“Let me ask you this, Doctor. You know how many brothers Jamal Griggs has?”

I tried to keep a poker face. Moffett was a sleeper, sometimes coming alive mid-trial to hit on the one question that either the assistant DA or defense counsel had overlooked. He’d just handed Fine a gift.

Mattie Prinzer turned her head to the judge. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“Step down, Doctor. You know the answer to that, Alexandra?”

“No, sir.”

“This Wesley character, is he the only one?”

“I don’t believe so, Your Honor.”

Moffett snapped his fingers at the court officer nearest the side door of the courtroom. “Get me Chapman.”

In less than a minute, Mike walked back into the room.

“You’re still under oath, Detective. Have you ever met Mama and Papa Griggs, Chapman?”

“Mrs. Griggs is dead, Your Honor. I have spent some time with Jamal’s father, Tyrone.”

“And how many little Griggses did they produce?”

“Six children, sir. They have six grown sons.”

Eli Fine had one of the biggest shit-eating grins I had ever seen spread across his face.

“Where are they, Chapman, the other four?” Moffett was waving his arm in large circles, swinging the sleeve of his robe as he did.

“Tyrone Junior lives right here in Manhattan. The other three don’t check in at home very often.”

“How many of the Griggses’ sons have rap sheets?”

“Two that I know of, sir,” Mike said. “Just Jamal, and then Wesley took a few misdemeanor collars for drugs, before he moved his operation to the coast. None of those were designated for databank entry.”

“Let me make it clear, Your Honor,” I said. “We’d be more than pleased to take a swab from each one of Jamal’s brothers. We happen to know where Wesley is, and we know he has a history of criminal behavior.”

Harlan Moffett snapped his fingers again and pointed at the court reporter. “Take a break, Shirley.”

The portly middle-aged woman clasped her hands over her stomach.

“You believe in this stuff, Chapman?” Moffett asked. “These familial searches?”

Mike smiled at the judge. “I do.”

“You understand what she’s talking about, with these peaks and alleles and locusts?” Moffett said, aiming his pinky ring at Mattie Prinzer.

“Loci, Your Honor. Soft c. Couldn’t be easier,” Mike said, grinning at Jamal Griggs. “It all comes down to a simple rule of law: Don’t do the crime if your brother’s doing time.”

“Hear that, Jamal?” the judge asked before turning to Eli Fine. “And your objection to Ms. Cooper’s request?”

“Ms. Cooper’s plan is a violation of the Fourth Amendment rights of every single citizen whose DNA is in the California database. It’s an impermissible invasion of privacy, an unreasonable search and seizure.”

Someone in Fine’s office had prepped him to regurgitate the key legal buzzwords for his argument.

“Convicted felons give up lots of rights. Who’s your client, here? Jamal Griggs or Wesley?”

“Ms. Cooper’s made her application in the matter of Kayesha Avon. I’m opposing it on behalf of Jamal Griggs, who has been exonerated in this investigation. People who just happen to be related to criminals haven’t given up their own privacy rights. It’s genetic surveillance, Your Honor. It violates the Constitution.”

“So you’re protecting all the nuts and fruits in California, are you? And you, Alexandra?”

“Suppose Detective Chapman and I were working on a vehicular homicide case, a hit-and-run accident with an eyewitness who saw the whole thing. She tells us the make and model of the car and remembers the first three numbers of a six-digit tag. She gives us a partial plate.”

“Yeah?”

“Would you expect Chapman to just shrug his shoulders and back off from the investigation, or would you expect him to go to the DMV and search it for all the plates-every single one in existence-that include the numbers he was given?”

“We’re not talking about license plates, Your Honor,” Fine said. “We’re talking about human DNA. African Americans and Latinos make up a disproportionate amount of the database entries in every state, because of their representation in the criminal justice system. This-this wild-goose chase targets minorities and indigents.”

“You’re not disputing that the science works, then, are you?”

“I’m not conceding a thing. It’s an outrage that Ms. Cooper thinks she can go through every name in the database.”

“There are no names in there, Judge,” I said. “The forensic biologists can’t see any individual’s name in a database-every entry has a numerical designation. If there is in fact a match between the samples, then the techs have to call the state’s CODIS administrator to get the person’s name. The identity protections are all in place.”

Harlan Moffett stroked his chin again. “You got any plans to invite Wesley home for Thanksgiving, Jamal? Make it easy for me?”

Jamal Griggs stared Moffett down.

“Tell you what, Mr. Fine. I’ll take the matter under consideration. I’ll have a decision on this by early next week.”

“I assumed you’d rule on this from the bench, Your Honor. I’ve got to go back to California in the morning.”

“The State’s waited eight years to figure this out. So they’ll wait a few more days. You will, too. Tell Wesley to behave himself this weekend.”

Jamal Griggs cocked his head at his lawyer and slammed his open hand on the table.

“I told you, Mr. Griggs, E Pluribus Unum. Mr. Fine can’t be here, I’ll appoint one of the Baxter Street boys to represent you,” Moffett said, referring to the court-appointed lawyers who hung out in street-front offices across from the Tombs. “Suit yourself, Mr. Fine. It’s in your client’s best interest-well, it might be-if you show up for him.”

The Weasel was paying good money to keep our noses out of the California database, and Jamal was clearly not interested in disappointing him.

I left the courtroom with my two witnesses and went back to the office to drop off my papers, eat the sandwich that Laura had ordered in, and explain to her that Mike and I were going to pay a visit to Tina Barr.

There was no traffic on the northbound FDR Drive, so Mike had us on the Upper East Side in twenty minutes, shortly before two o’clock in the afternoon.

Mercer was waiting in an unmarked car almost directly across the street from Barr’s brownstone, and Mike continued on until he found a place to park closer to the corner of Lexington Avenue.

“How long have you been here?” I asked when Mercer came up to talk.

“A little over an hour. Have you tried calling her today?”

“Couldn’t get a number. She hasn’t got a phone-listed or unlisted-and it’s a sublet, so if there’s a hard line in there, we need to know who the landlord is to get it.”

“Reverse directory?”

“Nothing.” More and more young people were using their cell phones and BlackBerrys in place of a traditional phone.

“Knock on the door, Coop,” Mike said. “It worked for you last night.”

Mercer walked me down the block to Barr’s building. The vestibule door was locked, so I rang the buzzer next to her name several times, getting no response. Then I started pressing other doorbells until the man in 4E responded on the intercom by asking who was there.

“Police,” Mercer said. “I’m trying to get in to speak with Tina Barr.”

“Who?”

“The woman who lives in the basement.”

The man didn’t seem to care much about our visit. He buzzed us in and I followed Mercer down to the basement. I knocked but heard nothing from within.

“Ms. Barr? It’s Alexandra Cooper. If you’re there, I’d like to talk to you.”

We waited a couple of minutes and then I asked Mercer for a scrap of paper from his memo pad. I wrote a note on it, with my cell phone number, and slipped it under the apartment door.