Untitled (27 page)

  "The RFLP test is accurate to one in a billion, Your Honor," said Leslie Reed, coming to the podium. "This PCR business is only one in a hundred. That leaves too much opportunity for chance, error, and mistake. The test of prejudice versus probity is more than a catch phrase. It is the essence of the evidence rules, the unstated test for all evidence. So, it's vital that we understand what we're talking about here. A one in a hundred chance of a mistake. That's roughly the odds of a car accident, or bumping into an old friend. Would any of us stake our lives on those odds? I don't think so. The nature of evidentiary prejudice is that there is no balancing factor of fairness to the evidence in question. You balance this limited test against the power of the term DNA, science with a capital
S,
and a jury cannot help but be prejudiced by the comparison. We are not asking the court to part the Red Sea. We are merely requesting that Your Honor place a higher worth on the sanctity of a man's life than on this dubious and soon to be outdated analysis. I invite the court to read Slough, Trautman and McCormick's analysis of this theory. For this reason, we ask that Your Honor invalidate the test and exclude the evidence, or at the very least grant us a special hearing on the matter to determine this issue."

  Marshall saw that Roberta seemed dazed. She was good when she had research, but weak when it came to thinking on her feet. Finally, Marshall saw the value of Leslie Reed. She was a legal theorist, a lawyer who challenged the essence of the rules with simple logic and reason, which were the building blocks of all law. He was impressed and noticed the broad smile on Rashad's face. If the judge was sufficiently impressed by her theoretical argument, he might just be attracted to the idea of creating law, giving the defendant an instant issue on appeal and making the fight over the DNA test a small trial-within-a-trial. He had to counter her argument with one that was just as attractive to the judge.

  Marshall rose and went to rescue Roberta. "Ms. Reed's point is well taken," said Marshall, "but contained within it is its fatal weakness. If PCR is so shaky, as she says, then isn't that reasonable doubt itself? Can't she sway a jury with the failings of the test, and doesn't the defendant win in that fashion? If PCR is not good enough, then a jury will see that, and their client will go free. And I remind Your Honor that rule 403 also empowers a judge to protect against prejudice by giving a limiting instruction on the evidence in question."

  "I've heard enough," said Langworthy.

  The lawyers sat down. Roberta whispered a "thank you" to Marshall, who returned the favor.

  "We're all very clever here today," said Langworthy. "But the law is clear on this. PCR is valid and was the only method available to the government. I will neither invalidate its use, nor will I diminish its worth in the criminal justice system. The defense will get the chance to challenge the process, and I will keep in mind that an instruction to the jury might suf fice as protection for the defendant, if in fact any protection is warranted. The DNA test results will be admitted."

  Langworthy gaveled and left the courtroom. The bailiffs came for Mbutu, and he went into another fit of violent coughing. Rashad seemed concerned and helped Mbutu out of the courtroom.

  "Is he okay?" asked Walter to no one in particular.

  "He's got some kind of bug," said Marshall. "Prison is not the most sanitary place on earth."

  "What the fuck was that just now?" asked Ryder. "That was sloppy."

  "I apologize," said Marshall. "I forgot the rest of the argument. But it was clear that the judge was going to rule in our favor."

  "You know that's never clear," said Ryder. "If Roberta hadn't interceded, the judge had an open door to rule against us or at the very least give them a hearing that would embarrass us."

  "Marshall saved the motion," said Roberta. "And it's our job to watch his back."

  "Come on guys," said Walter. "We don't need to do this."

  "He's right," said Marshall. "Bob is right. I blew it and it's inexcusable. We can't take chances on a liberal judge like Langworthy." Marshall paused a moment to make sure they were all listening to him. "I think you all have a right to know this. I'm having some trouble at home. My marriage is—well, it's probably over."

  The others all reacted as he knew they would, with sorrow and compassion. Bob Ryder seemed particularly embarrassed by the confession.

