False Accusations Jacobson, Alan (books successful people read .TXT) 📖

“What would he drink?”

“Beer. Why’s that important?”

“It may not be. I’m just gathering information.” He knew that Madison did not drink beer—he was a wine person. For Chandler, it was yet another reason why planting the six-pack in the car meant that whoever had framed Madison didn’t know him very well. Although drinking preferences did not have significant evidentiary value in court, Chandler considered the information helpful.

“He ever drink and drive while you were with him?”

She pulled out a cigarette. “A few times.” Fumbled with it between her fingertips.

“Doesn’t California have a law about smoking in restaurants?”

“Holding it helps me relax,” she said as she placed the cigarette in her mouth.

Their soup came, followed by the main course; Chandler continued to pepper the meal with more questions about Madison.

“So how’d you hear about the hit-and-run?”

“It was all over the papers,” she said. “His arrest was like a dream come true. The bastard is finally getting what he deserved.”

“So you think he did it?”

She laughed as he poured her some tea. “Who doesn’t? I mean, his fingerprints were the only ones in the car, his empty beer cans were in the backseat, their blood was all over his car, and he didn’t have an alibi.”

“Just because someone doesn’t have an alibi doesn’t automatically make him guilty.”

She glanced around the table, then shook her head and pulled another cigarette from her purse. “No, but it leaves the door wide open.”

He was leading the conversation where he wanted it. “It was eleven-thirty. There aren’t many people who have alibis for that time of night. I bet you don’t have one for that night.”

“That’s true, I don’t. But that’s not the only evidence they have on him.” She looked down at the cigarette. “At least according to the papers.”

Chandler nodded. No alibi; just what he wanted to hear.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to step outside for a moment to take a few drags. I’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

“No problem.” Take all the time you want.

As she arose from her seat, the busboy came over and began to clear the table. Chandler caught sight of the other cigarette, grabbed it by the end, and placed it in a plastic Ziploc bag he pulled from his jacket pocket.

While Chandler waited for Harding to return, he paid the bill and then stood up to stretch his back, which had begun to ache. Ten minutes after she had left for “a few drags,” he walked outside to see what was keeping her. He wanted to ask her a few more questions and then get her cigarette over to the lab for analysis. He waited outside the restaurant, tapping his foot as the seconds passed. Finally, realizing she was not going to return; finally, he left.

After arriving at the lab fifteen minutes later, he was escorted to the tool impression lab, where Gray was focusing a microscope.

Holding up the Ziploc bag, Chandler said, “I need a favor.”

Gray stood there, looking poker-faced at Chandler, as if he were speaking a foreign language. In that instant, Chandler couldn’t decide if Gray’s expression was Give me a break, or I don’t owe you any favors. Maybe both.

“This cigarette has saliva on it,” Chandler said, forging ahead, “as well as a lip print. I need to know if it matches the DNA and the lip print on the cans of beer.”

Gray shook his head and made a face. Turned and walked away.

“Hey, this is important, I think I’ve got something here.”

Gray turned hard and faced Chandler, who was following close behind. “In case you don’t realize it, this is not your private lab. Maybe that’s the way you do things in New York. Pulling strings to get private evidence analyzed in a state lab. Won’t fly here. And if anyone found out,” he said with a shrug, “might cause problems for your client. Don’t you think?”

Chandler could feel his face turning red—no doubt a deep shade of crimson.

“And your pal Lou is on vacation for two weeks,” Gray continued. “Left yesterday evening. Some kind of fishing trip, I think. Good luck trying to locate him.” He let a thin smile spread his lips. “Oh, but the DA did give the okay to test the saliva on the cans for DNA.”

“That hasn’t been started yet?”

“I do what I’m told. Except when you tell me to do something.”

“Hang on a minute,” Chandler said, trying to contain his anger. “I’m here for only one reason: to get to the bottom of this crime. My client’s innocent. He didn’t kill those people. So in my short time here, I have to find out who did. Isn’t that what we’re all after? Finding the real guilty person and punishing him?”

Gray did not answer. Instead, he turned to walk away.

Chandler grabbed his arm and gently pulled him back.

“Let go of me,” Gray said calmly.

When Chandler released his grip, Gray brushed his hair back and returned to the stool in front of his microscope.

“How hard will it be to run the lip print for me?” Chandler asked, his tone softer. “Tell you what. If the lip print doesn’t produce a reasonable and probable match with the beer can, then I give up, okay? You won’t see me again.” He paused to let this sink in. “But if there is a reasonable match, you’ll run those DNA samples.” If he refused, Chandler could still take the cigarette back with him to New York and run the test himself—but it would add a few variables that he wished to avoid: a different lab, accusations of bias, chain of custody issues, and the danger of contaminating the sample during the trip.

And even then, once he had his DNA results, trying to get a copy of the beer can’s DNA pattern from Gray would be like asking your worst enemy for a loan. It just was not going to happen. He would have to have Hellman handle it through the court. Time consuming. Messy.

Gray