Injustice (31 page)

Now, the first real day of trial, I look at these twelve jurors and two alternates. They're curious and nervous and eager to do the right thing. Each of them thinks of himself or herself as more insightful, more ethically balanced, and more earnest than the other thirteen. Each of them either pays attention to no news at all or only to national news. They know what DNA is but have no training in either human genetics or forensic science. They believe themselves capable of understanding a discussion of probabilities. And they all claim to be able to judge someone on the evidence regardless of the way the person looks.

Among the fourteen of them, there are five college degrees, one graduate degree (fisheries management), two GEDs, six women, eight men, three African-Americans, three retirees, no Asians, two
Hispanics, four divorcées, no Native Americans, four of predominantly northern European descent, four of predominantly southern European descent, one of Eastern European descent, no Australians or South Pacific Islanders, no Scandinavians, one stamp collector, five with some degree of obesity, two with health concerns that could require brief absences from the courtroom, one who confesses to a drinking problem, two who work in retail, one in food service, two in office work, two in construction, building trades, or labor, none in factory work, none in health professions, two unemployed, and two in management.

Gregory gives his opening statement: The state will prove that Henry Tatlock kidnapped and killed Kyle Runion.

Monica gives her opening: The defense will prove he didn't.

Gregory and I are getting along okay because a few days ago I declined my seat at the prosecutor's table. He doesn't have to worry about my elbowing in on his moment in the spotlight, and I don't have to worry about putting up with his suffocating self-aggrandizement. Though I'm sitting in the gallery, as far as the judge is concerned, I'm allowed into the club anytime there's a conference between judge and lawyers.

Gregory's first witness is a police detective from Orchard City, where Kyle Runion lived. He talks about getting the call regarding a minor who was several hours late getting home from school, and about mobilizing the missing child response procedure, and about how his department pulled out all stops trying to find Kyle. Gregory does a good job directing the detective through all this, eliciting a description of the urgency and emotion when a child goes missing, and I find myself picturing the whole thing. I picture police cars screeching up in front of the house and the school and the bus stop. I see tracking dogs hurried to the scene and given items of Kyle's to sniff. I picture high-intensity lights set up in the field to look for clues, I see detectives and officers hurrying in and out of the Runion home without knocking and without wiping their muddy shoes on
the mat. I see Kyle's parents sitting in shock at the kitchen table as relatives and friends arrive. I picture cops knocking on the doors of friends, teachers, and neighbors.

I feel the chill. Sitting there in the courtroom imagining all this, knowing how it ends, I ache to steer it differently.

Gregory doesn't keep the witness long. He just wanted to lay the foundation. But on cross-examination, Monica Brill has other ideas. “Remind us how many years ago the events you described took place,” she says.

“About eight years ago,” the detective says.

“And why is it just coming to trial now?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

Monica keeps working on this, and by the time the detective leaves the witness box, he has told us he believed for years that it was Daryl Devaney who killed Kyle Runion, not Henry Tatlock, whom he'd never heard of until a month ago.

Gregory's second witness is Kyle's mother. She gives a wrenching testimony. Many in the courtroom, including jurors, are unable to hold back tears. When Gregory finishes with the witness, Monica stands up and says, “Mrs. Runion, I'm so very sorry for your loss. I have no questions, Your Honor.” She dabs her eyes with a tissue and sits down.

Gregory calls John Farquar, the DNA expert from the state crime lab. He's the one who headed up analysis of the samples once they were retrieved from the FBI. Explaining DNA to laypeople can be tricky, but this guy is good. First Gregory runs him through his credentials: PhD in molecular genetics, fellow of the American College of Medical Genetics, diplomate in forensic biology, author of fifty-seven peer-reviewed articles in genetics and forensic science. Et cetera. Farquar's credentials are bulletproof. Now Gregory leads
him through the most basic explanation of genetic analysis. From my perspective as a trial lawyer, watching these two in direct examination is like watching an Olympic couples figure-skating team. Gregory feeds him just the right question at just the right time for Farquar to respond with a lucid explanation that uses enough jargon to give the jurors the thrill of feeling on the inside without ever going over their heads.

MR. NATIONS:
So what I hear you saying, Doctor, is that we can ignore the entire molecular structure of the DNA except for these “base pairs,” as you call them.

DR. FARQUAR:
Correct.

MR. NATIONS:
And there are four bases that make up these base pairs, represented by the letters C, G, T, and A?

