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  Nate blinked. “Isn’t that a big deal?”

  “Not as big as it might seem,” Sofia said. “The police only use the databases to find suspects. When they arrested Brandon, they took a fresh DNA sample and they tested it. What’s going to matter at trial is whether that sample matches the crime-scene sample. Whether either sample matches Brandon’s profile in the database is basically irrelevant.”

  “But at the PX, Harkin relied on the match between the database profile and the crime-scene DNA,” Nate objected.

  “Yeah, because she didn’t have the results from the testing of Brandon’s post-arrest sample,” Sofia explained. “Once she had those, that’s what she used. Her report doesn’t rely on the database profile at all.”

  It still bothered Nate, but he followed her logic. Maybe this was just another instance of him not being used to how criminal cases worked. “Thank you for the explanation,” he said. “Please go on, Dr. Byrd.”

  Byrd nodded. “So we’ve got clear matches at nine loci and clear mismatches at two. That leaves another two. Janet Harkin found matches on both of those, but she had to stretch. It’s not unusual for the alleles from the same person to differ just a tiny bit on one locus, but there were two here. Also, the differences were a little too large for these to really be called matches.”

  Nate leaned back, considering what Byrd had said. “I’m surprised. I thought DNA evidence was an exact science.”

  Byrd shook his head. “Not really. If you’ve got a good DNA sample and a strong match, the little inaccuracies and gray areas don’t matter. But they do in a case where things aren’t clear—like this one. I mean, I completely understand why this was a hard one for her. On the one hand, she had alleles at nine loci line up perfectly, and that just doesn’t happen by chance. A-hundred-and-thirteen-billion-to-one odds, right? But on the other hand, the alleles at two loci are off—not by a lot, but it’s not really accurate to call them matches. And the alleles at the final two loci don’t match at all. That puts her in a tough spot.”

  Sofia nodded. “And it’s tougher because she works with the DA’s Office all the time. Those guys are her friends and colleagues. Plus, she knows that the police found the knife near Brandon’s apartment building. There was a lot of pressure on her to find a match.”

  “When a DNA examiner has to make judgment calls, subjectivity and bias become problems,” Byrd agreed. “That is a known problem.”

  “Has anyone ever studied that—the extent to which bias is a problem in DNA testing?” Nate asked.

  Sofia nodded. “Yep. There was a study a few years ago. Some researchers sent two DNA profiles out to seventeen DNA examiners and asked whether they matched. One said yes, twelve said no, and four said the results were inconclusive.”

  “Interesting,” Nate said.

  “And here’s the most interesting part,” Sofia said, leaning forward. “The samples came from a real case. The prosecution’s DNA expert testified that there was a match, and the guy was convicted. Without the DNA evidence, he probably would have walked.”

  Nate shook his head in disbelief. “How did that happen? If sixteen out of seventeen experts didn’t find a match, how could the jury have found guilt beyond a reasonable doubt?”

  “The study was done after the trial was over, so the jury never heard about it,” she said. “As to how the prosecution’s expert could find a match . . .” She shrugged. “The expert knew that another defendant had turned state’s witness and testified against this guy. And the expert was being paid by the government. Neither of those factors should have affected the DNA analysis, of course, but it sure looks like they did.”

  “Yes, it does,” Nate said. “And it also looks like we may have a similar case. Have you ever tried citing that study to a judge?”

  She nodded wearily. “We’ve brought it up half a dozen times. We’ve never gotten much traction—but then, we’ve never had an independent expert testifying that there was no match. The best we’ve been able to do in the past was argue that the random-match odds given by the prosecution were wrong.”

  Nate looked at Byrd. “Dr. Byrd, what do you think? Is there a match or isn’t there? I confess that I had some trouble following the section of your report where you described your conclusions.”

