Desperate Girls

25

“THE DEFENSE calls Joseph Rivas.”

Surprise flickered across Conlon’s face, but he quickly covered it. Brynn had done some haystacking of her own, and she could see the prosecutor hadn’t expected her to call one of Justin’s friends, who had at no time mentioned seeing Justin on the night of the murder.

Joseph Rivas was sworn in. The lanky nineteen-year-old wore black jeans—no rips, per Brynn’s advice—and a belt to keep them from falling down his hips.

“Mr. Rivas, could you please tell us where you were on the night of March fifth?”

He cleared his throat and nodded. “I was at Justin Sebring’s house playing Call of Duty.”

“And was Justin there with you?”

“No, ma’am.”

It was the only time Brynn didn’t mind being called ma’am, because it made her witness seem respectful.

“What time did you arrive at Justin’s house?”

“Eight fifteen. I went over straight after work.”

“I see. And who answered the door?”

“No one. I just walked in. Aunt Sylvia leaves it open.”

“Aunt Sylvia. Do you mean Sylvia Sebring, Justin’s mother? Is she your aunt?”

“No, everyone just calls her that. She lets us hang there, eat, play games. Whatever. We come and go.”

“Okay, so you arrived at the house, and did you see Justin’s mother, Sylvia?”

“Yeah, she was in the kitchen.”

“And where was Justin?”

“She said he was out watching the ball game—”

“Objection, hearsay.” Conlon stood up.

Linden looked at Brynn. “Sustained.”

“Was Justin there when you arrived?” Brynn asked.

“No.”

“Were you surprised not to see him there?”

“No. I’d seen him earlier at work. He told me he was going to Perez’s girlfriend’s place to watch basketball that night.”

“Mr. Rivas, where do you work?”

“Over at Chicken Stop. The one on Bissell Street.”

“And you’d seen Justin there earlier that day?”

He nodded.

Brynn smiled. “Could you please answer yes or no, for the court reporter?”

He glanced at the judge. “Sorry. Yes. He came in at lunch, and we talked while I rang up his food.”

“I see. And could you tell us what you wear to work, Mr. Rivas?”

Conlon stood. “Objection, relevance.”

“Your Honor, the relevance will become clear in a moment.”

Linden nodded. “Overruled.”

“Mr. Rivas? What do you wear to work?”

“A red T-shirt with the Chicken Stop logo on the front. It’s a yellow chicken.”

“Before you worked at Chicken Stop, did you work at any other fast-food restaurants?”

“Burger Shack.”

“And did you have a uniform there, too?”

He nodded. “A blue T-shirt with—”

“Objection, relevance.” Conlon sounded annoyed now.

“Your Honor, as I said, the relevance will become clear momentarily.” She shot Conlon a look.

“Soon, Ms. Holloran. Overruled.”

“Thank you. Did either of your employers give you the shirt you’re required to wear at work?”

“No, ma’am. I mean, they gave it to me, but they docked the money out of my first paycheck.”

“And how many uniform shirts do you have for your current job?”

“One.”

“Only one?”

“Yeah, I have to wash it at night if it gets dirty.”

“And have you ever lost your work shirt?”

“No. I keep up with it.”

“If you ever did lose it, would your employer buy you a new one, or would the new shirt come out of your paycheck, too?”

Conlon stood and made a show of tossing down his pencil. “Your Honor, once again, the state objects. This line of questioning has no bearing whatsoever on—”

“Sustained. Move on, Ms. Holloran.”

Brynn glanced at the jurors. They looked confused, but at least Conlon’s objections had drawn attention to her questions.

“Mr. Rivas, you said Justin dropped by Chicken Stop earlier in the day and mentioned plans to watch a basketball game with his friend, so was it odd to go to Justin’s house that night, knowing he wouldn’t be there?”

“No. Like I said, we hang there.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“People in the neighborhood. You know. Whoever’s around. Aunt Sylv doesn’t care.”

She nodded. “And when you arrived at Justin’s house, did you see Justin’s car in the driveway?”

“No.”

“Did you at any time leave Justin’s house that night, say, to take a break from video games?”

“Yeah, around ten, I ran down to the store on the corner to get a Gatorade.”

She glanced at Conlon and was pleased to see he looked bored with this testimony. “And when you returned, did you see Justin’s car in the driveway or parked near the house?”

“No.”

“Okay, then what happened?”

“Then I was in the living room playing Call of Duty, and Justin’s cousin showed up. His name’s Joel, but we call him Stretch.”

