Cheetam’s face sagged with this thought. He had spent too much time trying PI cases and too little chasing deadbeat fathers on paternity raps to be familiar with the nuances of identification by blood.
“Doctor, can you describe and explain some of these other blood factors, as you call them?”
“Well, besides the A, B, and D antigens, there are other antigens in the blood that serve as markers or can be used to identify a specific individual, or at least exclude other individuals from consideration. These can be detected, though it’s difficult when you’re dealing with dried blood.”
“Such as the blood in the service elevator?”
“Right. In this case the easiest factors to isolate are enzymes- these are markers, proteins on the red blood cells that regulate many of the body’s chemical reactions.”
Apparently in this case, given the slap-dash nature of Cheetam’s defense, Coop didn’t think it was necessary to go to the expense and trouble of exotic screenings. DNA tests were on the cutting edge, but required sophisticated labs and expensive equipment. The blood would have had to go to a private lab.
“Were you able to isolate blood enzymes in this case?”
“Yes. In the case of the dried blood taken from the service elevator we were able to isolate an enzyme known as PGM. The PGM enzyme is not the same in every person and comes in three common variations. We call these PGM-1, PGM-2-1, and PGM-2. The dried bloodstain from the service elevator in this case was PGM-2, actually somewhat rare. About six percent of the population carry this variation of the enzyme.”
“Now tell us, doctor, were you able to isolate the PGM enzyme in the blood taken from Mr. Townsend?”
“Yes, it was PGM-1.”
“Then it did not match the blood found in the elevator?”
“No.”
“Can you tell us, doctor, whether the PGM enzyme found in the blood of the victim, Benjamin G. Potter, matched the blood from the service elevator?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Therefore, is it safe to say that the blood in the elevator belonged to the victim, Benjamin Potter?”
“I can’t say that with certainty, but I can say one thing with assurance. It did not belong to Reginald Townsend. The enzyme test excludes Mr. Townsend as a possible source of this blood. I can also say that since the PGM-2 enzyme is carried by only six percent of the population, and that since type B-negative blood is similarly rare, only twelve percent, there is a very high probability that this blood belonged to the victim.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
Now, instead of being merely mortally wounded, Cheetam’d had his ass blown clean out of the water, in full view of the court-the entire world. He had to do something to save face. He leaned over and looked at me, a frigid, vacant expression in his eyes-it was the first time I had seen it in him. It was the look of fear. He was so shaken that it took a second for the brain to engage the mouth.
“Can you take him on cross?” he said.
I sat there stunned, caught between the devil and the deep blue see-Cheetam who was fear-struck, and Talia who sat there staring at me expectantly, as if at this late hour I could save her from Nelson’s rolling juggernaut.
My hesitation caused him to bolt. Before I could lean over and say anything to him, Cheetam addressed the court.
“Your Honor, if the court pleases, cross-examination of Doctor Cooper will be handled by my associate, Mr. Madriani.” He pushed himself back from the table and refused to make eye contact with me, looking instead off in the general direction of the empty jury box.
I could feel fire out to the tips of my ears. If the place had been empty, I could easily have killed. Here I was, about to earn an ulcer in a battle over the insignificant, some blood in an elevator that was now central to our case only because Cheetam had failed to defend on a plausible theory. He had pursued the case as a suicide with the dogma of a chief inquisitor, but with none of the success.
I rose, my thoughts a shambles. In a mental buzz, I approached the witness box, my mind racing for some loose thread, something to take hold of. I scanned the few notes I had taken from Coop’s direct testimony. I was stalling for time.
Coop sat there looking at me, the familiar Southern smirk on his face. I knew that inside he was laughing at how I’d been sandbagged by Cheetam. He was having a good time, now that this was at my expense. I would never hear the end of this, I was sure.
“Doctor, these tests-these so-called enzyme tests”-I was waving my arms, flapping my note pad in the air for effect, as if I was referring to a bag of witch doctor’s bones. “Are these tests absolutely reliable? Have you ever known them to report a false result?”
“People can make mistakes in administering them, but the tests themselves are reliable.” The asinine smile returned to Coop’s face.
“Is it possible that a mistake might have been made in this case?”
He looked at me, a bit of soulful Southern charm, then shook his head slightly. “No.” Like “Try the next door, Charlie.” He knew I was dabbling in the dark. He was almost laughing. It might have been funny but for the stakes.
“Did you perform these tests yourself?”
“I did.”
I was chasing rainbows.
“Now doctor, you say in your testimony that there was a high probability that the blood in the elevator was that of Mr. Potter?”
“No, I said there was a very high probability that the blood in the elevator belonged to the victim.”
He was playing all the buzz words. I referred to Ben as “Mr. Potter”-a little sleight of hand to decriminalize Talia’s situation. He came right back-”the victim.”
“Excuse me, doctor, a very high probability. Now does that mean that there is a possibility that this blood could also belong to someone else?”
“There is that possibility, though it is remote.”
For a long moment there was a still silence in the court, punctuated only by a hacking cougher in the audience. I considered whether to ask the question-the one set up by Coop’s answer. I rechecked my notes, the quick calculation I had made while Nelson was getting the answers he wanted. It was a risk, but it was weighed against void on the other side, for I had no other line of inquiry.
“Just how remote is the possibility that this blood sample in the elevator could belong to someone else?”
Coop reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a small hand-held calculator. He looked at his notes, then punched a few buttons and looked up. “Fewer than eight people in one thousand will carry the combination of these two markers in their blood.”
To statisticians such odds may be remote. To a trial lawyer in trouble, these numbers opened all the avenues of opportunity I was likely to get.
I turned for a moment and looked out over the railing at the bar. Two hundred sets of eyes riveted on me. A couple of artists were in the jury box doing my profile. For an instant there was the sensation, a little stage fright, the familiar flutter of fear as it rippled through my body, tinged by excitement. I turned back to Cooper to suppress it and reassembled my thoughts.
“That means that in an area such as this, with”-I made a face in estimation-“a million and a half people in the greater metropolitan area, there are what, almost twelve thousand people living in this area alone who could have dropped that blood in the elevator. Is that right?”
“Your figure,” said Coop.
“Is it right, doctor?”
“Objection, Your Honor. The doctor’s not a mathematician.” Nelson remained in his chair, but leaned toward the bench a little.
“Your Honor, it was Doctor Cooper who pulled the calculator from his pocket.”
Cooper smiled broadly and started to hand me the calculator. I stepped back, avoiding the thing like it was some truth machine.
“Sustained. The numbers will speak for themselves.”