selecting an unrelated individual who matches the genetic material found in the underwear are greater than one in six billion, which is approximately the world population.
Or in English: Father Szyszynski's semen was found on my son's underwear.
Caleb peers over my shoulder. "What's that?"
"Absolution," I sigh.
Caleb takes the paper from my hands, and I point to the first row of numbers. "This shows the DNA from Szyszynski's blood sample. And the line below it shows the DNA from the stain on the underpants."
"The numbers are the same."
"Right. DNA is the same all over your body. That's why, if the cops arrest a rapist, they draw blood-can you imagine how ridiculous it would be to ask the guy to give a semen sample? The idea is, if you can match the suspect's blood DNA to evidence, you're almost guaranteed a conviction." I look up at him.
"It means that he did it, Caleb. He was the one. And . . ." My voice trails off.
"And what?"
"And I did the right thing," I finish.
Caleb puts the paper facedown on the table and gets up.
"What?" I challenge.
He shakes his head slowly. "Nina, you didn't do the right thing. You said it yourself. If you match the DNA in the suspect's blood to the evidence, you're guaranteed a conviction. So if you'd waited, he would have gotten his punishment."
"And Nathaniel would still have had to sit in that courtroom, reliving every minute of what happened to him, because that lab report would mean nothing without his testimony." To my embarrassment, tears rise in my eyes. "I thought Nathaniel had been through enough without that."
"I know what you thought," Caleb says softly. "That's the problem. What about the things Nathaniel's had to deal with because of what you did? I'm not saying you did the wrong thing. I'm not even saying it wasn't something I'd thought of doing, myself. But even if it was the just thing to do ... or the fitting thing . . . Nina, it still wasn't the right thing."
He puts on his boots and opens the kitchen door, leaving me alone with the lab results. I rest my head on my hand and take a deep breath. Caleb's wrong, he has to be wrong, because if he isn't, then-My thoughts veer away from this as the manila envelope draws my eye. Who left this for me, cloak-and-dagger? Someone on the prosecution's side would have fielded it from the lab. Maybe Peter dropped it off, or a sympathetic paralegal who thought it might go to motive for an insanity defense. At any rate, it is a document I'm not supposed to have.
Something, therefore, I can't share with Fisher.
I pick up the phone and call him. "Nina," he says. "Did you see the morning paper?"
"Hard to miss. Hey, Fisher, did you ever see the DNA results on the priest?"
"You mean the underwear sample? No." He pauses. "It's a closed case, now, of course. It's possible somebody told the lab not to bother."
Not likely. The staff in the DA's office would have been far too busy to see to a detail like that. "You know, I'd really like to see the report. If it did come back."
"It doesn't really have any bearing on your case-"
"Fisher," I say firmly, "I'm asking you politely. Have your paralegal call Quentin Brown to fax the report over. I need to see it."
He sighs. "All right. I'll get back to you."
I place the receiver back in its cradle, and sit down at the table. Outside, Caleb splits wood, relieving his frustration with each heavy blow of the ax. Last night, feeling his way under the covers with one warm hand, he'd brushed the plastic lip of my electronic monitoring bracelet. That was all, and then he'd rolled onto one side away from me.
Picking up my coffee, I read the twin lines on the lab report again. Caleb is mistaken, that's all there is to it. All these letters and numbers, they are proof, in black and white, that I am a hero.
Quentin gives the lab report another cursory glance and then puts it on a corner of his desk. No surprises there; everyone knows why she killed the priest. The point is, none of this matters anymore.
The trial at hand isn't about sexual abuse, but murder.
The secretary, a harried, faded blonde named Rhonda or Wanda or something like that, sticks her head in the door. "Does no one knock in this building?" Quentin mutters, scowling.
"You take the lab report on Szyszynski?" she asks.
