Lethal Legacy (7 page)

I ran her through a primer of DNA testing, more
familiar to Moffett than to Fine, who had a puzzled look on his face throughout
the entire direct.

“When you compare a suspect’s DNA profile to a
crime scene evidence sample, Doctor, what are the possible outcomes?”

“Traditionally, Ms. Cooper, we have had three
results. A match can be declared if you have thirteen loci in common—that is,
thirteen places on the chromosome at which the gene for a particular trait
resides,” Prinzer said, speaking slowly and looking at Fine as she spoke. “A
suspect can also definitively be excluded if genetic differences are observed.
The third option has been a finding of ‘inconclusive’ if we don’t have enough
information to make a positive determination.”

“Has the scientific community recently accepted a
fourth category?”

“Yes. We have begun to develop indirect genetic
kinship analyses, using the DNA of biological relatives, in humanitarian mass
disasters and for missing person identifications, situations in which we have
only small samples of genetic material. We try to compare those to DNA from
surviving relatives. In those instances, we’re usually working with partial
matches.”

“Can you explain to the court the meaning of the
term ‘partial match’?”

Moffett moved his chair closer to Prinzer.

“Certainly. When we look at the thirteen loci
needed to declare a match, there are two physical traits charted at every one
of them. You see them as peaks on the Avon case lab report Ms. Cooper provided
to you,” she said, as Moffett and Fine tried to find the corresponding page.
“These peaks—or alleles, as we call them—come in pairs, one from the mother and
one from the father.”

Moffett nodded as he listened.

“In a partial match, at each of the thirteen
critical loci, the profiles being compared have at least one allele in common.”

“You could see that on this paper?” the judge
asked, bending over the bench and holding out his report to Mattie.

“Oh, yes, Your Honor.” She held the report and
pointed to a pair of peaks. “Look right there. In our business, those graphics
really stand out.”

“And what do they tell you?” I asked.

“In the case of Kayesha Avon, we’ve got high-stringency
matches to Jamal Griggs at eleven of the thirteen loci on his sample. So I know
I’m
not
looking at the DNA of the person who contributed the crime scene
sample, but in all likelihood I’m staring at the genetic profile of someone
closely related to him. Probably Jamal’s full sibling.”

Probably Wesley the Weasel.

“Has the partial-match technique been used to
solve any crimes, to your knowledge?”

“Familial searches have been used with great
success in the United Kingdom and Wales,” Prinzer said, citing the cases of
child predator Jeffrey Gafoor, serial murderer Joseph Kappen, and James Lloyd,
the notorious shoe fetish rapist of Rotherham. “In this country, in 2005, the
process exonerated a North Carolina man who’d been incarcerated for eighteen
years and identified the killer who’d left his DNA on cigarette butts at the
crime scene.”

“Does the FBI provide information on partial
matches, Dr. Prinzer?”

“Not as of this time, Ms. Cooper. My colleagues
and I are required to submit a request for the release of the information
sought, along with the statistical analysis used to conclude that there may be
a potential familial relationship between the suspected perpetrator and the
offender.”

“Have you prepared the statistical analysis in the
matter of Kayesha Avon?”

“Yes, I have. To begin with, Justice Department
figures confirm that fifty-one percent of prison inmates in this country have
at least one close relative who has also been incarcerated,” she said. “And in
this case, the donor of the crime scene semen shares twenty of the twenty-six
alleles with Jamal Griggs.”

“Can you tell us what that means, Dr. Prinzer,
with a reasonable degree of scientific certainty?”

“Yes, I can. It means that we’re looking for
Jamal’s biological brother. For his full sibling—same mother, same father. I
believe that’s whose semen was in Kayesha Avon’s vaginal vault.”

I concluded my questioning and watched as Eli Fine
wrangled with Mattie Prinzer. Prosecutors and members of the criminal defense
bar took courses in DNA advances every six months to keep current with the
technology. The Weasel must have thought his high-priced mouthpiece could bluff
his way through opposing the search warrant application, but Fine was in over
his head.

Moffett watched Fine struggle for half an hour.
Finally the judge stood up and twisted his ring as he began to talk. “Let me
help you out here, son.”

“Judge, I’m perfectly capable of—”

“Sit down, Mr. Fine. I’ve got some questions of my
own.”

Moffett waited until the young man took his seat
next to Griggs. “So, Doc, the FBI releases only perfect matches, am I right?”

“Yes, you are.”

“But in New York—you’re satisfied these partial
matches are useful?”

“We’re one of the few states that generates them,
along with Virginia and Florida. Many more allow law enforcement agencies from
other jurisdictions to go into their databases if probable cause is
established. We believe kinship searches have an enormous potential to solve
crimes, to increase database hits by more than twenty percent all over the
country.”

“Let me ask you this, Doctor. You know how many
brothers Jamal Griggs has?”

I tried to keep a poker face. Moffett was a
sleeper, sometimes coming alive mid-trial to hit on the one question that
either the assistant DA or defense counsel had overlooked. He’d just handed
Fine a gift.

Mattie Prinzer turned her head to the judge. “I
have absolutely no idea.”

“Step down, Doctor. You know the answer to that,
Alexandra?”

“No, sir.”

“This Wesley character, is he the only one?”

“I don’t believe so, Your Honor.”

Moffett snapped his fingers at the court officer
nearest the side door of the courtroom. “Get me Chapman.”