  “Umm . . .” Byrd looked down at his report, flipping through the pages. Then he picked up the prosecution’s report and stared at the DNA profiles for a long moment. Nate was about to prompt him when he appeared to reach a decision. He looked up. “Well, the chances of a random match across nine loci are really low—and they’re even lower across ten or eleven loci. But there’s no credible explanation for the mismatch on the other two loci. There just isn’t.”

  Reading Byrd’s report, Nate had the impression that Byrd was much more comfortable pointing out the flaws in the prosecution’s DNA analysis than taking a firm stand of his own. That impression had just gotten stronger. “Thank you, Dr. Byrd. As I understand it, there are three bottom-line conclusions a DNA analysis can reach: the two samples match, they don’t match, or the results are inconclusive. I didn’t see any of those three conclusions clearly set out in your report. Which one would you say applies here?”

  Byrd took a deep breath. “This is just a really tough case to pigeonhole like that. But if I had to do that—and I understand why you’d need me to at trial—I’d have to say that the samples don’t match.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Byrd. Those are all the questions I had. Sofia, did you have anything further?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Thanks for coming in, Hy. I’ll walk you out.”

  She and Byrd left. Nate drank more coffee while he waited for her to return. As he sipped the strong brew, he pondered what to do about Byrd.

  Sofia walked back in and plopped into a chair. “So, what did you think?”

  “He reached the right conclusion, but there’s too much Hamlet in him.”

  She laughed and nodded. “Yeah, you had to practically cross-examine him to get him to give the opinion we need. If he agonizes and equivocates on the stand like that, we’re dead.”

  “He’ll need a lot of prep—if we use him. Have you looked into other options?”

  “I did. Unfortunately, he’s our best bet. All the other good experts are either too busy or more cautious than he is. This may be hard to believe, but Hy has always been on the aggressive side. I’ve even had to ask him to dial it back a couple of times because he wanted to say something that wasn’t one hundred percent supported by the evidence.”

  Nate sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to do the best we can with him, then. But we can’t build our case on him. This may be a DNA case from the prosecution’s perspective, but not from ours. We need to have a story to tell the jury. We have to address the DNA evidence, of course, but the story won’t be about that.”

  Sofia leaned back in her seat and folded her arms. “Okay, what’s our story about?”

  Nate thought for a moment. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “Maybe it’s about how someone else murdered Linc Thomas. Or maybe it’s about how obviously impossible it is for Brandon to be the killer. Ideally, it would be about both. But we won’t know the story until we know more of the facts.”

  “Which means we need to talk to Jade Li again,” Sofia said. “I’ll get on it.”

  Nate didn’t like the idea of working with Jade to build their case, but they might not have a choice. “Good luck.” He paused for a moment. “And while you do that, I’ll have someone look into why the database profile didn’t match Brandon’s post-arrest sample. I know a guy who’s good at that sort of thing.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Kevin’s phone rang, and Nate’s name and number appeared on the screen. Kevin frowned. He liked talking to Nate and knew he should take the call, but he was busy. He wanted to let the call go into voicemail and finish what he was doing, but Steve had said it was important for him to “practice transitions.”

  He reluctantly picked up the phone and answ
ered. “Hello, Nate. How are you today?”

  “I’m fine, Kevin. How are you?”

  “I’m also fine. I was building a model of the Antikythera Mechanism.”

  “The what?”

  “The Antikythera Mechanism,” Kevin repeated. “It’s the oldest computer in the world. The ancient Greeks used it to calculate dates and astronomical events. I’m trying to make a functional model of it out of Lego. I am working on the solar gears now.”

  “That sounds very interesting. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  “Please be more precise.”

  Nate chuckled, though Kevin hadn’t made a joke. “I should have known better than to say that to you. Do you have time for a conversation that I estimate will take approximately fifteen to twenty minutes?”

  Kevin looked longingly at the half-finished model in front of him. His fingers itched to get back to building, but there was no real reason why he couldn’t talk to Nate for twenty minutes. “Yes.”

  “Thank you. I actually have a computer question for you.”

