THE MOUSY LITTLE MAN WITH the bad comb-over and wearing a dark suit, narrow tie, and starched white shirt straight out of the 1950s peered through his Coke-bottle eyeglasses at the paperwork Karp had just handed him on the witness stand. He looked up. “I’m ready when you are,” he said.
Dr. Sherman Offendahl looked the part of a mild, bookwormish scientist. However, Espy Jaxon had assured Karp that when it came to DNA expertise, the lead geneticist with the Armed Forces DNA Identification Laboratory was a “giant in the field.”
“I had to call in some favors to get this guy on board,” Jaxon had explained months earlier to Karp. “He’s respected throughout the world, and above reproach, as is the Armed Forces Lab. So much so that some of the top labs regularly ask him to review their methods and discuss the latest technology with their people.”
Karp started the DNA testimony when court convened the next morning by calling Jaxon to the stand to quickly run through the events leading to his request to find a laboratory apart from the NYPD lab to test the touch DNA samples taken from the shirt of Tony Cippio. He’d expected Jaxon to take the samples to the FBI lab in Quantico, but his friend decided to use the Armed Forces facility.
Karp limited his questioning of Jaxon to establishing the chain of custody for the evidence. That included showing him the returned samples of the material he’d given the agent several days after the Cippio shooting.
“Agent Jaxon, are those your initials on the sample cards?” Karp asked.
Jaxon examined the documents and nodded. “They are.”
Karp entered them as People’s Exhibit 58. Nash hadn’t even bothered to look at the documents and didn’t object.
“Agent Jaxon, did I explain why I asked for federal assistance with DNA testing in this case?”
“I believe that there was some concern on your part because the victim was a New York police officer, and that given today’s political climate, you wanted a second opinion, so to speak, on the evidence of whatever the NYPD crime lab reported so that there would be no question as to the legitimacy of the results. I requested that the Armed Forces Laboratory test the samples to avoid any such potential conflicts.”
Nash declined to cross-examine Jaxon. As the agent stepped down from the witness stand, Karp glanced at Katz, who raised an eyebrow, smiled, and went back to making notes on a legal pad.
Karp then called Offendahl to the witness stand. After the judge accepted the man as an expert in the field of DNA, the district attorney handed him the reports. The scientist examined them and announced he was prepared to answer questions.
Karp began by asking him to first define DNA and what was meant by a “DNA profile.”
“Ah, yes, well,” Offendahl began, “DNA is short for deoxyribonucleic acid. Without going into a lot of scientific terminology, it is the genetic material that determines the makeup of all living cells, and many viruses. It is passed down from parents, who each contribute fifty percent, to a child. It is unique to an individual, except in the case of identical twins, who share the exact same genetic makeup. A so-called DNA profile are the small variations between unrelated individuals, which is why a profile is as unique as a fingerprint.”
“Is DNA profiling absolute?” Karp asked.
Offendahl thought about it for a moment. “Sometimes we are asked to test genetic material that is degraded, such as over time or exposure to, say, sunlight or radiation. In that case, we sort of hedge our bets and offer a range, such as the likelihood of two people sharing the same profile to, say, one in a million or, as in the case of the samples I was asked to test for your office, one in a billion.”
“Has there been much in the way of changes to the science of DNA profiling over the years, particularly the amount of genetic material necessary for accurate testing?” Karp asked.
“Oh, yes.” Offendahl nodded. “DNA testing was first developed in the mid-1980s, and like any new science went through a period of growth and improvement. Right up until the mid to late 1990s, quite a sizable amount, comparatively, of genetic material—such as a large blood smear—was required. As time went on, however, techniques and technology both improved, and by the late 1990s that amount might need only be a drop of blood.”
“And has the science continued to progress?” Karp asked.
“Indeed,” Offendahl replied, obviously enjoying having an audience. “Modern-day DNA profiling, called STR analysis, is a very sensitive technique that requires only the tiniest speck of blood or saliva, even a hair root or a few skin cells.”
