you… are you coming home.”

Was it a cry for help or an offer of forgiveness?

Andi wasn’t ready for either.

“I don’t have a home,” she said, her eyes flooding with tears of regret, the moment the words were out of her mouth.

“Andi… baby… don’t let Don’t let that bastard Claymore destroy everything we had.”

“You don’t get it do you? The future belongs to the Claymore’s of this world. Everyone loves a repentant sinner. That’s why he lives in a beachfront property in Santa Barbara. That’s why he’s in a fancy suite in this hotel while I’m in a basic Business Plan.”

For a second Andi almost mellowed. But then she realized that Gene had said “had” rather than “have”. They were too far gone for things to be as they were. Gene knew it too.

You can’t bring a relationship back from the dead.

Andi put the phone down and took another swig of the vodka… and popped another pill.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 13:40

“Hallo could I speak to Martine Yin please.”

Louis Manning was in a payphone and he felt uncomfortable. He didn’t like the feeling of not being mobile. He had lost his car — or rather Claymore’s car — and he didn’t have as much money on him as he would have liked. There was a bit on money in the cop’s wallet, which he had augmented by a couple of quick muggings across town.

But now he felt exposed. The cops would surely be looking for him and he had to lie low. He’d been living out of Claymore’s car when he first drove up to Oakland. But back in LA he had his own pad, albeit rented. His common sense told him that she should get on a bus and hightail it back to LA, where he could lie low for a while. But the BART station would be crawling with cops and they’d certainly be on the lookout for him. He had just about enough in his pocket for an old set of wheels and some gas. But like he had told the nurse, he had some unfinished business to attend to.

“She’s not yet back in LA. As far as we know she’s still in Oakland. May I ask who’s calling?”

“But I thought she stopped covering the Claymore case and was replaced by some one else? Besides, the Claymore case is over.”

“Yes but she stayed on in Oakland. That’s all the information we have at the moment. Could you tell me what this is about? There may be some one else here who could help you.”

“No I can’t do that. I only deal with Martine.”

He put the phone down, confident that he had not set off any alarms. They would assume that he was one of her sources of information and that he didn’t trust anyone else. He wasn’t surprised by what they had told him. Martine Yin had a thing going with Alex Sedaka and so it made sense that she’d stick around.

The question was, had she gone back to San Francisco with Sedaka or was she still in Oakland? On the phone they’d said the latter. But then again they probably didn’t know about Sedaka — or at least not the whole story. If she was staying with Sedaka, then she might be hard to get at. But he had try.

The first stage was finding out for certain. That meant he had a few phone calls.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 14:25

“You want the light on Your Honor?”

Justice Ellen Wagner had been sitting alone in the dark in her chambers when her clerk entered. It was light outside, but the judge had closed the curtains against the early afternoon sun to sit there quietly, contemplating in peace.

“No that’s all right. I prefer the dark right now.”

The clerk was a girl of 23, full of the enthusiasm of youth and the excitement that a young person feels at the beginning of an adventure. In this case, the adventure was the start of her career. Ellen Wagner saw so much of herself in this girl. That bright-eyed look of wonderment at all that was possible, with all the hope and dreams for the future spread out before her. And this girl would grow up in a world made all the better by what Ellen Wagner’s own generation had done — by the battles they had fought and won.

But how much had they won? And how much had the world changed? Was it a case of plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose? Was it true that what goes around, comes around? Had they replaced one stereotype with another? Had they traded in rights for some with rights for others, yet still not achieved that elusive nirvana of rights for all?

Claymore had walked out of court a free man, legally innocent. But one of his victims was now facing the prospect of many years imprisonment for obstructing justice. Was that right?

Claymore might even be able to resume his life as a celebrity. It would be hard, but everyone loves a repentant sinner, especially in America. He had proved that before and he’d probably prove it again.

“Do you want to talk?” asked the clerk.

“No… no that’s all right. You can go home for the day.”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 15:10

Smoke hung in the air and the sound of gansta rap filled the room, punctuated occasionally by the staccato sound of the cue ball ricocheting off its target.

Gene ignored the wolf-whistles and vulgar jibes as she stood a few feet into the bar looking around. It had taken her a few phone calls and a few face to face encounters in some seedy back alleys and side streets, but she knew how to talk “street” and it was only a matter of time before she finally found out where she needed to go. And here she was.

She took a deep breath as she thought about what she was planning to do.

Yes. It is right. It is fair… it is just.

The only thing she couldn’t tell herself was that it would do any good in the broader scheme of things.

Steeling herself to face up to it, and trying very hard to stay focused, she walked up to the barman. Before he could ask her what she wanted to drink, she whispered a few words into his ear and pressed a ten dollar bill into his hand.

He whispered a word back in hers and nodded in the direction of a corner table. She turned casually and walked towards it. At the table, sat a solitary young man, smoking what may have been a joint and trying to look like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Are you Joe?”

He looked up at her without smiling.

“Who wants to know?”

“Jane.”

“Cute name,” he said, this time giving in to the urge to smile, imperceptibly. “I know a lot of Janes. Most of ‘em work the streets.”

“I don’t work the streets.”

“No, I didn’t think so. Are you the Jane that’s looking to buy a piece?”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 16:30

“Hallo can I speak to Martine Yin please… I’m not sure what room she’s in.”

At the other end of the phone, some one was looking up the name in a perfunctory fashion, with no recognition of the name.

“What was that name again sir?”

“Yin, Martine Yin.”

“I’m afraid we have no guest of that name at the hotel sir.”

“Oh sorry. I guess she must have checked out. Well thank you anyway.”

“You’re welcome sir. Have a nice day.”

He broke the connection and crossed yet another hotel name off his list.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 16:55

Elias Claymore was debating whether to call Alex again. He assumed that if Alex hadn’t called him then it meant he hadn’t been able to contact Andi. He had debated going to reception or the concierge and asking what room she was in. But they wouldn’t tell him — anymore than they would reveal which room he was in. The most they would do is let him call her on the courtesy phone.

Actually that was all he needed. He would call using a one digit prefix and the room number. But what was the point? If she was in her room, then Alex would have been able to reach her. The fact that he couldn’t meant that she wasn’t in her room and her cell phone was switched off.

There was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” he called out.

“Maintenance,” said a female voice.

This caught him by surprise. He associated maintenance with men. If it had been room service or the maid it would not have surprised him. But he hadn’t ordered room service and the main would normally come in the morning. He didn’t need anyone to turn down his bed.

He opened the door to find himself confronted by Gene. This in itself would not have been frightening. But she was holding a pistol in her hand and it was aimed at his chest.

As he backed into the room, she followed him, closing the door behind her.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said. “Justice has finally caught up with you.”

He looked at her, with pity rather than fear or anger.

“Justice… or revenge?”

“Do you think you even have the right to ask that question?”

“It seems like a long time to wait for revenge. You must have known who I was a long time ago. Why wait till now.”

“Until recently I was on the other side of the country.”

“That’s not the reason. Not if you were really determined.”

“Apart from that, I never had the opportunity.”

Claymore shook his head

“Not to do it the way you did with that Bethel Newton girl, maybe. But to do what you’re doing now… you could have done that any time. Why now?”

“You think I didn’t do it a hundred times in my mind?”

“But you didn’t have the courage.”

“I didn’t have the anger.”

“It took what happened in court today…”

He let it hang in the air.

“What happened to me in court today is nothing. It’s what happened to Bethel Newton in court today that rekindled the anger.

Claymore understood.

“She reminds you of another young girl… and there was only a limited amount you could do for her too.”

The implacable expression on Gene’s face didn’t change.

“You know, pain is a funny thing,” said Gene. “Wounds heal. But scars never do — and every now and again they start to itch.”

“And now your scars have started itching.”

Again it was a statement, not a question.

“Let’s talk about you Claymore. You say you’ve changed. That you could never hurt a woman like you did before. But do you know how much pain it caused Andi to defend you?”

“I know… but she didn’t say anything about-”

“I know she didn’t say anything,” Gene interrupted angrily. “That’s Andi! She keeps things bottled up. But that isn’t really the point. There’s a limit to the amount of suffering anyone should have to bear.”

“I tried to object to Andi taking second seat. But Alex insisted.”

“Yes, Alex is a bastard figuratively speaking. He’s a bit of rapist himself. At least he knows how to use coercion of one kind or another to force other people who conform to his will… what?”

She was looking at him bewildered. His thoughts had found means of expression on his face.

“That’s what Andi said.”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 17:20

You may have thwarted my plan, but there is a price to be paid for doing so. I am now going to kill Andi. Her blood is on your hands.

Lannosea.

She had finished keying in the text message to her cell phone and was now keying in the number to the intended recipient. That recipient was Alex Sedaka. But then she had second thoughts. Why Alex? Was it really Alex that she wanted to hurt?

Alex Sedaka was insignificant. He meant nothing to anyone. There was some one else who deserved to be hurt much more. And he had a weak spot: his conscience.

She had read somewhere that it was wrong to punish a person using their own conscience as the means of punishment, because conscience was a virtue. To punish a person through his own conscience was to punish him for his virtues and not for his vices.

And yet it made perfect sense. You punish a wrongdoer by attacking his weaknesses. If his weakness is his conscience, then so be it. If he has no conscience then maybe you have to use other means. But why use more force than necessary?

