The Guardians(30)

There was no semen found in or around her body. Undaunted by this, the prosecutor, Chad Falwright, simply told the jury that Duke “had probably just used a condom.” There was no proof of this, one was never found, but this made perfect sense to the jury. To get a death verdict, Falwright had to prove murder plus rape. The victim was naked and had probably been sexually assaulted, but the proof was weak. The pubic hairs became crucial evidence.

In a sober moment, Duke’s lawyer asked the court for money to hire his own expert hair analyst. The court said no. The lawyer either knew nothing about DNA testing or didn’t want to bother with it. He may have assumed the court would not authorize it. Thus, the seven pubic hairs were never tested.

But they were certainly analyzed. The expert testimony sent Duke to death row, and three months ago came within two hours of getting him killed.

Now we have the truth.

Verona sits in the center of the state, in a desolate, sparsely populated flatland packed with piney woods. For its 5,000 inhabitants, a good job is driving a pulpwood truck, a bad one is sacking groceries. One in five has no job at all. It’s a depressing place, but then most of my stops are in towns that time has passed by.

Chad Falwright’s office is in the courthouse, just down the dusty hallway from where Duke was convicted nine years ago. I’ve been here once before and would prefer to avoid it in the future. This meeting will not be pleasant, but I’m accustomed to that. Most prosecutors despise me and the sentiments are mutual.

As agreed upon, I arrive at 1:58 p.m. and give a nice smile to Chad’s secretary. It’s obvious she does not like me either. He’s busy, of course, and she invites me to have a seat under a dreadful portrait of a scowling and, hopefully, dead judge. Ten minutes pass as she pecks away at a keyboard. There are no sounds coming from his office. Fifteen minutes. After twenty minutes, I say rudely, “Look, we made an appointment for two p.m. I drove a long way to get here, now what the hell is going on?”

She glances at an old desk phone and says, “He’s still talking to a judge.”

“Does he know I’m out here?” I demand, loud enough for him to hear.

“Yes. Now please.”

I sit down, wait ten more minutes, then walk to his door and knock loudly. Before he or she can say anything, I barge in and find Chad not on the phone but at his window, as if enthralled by the vibrant city below.

“We agreed on two o’clock, Chad. What the hell?”

“Sorry, Post. I was on the phone with a judge. Come on in.”

“Don’t mind if I do. I drove five hours to get here. A little courtesy would be nice.”

“My apologies,” he says sarcastically and falls into his large leather swivel. He’s about my age and has spent the last fifteen years prosecuting criminals, primarily cookers and peddlers of meth. By far his most thrilling case was Emily’s murder. Three months ago, as the clock ticked, he chased every TV reporter within sight and chatted about the burdens of his job.

“No problem,” I say and take a seat.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks and glances at his watch.

“We’ve done some DNA testing,” I say and manage to maintain my sour expression. What I want to do is get in his face with some serious smack. “We know who the real killer is, Chad, and it ain’t Duke Russell.”

He takes it well. “Do tell.”

“Do tell. We obtained a sample from the killer and matched it with one of the State’s pubic hairs. Bad news, Chad. You got the wrong man.”

“You tampered with our evidence?”

“Brilliant. You’re more concerned with my sins than with your own. You almost executed an innocent man, Chad. Don’t worry about me. I’m just the guy who’s found the truth.”

“How did you steal a pubic hair?”

“It was easy. You gave me the file, remember? A year ago, down the hall. For two days I sweated in that cramped little room and went through the evidence. One pubic hair stuck to my finger. A year has passed and no one here has even realized it.”

“You stole a pubic hair. Unbelievable.”

“Didn’t steal it, Chad. I just borrowed it. You refused DNA testing, so somebody had to do it. Indict me, I don’t care. You have bigger problems right now.”

He exhales as his shoulders sag. A minute passes as he collects his thoughts. Finally, “Okay, who killed her?”

“The last man seen with her before she was murdered. Mark Carter. They had a history from high school. The cops should have pursued him, but didn’t for some reason.”

“How do you know it’s him?”

“Got a sample.”

“How?”

“A beer bottle. He likes beer, leaves behind a lot of bottles. We ran to the lab and I’ve brought you a copy of the test results.”

“You stole a beer bottle too?”

“Indict me again, Chad, and keep playing games. Look in the mirror, man, and give it up. Your bogus prosecution is going down the drain and you’re about to be humiliated.”

He offers a goofy grin and gives me a prosecutor’s favorite line: “No way, Post, I still believe in my case.”

“Then you’re an idiot, Chad. But we knew that a long time ago.” I toss a copy of the report on his desk and head for the door.