“When might a few skin cells come into play?”
“Well, believe it or not, we human beings are constantly shedding our skin, sort of like snakes only not in large, contiguous pieces. Indeed, the average human being sloughs off about a million skin cells every day. Although some of the genetic coding in those dead cells is damaged and worthless from a testing point of view, most carry the DNA profile of the individual. So when someone takes off an article of clothing, skin cells go with it, or if someone touches something, particularly something like clothing, they leave behind those skin cells.”
“Is that what is meant by ‘touch DNA’?”
“Yes, in a lay sense.”
“Is testing for touch DNA accurate and a scientifically accepted technique?”
“Absolutely. Of course, great care must be taken for the proper collection, retention, and forwarding of such material, but if all of that is done, it is very precise and accepted in courtrooms all over the world.”
As he questioned the scientist, Karp looked from time to time at the faces of the jurors, noting their fascinated expressions. Modern jurors had been exposed to a lot of television crime shows, some better than others, and they expected these “CSI moments.” In this case, he was happy to be able to provide them.
“Dr. Offendahl, have there been instances in the past in which individuals have either by accident, negligence, or deception rendered an inaccurate or misleading report on a particular DNA test they conducted?”
Offendahl frowned and nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. Just like in any other sort of police work, some individuals may be careless or even purposefully misleading about a test result for one reason or another.”
“Is this common?”
Offendahl shook his head. “No, not at all. There are literally hundreds of thousands of DNA profiles conducted every year, and those are just the ones tested for law enforcement purposes. Obviously, millions have been completed since the science began to be used. And while there have been some high-profile instances of unqualified or even malicious individuals falsifying results, they are a tiny minority. They are quickly found out, and safeguards have been instituted, especially following these high-profile cases.”
“Dr. Offendahl, you testified that you have conducted thousands of DNA profiles and testified under oath more than six hundred times regarding tests you’ve conducted,” Karp said. “Has there been a single instance in which your work was found to be incorrect, or where you were successfully challenged for being inaccurate?”
“Not once,” Offendahl replied.
Karp pointed to the exhibits Offendahl held in his hands. “Would you please describe for the jurors the reports I asked you to examine a few minutes ago?”
“Of course. They are both reports regarding touch DNA profiles taken from the shirt of the deceased, Officer Tony Cippio. One profile was conducted by the New York Police Department crime laboratory, and the other I conducted myself at the Armed Services Laboratory.”
“How would you describe the results of the reports?”
“They are virtually identical, with some very minor discrepancies that can be attributed to the relative strength of the genetic sample,” Offendahl said.
“And what might cause such a discrepancy?”
Offendahl pursed his lips and shrugged slightly. “Oh, for instance if you had a smear of blood, there might be more blood on one end of the smear than the other, so the relative strength of the genetic sample might vary. In these two instances, the discrepancies are so small as to be inconsequential.”
“So by comparison, the results are similar enough to fall within the scientifically acceptable range of certainty?”
“Absolutely. Both laboratories examined the same genetic material.”
“And was genetic material located on Tony Cippio’s shirt?”
“Yes, as expected, there was material—blood, skin cells—matching the deceased’s DNA.”
“Any other material?”
Offendahl glanced at the reports and nodded. “Yes, that of five humans and one canine. Apparently Officer Cippio had a dog or at least petted one enough to have dog saliva and hair at several locations on the shirt.”
Karp smiled and used the opportunity to remind the jurors of Vince Cippio’s remarks about his son’s penchant for picking up strays. “He did, indeed, named Wink . . . Were you able to identify the human DNA?”
Again, Offendahl referred to the reports. “Yes, as you would expect, four of the human profiles belonged to people close to the deceased: his wife, his two children, and his partner, Officer Eddie Evans.”
“And the fifth?” Karp asked, walking over toward the defense table.
“The fifth was unknown,” Offendahl said. “However, I entered the DNA profile into the FBI’s DNA database, otherwise known as CODIS, for Combined DNA Index System, and I got a hit.”
“A hit?”