And if Claymore did have a conscience, then how did it make him a better person if he protected that conscience through denial. That conscience was only worth something to his victims if it was pricked by self-awareness. Absent that awareness, his conscience was a disembodied attachment — a conscience without a consciousness.

So she deleted Alex Sedaka’s cell phone number and replaced it with that of Elias Claymore.

But as she was about to press SEND, she hesitated again.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 17:30

“Do you know how painful it is to bottle it all up inside like that?” asked Gene, still holding the gun close to her side, aimed squarely at Claymore’s torso. She had ordered him to sit down on the couch, from which it would have been hard for him to take any hostile action. That meant that he was facing the TV on the wall, with his side to her, forcing him to turn his head to give her his full attention.

“That’s what I don’t understand. Why didn’t the anger come out sooner? Why only now?”

“I guess it’s because we have a duty to ourselves go on living. That’s how I got through the pregnancy.”

He was confused again.

“What pregnancy?”

“You don’t know do you?” She looked at him for a few seconds, alternately angry and then contemptuous at the blank look on his face. “When you raped me you got me pregnant.”

For a few seconds he was dumbstruck. But he had to know.

“And did you…”

“Have an abortion? I couldn’t”

“Why not? It was after Roe versus Wade.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“No one could have blamed you.”

“Not even born-again fundamentalists like you?”

“The Bible says ‘judge not that ye shall not be judged’.” he said, lowering his eyes in shame. “And I’d be the last person to sit in judgment… Why didn’t you? Couldn’t you afford the costs?”

“Oh I could afford it. There are always organizations ready to come forward and help in those circumstances. I could barely afford not to considering my lack of job skills at the time and the fact that I couldn’t provide for the baby. It’s just that I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

“Even though it was… mine?”

“You mean even though it was the fruit of an act of violation?”

“Yes,” he gulped, barely able to speak.

“But don’t you see that didn’t matter. Because it was mine too. And when I felt it inside me I didn’t think of you. I saw it as…” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t bring myself to kill it. It was life.. and if I was going to go on living, as I resolved to do, I guess I had to let the baby live too. I didn’t know how I’d feel when it was born, but I couldn’t destroy it when it was inside me. And when I held him my arms, he was so weak and vulnerable and I knew that I was there to protect him.”

“Where is he now?”

“I got rid of him.”

“But you said…”

“I said I couldn’t bring myself to have an abortion. And I tried to bring him up on my own. But it was hard. Everyone told me I should try and find a man. They said forget the looks. Just find yourself an ugly, lonely guy with a full wallet and a lonely heart. ‘At least he’ll provide for you both and he won’t leave you.’ That’s what my friends said. Maybe they were right. But I wasn’t ready to deliver myself into the hands of another man. I was looking for some one gentle to share my life with, even before that.”

“You mean because of your sexual preference.”

“If that’s what you care to call it.”

“But what about… getting rid of him?”

“I gave him up for adoption.”

“But you said you wanted to keep him.”

“Of course I wanted to keep him. I wanted to love him. He was my child. And when he was a baby, weak and helpless, I could do that. I didn’t think of him as part of you, I thought of him as part of me. But when he got towards two, things started to change. His facial features started to develop and he began reminding me of you. Also he was stubborn. He was developing a mind of his own. Instead of being the baby who responded with a smile when I scooped him up in my arms, he became this strong-willed brat who wanted his own way every time. And then it all started coming back: all the memories of another overgrown little boy who wanted things all his own way and didn’t care who he hurt to get it!”

There were tears in the eyes of both of them. If Claymore’s pain failed to equal that of Gene, it was offset by the knife of guilt that twisted in his gut.

“So you gave him up after you’d already bonded with him?” asked Claymore tensely.

“Yes!” said Andi, choked up with tears.

“But you still loved him?”

“Of course I still loved him!” By now she was crying more hysterically than she had been in court. But she still held on to the gun aimed squarely at Claymore.

“And that’s what you’ve had to live with all these years?”

“Yes!”

He leaned forward.

“I can help you… if you’ll let me.”

He started to get up, but stopped in his tracks when she raised the gun and aimed it at his face.

“I don’t need your help! I can handle my own pain.”

“Look… I know it’s an impertinence for me to offer my help. But like you said you’ve been bottling it up all these years. You’re entitled to some relief… some rest.. some inner peace.”

“I wasn’t talking about me!” she screamed. “When I said how hard it was to keep it all bottled up, I didn’t mean me!”

“Then who?” he stuttered, helplessly

“I was talking about your other victim — the fourteen-year-old girl who didn’t come forward at the time you raped her!”

Claymore could barely find the breath to speak. But he forced himself to say the name: “Andi.”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 17:45 PDT (20:45 EDT)

Bethel Newton was going home.

She had boarded the flight at noon and touched down at Miami International Airport five hours and twenty five minutes later. She had taken only hand luggage — having ditched practically everything that reminded her of her all too brief stay in California.

Her folks were expecting her. But she remained uncertain of what to expect. She had told them of her plans by text message while the taxi snaked its way to the airport in Los Angeles, where she had stayed when Gene went up to Oakland to answer the subpoena. She had used up practically the last of her precious cash to make the journey. But she didn’t have the courage to speak to them by voice and they hadn’t replied to her message.

She wondered how they would take it. She had rejected their overtures of support during her ordeal in California. Would they want to have anything to do with her now?

These thoughts were playing on her mind as she raced from the arrivals lounge past baggage collection and into the arrivals hall.

“Bethel Honey?” a woman’s voice shouted. “Over here!”

She looked round to see a somewhat plump thirty-nine year old woman waving to her. It was her mother. And she wasn’t alone. Her step-father Jack, twelve-year-old sister Judy and two-year-old half-brother Benny were also there.

Bethel Newton’s eyes flooded with tears as she raced towards her waiting family.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:00

Claymore had been silenced by Gene’s words and was still struggling to take it all in. He had long suspected it — since the day he had first walked into the meeting room with her and Alex. But he hadn’t been sure. And she had said nothing.

After a long silence, Claymore finally spoke.

“I thought it was her.”

“What do you mean, you thought?”

“It was so long ago. She was… I don’t know how old.”

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen,” he repeated quietly, as if the magnitude of his crime from twenty five years ago were only now sinking in. “I still remember her face. It’s haunted me ever since. That was why I stopped you know. It wasn’t getting caught. It was her eyes… those wounded eyes.”

“Shut up!” Gene yelled.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to torment you. And I wasn’t making a play for sympathy. I just want you to know the truth. When she first came into that room and Alex introduced her… The face had changed of course. But I still remembered. When he said the name, it didn’t confirm it because I never knew the names.”

“Of course you didn’t! What did the names matter? We weren’t people to you.”

“That’s what I was like then! It’s not the man I am now! The men you should really hate are the men who are still like that — like that scum-bag Louis Manning.”

“Who?” She seemed stunned by this.

“Louis Manning. He’s the guy who really raped Bethel Newton.”

“How do you know?” asked Gene, confused.

“They were talking about it after Andi finished questioning you. That police woman, Detective Riley, came up and told them about the new DNA tests. The DNA came from some guy called Louis Manning. We both matched the DNA in the first tests — but that didn’t mean anything because they said that something like one black man in five hundred has that same DNA. It was from the Y chromosome or something like that. So then they did another test and that cleared me and implicated him.”

“What sort of a test?” asked Gene.

“It’s kind of like the opposite of the test. They had another DNA sample from her left hand and they did a different kind of DNA test. It looks at DNA that comes from the mother.”

“Mitochondrial DNA?”

“Yes that’s it.”

“And they got this from another sample? From her left hand?”

“Yes. The thumbnail I think.”

“And you say this test cleared you?”

“Yes — and it implicated the other guy.”

“But how did they get him in the first place… this Louis…”

“Manning. Well what happened was he tried to rape one of the reporters covering the case… Martine Yin.”

“Holy shit!”

“Holy shit’s the word. And then they checked out the car he was driving. You see it was a Merc and he crashed it into a police car — or rather the cops crashed into him. And it was my car.”

“Your car.”

“Yes, my car. The one that was stolen two days before Bethel Newton was raped. And that’s when they started figuring things out. One of the cops noticed that he looked a bit like the suspect description in the Bethel Newton case. So they decided to test his DNA too. And at first there were some shenanigans at the DNA lab — and with the computer too. But then they did those new tests and they got him.”

“So is he in custody now?”

“As far as I know. I think he’s in the hospital or something, ‘cause he broke his leg when then the cops side-swiped his auto. But I think they’ve got him under arrest.”

Gene took a deep breath.

“And you think that because this Louis Manning is the man who raped Bethel I should just blame him and forget about what you put Andi through in that courtroom — forcing her to relive the experience.”

“Like I said, I wasn’t sure it was her. And what was I to do? I didn’t want her defending me. I even tried to say so. But I couldn’t say why without making it worse — for both of us. But how come she never said anything? I mean she must have known it was me?”

“Because she bottled it all up inside her. That’s what I meant about keeping it all locked up. It wasn’t me I was talking about. It was her. She sat next to you the whole trial and she didn’t even remember that twenty five years ago you were the one who raped her!”

Claymore’s head dropped. Only now the full measure of his shame and guilt weighed down upon him.

“Turn that up!” snapped Gene.

He looked up to see a mug shot of Louis Manning on the TV. Picking up the remote hesitantly, he complied with Gene’s command.