In less than a minute, Mike walked back into the
room.

“You’re still under oath, Detective. Have you ever
met Mama and Papa Griggs, Chapman?”

“Mrs. Griggs is dead, Your Honor. I have spent
some time with Jamal’s father, Tyrone.”

“And how many little Griggses did they produce?”

“Six children, sir. They have six grown sons.”

Eli Fine had one of the biggest shit-eating grins
I had ever seen spread across his face.

“Where are they, Chapman, the other four?” Moffett
was waving his arm in large circles, swinging the sleeve of his robe as he did.

“Tyrone Junior lives right here in Manhattan. The
other three don’t check in at home very often.”

“How many of the Griggses’ sons have rap sheets?”

“Two that I know of, sir,” Mike said. “Just Jamal,
and then Wesley took a few misdemeanor collars for drugs, before he moved his
operation to the coast. None of those were designated for databank entry.”

“Let me make it clear, Your Honor,” I said. “We’d
be more than pleased to take a swab from each one of Jamal’s brothers. We
happen to know where Wesley is, and we know he has a history of criminal
behavior.”

Harlan Moffett snapped his fingers again and
pointed at the court reporter. “Take a break, Shirley.”

The portly middle-aged woman clasped her hands
over her stomach.

“You believe in this stuff, Chapman?” Moffett
asked. “These familial searches?”

Mike smiled at the judge. “I do.”

“You understand what she’s talking about, with
these peaks and alleles and locusts?” Moffett said, aiming his pinky ring at
Mattie Prinzer.

“
Loci,
Your Honor. Soft
c.
Couldn’t
be easier,” Mike said, grinning at Jamal Griggs. “It all comes down to a simple
rule of law: Don’t do the crime if your brother’s doing time.”

“Hear that, Jamal?” the judge asked before turning
to Eli Fine. “And your objection to Ms. Cooper’s request?”

“Ms. Cooper’s plan is a violation of the Fourth
Amendment rights of every single citizen whose DNA is in the California
database. It’s an impermissible invasion of privacy, an unreasonable search and
seizure.”

Someone in Fine’s office had prepped him to
regurgitate the key legal buzzwords for his argument.

“Convicted felons give up lots of rights. Who’s
your client, here? Jamal Griggs or Wesley?”

“Ms. Cooper’s made her application in the matter
of Kayesha Avon. I’m opposing it on behalf of Jamal Griggs, who has been
exonerated in this investigation. People who just happen to be related to
criminals haven’t given up their own privacy rights. It’s genetic surveillance,
Your Honor. It violates the Constitution.”

“So you’re protecting all the nuts and fruits in
California, are you? And you, Alexandra?”

“Suppose Detective Chapman and I were working on a
vehicular homicide case, a hit-and-run accident with an eyewitness who saw the
whole thing. She tells us the make and model of the car and remembers the first
three numbers of a six-digit tag. She gives us a partial plate.”

“Yeah?”

“Would you expect Chapman to just shrug his
shoulders and back off from the investigation, or would you expect him to go to
the DMV and search it for all the plates—every single one in existence—that
include the numbers he was given?”

“We’re not talking about license plates, Your
Honor,” Fine said. “We’re talking about human DNA. African Americans and
Latinos make up a disproportionate amount of the database entries in every
state, because of their representation in the criminal justice system.
This—this wild-goose chase targets minorities and indigents.”

“You’re not disputing that the science works,
then, are you?”

“I’m not conceding a thing. It’s an outrage that
Ms. Cooper thinks she can go through every name in the database.”

“There are no names in there, Judge,” I said. “The
forensic biologists can’t see any individual’s name in a database—every entry
has a numerical designation. If there is in fact a match between the samples,
then the techs have to call the state’s CODIS administrator to get the person’s
name. The identity protections are all in place.”

Harlan Moffett stroked his chin again. “You got
any plans to invite Wesley home for Thanksgiving, Jamal? Make it easy for me?”

Jamal Griggs stared Moffett down.

“Tell you what, Mr. Fine. I’ll take the matter
under consideration. I’ll have a decision on this by early next week.”

“I assumed you’d rule on this from the bench, Your
Honor. I’ve got to go back to California in the morning.”

“The State’s waited eight years to figure this
out. So they’ll wait a few more days. You will, too. Tell Wesley to behave
himself this weekend.”

Jamal Griggs cocked his head at his lawyer and
slammed his open hand on the table.

“I told you, Mr. Griggs,
E Pluribus Unum.
Mr. Fine can’t be here, I’ll appoint one of the Baxter Street boys to represent
you,” Moffett said, referring to the court-appointed lawyers who hung out in
street-front offices across from the Tombs. “Suit yourself, Mr. Fine. It’s in
your client’s best interest—well, it might be—if you show up for him.”

The Weasel was paying good money to keep our noses
out of the California database, and Jamal was clearly not interested in
disappointing him.

SIX

I left the courtroom with my two witnesses and
went back to the office to drop off my papers, eat the sandwich that Laura had
ordered in, and explain to her that Mike and I were going to pay a visit to
Tina Barr.

There was no traffic on the northbound FDR Drive, so
Mike had us on the Upper East Side in twenty minutes, shortly before two
o’clock in the afternoon.

Mercer was waiting in an unmarked car almost
directly across the street from Barr’s brownstone, and Mike continued on until
he found a place to park closer to the corner of Lexington Avenue.