“A match,” Offendahl explained, “for a DNA sample for an individual who had lived in the San Francisco Bay Area of California.”
Karp nodded. He had to tread carefully at this point because the rules of evidence prevented the prosecutor from referring to the defendant’s prior criminal history in front of the jury unless the defendant took the stand.
“Do you know the identity of the individual who matched the DNA profile taken from Officer Tony Cippio’s shirt?”
“I do.” Offendahl nodded toward the defense table. “The defendant, Anthony Johnson.”
“And did the New York Police Department profile agree with your conclusion?”
“Yes, as I said, they were for all intents and purposes identical. The NYPD profile was also a match for the defendant, Anthony Johnson.”
Karp looked at Johnson, who rolled his eyes as if the entire testimony was boring him. “To what degree of scientific certainty is the touch DNA profile from both reports a match for the defendant?”
“There is a one-in-one-billion chance that two people could have that same DNA profile. In other words, beyond any and all doubt, the DNA taken from the shirt is a match for Anthony Johnson.”
Karp looked at Kershner. “Your Honor, I ask that Assistant District Attorney Kenny Katz be allowed to play a part in another demonstration for the court, as well as your permission for the witness to step down from the stand.”
“Go ahead.”
Nodding to his co-counsel, Karp waited for Katz to reach the well of the court before turning back to Offendahl, who was now in front of the witness stand. “Dr. Offendahl, on what part of Officer Cippio’s shirt was the DNA profile for the defendant located?”
“The top right shoulder and back area.”
Karp nodded at Katz, who turned around with his back toward the two other men. “If Officer Cippio was shot . . . BANG . . . and fell forward onto his stomach”—as Karp spoke, Katz lay down—“can you demonstrate where on Cippio’s shirt the defendant’s DNA would be located?”
Offendahl stepped over Katz and reached down and across with his left hand, and grabbed Katz by his right shoulder. Without saying anything, Karp looked back at the jurors. Their eyes told him everything he needed to know. They had seen this before, when Tyrone Greene acted it out. He turned back to the scientist.
“Thank you, Dr. Offendahl. You may return to the witness stand. No further questions.”
Nash rose to her feet but remained behind the defense table. “I only have a few questions, Dr. Offendahl,” she said. “Of all those times you’ve testified under oath, how many times have you testified for law enforcement as opposed to how many times for the defense?”
“I’ve never counted.”
“What about a percentage?” Nash insisted. “What percentage of the time do you testify for the prosecution compared to the defense?”
Offendahl shook his head. “Criminal case DNA testing is only a small part of what I do, but most requests for testing certainly come from the law enforcement side. But I don’t really consider myself testifying ‘for’ or ‘against’ either side. I’m a scientist; I conduct research, apply the scientific method, examine the data, and reach a conclusion. Whatever that conclusion is—whether it’s helpful to the prosecution or to the defense—I don’t skew it for one side or the other.”
“Nevertheless, you work for the government.”
“I work for the government in many capacities. As I explained to Her Honor when we were discussing my bona fides, most of my work is with the identification of human remains, including our missing war dead or mass casualty victims, such as with the attacks on the World Trade Center on nine/eleven.”
“And when you do work on criminal cases, it is mostly at the request of law enforcement?”
Offendahl sighed. “Yes, mostly.”
Nash smiled. “No further questions.”
“No redirect,” Karp said. He knew that Nash was saving her attacks on the DNA evidence for when she called her own expert witness. But Offendahl was rock solid, a scientist who approached his work objectively and who had without fear or favor tendered his conclusion, which had corroborated that of the NYPD lab. He thought back to his decision to ask Jaxon to get a second opinion; he’d known even then that there was a good chance the defense would try to argue it was all a frame and the police couldn’t be trusted. He wasn’t worried about Nash’s expert; he had a surprise waiting for her then, too.
In the days that followed, more pieces snapped together seamlessly. Karp called Assistant Medical Examiner Gail Manning to testify about the horrendous damage done by two .45 caliber cop-killer bullets. And how the killer had fired the first from nearly point-blank range into the victim’s back and then stood over the dying man and fired down into his head.