“Manning was only be guarded by a single police officer at the time and it appears that he took advantage of a moment of distraction to drug the officer’s coffee with sleeping pills that he had been stockpiling while at the hospital. Police are refusing to say anything about the state of the injured nurse, but according to unofficial sources he said something to her just before he left, about having an old score to settle. Neither the police, nor the hospital, will confirm or deny these reports.”

“Oh my God!” said Gene as the report continued.

She turned sharply on her heel and raced out.

Claymore could breathe again. But not breathe easily. That maniac Louis Manning was on the loose with a grudge. Who would he go after? Sarah Jensen? Bridget Riley? Bethel Newton?

As if reading his mind, his cell phone beeped and flashed, alerting him to the fact that he had a message. He picked up the phone and pressed the button to retrieve the text.

You may have thwarted my plan, but there is a price to be paid for doing so. I am now going to kill Andi. Her blood is on your hands.

Lannosea.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:20

“Hallo can I speak to Martine Yin please… I’m not sure what room she’s in.”

Again the receptionist checked the name via the computer in the most perfunctory fashion.

Louis Manning was still checking hotels in Oakland. He was getting to the bottom of his list and wondering if perhaps she was staying in San Francisco. Certainly they had better hotels on the other side of the Bay Bridge. But she had been sent here to cover a trial in Oakland and it was unlikely that she’d want to face that commuter time crush on the bridge.

Then again, she had come off the case — probably because of her relationship with the lawyer. So maybe she was staying with him. Or maybe at a hotel nearer to where he lived or worked.

He realized that he’s probably have to check out the hotels in San Francisco too.

“Putting you through now sir.”

His heart leapt! He had found her!

A few seconds later, he heard the ringing tone. He should ring off now, so as not to alert her. But he had to make sure. Maybe they had misheard the name.

“Hallo.”

He recognized the voice — the voice that he had heard on the TV. The voice of the woman whom he had tried to rape. The woman who had sprayed pepper spray in his face and escaped his clutches. The woman who was responsible for the fact that he had broken his leg and his collar bone and been arrested… and now been ID’d as the man who had raped Bethel Newton.

He put the phone down, slamming it harder than he intended.

That bitch is going to pay.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:30

Martine Yin was undressing in her room at the Waterfront hotel on the East Bay, curious about the phone call that hadn’t got through. It was probably from Alex, she thought. But then he’d have tried her cell phone.

Whatever, she told herself. If it was important, they’d call back.

She had used the excuse of the trauma of the attempted rape to get herself relieved of reporting on the Claymore case. This avoided having to the station anything about her relationship with Alex. But she had also used the trauma as a pretext to ask for a leave of absence until Monday the seventh. That left her free to spend more time with Alex, including — she hoped — another weekend.

It was a little to early to think about moving in together. For a start, it wouldn’t be easy to co-ordinate work-wise. She was based in Southern California and he was firmly rooted in San Francisco. Secondly, he wasn’t yet ready to tell David and Debbie. And it wasn’t yet clear whether or not they approved of her. She didn’t want this to turn out into one of those ongoing feuds between the daughter and the “step-mother” who is only a few years her senior.

Still, Martine was already hoping… and planning.

Alex had invited her out for dinner tonight at Sens, an Exotic Southern Mediterranean restaurant in the Embarcadero Center. She had spent the morning on retail therapy, but still hadn’t decided what to wear. It would definitely have to be white. The question was, should it be the one with the single shoulder strap and long slit up the leg or the medium length little number with the tantalizing keyhole? She had laid them both out on the bed, but couldn’t make up her mind.

But there was still time. Meanwhile, she headed for the shower.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:35

Alex was in his office cleaning up the paperwork from the Claymore case, when another call came. Juanita had gone home, so Alex took it himself.

“Alex Sedaka.”

“Hallo Mr. Sedaka.”

It was a woman’s voice. He hadn’t expected that. He thought it would be Claymore calling about Andi. He was all set to tell him that he had no news and that he should stop worrying. Women weren’t as emotionally fragile as men seemed to believe. Martine had proved that when she had brushed off his excess of sympathy and concern after the rape attempt. But this woman did sound emotionally fragile, even from the few words she had uttered.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“It’s Gene — Gene Vance.”

“Oh hi Gene. What can I do for you?”

“I’m worried about Martine.”

“Martine?” He had thought she was going to say Andi. Alex hadn’t seen her since he went off to make a statement to the press about how his client was relieved that it was all over. But Claymore had told him that Andi was in a state of distress when they parted. And when Gene came on the line, he thought it was going to be more of the same. But Gene had said Martine.”

“Why? What’s the problem?”

“I think she may be in danger.”

“Danger? What sort of danger?”

“Didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Louis Manning escaped from the hospital-”

“How-”

“He drugged the cop who was keeping an eye on him and got the key to the handcuffs. Then he stole the cop’s uniform and escaped.”

Alex was in shock at this revelation. But he stayed calm until his sense of logic kicked in.

“But I don’t see that he’d be stupid enough to stick around. I mean he must know the cops’ll be looking for him. And if they know he’s wearing a cop’s uniform then they’ll be looking for that too. And that means he’ll be looking for a change of clothes. He’s more likely to attack a man to get some new threads then go after Martine.”

“No you don’t understand. It was on the news.”

“What was on the news.”

“He tasered a nurse, who saw him making his getaway. And it was reported that he said something to her before he hightailed it.”

“What did he say?”

“He said something about having an old score to settle.”

Alex thought about this for a moment.

“That could mean anything.”

But he was rationalizing now.

“No think about it a minute. Who else would he go after? He could hardly go after the cops who busted him: he wouldn’t dare. He has no reason to go after Bethel Newton, ‘cause she never accused him. It was others who ID’d him. He wouldn’t go after Detective Reilly or Sarah Jensen ‘cause they’re probably too well protected. So who else does that leave?”

Alex could think of several answers. There was Andi, who had discovered the tampering at the DNA lab that had got the police and DA to look again at the DNA evidence. And of course Alex was going out with Martine, so getting at Alex would be a way of getting at Martine… and vice versa.

No, he told himself. That doesn’t make sense! He doesn’t know anything about me and Martine!

But then another thought occurred to Alex: what if he was wrong? After all, that — as much as her coverage of the Bethel Newton rape case — might explain why he had tried to rape Martine in the first place!

No! That’s impossible! How could he know?

But then again, even if he didn’t know — even if he had picked Martine as his victim purely because of her coverage of the Claymore trial — everything that Gene had said made sense. If he was stupid enough to stick around in an attempt to exact revenge, then Martine was the logical target. Who successfully fought him off when he tried to rape her? Who maced him in the face and left him defeated and humiliated? Who sounded the alarm that got the cops racing to the scene, so that when he tried to hotfoot it out of there he got side-swiped by a squad car and ended up with a broken leg?

“Look I’m supposed to be meeting her tonight. I know where she’s staying so I’ll call her right away and warn her to be careful.”

“Okay, but keep me posted. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of…”

He understood why she had trailed off. She felt guilty, as if she had caused all this — which in a way she had.

“Okay I’ll call you right back as soon as I’ve spoken to her. Are you on this number?”

“Yes. I’ll be waiting.”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:40

Andi was driving north along Drumm Street in the direction of Sacramento Street. On the dashboard in front of her was a note in an unfamiliar handwriting that said: “Golden Gate Bridge, sunset. The truth shall set you free.”

At Washington Street she turned right, glancing at the green wall of the outdoor tennis courts to her left. The street was divided by a stretch of grass with three or four trees. The sun was setting, but she still had about an hour before it dropped below the horizon and maybe an hour of twilight after that.

There was no particular urgency to the way she was driving, but a barrage of thoughts was racing through her mind. Anger, guilt, vengeance. On the from passenger seat was the vodka bottle. But she wasn’t driving erratically. Still… maybe she’d get pulled over by the cops. Maybe she wouldn’t. To tell the truth she didn’t care.

She was headed east on Washington towards the Embarcadero intersection. There seemed like a mass of traffic headed south. She remembered that today was a baseball day. The Giants were at home today playing the Dodgers.

Old rivalries. They could bring out people’s anger more than politics… more than religion.

Who was it who said: “Baseball isn’t a matter of life and death: it’s much more important than that.” She vaguely remembered that it was originally said of soccer by some British team manager.

Funny… people’s values. When they couldn’t find something to fight over, they invented something. As if there wasn’t enough pain and suffering in the world. Maybe that was precisely because most people had it too easy. They could afford to fight over the most trivial things in life. Only sexual envy could bring out greater aggression in people. But that was rare and only affected some of the people some of the time.

The one thing that ought to bring people out onto the streets and get them to storm the barricades was injustice. But that rarely happened these days. America’s anger with itself had burnt itself out in Andi’s infancy. It wasn’t that America was now at peace with itself. It had merely succumbed to complacency.

And there was no room in all this for some one who had a passion for justice.

She had reached the intersection just as the light turned from green to yellow. As she pulled out on the yellow, the light turned to red. But a grey pickup truck behind her tried to beat the lights and shot out into the intersection close on her tail. Maybe if Andi had been quicker across the intersection, things would have been different. But the alcohol and pills had clouded her judgment and she expressed this, not in driving with speed and aggression, but slowly and passively — oblivious to the danger.

Meanwhile the traffic headed south on Embarcadero towards the ball park was taking no prisoners. And when their light turned green, they went for it. So it was no surprise that a bus, headed straight across the intersection, slammed into the pickup truck. Meanwhile another car on Washington took it into his head to do a risky right turn on red. But when the bus ploughed into the pickup truck, the pickup truck was sent careening sideways till it skidded to a halt, thus making it too a perfect target for the stream of southbound traffic on Embarcadero.