  Kevin nodded. People often had computer questions for him. “What is your question?”

  “What could cause changes in a DNA profile stored in a database maintained by a law-enforcement agency?” Nate asked.

  “Someone might have changed it. The other main possibility is data corruption due to a faulty software upgrade. What changes were made to the profile?”

  “Some numbers in it may have been changed,” Nate said. “We’re not really sure.”

  “But the profile is still readable? You can still access it and read the data?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Then it is likely that someone changed the data.” Kevin was now intrigued. “Why would someone change this profile? Are you trying to catch a criminal?”

  “I’m trying to get an innocent man out of jail, but we may catch a criminal in the process.”

  Kevin had always wanted to catch a criminal. A real criminal, not just a harmless hacker who happened to have violated some nonsensical cybersecurity rule. He wandered away from the partially built model, now fully absorbed in his conversation with Nate. “Tell me everything you know about this database.”

  CHAPTER 39

  The video ended. Cole took a deep breath and stared at the blank screen for a moment, thinking. Then he picked up his phone and dialed Billy Chen.

  “Have you seen the video?” Cole asked when Billy picked up.

  “What video?”

  “The security-camera video from Tassajara. Remember that incident with Brandon Ames last week?”

  “You’ve got the video of that?” Billy asked.

  “I got it from a source at the jail,” Cole said. “Come on over and I’ll show it to you.”

  “On my way.”

  A moment later, Billy walked through the door and flopped down in a chair. “Okay, let’s see it,” he said.

  Cole turned to his computer and clicked the “Replay” button, then moved out of the way so Billy could see.

  The video opened with a grainy view of the mostly empty jail yard. There was no sound. About half a dozen prisoners were doing organized exercises at the bottom of the screen, directed by another prisoner, who walked up and down in front of them shouting instructions like a drill sergeant. A few others were standing around, and a prisoner in the upper right-hand corner of the screen was doing push-ups. A man leaned against the wall next to him.

  “That’s Ames,” Cole said, pointing to the guy doing push-ups.

  The prisoner who seemed to be in charge of the group at the bottom glanced toward Ames and the man leaning against the wall. Then he tapped one of the men in his group. The man took something out of his shoe and got up.

  “That’s Hector Garcia,” Cole said. “He just pulled out a razor-blade shiv.”

  Garcia walked toward Ames, keeping out of his line of sight. Ames didn’t seem to notice him. When Garcia was a few yards from Ames, he bolted forward and jumped on Ames’s back.

  The two men struggled on the ground for a few seconds, and it was difficult to see what was happening. The other prisoners all stopped what they were doing and watched. The man who had been leaning on the wall near Ames edged away from the fight.

  The combatants separated. Ames rolled to his feet while Garcia stayed on his knees, clutching his right wrist, which fountained blood. The men at the bottom of the screen started running toward the fight. Ames delivered a sledgehammer punch to the back of Garcia’s head, and Garcia collapsed to the ground. Then Ames turned toward the camera.

  Billy muttered an oath, and Cole didn’t blame him. Even though he had seen the video before, he winced. Ames’s face and the front of his shirt were covered in Garcia’s blood. There was a wild look in his eyes and he had something in his hand that he held like a weapon.

  “He took away Garcia’s shiv and used it to slash his wrist,” Cole explained.

  Ames didn’t run from the men coming toward him. He appeared to shout at them and then stood waiting—feet offset and a little wider than shoulder width, shoulders slightly hunched, right hand in front with the shiv, left hand up and ready to block a punch or kick. The basic “ready” stance of a trained fighter.

  Garcia’s friends stopped a few feet from Ames. It looked like he said something else to them. Then guards came running in from the left side of the screen. Ames stayed in his stance and kept his eyes on his opponents until there were guards between them. Then he stood up straight and dropped the shiv. The video ended.

  Cole swiveled to face Billy. “What do you think?”

  Billy shook his head slightly. “I think I’d hate to meet him in a dark alley.”