“Joel Sebring. And you know this man? Justin’s cousin?”

“Yeah, he lives next door.”

“Had you seen him recently?”

“Not in a while. He got popped for dealing meth and went away—”

Conlon leaped to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor! The state requests a sidebar.”

“Counselors.” Linden gave Brynn a stern look as she and Conlon approached the bench.

“Your Honor,” Conlon said in a low voice. “I object to this entire line of questioning. I don’t know who this Joel person is, but—”

“Your Honor, we’ve established that Joel Sebring is the defendant’s cousin who lives next door.”

“Your Honor, the defense is clearly trying to muddy the waters here by bringing up an outside party with a criminal record, whose presence has no bearing on the criminal matter at hand.”

“His presence has bearing on everything, Your Honor, I can assure you,” Brynn said. “If you’ll indulge me just a few minutes longer, I will demonstrate the relevance.”

Linden glared down at her over his reading glasses. “A very few minutes, Ms. Holloran. Make it quick.”

“Thank you, Judge.”

She felt Conlon’s stare boring into her as she walked back to the lectern. Brynn could tell he still didn’t see where she was going, but wherever it was, he didn’t want her to get there. And despite what he’d told the judge, Conlon knew exactly who Justin’s cousin was. The man had done four years for dealing drugs and was currently out on parole.

Brynn returned her attention to the witness. “Mr. Rivas, you said you were playing a video game when Justin’s cousin Joel showed up at Justin’s house. Could you tell us what Joel was wearing when he entered?”

He nodded. “Jeans. A black hoodie. And his work shirt.”

“And how do you know it was his work shirt? Did he tell you he’d been at work?”

“No, but his shirt had the name of the car-wash place on it. Right across the front.”

“I see.” She glanced at the jurors, who were watching the witness, clearly intrigued by this new mention of work shirts. “And what did Joel do when he arrived?”

“We talked some. And then he went in the kitchen to get a drink. He threw his shirt in the wash and sat down, and we hung out for a while.”

“You say he threw his shirt in the wash? You saw him do that?”

“I saw him throw it on the washing machine. It’s one of those stand-up ones, and it’s in the kitchen.”

He meant stacking washer-dryers, but Brynn let it go. The jury was riveted now.

“Did Joel say why he took his shirt off when he showed up at his aunt’s house to hang out?”

“Yeah, he said he was hot.”

“And what about the hoodie?”

“He put it back on after he took off his shirt.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rivas. No further questions.”

Brynn had momentum. It put a tingle inside her.

Conlon tried to shake the witness on cross-examination. But he didn’t make much progress, and soon it was Brynn’s turn again.

She called her next witness to the stand, Henry Wheeler, a nationally renowned GSR expert who’d overseen a crime lab in Syracuse before retiring to write textbooks. After running through Wheeler’s credentials, Brynn went straight to the topic of gunshot residue, guiding him through a series of questions that explained how someone could pick up gunshot residue from touching a surface where GSR had previously been deposited, such as a car steering wheel.

“This cross-contamination you talked about, Dr. Wheeler—is the same thing possible with DNA?”

Conlon shot to his feet. “Objection.”

Linden lifted his eyebrows.

“Your Honor, the witness’s textbook is about ballistics and gunshot residue, not DNA. This is not his area of expertise.”

“Your Honor, Dr. Wheeler has multiple areas of expertise,” Brynn said. “He possesses doctorates in microbiology and chemistry, and he used to run a crime lab. He’s more than qualified to answer questions about DNA.”

Linden gave Conlon a sharp look. “Overruled.”

“Dr. Wheeler, is it possible for DNA to be transferred between locations in the way you just described for gunshot residue?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, it happens a lot. You’ve got secondary transfer. Tertiary transfer.”

Brynn cast a glance at Conlon, who was looking panicked.

“Can you give us an example of secondary transfer?”

“Yes. For example, a husband and wife share a bathroom. The husband comes home sweaty from work, wipes his face on a towel, then hangs the towel on top of a towel used by his wife. Now the wife’s towel might show trace amounts of her husband’s DNA.”

“I see. Are there any other locations in a household where this type of transfer can occur?”

“Any number of places, if you’ve got multiple people sharing the same space. The bathroom. The laundry hamper. The washing machine.”

Brynn looked at the jury. Their eyes were glued to the doctor. “This transfer of DNA can happen in a washing machine?”

“That’s correct.”