For a second the air hung still. Then Andi — who had caught only some of this with a quick side-glance — heard an almighty crash. As she completed her left turn into Embarcadero, she heard the sound of other cars crashing into the ones that blocked the intersection and turned again to see an almighty multiple pile-up across the entire intersection.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:45

Martine was sitting on the bed in her bathrobe, drying her hair, and she barely heard the knock on the door.

“Who is it?” she shouted, moving the dryer away from her hair but not switching it off.

A muffled voice came at her and all she heard was “iss”. She switched off the hair dryer.

“Pardon?”

“Room Service!”

“I didn’t order anything!”

“I’ll leave the tray out here!”

She heard the feint sound of receding footsteps.

“No, you didn’t hear me! I said I didn’t order anything!”

She waited for a response. But heard nothing.

What kind of a moron was that?

She walked over to the door and peered out through the spy hole. There was no one there. But to the side of the door, she could clearly see a tray on the floor with some sort of a covered plate together with a coffee pot and a cup. Angrily, she opened the door to take a proper look. Realizing that the food tray was probably intended for some one else, she turned her head left and right, but saw no sign of the waiter. There was another corridor, branching off, and for a split-second, she thought she sensed a human presence there, movement of a shadow or maybe the sound of breathing.

But before she had time to think about it, her phone rang — not the phone in the room, but her cell phone on the dressing table. Realizing that the erroneous delivery would have to wait she turned and went back into the room. But before the door closed behind her, there was a flurry of movement from the branching corridor and Martine found herself hurled into the room and thrown onto the bed.

When she spun round, in preparation to spring back to her feet and fight, she saw the door shutting behind Louis Manning who stood there with a menacing smile on his face.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:50

Claymore was stuck in the log jam in Washington Street. Something had happened just ahead at the intersection with Embarcadero, but he didn’t know what. He wished he had gone the other way, via Broadway. But it was too late now. He would have liked to turn back and go that way even now. But with the traffic clogged up all the way up his tail, there was no possibility of that. He was stuck here until something gave — and he didn’t know how long that would be.

In his mind he kept thing about Andi. He couldn’t get the thought of her out of his mind. He wasn’t worried about Gene. She was too strong to worry about. Whatever weakness she had shown in court had been short-lived. She had the kind of inner strength that enabled her to come bouncing back.

But not Andi. Andi was too fragile for that. He had seen that over the two and half weeks of the trial. And after Gene had told him, he knew how thoroughly he was responsible for that fragility.

Nietzsche had said: “That which does not kill me makes me stronger.” But this wasn’t true of everyone. It’s like bullying in childhood. It toughens up the first son, but turns his younger brother into a wimp. And Andi may have put on a dazzling display in the courtroom, but every time she did that, it was followed by an internal collapse. He had seen that after the voir dire, when she came back looking crushed after Alex had spoken to her. He had seen how she cried after she’d taken Bethel Newton apart on the witness stand. He had even caught a glimpse of it after she had finished cross-examining Albert Carter. And he had no doubt that she was feeling guilty beyond belief at what she had done to her lover on the witness stand.

But it was actually Gene’s words that were haunting him right now.

“She sat next to you the whole trial and she didn’t even remember that twenty five years ago you were the one who raped her,” Gene had said.

She had been bottling it all up, just as Gene had. But Gene had now opened the bottle. Had she opened it for both of them?

He had to know… because he was responsible. But right now he was powerless as he sat here, snarled in traffic that wasn’t going anywhere.

He whipped out his cell phone and tried to call the number that had sent him the text message in the hope of reasoning with the person at the other end.

But there was no answer.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:55

Alex was calling Gene. She answered almost immediately.

“Hi Gene it’s Alex. Listen. I’ve tried calling Martine several times but she’s not answering.”

“You think we should call the cops?”

“And tell them what. That we think Louis Manning might try and attack her but we’re not sure and we’re not even sure where she is.”

“We can tell ‘em that we can’t contact her and that we’re worried about her.”

“And you think they’ll do anything?”

“So what are we gonna do?”

There was no question in Gene’s mind that Alex would want to do something.

“Well I’ll keep trying to call her, but I think I’ll have to go there myself.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in my office… in San Francisco… the Embarcadero Center.”

“And is she in San Francisco?”

“No, she’s in Oakland. She’s staying at the Waterfront Hotel.”

“That means you’re gonna have to drive across the Bay Bridge… like… now.”

It was commuter time: the worst time to be traveling and the worst time to be crossing the Bay Bridge. The fact that the Giants were playing the Dodgers made it even worse.

“I’ve got no alternative.”

“I’m also in San Fran. But I’m right by the Bridge. And I can ride a motorbike. That makes me a bit more mobile than you.”

“Have you got a motorbike?”

“Not yet. But I can get one.”

“You can’t buy one at such short notice.”

“Who said anything about buying.”

“No wait listen! Don’t do anything illeg-”

The line went dead. He knew that he was going to have to go there himself — even though there was no doubt in his mind that Gene would get there first.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:00

The fear Martine had felt when Manning tried to rape her in the multi-storey parking structure was nothing compared to the terror she felt now secured her to the bed using the handcuffs he had taken from the cop. For this was the terror of uncertainty. Then she was in a public place and his options were limited. Here they were away from public view and he had scope for a far greater range of actions and much more available time.

The phone had rung a couple of times since Manning had forced his way into the room, and she suspected that it might be Alex. But she wasn’t sure. And anyway, he had no way of knowing that anything was up. She might be out, or in the shower. In fact before when she was in the shower, she had thought at one point that the phone was ringing.

For a brief moment she had considered putting up some resistance. It had after all been her courage in the parking structure that had saved her from being raped and helped the police to catch him. But this time it had been a whole different ball game. For a start, she no longer had the element of surprise. He was alert to any sudden show of resistance that might come from her. Secondly, even if she managed to make a break, she would still have had to open the door and get out of the room. That would have cost her precious extra seconds. But the third and most important factor, was that this time Manning had a gun.

That last one was the clincher. She knew that this time, she didn’t dare resist. And he knew it too. But just to make sure, he was quick to handcuff her wrists together in front, after ordering her to remove the bathrobe, before he forced her to lay face down on the bed. This, she realized, gave some indication of what he planned to do next.

Words could hardly describe how vulnerable she felt. And yet in some way, once she accepted the reality, it was strangely liberating. She knew that her only chance — if indeed it was a chance — was to reason with him, to open up the lines of communication.

“There’s something I don’t understand.”

“Did I tell you to talk bitch!”

For a second she was filled with an even deeper terror and thought that perhaps she had misjudged the situation and misread Manning. But then she realized that he too was not completely free of fear and that notwithstanding the fact that he had the upper hand, much of what he was doing was still an act and not an expression of any real belief in his own invincibility. She decided to put her strategy back on track and tried to sound nonchalant, without being contemptuous.

“Oh come on, you don’t have to impress me with that macho performance. You’ve got me right where you want me. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t talk.”

He was so taken aback by her response that he actually smiled for a second.

“You’re right there.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. The tacit acknowledgement of his power — “you’ve got me right where you want me” — had assuaged his anger. But she waited for him to speak again, not wanting to sound too eager.

“So what is it you don’t understand?”

“Well… you raped Bethel Newton… then you tried to rape me when I was covering the case. So I was just wondering if that was a coincidence?”

“Not really. I mean raping Bethel Newton was something I did on the spur of the moment. God knows why, she’d probably have slept with me anyway. Or maybe that is why.”

“Oh… you mean power.”

“What else. Life is just one big power game, from the submissive wife who walks four paces behind her husband to the man with his finger on the nuclear trigger.”

“Yeah okay… but what about…”

“What about you? That’s easy. I knew all about you and Sedaka.”

“How?”

“I was paying close attention to the Bethel Newton rape… for obvious reasons. After Claymore was arrested the first time, I saw a story on the news about it. They said Sedaka was his lawyer as well as his friend and that he was supposed to be a good lawyer. Anyway, I was a bit curious, so one time when he left the jail, I followed him around and I saw him pick you up and take you to a restaurant.”

“You were playing a dangerous game… it’s like going back to the scene of the crime.”

“Maybe. I have this thing about finding it hard to let go. It’s like, I have this urge to go back to where things started… you know… retracing my roots… like that fish that swims upstream to where it was born.”

She looked surprised.

“Salmon.”

“Yeh.”

She was looking at him, unsure of what to say.

“And you thought I was just an ignorant nigger.”

“I never said that.”

“Oh I know you never said that. That’s ‘cause you’re a cultured, educated Chinese-American. Now if you were an Alabama redneck, you would have said it. But then again, if you were an Alabama redneck you wouldn’t know about the mating habits of fish.”

A gleaming smile came to his face and he put on a high-pitched southern “yassir” accent to taunt her.

“But I saw that flicker of surprise in your eyes when I said that about swimmin’ upstream. And I gahts to tell you ma’am, thaz the fahst time in mah life ahhhz ever bin compared to a salmon!”

He held the smile a while longer, before his face hardened.

“I think I’d better gag you too,” he continued, his voice deepening. It’s not like you’re gonna say anything that I can’t already figure out.” The parody accent came back. “Nothin’ personal ma’am, but you is kind of pre-dictable.”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:05

Claymore was sitting at the end of Washington Street in the his rented car, desperately trying to figure a way out of this logjam. But at the back of his mind he was replaying his conversation with Gene over and over again.