  "So I want you to know that I appreciate your help today, but from now on, I'll be at full strength. The pressures of the case just derailed me for a moment."

  "We can all understand," said Ryder. "Jesus man, I didn't know."

  "It's okay," said Marshall. "It's no excuse for what happened here today. Let's go. We've got jury selection coming soon, and we'll all need to be on our game for that. They've hired a jury consultant, April Kelly out of Chicago."

"Damn," said Ryder. "How can they afford her?"

  "They can't," said Marshall. "She was one of Rashad's law students when he was teaching. Besides, this is a national case. She's advertising."

  They filed out of the courtroom and went back to their offices. Marshall tried to feel a little better about his situation as he sent everyone on their assignments.

  He returned to his office to find a note on his door that read: BRADBURY ON CSPAN. He turned on the TV and watched as Bradbury testified before the Senate. They asked all kinds of embarrassing and silly questions, trying to find which way he might vote on the issues.

  A senator from Georgia grilled him about a trade bill and how it might hamper American companies from becoming global. But Bradbury was a rock and didn't break. He answered the question, but didn't really give up an idea of how he might vote. He was going to make it, Marshall thought. The sonofabitch was going to the highest court in the land.

  Marshall soon grew tired of the questioning and turned on his VCR and popped in the tape of the assassination and watched it again. What was it about the way Douglas was hit that was so familiar? He watched it again and again, going over the exact moment of impact.

  He loosened his tie and tried to relax. He noticed a stack of phone messages on his desk. He rifled through them, but there was not one from Chemin. He was hoping that she would tell him where she was and that she'd calmed down from her anger. But there was nothing. There were five messages from Danny, though. The first of which said "Read the paper."

  Marshall had been so busy that he had not even looked at the day's paper. He took it out and opened it up. There on the front page was a picture of Danny under a caption: COP UNDER FIRE FOR BEATING.

* * *

Marshall sat across from Danny at a little café in Trapper's Alley. The place was crowded as usual.

Danny looked like his life was over. Maybe it was. The

man he had beaten had filed a ten-million-dollar suit against the city. The city had responded by cutting off Danny's pay and hanging him out to dry in the press.

  The terrible thing was that Danny didn't understand why it was happening. The lawyers were using race to ignite the fear of the politicians of the mostly black city government. And Danny, despite what he thought and believed in his heart, was a white man.

  "I don't believe this shit," said Danny.

  "It happens all the time," said Marshall. "They're using you to make a point."

  "Damn, I wouldn't care if he was white. I woulda done the same thing."

  "Danny, you are not a black man to the rest of the world. To me you are, but I don't count. I don't run the city and make my living serving a black constituency."

  "I can prove it. I can prove I'm not prejudiced. I'll get on the witness stand and I'll tell them where I'm from, what I've done my whole life."

  "That'll just make it worse," said Marshall. "The lawyers will just say you're mocking black people, trying to save your ass by assimilation. Look, this is some serious shit. These people will come at you with everything they have."

  "I know. But do you think people will believe it? Will they believe I'm a racist?"

  Marshall's heart was breaking for his friend. Danny was a white man who had been raised as a black one. In the process, he'd gained a love of a people and the power of their culture, but he'd lost something too. He didn't know just who he was. He was looking for some validation from his friend, and Marshall just couldn't bring himself to lie to him.

  "Yes, Danny, people might believe it. And not just because they don't know you, but because race is a weapon. Race clouds people's minds, and while they're angry about it, someone can steal the world from you."

  Danny looked like a lost kid for a moment. He hung his head as if ashamed, and fiddled with his hands like he didn't know what to do with them.

  "Vinny has to go back to work," he said. "And they took back my pay again."

  "I'm sorry, man."

  "And the goddamned reporters are all over my place."

  "Look, you can come and stay with me," said Marshall. "I've got plenty of room."

  "No offense," said Danny, laughing a little. "But I don't want to get into the middle of another war."