“What about if the dirty clothes in the machine are put through a cycle? Can trace amounts of DNA still be recovered?”

“Yes, that’s right,” he said. “They’ve done studies on the subject. When it comes to DNA, our methods of analysis are extremely sensitive now. Even after a cycle with detergent, trace amounts of DNA from bodily fluids can be found on the clothes.”

“Bodily fluids, including blood?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Brynn glanced at the jurors to see if they understood. Several did—she could tell by the appalled looks on their faces. Joel Sebring had taken his cousin’s car to a drug deal, where he’d shot a man at close range. Then he’d gone over to his aunt’s house to kick back and play video games before letting his cousin take the fall for the murder.

“And if an item of clothing with blood on it was put into a wash cycle with other items of clothing,” Brynn said, “could those other items of clothing be contaminated with trace amounts of DNA from the blood?”

“That’s quite possible, yes.”

She glanced at Conlon. The prosecutor looked stricken. This one witness had raised reasonable doubt about every scrap of forensic evidence the prosecution had put forward—from the gunshot residue on the steering wheel and Justin’s hands to the traces of the victim’s DNA found on Justin’s clothing. Brynn could have kept hammering, but she sensed it was better to quit while she was ahead.

“Thank you, Dr. Wheeler. No further questions.”

Before Conlon could get up for his cross-examination, Linden hit his gavel and announced the afternoon break. Brynn watched the jurors file out. This time, when she left the courtroom, she was walking on air.

She turned to Hayes. “Did you see that?”

“I did, yeah.”

She glanced around the crowded hallway, but Erik wasn’t there. He’d missed her humiliation this morning, but he’d missed her redemption, too. It didn’t matter, though. The jury had seen it, and that was what counted. For the first time in days, Justin had a fighting chance.

A deafening squeal pierced her ears.

“Fire alarm,” Hayes said.

Someone grasped Brynn’s arm, and she turned around to see Keith.

“What—”

“Get her out of here,” Keith ordered.

They each grabbed an arm and propelled her down the hall.

“What? Where are we going?”

“In the event of an emergency, our orders are to get you to a secure location,” Hayes said, plowing through the crowd.

“What location?”

“The holding cells downstairs.”

Erik rushed down the stairwell, straining to hear over the earsplitting noise. Evacuees from dozens of courtrooms and administrative offices clogged the stairs.

“Hayes, report!” he yelled into his radio.

“We’ve got Brynn. One of the bailiffs said it’s”—static blared over the radio—“threat.”

“Hayes, repeat.”

“It’s a bomb threat. Someone just called it in.”

Erik didn’t like a bomb threat, especially one that was called in over the phone. Callers don’t bomb, and bombers don’t call. It was a saying he’d picked up during his training. Most phone-in threats turned out to be fake, whereas real bombers typically struck without warning.

“I don’t like it,” he told Hayes.

“You think it’s a hoax?”

“I think it’s Corby. Get Brynn to a holding cell ASAP.” Erik pushed past the crowd, sliding down a banister. Five levels to go. “Do not leave her side. You copy?”

“Copy that.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The holding cells were full.

People jostled her from every direction as bailiffs and sheriff’s deputies pulled prisoners through the hallway. It was mayhem, with way too many sweaty, overheated bodies squeezed into way too tight a space.

Keith pulled Brynn against the cinder-block wall and shielded her with his bulk.

“All the rooms are full,” he told Hayes.

“We can’t stay in here.” Hayes looked up and down the hallway, clearly unnerved by the crowd.

Brynn was unnerved, too. This part of the courthouse typically was run with careful precision, but the fire alarm’s constant wail and the sudden evacuation of hundreds of people had turned everything topsy-turvy. Brynn couldn’t help thinking of all the ways someone with nefarious intent might take advantage of the confusion.

A towering prisoner in an orange jumpsuit eyed her across the crowded corridor. He had a shaved head and tattoos circling his thick neck. He grinned at Brynn and unfurled a long, pierced tongue.

Hayes stepped closer, blocking the view. “We can’t stay here,” he said again.

“The armored car.” Keith nodded at the exit. A uniformed cop stood in the open doorway, and beyond it, Brynn saw the Tahoe parked beside a traffic cone.

Hayes nodded. “Let’s go.”

Each grabbed an elbow, and they pulled her through the throng of people, pushing aside bodies as they made their way to the exit. The alarm was even louder outside, echoing off the concrete walls of the parking garage, but Brynn felt relieved as she managed to get a breath of fresh air.