“Alex is a bastard figuratively speaking. He’s a bit of rapist himself. At least he knows how to use coercion of one kind or another to force other people who conform to his will.”

This was remarkably similar to what Andi had said after the trial.

“I was raped again — this time by a colleague. Not literally raped, but figuratively speaking. My hands were tied and I was forced to conform to his will. Only this is the last time it’s going to happen”

There were signs of something happening ahead and Claymore breathed again. But it wasn’t clear what. Then he remembered the text message that he had received. He had tried the number but got no answer. So he called the one person who might be able to help him.

“Alex Sedaka.”

“Hi Alex. It’s Elias.”

“Elias Hi, listen don’t take this personally, but I’m kind of busy right now. Something’s come up.”

“Something to do with Andi by any chance?”

“No. With Mart- look you’re not still worried about her are you? I’m sure she’s all right.”

“Okay, but just tell me one thing, does the name Lannosea mean anything to you?”

There were a few seconds of silence on the other of the line.

“Why do you ask?”

“I had a text message from a number I didn’t recognize. It said it was from Lannosea. I presume you do recognize the name.”

“Okay, look save that message. It might help us later.”

“Help you how?”

“Lannosea is the name of the person who’s been sending threatening messages and insulting messages to Andi. We think that it was the same person who tampered with the jury selection software and hacked into the database — and who tried to frame Andi for hacking into the database. We think it may be another woman that you…”

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. In the end it was up to Claymore to break the silence.

“But you don’t know who it is.”

It had the finality of a statement.

“No. Although my son and Andi were going to pool their expertise to try and find out. Why, do you have any idea?”

Now it was Claymore’s turn to hesitate. Alex had said that something had come up. And he sounded like he was driving. He wasn’t in any position to handle more pressure.

“No… not really,” said Claymore, as the traffic ahead of him finally started to move.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:10

Gene hadn’t lied about getting to the Waterfront Hotel quickly — and she hadn’t lied about getting a motorbike either. Starting the bike had been easier than finding it. The irony that Oakland was the birthplace of the Hell’s Angels was not lost on her either, as she stole the bike and raced across the Bay Bridge, dodging stationery vehicles along the way.

By the time she rode into the Hotel parking lot, her heart rate was as fast as the rev counter on the engine. She got quite a few stares as she dismounted the bike. But she was too pre-occupied to notice. Instead, she merely raced into the hotel lobby and up to the front desk. There were several people ahead of her, but she used her intimidating height and build to face them down as she pushed her way up to the desk.

“I need to speak to Martine Yin… now!”

She reached into her inner pocket as if she were reaching for a police badge — or a gun. It did the trick — that and the continuous eye contact. The frightened girl at the reception desk keyed in the name on the computer and stuttered:

“You can use the white courtesy phone. Number 9214. You’re the second person who-”

Gene had already shot off towards the staircase. She knew exactly what that four digit number meant. The first digit — nine — meant that she was calling a room in the hotel, rather than any of its services. The other three digits were the room number. The second digit was of course the floor and the last two digits designated the room itself. Martine was in room 214 on the second floor.

But the thing that had spurred Gene into action with such haste was the additional wording that the receptionist had tacked on to her answer: “You’re the second person who-”

At the second floor, Gene looked at the arrows indicating which way the room numbers went. 214 was to her left. She turned and strode briskly in that direction, looking at the door numbers as she went past them to make sure that she didn’t overshoot the mark.

Then, as she got to the room, she stopped abruptly and pounded on the door.

She was greeted by silence. But she vaguely recalled that in that split second before she knocked, she had heard the sound of a human voice… a male voice.

She pounded again.

“Louis! I know you’re in there!”

She heard the sound of motion inside the room and then the sound of a door handle. The door opened slowly to reveal a young black man in his late twenties standing there with a beaming smile on his face and his leg in some sort of a synthetic cast. As the man stepped aside, still holding the door, she noticed two other things. One was the prone, terrified figure of Martine. The other was the gun in Manning’s hand, held loosely at his side with an almost insultingly casual indifference.

He motioned for Gene to enter the room with an arrogant flick of his head. She complied, the look on her face quite neutral.

“Hi Louis,” she said, as he closed the door behind her.

“Hi… Mom.”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:15

Andi had turned off the road just before the Golden Gate Bridge and was driving to the Golden Gate parking lot. But she had no recollection of how she had got there. When she pulled up, she lowered the visor with the vanity mirror and started fixing her makeup. She couldn’t remember what she was doing there or why she had decided to come there. She just had a vague awareness of her new surroundings. She wondered if perhaps she was just a puppet and that some one else was pulling the strings.

Then she remembered.

She got out of her car and smoothed down her rumpled dress with a few brisk movements of her hands.

“I’m never going to have to look at him again.”

Of course she wouldn’t: the case was over. She started walking towards the nearby bridge. There was pedestrian access from this side.

She walked along the footpath from the parking lot that led to the bridge, by-passing the toll gate. It was a slow leisurely walk. There was no reason to run. She might as well take in the views and savor the atmosphere as she remembered her final words to Claymore in court.

“It’s just a case of taking the plunge and moving on.”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:20

“I bribed some one at the records office to let me see the file,” said Louis Manning.

He was talking to Gene Vance like she was an old friend. But she sensed that he was taunting her. And she couldn’t forget the helpless figure of Martine, secured to the bed by handcuffs, unmoving, but breathing heavily with a look of terror in her eyes.

“I didn’t think it was that easy. I thought it was only on TV soaps and cop shows that public officials are all on the take.”

“Oh I didn’t bribe her with money.”

“Then what?”

“I got her hooked on crystal-meth. That made it easier to control her.”

He seemed to be taking pleasure in the way he described it, like he was taunting her.

“How much did you find out?”

“It had both my parent’s names. I’d never heard of you until then, but I knew who he was. There it was staring me in the face — my father a convicted rapist and political activist. So I started reading about him and learned all about who he was and what he stood for, not to mention how he turned his back on it and joined the establishment. Then I checked up on you and found out where you worked. That’s when I realized what had happened.”

“When was that?

“A while back.”

“So at the time of… you knew.”

“Yes, but I didn’t rape her ‘cause of that. And then when you got involved — and Andi — that was just like… kind of like the icing on the cake. How did you figure it out?”

“Elias Claymore told me-”

“How the fuck does he know?”

“Not about you. I mean not directly. He told me that the Y-chromosome DNA — when they finally got it right — matched both him and you. That didn’t mean much because it also matched thousands of others. But then they did another test with the last-remaining evidence sample, a mitochondrial DNA test-”

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a test for DNA that’s inherited from the mother. It can’t identify an individual but it can identify sisters and brothers and any relatives from the same maternal line, like cousins and things like that. And it matched you.”

Manning looked puzzled.

“But if it goes back through loads of generations, then somewhere along the line it probably matches others too.”

“Yes but how many of them have their father’s DNA matching Elias Claymore?”

“So it was the combination of the two that gave it away.”

“Actually no. You see what I know, and what nobody else knows, is that the DNA in that third sample didn’t come from the rapist. It came from me. I was assigned to Bethel Newton before they took the evidence samples and when we met, she was so emotionally overwrought that she gripped my arm and dug her nails into me, or at least one nail. That was the third nail clipping sample.”

Manning was wide-eyed with incredulity.

“You mean they realized it was me, and all the time it was based on false evidence?”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:25

Elias Claymore pulled up in the Golden Gate parking lot and leapt out of his car without even bothering to check if he had parked it straight. That was the least of his worries.

He looked around and wandered round too. Then he saw it: a red Ford Mustang. Was it Andi’s? Or just another like it. It was the only one in the lot. He raced over to it and looked at it. There was no obvious sign that it was hers. But equally none that it wasn’t.

It has to be, he told himself.

But was she about to do what he thought she was about to do? And how long ago had she got here. It was a long walk to the bridge. And when he last saw her, she wasn’t exactly dressed for running.

Is there still a chance? Can I get to her?

Certainly there hadn’t been any incident’s on the bridge recently because otherwise this whole area would be bustling with activity — not to mention gawking members of the public.

He looked round at the bay. To his left the sun was low in the sky but still above the horizon.

He sprinted towards the bridge, up the slope, chugging away breathlessly. He hadn’t put on rolls of fat, like some men his age. Nevertheless he was no longer a young man, and although he could run, he felt it in his lungs, his heart and the sinews of his thighs.

He was panting and hunched with cramp in his ribcage when he got onto the pedestrian walkway of the bridge. But he didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried when he saw Andi walking the same path, almost staggering, as she receded from him in the distance.

All he knew was that he wanted to sprint towards her, but his legs wouldn’t let him.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:30

“Looks like it,” said Gene, taunting him right back. “Maybe you shouldn’t have escaped. Maybe you should have brazened it out.”

“No, they still had me for the attempted rape on…” He half turned to indicate the terrified young woman on the bed. “But if the last DNA sample was actually from you — and if you knew that — then how did you figure it out?”

“It was the coincidence that got me thinking. You see the very fact that Bethel ID’d the picture of the young Elias Claymore on the cork board at the rape crisis center was itself interesting. I knew the rapist couldn’t be Claymore, because of the age factor. But still, it had to have a reason. There had to be a cause. And the obvious cause was the son that I gave up — the son that Claymore never knew he had. That also made the match of the Y-chromosomal DNA somewhat less of a coincidence. It meant all of a sudden that there was a causal explanation.”

