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  “Without comparing the entire DNA molecule, can you be sure of a match?”

  Harkin nodded firmly. “Yes. There’s a significant chance of a random match for the alleles at any single locus, but not for all thirteen. The odds vary depending on the locus, but overall there is roughly a seven percent chance that the alleles at any given locus will match. So the probability of a random one- or two-locus match is pretty high, but the odds of a random nine-locus match are about one in one hundred and thirteen billion. And the odds of a random match on all thirteen loci are under one in a trillion. I’m simplifying a fair amount—the odds can vary based on race and other factors.”

  “Does the FBI create statistical analyses of those odds?” Brown asked.

  “They do. The FBI maintains the Combined DNA Index System, or CODIS, which is a network of databases containing over fifteen million DNA profiles. The FBI has published statistical analyses of the odds of random matches under various scenarios.”

  “Okay. We’ll get to how those statistics work in this case in a little while. Before that, I’d like to talk about the DNA samples you tested here. First, the sample from the crime scene. Did you collect that sample?”

  “No. However, I have spoken with the crime-scene technician who collected it and reviewed her report.”

  Brown picked up an accordion folder from his table and pulled out a manila folder. He then took a small stack of documents out of the folder and handed one to Acuña. He walked across the courtroom and handed copies to the clerk and the witness. “I’m giving you what has been marked as People’s Exhibit Four. Is this the crime-scene-technician report that you just mentioned?”

  Harkin glanced at it briefly. “Yes.”

  “What did you learn from this and your conversation with the technician?”

  “The victim had material under the nails of his right hand. That material was removed using an evidence kit and then transported to the evidence locker, where it was logged in.”

  “Did you log it out and have it tested?”

  “Yes. I tested it and determined that it was a mix of skin and blood cells. The blood cells had usable DNA, from which I developed a profile. I then ran the profile through California’s DNA database, Cal-DNA. I also requested that the profile be run through CODIS.”

  “What were the results of those searches?”

  “They resulted in a match to the defendant.” Harkin flicked a quick gaze to Brandon.

  “When you say they resulted in a match, do you mean that all thirteen loci matched?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are the odds of a random thirteen-locus match?”

  “They are very, very low. As we discussed earlier, the odds would be less than one in a trillion.”

  “You said that was very rough. You mentioned earlier that the FBI releases statistical analyses on the odds of random matches in various scenarios. Did you use those analyses to come up with the odds of a random match specifically for this case?”

  “I did. I included that information in my report.”

  Brown pulled out another manila folder and took documents out of it. “Is this your report?” he asked after distributing copies to Acuña, the clerk, and the witness.

  “Yes. The statistical analysis is on page six. It shows that the odds of a random match in this case are no greater than one in 1.2 trillion.”

  “Does that mean that the blood cells found under Mr. Thomas’s fingernails almost certainly came from the defendant, Brandon Ames?”

  “Yes.”

  “No further questions.”

  The judge looked inquiringly at Brandon’s lawyer.

  “Just a few questions, Your Honor,” Acuña said as she stepped to the lectern. “Ms. Harkin, you’ve been talking about the odds of a match between the DNA found at the crime scene and the DNA profile you received from CODIS, correct?”

  The witness glanced at the report in her lap. “The match actually came from Cal-DNA, but yes, I was referring to the database profile.”

  “Thank you. Did you also test the sample taken from Mr. Ames after his arrest?”

  Harkin paused for an instant. “Yes, but the testing isn’t complete.”

  “I thought developing a profile typically only took a few days. Is that inaccurate?”

  Harkin hesitated again and looked at something on the back wall of the room. “Well, it normally is accurate, but the calibration on our lab equipment is being checked, which is causing delays.”

  Acuña paused for a heartbeat. “Okay. So you haven’t tested the sample taken from Mr. Ames, correct?”

  “The testing on that sample is not complete,” Harkin repeated.

  “If testing of the sample taken from Mr. Ames is not complete, how can you say that there is a match between his DNA and the DNA found at the crime scene?”

  “Because Mr. Ames’s DNA profile was already in the Cal-DNA database. That profile matched the profile of the DNA found at the crime scene.”

  “But you didn’t test the sample used to develop the profile in the Cal-DNA database, correct?”

  “No, but the sample was taken by the Santa Clara Sheriff’s Office and processed by the Santa Clara County Crime Lab, and I have the utmost confidence in their work.”

  The judge cleared his throat and glanced at the clock hanging on the courtroom wall. “Do you have much more, Counsel? We’ve been at this for a while.”

  “I’m almost done, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ms. Harkin, when will the testing of the sample taken from Mr. Ames be complete?” Acuña asked.

  “I’m not positive. The equipment will need to be checked again at the end of the recalibration process. Assuming it’s working properly, we’ll be able to start processing DNA samples.”

  “So we should have the results of the testing on the sample taken from Mr. Ames within the month?”

  “I can’t make any promises, but I would certainly like to think so.”

  Nate was a little surprised. Harkin had seemed like a strong witness, but she wasn’t handling cross-examination particularly well. She wasn’t making any big blunders, but the little things were starting to pile up. For example, saying she would “certainly like to” think something wasn’t the same thing as saying she did think it. In fact, that was the sort of thing witnesses tended to say when they didn’t think something.

