From the crime scene to the courtroom: the journey of a DNA sample

Caitlin Curtis, The University of Queensland and James Hereward, The University of Queensland

The O.J. Simpson murder trial in 1995 introduced DNA forensics to the public. The case collapsed, partly because the defence lawyers cast doubt on the validity of the evidence thanks to the inappropriate way the samples were handled.

Things have changed since then. There are now safeguards in place to ensure the integrity of the chain of evidence. Laboratory protocols and procedures have also advanced.

By following a piece of evidence from the crime scene to the courtroom, we’ll explain just how DNA is studied in the lab and used in the modern legal system.

Read more: Explainer: Forensic science

From the crime scene

The DNA sample’s journey begins at the crime scene.

There are several principles that guide DNA evidence collection by the crime scene examiner. In particular, the avoidance of contamination or DNA degradation, and ensuring the chain of custody.

The risk of contamination (from the collector or other evidence samples) is reduced by using sterile, disposable supplies. Degradation is minimised by drying samples before bagging.

Storing dried samples in paper bags rather than plastic, and maintaining samples at the proper temperature helps preserve the DNA and prevent microbial contamination.

It is also important to plan what to collect and how – sufficient material may be required for independent testing by the defence.

To the lab

When any sample arrives in a lab, the first step is to extract the DNA.

The blood samples analysed in the O.J. Simpson trial were typical of the time when large amounts of DNA were required to conduct testing. Today, small amounts of DNA, known as trace DNA, can be analysed from items such as cigarette butts, hair follicles, saliva, semen, and even faeces.

This is possible because of the invention of a method in the 1980s called the polymerase chain reaction or “PCR”, which allows an individual strand of DNA to be replicated many times. This creates thousands of copies until there is enough DNA to conduct tests.

Analysis begins

The mainstay of modern DNA identification is short tandem repeat (STR) markers, which are small sections of DNA that vary by length (the number of repeats).

Multiple STR markers are used to create a DNA profile. They are tested using commercial kits that often incorporate a sex determination test (the amelogenin gene).

Mitochondrial DNA

Another method uses mitochondrial DNA.

Mitochondrial DNA tends to last longer than other types of DNA and is often relied on in cold cases. The sequence of mitochondrial DNA “letters” is passed down from mother to child (with the exception of rare mutations), so mothers and grandmothers share the same DNA sequence as their children (but fathers do not).

This makes mitochondrial DNA useful in identifying missing persons – the bones of Daniel Morcombe were identified this way.

Read more Ned Kelly remains are positively identified … but how was it done?

The Y chromosome

The Y chromosome is present only in males and is passed from father to son. This makes Y chromosome STR markers a useful tool in situations such as sexual assault cases where male and female DNA samples might be mixed and the male suspect’s identity needs to be established.

In the same way as mitochondrial markers, Y-markers can be used for identification through family matching. The process of familial matching in criminal investigations raises privacy concerns but is increasingly commonplace.

In one recent incident, it was suggested that the surname of a suspect was identified from records of male family members in public genetic ancestry databases.

DNA databases and sample matching

Australian law enforcement uses the National Criminal Investigation DNA Database (NCIDD), which is managed by the Australian Criminal Intelligence Commission.

The more records added to the database, the greater the odds of making an accidental match. This is because the number of potential matches increases.

To reduce the risk of false “hits”, genetic profiles can be made more complex.  Increasing the number of STRs in each profile reduces the risk of a spurious match because the probability of a match (at 20 markers, for example) is estimated by multiplying the probabilities of each STR marker.

The Australian system originally used nine STR’s and a sex-determination gene. In 2013 this was increased to 18 core markers.

Internationally, there are moves towards a standard set of 24 markers (such as GlobalFiler). With this many markers, the odds of two people having the same profile (twins excepted) are incredibly small. This makes an STR profile a powerful way to exclude suspects as well as making matches.

In the courtroom

Modern DNA forensic methods are powerful and sensitive, but great care must be taken to prevent miscarriages of justice.

It is difficult for people to comprehend probabilities like one in a quadrillion, and the presentation of such numbers in court can become prejudicial.

In the case of Aytugrul v the Queen, DNA evidence was presented as an exclusion percentage of 99.9, and the defence argued that this would indicate certainty of guilt to the jury.

Although the High Court of Australia ultimately allowed the DNA evidence presentation in Aytugrul v the Queen, survey data suggest that the statistical presentation of genetic evidence may affect how it is understood and used by a jury.

Such issues have lead to guidelines by the US Department of Justice, among other justice groups, for the language used in forensic testimony and reports.

There’s also a risk that contamination might implicate an innocent person. For that reason, DNA evidence is best used in support of other types of evidence.

In the case of R v Jama, DNA evidence was the sole basis of the rape case. Only after 16 months’ imprisonment was it revealed that the sample taken by the doctor was probably contaminated.

Forensics in the future

DNA forensics will continue to evolve.

Take a genetic test that can predict eye and hair colour: this test examines (or “genotypes”) 24 single letter DNA variants. These are analysed with a statistical model that provides probabilities for hair and eye colour based on a large database that links DNA variants to appearance.

Understanding how DNA is linked to facial features has even led to the creation of DNA-based mugshots.

“Massively parallel” sequencing machines are also a significant advance. These can turn the approximately 3.2 billion DNA “letters” of the human genome into digital information in a matter of hours.

This opens up all of the information contained in our genetic code to law enforcement. For example, some researchers claim it’s possible to predict the age of a suspect from a blood sample within a mean error margin of 3.8 years, based on methylation markers in the DNA, and this may be improved with the assistance of machine learning.

The more we understand the link between appearance and DNA, the better its predictive power will be. It’s tempting to speculate how the O.J. Simpson trial may have turned out with modern forensic DNA protocols and technology.