Keith glanced around, hyperalert as he took out the key fob and popped the locks. “I’ll take the wheel; you take the back.”

Hayes steered Brynn to the back passenger door. She caught her reflection in the tinted glass of the window.

Corby loomed behind her.

Brynn’s heart seized. Corby’s eyes met hers in the reflection as he reached up, and Brynn spotted the weapon in his hand.

Boom!

A bone-jarring force slammed her to the ground.

“Hayes, report! Report!”

Nothing.

Erik pushed through the crowd and reached the first floor. But there was only one exit, and it expelled him onto the sidewalk on the building’s west side. He cut through the mob, working his phone as he ran for the north side of the building.

Hayes didn’t answer. Neither did Keith.

Erik traded his phone for his pistol and ran faster, his heart hammering as he dodged clusters of people. Even with the ongoing alarm and the chaos, he knew he’d heard a gunshot, and fear gripped him as he raced for the prisoner bay. Sirens filled the air as sheriff’s cruisers and fire trucks responded to the emergency. A long red ladder truck pulled into the road beside the parking garage, blocking his view.

A man caught Erik’s attention. The sidewalks were packed with people walking or milling around, but this guy was running right toward him.

Corby.

His gaze locked on Erik. Recognition flickered, and the man suddenly darted into traffic. Horns blared, and Erik took off after him. Corby had something in his hand. A gun? A knife? The man cut between two cars and bolted down the sidewalk as Erik dialed 911.

Erik sprinted faster, closing the distance as he relayed his position and told the operator he was in pursuit of the state’s most wanted fugitive.

Corby reached a clear patch of sidewalk near the park. Erik halted and raised his weapon. Shit. Too many people. Erik took off after him again. Corby hurdled over a bench and ran into the park. He raced across the grassy lawn, jumping over people stretched out on towels and picnic blankets. He ran past a fountain, then veered toward a playscape crawling with children.

Erik cursed and poured on the speed. His legs burned. His lungs felt tight. His heart was about to burst as he sprinted as fast as he could. Corby cut through a swing set and hurdled another park bench to come out on Commerce Street, where traffic was stopped at a red light.

Erik saw the move before it happened. Corby raced up to a man on a motorcycle, punched him in the chest, and dragged him off. Erik reached the sidewalk just as the light turned green and Corby hopped on the bike.

Erik ran in front of an idling delivery truck and raised his pistol, aiming carefully at the motorcycle’s back tire.

Pop! Pop!

Corby’s bike tipped sideways, skidding out from under him. He slid across the pavement and tumbled into a parked car.

Erik bolted after him, tackling him when he tried to get up. They crashed to the ground, smacking into the tire of a parked pickup.

A fist connected with Erik’s jaw, and his head snapped back. Erik struck back with a brutal left hook and caught a glint of metal as Corby’s arm swung down.

Knife.

Erik grabbed Corby’s wrist, squeezing it as tight as he could while using his other hand to shove his pistol against the man’s neck.

“Drop it!”

But Corby didn’t drop it. He struggled to hold the knife, straining against Erik’s grip until his face was red.

“Out of the way! Out of the way!”

Shouts surrounded them, and Erik recognized a voice.

“U.S. Marshals! You’re under arrest!”

Erik squeezed harder, felt the crunch of bone. Corby snarled, and the knife clattered to the ground. Erik heaved Corby up and onto his back, pinning his empty hand on the concrete beside him.

“Morgan! Move off ! We’ve got this!”

Erik glanced up to see Art Caldwell in a black flak jacket. He had his pistol in a two-handed grip, aimed at Corby’s head. Another pair of marshals ran up beside him, weapons drawn.

“Move off, Morgan.”

Erik wasn’t moving anywhere. “Cuffs,” he demanded.

Caldwell glowered at Erik.

“Cuffs!”

The marshal nodded at one of his men, who tossed Erik a pair of handcuffs. Erik lifted the knee pinning Corby’s thigh and flipped him onto his stomach. He jerked Corby’s arms behind him and wrestled the cuffs on. Then he stood up and stepped back, breathing hard, as the marshals swooped down and hauled Corby to his feet.

Where was Brynn? Sirens wailed, and Erik felt a sickening pang of fear as he reached for his phone.

Caldwell crouched beside the knife, then frowned up at Erik. “Shit, did he get you?”

“No. Why?”

The marshal moved, and Erik saw the crimson-tipped blade.

“Then who the hell’s blood is that?”