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“I think the fact that Brenda’s a woman helped. She was kind, patient, helpful. She’salwaysbeen helpful. She came herself to tell me that the case might be reopened. That my rapist might go free.”
“When he goes free, it will be because he’s not your rapist.”
She tilted her head and looked at me curiously. Obviously, that was not how Wellesley had explained things.
I continued, “DNA testing has already shown he’s not the man who raped you.”
“But we all know how easily that can be faked. I mean, look at the O.J. trial.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it was conclusive that evidence in that case was faked,” I said—everyone in L.A. had an opinion about that case. “And, even if you believe that, in the case of O.J, it would have been the police faking the evidence. Not the accused.”
She looked confused for a moment, then seemed to reject what I’d said, “Either way it’s a relatively new science. It’s not reliable.”
From the file, I pulled out a thick packet. “My office put together some information on DNA and DNA testing for you. It’s actuallyveryreliable science. There’s only a one in a million chance the test is wrong.”
Taking the packet from me, she set it on the table without looking at it. She smiled, a little smugly, and said, “There’s a small chance the test is wrong, provided there’s no mix-up at the lab.”
“Is that what Brenda told you? That there was a mix-up at the lab?”
“She said it was possible. Actually, she said it was likely.” Her look was defiant. She’d bought whatever Wellesley said, hook, line and sinker.
“Did you ask Detective Wellesley how often she’s using DNA evidence to convict in her current cases?”
“No. I’d have no reason to ask that.”
That seemed to pierce the veil, though. I had the strong feeling much of what Wellesley had said to Camille was lifted from defense experts who tried to dismiss DNA evidence. Experts who were rarely believed.
“Did she tell you we’re handling three of her cases? Three cases where she got the wrong guy.”
If the first question pierced the veil, this one ripped it to shreds. Camille took a moment to rearrange her face.
“No. She didn’t say anything about that.”
“I’d like to know more about the identification process.”
“Don’t you already have that? Brenda said you’d been given everything they have.”
“I know what’s in the file, yes. You were shown a photographic lineup and you picked out Peter Linder.”
“I did.”
I slipped a hand into the file a second time and brought out a Xerox of the photo lineup used. It was in black-and-white. It would have been better if the LAPD had popped the extra few bucks and sent us a color copy. I held the sheet of paper up in front of her.
“Is this the lineup?”
“It appears to be,” she barely looked at it.
“And you identified which photo?”
There were six photos in two rows of three. Reluctantly, she looked at the sheet of paper. Very quickly, she chose the middle photo in the bottom line, as she had previously. She looked away, out over her pool.
“He fit your description perfectly.”
Camille shrugged. She got up, walked over to a lounge chair with a beach towel spread across it. She folded the towel and left it at the foot of the chair. She returned to where I was sitting.
“Do you notice anything about the others?”
“What others?”