  Acuña seemed to want to press the point further, but the judge glanced at the clock again. “No further questions,” she said.

  “Any redirect?” the judge asked Brown in a tone that clearly indicated that he hoped there wasn’t.

  The prosecutor stood slowly. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. Just one question. Ms. Harkin, is it your expert opinion that the DNA found under the victim’s fingernails matches the defendant’s DNA, even though testing on the confirmatory sample taken from the defendant is not yet complete?”

  She looked at the back wall again. “Yes.”

  “No further questions.”

  The judge turned to the witness. “Thank you, Ms. Harkin. You may step down.” While she was leaving the courtroom, he asked the prosecutor, “How many more witnesses do you have, Counsel?”

  “None, Your Honor,” Brown said, gathering his notes from the lectern. “The People rest.” He sat down at his table and glanced over at the defense table.

  The judge turned his watery gaze to Brandon’s attorney. “And the defense, how many witnesses do you have, Ms. Acuña?”

  She stood but didn’t move to the lectern. “The defense also rests.”

  Jessica gasped softly. Nate could hardly blame her. No witnesses? None? Acuña wasn’t going to put on any evidence at all?

  “Thank you both,” the judge said. “Based on the testimony and the physical evidence presented to me today, I find that the violation of Penal Code section 187 alleged in the complaint did take place. Specifically, Lincoln Thomas was murdered. Further, I find that the evidence establishes reasonable and sufficient grounds to
believe that the defendant, Brandon Ames, is guilty of Mr. Thomas’s murder. And he will be held to answer for it.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Jessica paced outside the courthouse, barely feeling the cold wind blowing off Lake Merritt. Little whitecaps sparkled in the winter sun. It was a pretty scene. Any other day, she would have wanted to buy a gingerbread latte and go for a brisk walk on the winding lakeshore path, but today all she could think about was the court hearing that just ended.

  She had so many questions for Nate. What had happened in there? She knew it was bad and that Brandon wasn’t getting out of jail anytime soon, but nothing else made sense. Why hadn’t the woman from the Public Defender’s Office put on any witnesses? What was all that gibberish about DNA? She had hardly followed any of it except that the bony blonde “criminalist” said that Brandon’s DNA was under the fingernails of that dead man. But that was impossible! Brandon was innocent!

  Wasn’t he?

  She pushed the question out of her mind and looked back up the courthouse steps. The door opened and Nate appeared. Finally.

  He jogged down the steps, an apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry, I had a few questions for the court clerk, and he was busy, so I had to wait a few minutes.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “The arraignment will be on December seventeen. That’s just a formal proceeding where Brandon’s lawyer will enter a plea. There’s no trial date yet, but the clerk thought it would be next August or September.”

  “What about bail? Can we at least get him out of jail?”

  He shook his head. “This is a capital case, at least in theory. That means Brandon has no right to bail. The judge has discretion to grant bail anyway, but he refused.”

  A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the cold wind. Brandon was going to be in jail for the next nine or ten months? What would happen to him in there?

  “Why will it take so long to get a trial?” she asked.

  Nate looked surprised. “Actually, I was amazed that the case would go to trial that fast. Most of my cases take at least a couple of years, usually longer.”

  “Wow, I had no idea.”

  “The wheels of justice turn with majestic deliberation,” he said. “Except, apparently, in criminal court.” He paused and shook his head slightly. “Both sides are going to have a lot on their plates and not much time to get it done.”

  “Can she do it?” Jessica asked. “Brandon’s public defender, I mean. Can she do a good job for him?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, and her heart sank like a stone. Her face must have betrayed her feelings, because a look of compassion came into his blue eyes. “That’s not really a yes/no question,” he said. He nodded toward the lake. “What do you say we go for a walk and talk about it? That trail runs around the whole lake. It’s pretty nice, and I bet we’ll have it to ourselves.”

  “Okay.” Another gust of wind buffeted them, catching her open coat. She pulled it around herself and shivered.

  “We can go inside if you’d rather,” he said. “A coffee shop, perhaps.”

  “No, no,” she reassured him. “I’d love a walk. I’ll warm up once we start moving.”

  “Well, at least let me buy you something hot to drink.” He pointed to the left. “If we take the path that way, we’ll go right past a Starbucks.”

  Despite her anxiety, she smiled. She liked the idea of a walk along the lakeshore with him. And the fact that there was a gingerbread latte in her near future. “Well, let’s get going, then,” she said. And she did just that, setting off at a brisk pace.

  He fell in stride with her as she crossed the street to the lakefront path. “If the answer isn’t yes or no, what is it?” she asked, going back to the original thread of their conversation.

  “The answer is that I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’m not a criminal lawyer, so I’m not a good judge of her talents.”

  “Do you know why she didn’t call any witnesses?”

  He took a breath and blew it out, creating a jet of thin fog in the cool air. “No, I don’t. That was one of the things that surprised me.”