  “Which is exactly where Linc Thomas met him.”

  “Yep. And after watching that . . .” Billy nodded toward the monitor. “Well, it’s easy to see Ames as a killer.”

  “We just did,” Cole observed.

  “He certainly has the physical skills to murder Linc. I mean, that guy had the jump on Ames—literally—and he was bigger and stronger than Linc. And he was armed and Ames wasn’t. But twenty seconds later he’s bleeding out and Ames has his knife.”

  “Linc never would have stood a chance,” Cole said. “But is Ames an assassin, or did Linc get in a fight with him? Linc wasn’t always the most pleasant guy, especially when he’d been drinking. Plus, my contact at Tassajara says Ames has a temper.”

  “Coincidences do sometimes happen,” Billy said. “And we haven’t been able to tie Ames to Lan Long yet.”

  “I wish we could get inside Ames’s head,” Cole said.

  “I don’t think that’s a place we’d want to be.”

  CHAPTER 40

  March

  Brandon lay on the floor of his new cell, breathing in huge gasps. He had just finished ten sets of burpees, and he was exhausted. His arms and legs trembled and he was covered in sweat. The floor was cold and hard beneath him.

  He hated burpees, but his knuckles and feet bled from all the punches and kicks he had thrown at his wadded-up foam-rubber mattress, which he used as a makeshift punching bag. The red of the blood on his hands matched the red ad-seg uniform he now wore. He wondered whether that was intentional. Whether ad-seg prisoners were more likely to hurt themselves or others and were therefore given red uniforms that masked bloodstains.

  He wanted to just lie there, but he couldn’t. Not really. The anger and tension would build until he was ready to scream and start throwing things around his cell. So he worked out to the point of collapse and lay motionless until he fell asleep or the restless anger started to build again.

  He had tried reading, but nothing in the jail library held his interest. He would stare at the page, trying to focus on the words in front of his eyes. But inside his brain, the same cycle of thoughts kept shouting for his attention, drowning out the words from the book he was reading.

  The rage wouldn’t leave him alone. Rage at Tony Cruz, Hector Garcia, and the rest of Los Reyes for attacking him. Ra
ge at Mo for betraying him. Rage at Omar Sanchez for killing Dad when he rolled that dozer. Rage at Dad for hiring Omar and then getting himself killed. And most of all, rage at the system for throwing him in here for a crime he didn’t commit.

  Why did it happen? Why did God let any of it happen? It made no sense. None of it made any sense at all. Dad had been a good man doing good work. He was a strong and loving father. He provided well for his family, gave generously to charities, and was a pillar of the church. But still God killed him for no reason that Brandon could see. And in killing Dad, God hurt everyone who relied on him, who needed him. It had been agony to watch—Mom trying to be strong for Brandon, but crying whenever she didn’t think he was around; Dad’s business being dismembered and sold off; the men’s group at church that collapsed because Dad had been its heart and soul. Brandon had started drinking to numb the pain, but that only made things worse.

  And just as he and Mom had started to put the pieces of their lives back together, boom! This happened. One minute he was studying for a final, the next he was listening to his Miranda rights while a cop slapped handcuffs on him. It made even less sense than Dad’s death. At least Brandon could understand how his father’s careless generosity and Omar Sanchez’s addiction made that happen. But this was incomprehensible. The odds against it were billions—maybe trillions—to one. It was like an evil miracle.

  He felt the anger rising up in him again, like a hungry black fire. He pushed himself up and walked over to the mattress. Heedless of the wounds on his hands, he threw punch after punch, leaving bloody marks with each blow.

  CHAPTER 41

  Nate’s desk phone rang, and he immediately recognized Sofia’s number. He was alone and his door was closed, so he took the call. “Hi, Sofia. What’s up?”

  “I was on the phone with the warden’s office over at Tassajara, checking in on some of my clients. I asked about Brandon Ames, and it turns out there are a couple of developments.”