“So now we both know. What about my father? Does he know?”

“I didn’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

“I had to see you first. I had to speak to you.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“And am I what you expected?”

“When I gave you up, I didn’t expect anything. I was only thinking of myself.”

“Well at least you’re not a hypocrite. But what about now?”

“I knew you raped Bethel… knew you tried to rape Martine-”

“Still intend to,” he cut back almost under his breath. The contempt was manifest in the quiet, off-the-cuff tone.

“Look, I admit that I wronged you. I could make excuses and say it’s because of what your father did to me, but — yes — I still wronged you. But Martine didn’t. All she did was defend herself when-”

“You don’t get it do you? What Claymore did was part of his nature. It’s in a man’s genes. It’s part of their nature. Men try to reproduce their genes. And the stronger men succeed.”

“But not by rape.”

“They don’t need to. In the animal kingdom the concept of rape is meaningless. The males fight amongst each other to establish superiority and then the females go naturally and willingly with the strongest males. The weaker males get the leftovers. Its only in the human species that women look for other things like sympathy and kindness and wealth. A female animal doesn’t want a good provider, she gathers or hunts for the food herself. She just wants strong genes to bind with hers to make sure that her own genes survive in her offspring. Even in the human species, most women know that the best provider isn’t necessarily the best biological father for their children. That’s why they marry rich men and then cheat on them with hunks from the street. Adultery’s as natural for a woman as it is for a man.”

“You’ve been reading the wrong books.”

“Books are one of the few things they give you behind bars. Some cons toke. Some work out. I read books.”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:35

Claymore was sprinting along the pedestrian walkway as fast as he could, trying his best to keep Andi in his line of sight. But his heart sank when she arrived at the southern suspension tower. For at that point, he saw her moving off the walkway and round the tower, onto the observation platform behind it. That — and a similar platform at the northern suspension tower — were the points where suicides jumped off.

He arrived at the suspension column in time to see Andi clambering over, apparently with a bottle of gin or vodka in her hand. He felt a knot in his stomach as terror swept over him. If he shouted out to her, he would frighten her. If her decision was final, it would make her jump. If she was still undecided, it would take her by surprise and might very well startle her and cause her to lose her grip. If he rushed her, it would also frighten her.

He stood there frozen with indecision, his feet stuck to the ground beneath him. As she completed her climb to the other side, she held on with one hand as she took a swig from the bottle.

And then she saw him.

For a second his heart went into his mouth as he thought this was the end for her. But instead, she simply smiled.

“Oh hi Elias?” she said, in what sounded a bit like a little girl voice.

He looked at her still feeling helpless, and yet in some way liberated from fear by precisely that sense of desperation. Behind him the sun was setting making her squint, so he couldn’t tell if she had been crying. Was she sad? Lost? Already too far gone?

He looked around. There were plenty of cars on the bridge. But here, behind the suspension column, they were virtually concealed from public view. And at this time, on a baseball day, there weren’t many pedestrians about. They were, effectively, alone.

He had to reach out to her in the only way he could. But now the “only way he could” meant not with his body, but with his mind… with his words.

“Andi don’t do it!”

She was smiling. But he couldn’t tell if it was from her mood or the setting sun in her eyes.

“What do you want?” she asked hesitantly, putting the bottle down on the ledge and holding on with both hands now.

“Don’t do it… don’t jump.”

She half turned her head and looked round at the water 220 feet below.

“Why not?”

He tried to take a step forward, but she released the grip of one of her hands, as if warning him of how easy it would be to jump.

“No! Wait!” he pleaded, stopping in his tracks and holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Andi listen to me. You’ve blotted it out of your mind. The rape. The pain. It was me. I was the man who raped you all those years ago. You’ve closed off the past and shut it out of your mind. But it’s been there all the time… in the background.”

“I don’t understand,” she said weakly, her voice now distinctly like a little girl’s as some distant memory pierced her consciousness.

“You’ve been doing these things to yourself,” he said, the desperation, “…the messages… the threats… switching the DNA files and then leaving a trail for them to get back to you, like you were framing yourself… it was you all along Andi. You were doing it to yourself!”

“Why would I want to do those things to myself?” she asked. He didn’t know about the pills or how mush she had drunk. But she was clearly out of it.

“It was your way of handling the pressure… the painful memories. You couldn’t take it, so you blotted it out. And then you must have created another person to carry the anger for you, so that you could get on with your life.”

“What do you mean ‘created another person’?” she asked, crying with the pain of recollection as she memories of the rape came fleeting in and out of her mind.

“I don’t know all the reasons. I only know that it’s because of what I did. You wanted revenge. You wanted me to be punished — as I deserved to be. But you also wanted to forget your pain. And I guess you couldn’t handle both. The one wasn’t compatible with the other. So the part of you that wanted to forget, blotted it out. And then the other part of you set about getting revenge. But then, just now at the trial, because you were helping me, the other part of you didn’t just want revenge on me. It sought revenge on you too.”

“Revenge?” she echoed confused, as her mind drifted into some far off world.

“Yes. You were the one who modified the jury selection software.”

“No!” Andi whined, wiping back the tears with the backs of her free hand. “It was Lannosea!”

“Don’t you see Andi? You are Lannosea. She’s part of you — the strong part. She’s the part that wants revenge, the part that wants to punish the other part for helping me. Lannosea is just the angry side of you. She carries the anger, but you still carry the pain. That’s why she hounded you with those E-mail messages and threats. That’s why she broke into the DNA database and framed you. It was you doing to yourself to punish yourself.”

“No you’re wrong! It can’t be that! I wouldn’t betray some one who trusted me.”

“Andi I’m not blaming you. God knows, I’ve got no right to blame anyone! But you need help.”

“I don’t need any help from you!”

It looked like she was about to jump. He had to stop her.

“Lannosea!” he shouted desperately. “If you let her jump, you’ll die too!”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:38

Alex, meanwhile, was going nowhere. He was snarled up in traffic on the Bay Bridge. In the other direction, much of the traffic was headed towards the baseball game. But on days like this, the whole road network gets clogged up as people try to find alternative routes to beat the bottlenecks. The trouble is that everyone has the same idea and that just creates more bottlenecks.

He had tried calling Martine’s hotel room several more times, but got no answer. He had considered asking the hotel to send a member of staff to check. But they would probably think he was crazy and even if they didn’t they were unlikely to treat it as a matter of any particular urgency.

But Gene must be there by now.

It was strange the way she was suddenly helping him after what he had effectively put her through in court. And yet in a way it made perfect sense. She probably felt guilty about what she had done herself. And this was her way of trying to redeem herself.

But was she right to fear for Martine’s safety?

Alex had no way of knowing that. But he knew that Manning had escaped. He had heard the news reports on the radio, so he knew that what Gene had said about Manning’s veiled threat was true. And he knew that there was a certain underlying logic to her theory that Martine was the intended target.

There was just nothing he could do about it until the traffic cleared ahead of him.

But what about Gene?

He phoned her and waited desperately for an answer.

“Hallo Ale-”

Gene’s voice was cut short abruptly.

Something had happened. It sounded like some kind of a struggle, albeit a very brief one. For the next thing he heard was a man’s voice.

“I’ve got your bitch here.”

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:41

Holding on with only one hand, Andi swept her hair back with a self-assured, almost arrogant gesture. Then she gripped the rail with both hands. The tears seemed to dry up in an instant her face grew in confidence. Even her posture and body language was different. This was no timid little girl anymore. This was a woman with attitude.

“You were pretty smart to figure it out Claymore.” The voice was deeper now. “How did you know?”

“Some of the things you said — she said.”

“Well that’s pretty smart of you for a nigger! You’re right too, I was the one who hacked the jury selection software. I mean I literally hacked it to pieces with two snips of my intellectual scissors. Two lines of code swapped round, two memory heaps expanded and that was it. I did it in five years back in the Big Apple. Actually it was very easy.

While she was talking, Claymore was surreptitiously taking off his jacket.

“The source code was on public record and all I had to do was get my hands on it, switch the object calls in the main object and recompile it. The hard part was slipping it into the system afterward. Most of the States have firewalls in place on the jury selection systems. But I beat them. I beat the bleeding heart liberal motherfuckers! I’m good at what I do Claymore, just as you were good in your chosen vocation.”

“Then I guess I deserve to die too.”

“Probably,” she said, with an indifferent shrug of her shoulders.

“Then maybe I’m the one who should jump.”

“It’s up to you.”

Seizing his opportunity, Claymore edged nearer and began climbing over the rail, making sure that none of his movements seemed too threatening.

Now, with the menacing waters far below them, they were facing each other on equal terms for the only time in their lives. But he still had to get through to her.

“Why did you frame Andi for the break-in at the DNA database. I mean I can understand why you did the break-in. That was to frame me. But why frame Andi?

“I should think that’s obvious. Andi was making trouble for me. I had to stop her.”

“But in the end that was what gave her the ammunition to save me.”

“Yes, she’s a smart girl, that Andi. But then again that’s not surprising. She’s got part of me in her. But none of that really matters because it’s the end of the line for both us.”

“Us?” he echoed nervously.

“Me and her.”

Claymore was desperately trying to think of something to say — something that would persuade the strong-willed “Lannosea” to reconsider.