  Fear grabbed her heart with icy claws. “Were there others?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “There were a number of objections she could have made, but didn’t. Maybe that was intentional—objecting a lot would have slowed things down and might have annoyed the judge. You saw how he was pushing her to go faster toward the end.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She asked some questions that were . . . Well, I’m not sure I would have asked them. Lawyers typically don’t ask questions in court because they’re curious what the answer might be. They ask because they already know the answer and think that it helps their case.”

  “And she asked questions when she didn’t know the answer?”

  “There were a few times that she seemed not to,” he said. “But again, I might be misreading the situation.”

  They walked in silence for a moment, the gravel crunching under their feet.

  “Do you think he’s innocent?” she asked.

  “Of course I do,” he said just a little too quickly. “But it’s not what I think that matters. It’s not even what the judge thinks. The only thing that matters is what the evidence shows.”

  Her heart sank even further. “The evidence we saw today . . . It didn’t seem to show that he was innocent.”

  “No, it didn’t,” Nate admitted. “But don’t take what you saw today too seriously. The case is just beginning, and the prosecution has a big head start. That will change.”

  “They—the Public Defender’s Office—they’ll do everything they can for him, right?”

  “I’m sure they will.” He stopped and looked off to the left. “There’s the Starbucks. Let’s get you that hot drink. Come to think of it, I could use something too.”

  The Starbucks was across the street from the lake, and they were approaching a crosswalk where the light had just turned green. He stepped off the path and started across the street, walking quickly. She hurried to keep up, wondering whether he was going a little faster than necessary because he didn’t want to talk.

  A moment later, they were in the coffee shop. She mechanically placed her order: grande gingerbread latte, no whipped cream. He ordered something too, but she didn’t pay attention. Her mind was too occupied by what he had said.

  Her worst fears had been confirmed. The public defender wasn’t going to give Brandon a serious defense. Maybe she was too busy. Maybe she was incompetent. Maybe she had concluded that Brandon was going to be found guilty no matter what she did. It didn’t matter. All that mattered to Jessica was that her son was going to be convicted of murder and spend decades in prison unless she did something to help. But what could she possibly do?

  While she was waiting for her coffee, she prayed. For Brandon. For Sofia Acuña. For herself, that she would know what to do. One urgent request crowded into another, and her thoughts were too fragmented to put into coherent sentences.

  Their coffee orders came, and they went back outside. They walked toward the lake in silence, as if neither of them knew what to say. Jessica certainly didn’t. Or rather, she was afraid to say what she was thinking, and she couldn’t think of anything else to talk about.

  She took a sip of her coffee, barely tasting the sweet, spicy liquid. “Thank you, Nate,” she said softly, squeezing his arm. “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done. Coming out here. All the free advice you’ve given us.” She held up her cup. “This coffee. Everything. I . . . I couldn’t ask you to do anything more.”

  He smiled wearily. “You don’t have to. I’ll defend him if you want me to.”

  Relief flooded through her. Her vision blurred. She tried to say “Thank you,” but she was crying too hard to get the words out.

  CHAPTER 14

  Brandon’s jailhouse troubles started over a bag of Doritos. Cool Ranch Doritos, to be specific.

  His mother had deposit
ed two hundred dollars into his jail account the day before, and Brandon was looking forward to making a trip to the commissary. He had really missed the simple amenities of modern life like shampoo and deodorant, and he was finally going to get to go shopping.

  He was also looking forward to finally having something good happen. It had been tough to hear Judge Whittaker send him back to jail yesterday. Sofia had told him that would probably happen, but actually hearing the judge say it made it real. Brandon had stared at his shackled feet during the entire trip back to Tassajara Jail. Being able to wash his hair and eat some familiar snacks wouldn’t make up for that, of course. But it would help a little.

  Several inmates leaned against the wall outside the commissary, laughing and talking. They wore yellow uniforms like Brandon, indicating that they were in for violent crimes or had histories of violence. Brandon didn’t recognize any of them, but he nodded in their direction as he passed.

  “Hey, buy me some Ranch Doritos,” one of them called to Brandon. He was a big guy with muscular, tattoo-covered arms and a shaved head, but he was smiling.

  Brandon forced himself to smile back and walked into the commissary. It looked like a truck stop or convenience store. Rows of overpriced snacks, toiletries, and magazines lined the cramped space. Thousands of souvenirs of the outside world. Brandon wanted to buy it all, just so he could surround himself with little bits of normalcy back in his cell. But he knew he should save his money, so he bought only some soap, shampoo, and deodorant, getting the cheapest brand of each.

  On the way to the cashier, he saw a box of Goldfish. A wave of homesickness swept over him. His family used to have a bowl of Goldfish on movie nights when he was a kid. It had been a little Ames-family ritual that he had half forgotten. He picked up the Goldfish and added them to his basket.

  He paid for his items and headed out, still thinking about family movie nights. Mom and Dad would sit together on the sofa in the family room and he would take the recliner. Then Dad, who was the only one who fully understood all the relevant remote controls, would dim the lights, turn on the sound system and enormous TV, and start the movie. It was better than being in a theater. Like the time they watched the new Star Wars movie and—