DR. FARQUAR:
Right. It helps me to think about Morse code. With only two symbols, dot and dash, the early telegraph operators could transmit twenty-six letters and ten numerals, and from there they could spell out all the works of literature ever created. Now consider that in the human genome, there are four symbols instead of two. And there are three billion base pairs. That is how we can have the staggering diversity in humanity. You know, Mr. Nations, people often ask me whether the scientific structure of DNA supports a creationist or an evolutionary view of life. And I always answer, “Both.” It is equally miraculous whether you believe it originates with the good Lord Himself, or through endless millennia of trial and error.

Gregory asks about the DNA recovered from the Runion remains. Dr. Farquar says they were good samples, and the degradation
due to weather and exposure was minimal. Gregory asks about the probability that the DNA of someone not responsible for the semen and hair at the crime scene would match the sample.

“I think you're asking about what we call the RMP, or the random match probability,” Farquar says. “This is the probability that a person selected at random, and whose racial heritage matches the perpetrator, will have the same DNA profile. In this instance, the RMP is about one in one hundred and fifty billion.”

MR. NATIONS:
Okay, Doctor, so after you've isolated a subject's DNA from the evidence and performed the “electrophoresis,” as you've called it, how then do you find out whose DNA it is?

DR. FARQUAR:
Well, we have a database of—

“Objection,” Monica says. She isn't loud or emphatic. She doesn't bother getting to her feet. Her objection was anticipated.

Judge Ballard has the jury removed, and then he says, “I'll meet with counsel in my chambers.”

“All rise,” the clerk says.

“Wait,” Henry says. It is the first sound I've heard from him since his outburst at the arraignment, and his voice has startling authority.

“Mr. Tatlock?” the judge says.

“I want to be present for the conference in chambers,” he says.

Monica is clearly surprised, but I can see she's ready to make sure he gets his way.

The judge hesitates. The request is unusual, and superior court judges aren't in the habit of inviting murdering pedophiles into the inner sanctum of their jurisprudential brain vault. It will require chaining Henry again and leading him like livestock into the judge's private office, which, with its dark wood and profusion of bookshelves and elegant carpet, resembles the library of an English lord (I'm guessing) more than a prisoner's holding cell. Still, it could be argued that Henry has a right to be present while Gregory and Monica argue over how much the jury gets to hear about why Henry
Tatlock's DNA profile happens to be in a database of convicted violent offenders. “Mr. Tatlock,” the judge says, “it's just a chambers conference, off the record. It would be out of the ordinary for—”

Henry interrupts: “Isn't the persecution of an assistant U.S. attorney itself out of the ordinary?”

“I think the word you're after, Mr. Tatlock,” the judge says, “is ‘prosecution.' ”

“You use your word, I'll use mine,” Henry answers. His voice is sharp and angry, which probably isn't the best way to speak to the guy who has such power over your life or death. This infuriates me, and I think,
How dare he?
How dare he feel entitled to his petulance? If I hated him a moment ago, now I hate him a hundredfold. Until now I held on to the idea that the Henry whom Lydia was in love with, the one who was my colleague, friend, and perhaps protégé, was a Jekyll and Hyde—that there was a man of integrity tragically shackled to a monster he couldn't control. I could have had compassion for that Henry. I wouldn't want him free in society, I wouldn't want him to escape the consequences of his crimes, but the idea of him would have been easier for me to live with into the future. If there were, in fact, a
good
Henry, then he could join Lydia and Kyle Runion and (to a lesser extent) Tina, Barn, Lizzy, and me as a victim of that monster who shared his body. I could grieve for him and someday forgive myself for being so blind to the enemy in our midst. But now he has shown us that there are not two Henrys. There is only one: Henry the murderer. And like all the other sociopaths and psychopaths, he dares to feel indignant. He dares to flip this case on its head and imply it is
we
who do an injustice to
him
by removing his rotten, stinking existence from our midst.

In the lines of Monica's face, I can see that she is furious with him. She would probably walk away right now if she could.

Judge Ballard stares at Henry a few moments, deliberating, I assume, whether to vent his own outrage at this smug prick of a defendant. He doesn't. “Well, vocabulary aside, Mr. Tatlock, I'll honor your request. We'll stand in recess while the bailiff clears the courtroom. We'll have our conference right here.”

It is a judicious decision. Spectators and court personnel are shooed out, leaving only the judge, lawyers, and bailiffs.

Henry points at me and says, “What about him?”

It is the first time our eyes have met since I hurried Tina and Barn away from him moments before the FBI took him down as he pulled the two canoes up onto the sand. I don't know what he sees in my face right now, whether I'm as transparent as he, but the look I get from him is one of sheer, unadulterated abhorrence.

I
t is a windowless courtroom with five rows of benches for the spectators. The jury box, witness box, and judge's bench are all made of maple, the carpet is tan, and the lighting is subdued and recessed. I can hear the sound system crackle.