“But she doesn’t deserve to suffer — and neither do you. I’m the one who hurt both of you. And I’m the one who should pay for it.”

“What are you saying Claymore? That you care about Andi? That you care about a weak white bitch whom you raped?”

“Yes,” he said, weakly. She still had the upper hand, and they both knew it.

“It looks like you’re pretty weak too.”

Claymore shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“It’s true. I am weak.”

“And you used to be so strong.”

“I guess I was strong then because I was driven by anger. Now I’m weak because I’m restrained by guilt.”

“But if you’re weak, you’re also vulnerable.”

“That’s true. But I’m the one who deserves to be punished… not Andi.”

“But it’s the form of your weakness that interests me. Your weakness is that you care for her.”

“Yes.”

“And so, ironically, now that you’ve learned to care about your victims, you’re more vulnerable to punishment than when they meant nothing to you.”

She was holding on with only one hand again, and starting to turn, as if ready to jump.

“Yes but why should she suffer for what I did?”

“Because she’s weak too. And because she sold out.”

“Andi!” he shrieked. “It wasn’t meant to be like this!”

She stopped turning and gripped the rail with both hands again.

“What do you mean?”

She was whining again. Andi was back… possibly.

“I thought all the suffering was over — for my victims as well as me! When I came back to America to serve out my sentence, I was a different man. I thought when I turned my life around I’d lost the capacity to inflict suffering on anyone. I thought from then on the pain would only diminish… I thought that in time all the pain and suffering I’d caused would fade away, maybe not completely, but at least enough to be bearable.”

Her eyes were welling up with tears again.

“You think the pain of your victims ebbs into oblivion just because you turned your life around!” She was whining, like a little girl having a tantrum. “You think it’s that easy! Don’t you know that for the victims the pain never goes away! And sometimes it just keeps getting worse! That why it’s better to end it!”

She let go with both hands and turned.

“No!” screamed Claymore.

He grabbed her torso with his legs, clinging on desperately with his hands. He didn’t think he would have the strength to hold onto her if she struggled — or the strength in his upper body to hold onto the rail. But he surprised himself just as she surprised him. There was no struggling — and no cooperation either. As he looked down at her he noticed that she had lost consciousness.

It must have been the drink, he thought.

And in time with that, he realized that her body was limp. She had lost consciousness. And here he was holding on to an unconscious woman with a leg scissor lock, while supporting the weight of both of them by clinging on to the Golden Gate Bridge for his life with his hands.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:44

“I can understand why you blame me,” said Gene, fighting back the tears. “But I don’t understand why you blame women in general so much, and your father so little.”

“I told you. In the animal kingdom there is no such thing as rape.”

“But we’re not animals. We don’t live by the law of the jungle. We live by the laws of civilization. And your father broke those laws.”

“Not the law of nature. Everything he did was strictly in accordance with the laws of nature. But you rebelled against a woman’s nature. A woman’s nature — a mother’s nature — is to nurture and protect her child, not give it away to strangers. You should have been proud to carry a child with strong genes like mine — even if my daddy did have to force you.”

“You don’t think that maybe the circumstances in which you were conceived made that unbearably painful for me?”

“Sex is always painful. All the physiological responses that go with sex are part of the pain mechanism. That’s true of men as much as women.”

“But rape isn’t about sex. It’s about power.”

“Oh yes, that old feminist cliche. But sex is always about power, whether it’s the men fighting to get the pick of the females or the power involved in the transaction itself. Why do you think in sex there’s nearly always some one on top, figuratively as well as literally? Why do you think there are so many S amp; M sites on the web?”

“Okay,” she said, struggling to keep pace with his self-serving rationalization, “and what about all those men who go online in search of some leather-clad dominatrix to whop the butts?”

“But don’t you see that just proves my point? It’s the same process with the polarity reversed. Sex is about an exchange of power. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the exercise of power over the other person or giving in to their power. It doesn’t even matter whether it’s real power or just make believe. Either way, it’s not about equality. Never was!”

Gene thought about this for a moment and realized that it was true, even in her own relationship with Andi. All those role-playing games they played. What were they if not ritualized exercises in power and control?

“Okay look… maybe you’re right. Maybe sex is just one big game about power. But it’s a game with rules. Society has rules. We call it the social contract. And people have rights. And we all have a duty to obey those rules and respect the rights of our fellow human beings.”

“Uh-uh! I never signed up for no social contract.” She noticed that as anger got the better of him, his grammar was slipping, like a facade that couldn’t stand up to the inclement weather. “The social contract never did a thing for me. I got jack-shit out of other people’s social contract! So why should I abide by it? This animal lives by the law of the jungle. And I’m proud of it.”

“Then go back to the jungle! Don’t bring your jungle into our cities.”

He looked at her with a wide-eyed smile.

“I prefer to do it this way… to take my jungle with me wherever I go. And that’s not a race thing either. Most kluckers would agree with me on this one.”

He turned to the terrified Martine on the bed and smiled not with delight, but with the vengeful anger that he had carried around with him.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:47

Claymore was desperately looking around as the sun set over the Pacific. But there was no one there to help. On other days, there might have been, even at this time. But not today. Right now those people who weren’t on the road were sitting in front of their TVs glued to the final day of the baseball game.

With an almighty effort of his stomach muscles, he heaved Andi’s lifeless body up to the level of the rail and then rested his elbows on the rail, still clinging on with his hands. It gave him a breather, although her body was still held there only by the pressure of his legs and torso. But now he was able to plant his feet again on the girders of the bridge. This enabled him to free one hand.

Choosing to free his left hand, he leaned back, encircled Andi’s waist with his left arm and heaved her with all his might, so that he could deposit her onto the railing. From there it was a simple matter to turn her over onto her stomach, flopped across the railing and maneuver her down back onto the observation platform.

Climbing back himself was no problem after that. But then he realized that his problems were just beginning. For as he surveyed her crumpled, motionless body he saw that there was no sign of breathing or movement of any kind. And her body had almost turned blue.

He realized in that moment that she wasn’t merely unconscious. She had gone into cardiac arrest!

He scrambled frantically to his jacket, whipped out his cell phone and punched in 911.

“Listen I’m on the Golden Gate Bridge with a woman who-”

“Have you got a potential jumper?”

“No, I’ve pulled her back in. But she’s gone into cardiac arrest. She’s been drinking heavily — and maybe popping pills too. I need an ambulance right away.”

“Is she still breathing?”

“No and there’s no pulse either, I already checked!”

“Okay I’ll send an ambulance right away. Do you know how to do CPR?”

“I’ve seen it on TV, but I’m not really sure. I mean I never learned how to do it properly.”

“Okay, I’m sending an ambulance. In the meantime I’ll explain to you what to do. Lie her down on a flat, hard surface.”

“I did that already.”

“Okay now tilt her head slightly back to clear an air passage.”

“Okay,” he said, noting the instruction, but not yet acting on it.

“No with a pumping wrist action of both hands, do fifteen sharp compressions on the left side of her chest.”

“Fifteen?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“Then you do two ventilations. That means you pinch her nose shut and breathe into her twice, gently. Don’t breathe too hard or it can burst her lungs.”

“OK I’ll try that.”

He put the phone down and crouched down next to Andi, engulfed in sorrow. He knew that he had lost — that he had killed her twenty five years ago. What he had before him now was merely the culmination of his wickedness. But he had to try to save her. He owed her that at least. He had hurt her in every way possible, including driving her to this. But he couldn’t fail her now.

He looked around in blind panic as if hoping to see some one there who could help him. But there was no one. And as misery and fear engulfed him, it finally dawned on him that he was well and truly alone.

It hadn’t merely been idle talk when he said at the trial when he said: “Since I came back to America to serve out my sentence I haven’t been able to touch a woman.”

It had been the truth. But he remembered what Andi had told him at their conference before he testified.

“Sometimes the greatest test of courage is standing up to the enemy within.”

In his case the immediate enemy within was the fear of touching a woman, knowing what he had done to women in the past. But the latent enemy was the knowledge of how little his own life was worth.

Only now it was different. Now he could do something. If he could bring himself to overcome his own self-loathing.

But if he couldn’t overcome this terror in this moment, then he would do more harm by his inaction now than he had ever done by his actions in the past. It would be the ultimate guilt: the guilt of indifference.

One of his fellow revolutionaries had once said: “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.” If this applied to problems that affected him, then it must surely also apply to the problems that afflicted others.

So now, he knew, it was time for the hands that had once violated to become the hands that heal… in a final act of redemption.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:50

Alex had phoned the cops and tried to explain the situation, to no avail. The more he explained, the more convoluted it sounded. Up till the point when he got through to Gene and Manning had addressed him directly, he couldn’t really cite any reason why they should even bother to pay a visit to Martine’s room, because all he had was conjecture piled on top of paranoia.

When he finally told them about the phone call to Gene and Manning’s response, they sounded interested. But when he admitted that he couldn’t be sure that it was Manning — and also that he reached Gene on her cell phone rather than the landline in Martine’s room — they seemed to lose interest. The dispatcher even pointed out that Gene could have been anywhere and that “Manning” could have been anyone.

So all Alex could do was make his own way to Martine’s room and hope that he had the wherewithal to deal with the situation.

When he arrived at the parking lot of the Waterfront hotel, he leapt out of his car without even making sure to park it properly. He just tossed the keys to the valet and ran inside. He knew which room she was in, so it was just a case of racing up the stairs and getting there. He thought about the possibility of calling 911 again, so that they would hear what was going on when he got there. He knew that there was no way that he could take on Manning — especially as he almost certainly had the cop’s gun.