  "Chemin is—" Marshall's voiced trailed off. He didn't want to tell him Chemin was gone. Feebly he thought that if he didn't say it, it wouldn't be true. "I don't know where she is. She left me."

  Danny was shocked for only a second or two. Marshall could tell that Danny had seen this coming but was too nice to have ever said anything about it.

  "Dang," said Danny. "I'm sorry, man. Boy, what a pair we are, huh? Dumb and fuckin' dumber."

  "She came to my office and caught me with a coworker."

  "She busted you fucking someone?" Danny's eyes were wide. "Damn, I didn't think you had that in you."

  "I don't. Nothing happened, but we did get into the clinches a little."

  "What kind of clinches. What happened?"

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  "Come on, man, you know the rule."

  The rule Danny was referring to was the one that says a friend never hides anything from another friend. Danny had shared many embarrassing things with Marshall. It hurt but made the other friend feel important. Not even in his current pain could he deprive Danny of that.

  "We kissed," said Marshall. "And then she kinda went down on me."

  "Holy shit!" Danny almost yelled.

  "We didn't finish or anything, but that was bad enough."

  "Chemin walked in on you with your dick in some girl's mouth?"

  "She never saw that. I somehow managed to say no to her, but she did catch us fixing our clothes back."

  "Was there a fight?" asked Danny. He'd forgotten about his own troubles and wanted to know how his friend had fallen from grace.

  "There was no fight, but it was bad. Chemin demanded that I give her a baby or she'd leave me."

  Danny just rubbed his head and mumbled "Oh Lordy" over and over.

  "Well, of course I couldn't do it under those circumstances, so she walked out."

  "I told you when you married her, she was a piece of work."

  "You have no idea," said Marshall.

  "So, where is she?" asked Danny. "I hope nothing's happened to her. There's some crazy-ass people in Detroit."

  "I don't know. I've called her friends, but they say they don't know. I know they're lying, which makes me know she's okay."

  "So, you think she's gonna divorce you?" Danny suddenly sounded sad for his friend.

  "At least. But if I can just talk to her, I know I can get her to reconsider."

  "Do you want to?" asked Danny.

  "What?"

  "Maybe you should let it happen. You haven't been happy for a long time, man. Maybe this shit just ain't in the cards for y'all, you know what I'm sayin'? A muthafucka can't live his life worried about his woman all the time."

  "I know," said Marshall. "I know. It's been a struggle. A relationship is supposed to make life easier, not harder."

  "Look, man, I can't make that decision for you, but I will take you up on your offer, and I'll see if I can find her and make sure she's all right."

  "That would be good," said Marshall. "Just don't let her know you're doing it. That'll only make matters worse."

  "I'll be cool about it."

  Marshall gave Danny the key to his house. "Take this, go in, have a beer, and I'll be back later. I have to go now. There's a little murder trial I have to attend to."

  The two men hugged. Marshall walked to the People Mover, a local transit train that made a circuit of downtown Detroit on a raised tram. He waited at the station in Trapper's. Out of the window, he could see the streets of Greektown teeming with people. The smell of food filled the air.

  The train arrived and he heard the automated voice announce its destination. He got on the train and sat down. The train rolled off, moving out of Trapper's back toward the other side of downtown.

  He tried to think about anything but the case, trying to keep his mind occupied. A placard advertising a tribute to several actors stared down at him from the top of the car. THE KENNEDY CENTER HONORS the ad boasted.

  "Jesus," Marshall said out loud. Several people looked at him with surprise. One woman moved ever so slightly away from him. Danny was right about the city being full of crazies, and he had just acted like one.

  He got off at the financial center and hurried back to the office. He went through the material he'd gotten from Toby on American assassinations. He put in a tape and watched it, then he put in the tape of Douglas's murder on another monitor. It was a match. The familiarity of the killing had come from history. It was the Zapruder film that he had thought of. Douglas was shot in the torso and head in the exact same manner as President John F. Kennedy.