Then he called an NYPD ballistics expert, Don Spicer, who began by testifying that the two bullets used to kill Cippio were .45 caliber. However, he said that both bullets, actually fragments of bullets, were too damaged for him to declare with “scientific certainty” that they’d been fired from the revolver taken from the defendant in San Francisco. He was able to say only that they were “consistent” with bullets he’d test-fired from the revolver.
Spicer also testified that the fragments were of the same make and type as four bullets given to him for testing by the District Attorney’s Office. Even more damaging was his testimony about chamber marks on the two empty cartridge cases also found in the gun.
“Chamber marks are nearly microscopic striations, or scratches, on the outside of a cartridge when it is loaded or removed from the chamber,” Spicer said. “Roughness in a chamber—invisible to the naked eye—causes these striations. Most chamber marks occur after a cartridge has been fired because the case expands under pressure against the walls of the chamber. Then, when the cartridge is pulled out of the chamber, the sides are scratched.”
Spicer explained that just as every barrel of a gun is slightly different, causing “land and groove marks” on a bullet as it passes through, the striations are unique as well. He’d examined the spent cartridges under a microscope and noted on blowup photographs the unique markings on each. He then test-fired six similar bullets from the revolver and examined each of the spent cartridges. Two of them left “identical” marks to the previous spent cartridges. It was damning evidence.
Then, as his brother, Tyrone, had before him, Maurice Greene identified the defendant as the revolutionary he’d known as Nat X and testified that he’d picked him out of a photo lineup from his bed in Bellevue Hospital and then a standing lineup at the DAO. He talked about the meetings he’d attended with his childhood friends, DeShawn Lakes and Ricky Watts, in which Johnson talked about casting off the yoke of white oppression and forming a separate black nation by “taking up arms against the oppressor class and their servants, the police.”
Then DeShawn Lakes took the stand and identified the defendant as Nat X and corroborated what Maurice had said about the meeting. But he added the scene outside the tenement building with his best friend, Ricky Watts, when Nat X let them hold the big silver gun—yes, one that looked just like the revolver in the evidence bag. “He said it was a ‘cop killer,’ loaded with bullets that would go through a Kevlar vest ‘like it was butter.’ ”
DeShawn testified about the day he and Ricky met up with Big George Parker and the defendant Johnson, aka Nat X, who asked them if they were ready to “strike a blow for your people . . . be heroes of the revolution? Or are you going to be house niggers?”
He’d been ready to go through with it, too, such was the romantic persuasiveness of Nat X. But then his father, Reverend Jonas Lakes, intercepted them and saved him from himself.
Reverend Lakes took the stand as well. He, too, had gone down to the DAO after Johnson was extradited from California and picked him out of the lineup as the man he’d seen in the company of his son and Ricky Watts.
“I should have stopped Ricky,” he cried on the stand. “I should have picked that boy up and made him get in the car.” But instead, he’d driven off in one direction while Watts was marched to his doom in another. “I will never forgive myself for that,” he said, then looked at Johnson and added, “And God might, but I won’t forgive you, either.”
As each witness climbed onto the stand and added his piece, Nash was unable to stop the onslaught. Oh, she did her best to claim it was all part of the frame. Black teenagers frightened of the police, coached to say whatever the district attorney wanted. But each witness was placing a damning evidentiary tile in the mosaic that ultimately would depict the defendant guilty beyond all doubt.
Meanwhile, Karp enjoyed watching the smug and defiant visage of the defendant gradually evaporate until he took on the look of a caged rat waiting for the footfalls of his executioner. But there was more.
The testimony of Manning, Spicer, the teens, and Reverend Lakes had taken the rest of the day and part of the next. Then Karp called Judy Pardo, the cop-turned–drug addicted prostitute, seeking this one last shot at redemption. She was the one who could connect the murder of a police officer to the attempted murder of another. Karp had been looking forward to it.