But Martine was in danger and he had to save her. He hadn’t been there for Melody when she was in danger. But he was here for Martine now. He had to justify his existence, even if it meant putting it on the line.

When he got to the door, his courage almost deserted him, but in his mind, the faces of Martine and Melody merged into one and he knew that he had to do.

He banged on the door even more aggressively than Gene had done fifty minutes earlier.

“Martine! Martine!”

There was movement inside, followed by the sound of the door handle. Slowly the door opened a crack… then a little more. Finally it opened enough for Martine’s frightened, huddled figure to become visible. But what surprised Alex was what happened next.

The door was flung open and Martine staggered out in her bathrobe. She collapsed into his arms.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:53

Slowly, Claymore’s hands reached down and took their place over her heart — the same hands that had once fondled her breasts while she lay there on the grass, sobbing profusely and begging for him not to hurt her, in that secluded area of woodland where he had raped her. As the woman on the phone had instructed, he began the manual compressions, pumping her heart with a double-handed action, counting as he did do.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen fourteen, fifteen.”

He leaned over and opened his mouth. For a moment he hesitated, remembering how he had pinioned her to the ground, holding her thin, frail wrists together with one of his giant hands while he leaned over her and thrust his mouth onto hers, kissing her in a way that was so possessive that it made him feel as if he owned her for life, regardless of her wishes.

I have to do it, he told himself.

He placed his mouth gingerly over hers and did the first ventilation, breathing into her and silently praying that it would be the breath of life. He paused and did it a second time. Then he straightened up into a kneeling position and did the next fifteen compressions.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen fourteen, fifteen.”

He did two ventilations and then went back to the compressions again, repeating the entire process three more times. He felt exhausted, and defeated. There was still no sign of life. He straightened up, remembering how he had grabbed the throat of fourteen year old Andi when she tried to scream. But this time, when he reached for her throat it was to check if there was a pulse. As he touched her, he saw a slight movement of Andi’s chest and felt the pulse that he had been praying for. The heart was beating and she had resumed breathing. Through his tears, Claymore smiled a bitter smile and sighed heavily with relief.

Then he staggered to his feet, turned away and wept into his open hands.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:55

Martine stood there clinging onto Alex as he encircled her waist with his arms. But there were no tears in her eyes, just a kind of heavy gasping as if she were trying to recover her strength.

“Where’s Manning?” he asked, urgently. “And Gene.”

“Inside,” said Martine, her voice rasping from shortage of breath.

He looked over at the door nervously and tried to edge Martine away from it, to get her out of harms way. But she resisted his efforts.

“We have to help her,” she said, releasing her grip on Alex and half turning towards the door.

He nodded, unsure of what he meant, or what danger lay behind that door. She turned her back on him, opened the door and walked into the room. He followed and saw Gene in a kneeling position, cradling Louis Manning’s bleeding head in her arms, rocking backward and forward gently as if holding a baby and trying to soothe it gently to sleep.

There was no movement from Manning. His eyes were open but unblinking. And the only sound in the room was a feint murmur from Gene’s throat as she sang the lullaby from Robert Munch’s Love You Forever.

Martine turned to Alex, and this time a couple of tears were forming in her eyes.

“He was the salmon,” she said softly.

“The salmon.”

“Swimming up stream, to the waters where he was born. Only he never made it.”

For some reason, that he couldn’t fathom himself, Alex took out his wallet and looked at a picture of a young man. He had found the picture in the glove compartment of the car belonging to his former legal intern, Nat Anderson, after Nat had been killed in that fatal crash. He felt overwhelmed by the emotions it brought on — the same emotions he had felt when he first saw the picture and recognized the face.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 22:00

It was later that night when Claymore stood dry-eyed on the Golden Gate Bridge looking out at the waters below. He had gone with Andi in the ambulance and was still with her at the hospital when Gene had arrived with Alex and Martine. Andi had been slipping in and out of consciousness, but she seemed to respond to Gene, at one point even squeezing her hand. Alex and Martine had left shortly after that, and Claymore realized that he too was in danger of outstaying his welcome.

So now, with no one else about, he stood here looking east towards the city where he had been judged not guilty by the system. But it was not so easy to escape the judgment of his own conscience.

It would be so much simpler to end it here. He had given Andi back her life, but he could not restore her youth joy of living that he had robbed her of forever. Neither could he banish her pain. Like all human beings he could do limited good but unlimited evil.

His moral account was overdrawn.

And yet… that didn’t make him morally bankrupt. The words “temporarily insolvent” came into his head, bringing a wry smile top his lips. He still had a few good years left, and if he chose to use them wisely he could repay at least part of his debt. But he could never give back to Andi what he had taken away from her.

To do away with himself now — as a means of paying for his sins — was as tempting as any temptation life had thrown at him. But it was tempting for all the wrong reasons. It would be like the trick that those smarmy, crooked business corporations sometimes play: filing for Chapter 11 to duck their obligations towards workers, creditors and shareholders.

He knew that he had a duty to pay back what he had taken away from his victims. If he couldn’t pay it back to Andi, he could pay it back to others — helping some future potential victim before it was too late. He had thought, for many years, that he had repaid the debt already by standing up for “American values.” But paying tribute to American values — whatever that meant — didn’t expiate his sins or purge him of the guilt that he still carried. Whatever those ill-defined values were, they weren’t a model of perfection any more than those other political and religious systems that he had experimented with and that had left him so thoroughly disillusioned.

“American values” was just a convenient package deal that he had accepted wholesale to get back into the fold of public popularity.

All we can do, is go on striving for perfection, even if we can never reach it.

Some poet had said it before. And another had said that you can’t even dream if you’re dead.

But it was Gene who had really hit the nail on the head.

“We have a duty to ourselves go on living.”

To ourselves if we’re the victims.

And to others if we’re the victimizers.

He was both.

He turned away from the water and began walking slowly towards the flickering lights in the distance.

Content

David Kessler
No Way Out

Saturday, 4 July 2004 — 23:40

JUNE Friday, 5 June 2009 — 7:30

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 8:50

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 9:45

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 10:15

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 11:05

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 14:40

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 15:15

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 15:30

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 16:50

Friday, 5 June 2009 — 19:30

Saturday 6 June 2009 — 11:00

Friday 12 June — 9:40

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 10:30

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 13:00

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 14:30

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 15:40

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 16:30

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 18:10

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 19:45

Friday, 12 June 2009 — 21:15

Monday, 15 June 2009 — 13:00

Monday, 15 June 2009 — 16:35

Friday, 26 June 2009 — 11:20

Friday, 26 June 2009 — 12:05

JULY Wednesday 15 July 2009 — 12:40

Wednesday 15 July 2009 — 15:15

Wednesday, 15 July 2009 — 16:30

Wednesday, 15 July 2009 — 18:05

Thursday, 16 July 2009 — 16:20

AUGUST Monday, 17 August 2009 — 10:00

Monday, 17 August 2009 — 13:00

Monday, 17 August 2009 — 17:30

Monday, 17 August 2009 — 18:10

Monday, 17 August 2009 — 18:20

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 — 12:40

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 — 15:40

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 — 17:10

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 9:10

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 10:15

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 12:30

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 13:05

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 13:20

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 13:30

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 13:35

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 13:45

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 — 15:15

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 10:10

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:00

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:10

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:20

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:30

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:40

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:45

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:50

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 11:55

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 12:10

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 12:15

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 12:50

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 13:05

Thursday, 20 August 2009 — 13:30

Friday, 21 August 2009 — 10:20

Friday, 21 August 2009 — 12:30

Friday, 21 August 2009 — 14: 50

Friday, 21 August 2009 — 22:15

Saturday, 22 August 2009 — 09:00

Saturday, 22 August 2009 — 09:20

Saturday, 22 August 2009 — 09:30

Saturday, 22 August 2009 — 10:20

Monday, 24 August 2009 — 10:15

Monday, 24 August 2009 — 11:50

Monday, 24 August 2009 — 21:30

Tuesday, 25 August 2009 — 10:30

Wednesday, 26 July 2009 — 11:40

Wednesday, 26 July 2009 — 11:55

Wednesday, 26 July 2009 — 12:05

Wednesday, 26 July 2009 — 12:10

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 14:45

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 14:50

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 14:55

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 15:00

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 15:05

Wednesday, 26 August, 2009 — 18:00

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 20:30

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 21:05

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 21:30

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 21:35

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 21:40

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 — 22:30

Thursday, 27 August 2009 — 01:20

Thursday, 27 August 2009 — 10:50

Saturday, 29 August 2009 — 11:25

Sunday, 30 August 2009 — 13:50

SEPTEMBER Sunday, 30 September 2009 — 22:15

Monday, 31 August 2009 — 10:15

Monday, 31 August 2009 — 10:40

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 — 6:45

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 — 10:35

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 — 11:05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 9:20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 10:05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 10:35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 10:45

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 11:20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 11:35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 11:45

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 13:05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 13:20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 13:40

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 14:25

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 15:10

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 16:30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 16:55

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 17:20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 17:30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 17:45 PDT (20:45 EDT)

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:00

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:40

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:45

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:50

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 18:55

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:00

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:10

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:15

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:25

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:38

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:41

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:44

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:47

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:50

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:53

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 19:55

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 — 22:00