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As I took out the information we’d put together about DNA and slid it over to her, she said, “I’ve forgiven him.”
“I appreciate that, but Mr. Dinkler didn’t rape you. If you read through the materials—”
“I forgave him years ago. I wrote to the parole board and told them that. I don’t understand why he’s still in prison.”
I was about to explain that parole boards don’t parole people who maintain their innocence. Remorse is the get of jail free card even if you did nothing. Selma stood up and took one of the saints off the counter. She set it in front of me. It was a young girl wearing a pink shawl and holding flowers tight to her chest.
“St. Maria Goretti, the patron saint of rape victims. Maria was eleven when the neighbor boy wanted to have sex with her. She said, ‘No, it’s a sin.’ He tried to force her, and she fought. She would rather die than sin. She tried to get away from him, but he stabbed her with a knife, over and over again. They tried to save her, but they couldn’t. As she lay dying, she forgave her rapist. She wanted to see him in heaven with her. I forgive my rapist.”
“We don’t know who raped you.”
Confusion overtook her face.How do you forgive someone if you don’t know who they are?I could see her struggling with that.
“Is that all you came to say?”
“No. I need to ask you about Detective Wellesley.”
“Brenda? What about her?”
“Did she influence your identification of Alan Dinkler in any way?”
In a very small voice, she said, “She was so certain.”
“He was at home with his mother.”
“Mothers lie for their sons.”
“Is that what Brenda told you?”
She nodded. “She’s still sure it was him. She says the science is wrong. Science is often wrong.”
I was tempted to suggest she read the materials for a second time. Instead, I said, “Tell me about the identification. How was it done? Were you brought into a room with the men or were you able to—”
“She had photographs, I mean copies. Copies of photographs. There were six of them.”
That was interesting. The photographs, copies or otherwise, were not in the file. If they were not provided to the defense that would be a big problem.
“Tell me about the photographs. Were they mug shots?”
“What is that?” Her voice was small again, she seemed frightened of making a mistake.
“You know, when you’re arrested, they take a photograph. Were their lines behind them?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “No, they were normal pictures.”
I knew I should ask more questions about the photos. Were they all African American? How many times did it look like the sheet had been copied? Did Wellesley tip her off in any way as to which photo she wanted her to choose? I couldn’t ask though. How could I?
I sat there quietly for a bit. It was all so clear to me. Selma had been a hopeful, optimistic young college girl hoping for a better life. But that had been derailed and now she was a waitress in a pie shop relying on a child-saint to protect her.
Pressing her, making her understand clearly that she’d helped put an innocent man in prison. It didn’t feel right adding that to her burden. I had what I needed; she’d admitted that Detective Brenda Wellesley had influenced her identification of Alan Dinkler. And she’d inadvertently tipped me off that Wellesley, or someone, had withheld evidence.
Selma seemed not to want to lie, which fit her general character. Lydia would easily be able to get her to tell the truth. Lydia might feel it necessary to make her understand she’d put an innocent man in prison, either in the deposition or at trial, if it came to that. That was her job. To do what it took for her client.
It wasn’t mine, though. I’d gotten the information Lydia would need, so I thanked Selma for her time and left.
****
The first case I’d worked for Lydia, the victim had been raped and murdered more than a decade before. So I didn’t have to interview her. I felt bad for her, but she seemed very far away. And her pain was long gone. She was almost abstract, a puzzle to work out, nothing like a real, living person. Talking with these victims, opening wounds, turning over what justice they’d found, was more difficult than I’d expected. I was happy there was only one more victim to interview.
