Trace Of Innocence. Erica Orloff
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of Thomas Garson. He’d been railroaded into taking a plea bargain for murder two, but he was innocent.”
“How did you know?” Lewis asked.
“Intuition. Prayer. Divine guidance. And I’ve been doing this long enough to smell the guilt on a man.”
I tried to avoid laughing out loud. Lewis and I were creatures of science—and intuition and prayer weren’t high on our agenda. Lewis was an atheist. I hadn’t darkened a Catholic church in years. I understood what was under a microscope or in my test tube. I trusted traces of blood and sperm, or intricate patterns of crystallized drugs. Like most criminalists, I was a chemistry major in college, and I had my masters in molecular biology.
“Thomas was a fan of Joe’s. His family had moved to New Jersey from Louisiana when he was a boy, but like a lot of people, he still rooted for that hometown team. Me? I could move to Alaska and still root for the Giants.”
“A nun who follows football?” Lewis cocked an eyebrow.
She laughed and continued. “I promised to try to get him an autograph or a letter of encouragement. I’m sure Joe thought I was crazy, but I tracked him down. I hadn’t realized he had gone into law. I told him about Thomas, and one thing led to another and Joe took his case pro bono and won an appeal. Thomas is now the file clerk for Joe’s firm. Has a new baby daughter and a pretty young wife who’s a paralegal.”
“A happy ending,” I said dryly. C.C. nodded. “But for every happy ending, there’s an innocent man languishing. More like ten innocent men. If they’re of color or they’re Hispanic or foreign-born, the number rises.”
A waitress came over and Joe ordered a pitcher of margaritas and a basket of chips with salsa.
“No offense, Sister,” I began. “But we just process the evidence. It’s not for us to determine if some guy is guilty or innocent.”
“Please call me C.C.” she said. I wanted to dislike her because she gave off an aura of such kindness my instinct was to think she was a fake, but I couldn’t make myself. She just seemed that nice.
The waitress returned with a pitcher, four glasses and a basket filled with freshly warmed tortilla chips.
“Look,” Joe said, leaning on the table with both elbows. “Walter Leighton used to advise us. But now that he’s a super celebrity, he’s forgotten us. We need you two to help us look at cases to see if there’s even the possibility that new evidence might reverse a conviction or win a new trial.”
“I always knew that Walter’s swelled head would get the best of him,” Lewis said.
Walter Leighton had written the forensic bible. When he consulted on a couple of really huge cases, his face time on Court TV, Dateline, Primetime Live and the Today Show increased until he was pretty much a household name and a celebrity. Then he had a ghostwriter pen two novels about a forensics investigative team and a police detective, sold about a million copies of each, and now he was famous and rich. Lewis hated the sight of Walter. I used to think it was professional jealousy. After I got to know Lewis better, I realized he saw the arrogance in Walter. It would be just like that guy to abandon the Justice Foundation. If Walter had walked away from C.C. and Joe, I knew just what Lewis was going to say before he even said it.
“We’ll be happy to offer our professional opinions where we can,” he said.
We. I’d gotten used to that, too. It was as if he thought of us as one person in that lab.
C.C. took out a folder from her briefcase. Her eyes were moist when she looked at us. “You have no idea how grateful we are.” She absentmindedly patted Joe’s forearm. “This work…it’s our lives.”
She slid the folder across the table.
Staring up at me from the mug shot was a man who made me blink slowly several times. He was beautiful. But beyond that, his eyes were soulful. Large and dark. He had a small scar on his left cheek, right near the corner of his eye, which brought my gaze to rest right at his pupils. His eyelashes were dark and made his eyes appear almost angelic. His hair was black and thick, with curl at the ends. He held up his processing number, and he looked stunned.
“What’s pretty boy’s story?” Lewis asked.
“David Falco is serving life for a rape-murder. The suicide king case,” C.C. replied.
“I don’t remember that one,” I said.
“About ten years ago. A woman murdered in her apartment. She was an acquaintance of his. She was splayed out, and the suicide king from a deck of playing cards—you know, the one with the knife through the head—was left by her side. A knife had been plunged into her temple.”
“Oh yeah.” I nodded. “Now I remember.” I had learned not to shudder anymore. Too many depraved cases.
“Evidence tying him to the murder?” I asked. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I had a knot in my belly, as if I wanted to believe that the man whose face was so innocent-looking had to be, in fact, innocent.
“Not much. He admitted he had been in her apartment, so his fingerprints were there, but no fingerprint on the knife or the playing card. He was seen leaving her apartment in the window of time when she was likely murdered—but so was another man who was never found or questioned. David said the three of them had been hanging out together.”
“So who was the other man?”
“He doesn’t know. Said it was a friend of hers. But he never got the guy’s name.”
“Sounds fishy,” Lewis said.
“I know,” said C.C., “but there was possibly semen on her panties—panties lost by the police. The case was botched from the word go. And I don’t know…he just doesn’t give off a dangerous vibe.”
“None of them do,” Lewis said, pouring himself another margarita.
“That’s not so. Even men who are innocent, after a time in prison, they start to smell of violence. They give off that feeling. But not him.”
“So where do we come in?” I asked, still fascinated by the picture.
“Well, the panties surfaced after the trial in a paper bag in another evidence file. They were well preserved and I figure we have one shot at testing what may or may not be semen. I mean, we think it is. And we just need a break on this one.”
I sipped my margarita and stared down at the picture. I wondered what the years in prison had done to that innocent-looking face.
Chapter 3
I drove a drunken Lewis home. He was a goner, and I don’t mean just drunk—though he was that, too.
“Isn’t she amazing?”
“Who?”
“Don’t give me that—C.C.” He pressed the electric button to move his seat way back in the car so he could stretch his legs.
I tried to avoid swerving off the road. “You can’t be serious.”
“What? You don’t think she’s beautiful?”
“Yes, I think she’s stunning. She’s also an N-U-N. Lewis…she’s not available.”
“I know.” He smacked his forehead with his hand. “My luck I finally meet a woman besides you that I’m interested in and she’s a nun. A beautiful nun, not one with a hairy mole on her chin.”
“I’m not even going to ask why that would be your impression of nuns, because I’m sure there’s some demented Lewis LeBarge story having to do with a decrepit old nun and I’m not in the mood.”
“It’s a good story.”
“Save it,” I snapped. “Lewis, be straight with me. Is the reason we’re doing this consulting work revenge against Walter Leighton