Caitlin Curtis, Honorary Research Fellow, The University of Queensland and James Hereward, PostDoc Ecological and Evolutionary Genetics, The University of Queensland

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

How do you know when a staff member is about to leave your startup? Five founders weigh in

STARTUPSMART / Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Envato co-founder Cyan Ta’eed. Source: Supplied 

To the High Court we go: six MPs under clouds in decisions that could undermine the government

Graeme Orr, The University of Queensland

Two green bottles and up to four blue ones. Falling from the parliamentary wall, unless the High Court saves them from the rules about MP qualifications. The six are now-resigned Greens senators Scott Ludlam and Larissa Waters, fellow upper house members Matt Canavan (LNP) and Malcolm Roberts (One Nation), and two government members of the lower house, Barnaby Joyce and David Gillespie (both Nationals).

At least that’s the latest count, as of Monday’s referral of Joyce to the court. I hesitate to file this piece lest the number rise again today.

What happens now?

First, a word on process. Gillespie’s case is different from the others, in two ways. He is not a dual citizen but faces claims about his “pecuniary interest” in a shop sub-leased to Australia Post. This is the constitutional rule that knocked out Family First senator Bob Day in April.

Also, Gillespie is being sued by his former Labor Party rival, acting as a “common informer” – a fancy term for an officious bystander who sues to enforce the law.

This avenue to challenge an MP has not been used before. It’s not entirely clear the court has power to declare Gillespie “not duly elected”. (As opposed to exacting a penalty from an MP, in the princely sum of A$200, for any day they sat while under a disqualification.)

The other five – facing dual citizenship claims – are not being sued at all. Rather, parliament has referred their positions to the court. A few things flow from that, aside from the Commonwealth almost certainly having to cover their legal costs.

One is that there is no belligerent plaintiff to argue against, say, Joyce. There will just be the solicitor-general, putting legal arguments for the Commonwealth, plus lawyers for whichever of the other four MPs or their parties choose to be represented.

Yet Joyce, Canavan and Roberts share a desire to convince the High Court that they are legitimate, arguing on related grounds that it might be unfair to unseat them.

Another is that while the election is long over, the High Court says it can undo an election on a reference from parliament. This is due to a quirky, 30-year-old ruling. I say quirky because, for more than a century, there’s been an absolutely strict time limit for challenging elections.

With electoral fraud, unlawful campaigning, or electoral commission stuff-up, a court case must begin within 40 days of the election. Yet the High Court says it can undo election results, long afterwards, over qualifications issues.

What will the MPs argue?

We must await the arguments, but it seems that Joyce, Canavan and Roberts will argue that they either took reasonable steps to renounce (Roberts) or that it was unreasonable to expect them to have known of their dual citizenship (Joyce and Canavan). In a 1992 case, the High Court softened the law against dual citizenship to allow a defence of “reasonable steps” of renunciation.

Roberts was born in India (after partition) to a Welsh father. He took some steps – three emails in one day on the eve of nominating, apparently – to renounce his UK inheritance. Was that enough, given the UK has a set application form and fee for renunciation? Roberts, some time after the election, received notice that his UK citizenship was expunged.

Canavan, Australian-born, asserts that his mother took out Italian citizenship on his behalf, without his knowledge.

Similarly, Joyce, also Australian-born, says he was blindsided to learn he had New Zealand citizenship via his NZ-born father. They want the court to inject a subjective element – actual or constructive knowledge of dual nationality – to avoid a finding that taking no steps to renounce does not meet the idea of “reasonable steps”.

It’s possible Joyce will also argue the details of NZ law. For example, whether it automatically bestowed citizenship on him, or whether he was merely guaranteed it if he applied to activate it.

The Greens pair, by resigning, seemed to admit they were disqualified. But MPs cannot declare themselves improperly elected. Only the court can do that.

Ludlam (New Zealand) and Waters (Canada) were each born overseas, but to Australian parents. They left their birth countries at the tender ages of three years and 11 months respectively.

At least in Waters’ case, her family lore (not law) was that her nationalisation as an Australian toddler terminated any Canadian status. In some countries, you lose your birth citizenship when you take out another nationality. This was the law in Australia until recently.

The logic of the Greens’ political position is to have their two Senate seats filled ASAP. Yet, in substance, their pair are hardly more blameworthy than the other MPs, who seek to fight on. They have hemmed themselves in, however, by resigning.

If the court found their disqualifications were OK, the Greens could reappoint them or any other Greens member, under the old rule for filling a “casual vacancy”.

Finally, to legal consequences. If a senator is declared “unduly elected”, the Australian Electoral Commission conducts a recount. Invariably, the next candidate in the party’s original electoral ticket inherits the seat.

That windfall beneficiary can keep it, or the party could cajole them to resign in favour of … the unelected MP. Because all of these MPs, with sufficient paperwork and knowledge, can fix up their qualifications.

Roberts and Waters say they’ve done that. Joyce and doubtless Canavan have that in train.

In a lower house seat, however, a recount would be crazy. The seat would go to the rival major party, robbing the electorate. Instead, the court effectively triggers a byelection.

In a worst-case scenario for Joyce (or Gillespie), he would recontest that fresh election. A lot would be at stake in New England (or Port Macquarie). But it’s hard to see the electors there treating now-ex-Kiwi Joyce as a fifth columnist.

The law is an unnecessary mess

All this is a law professor’s picnic.

Section 44, as it applies to elections, detracts from, rather than adds to, democracy. Its technicalities are a thicket, catching many a candidate. It sits oddly in a Constitution that never guaranteed a right to vote, leaving that small matter to the national parliament.

It’s time for reform. We inherited the dual citizenship rule, an old rule about fealty to one Crown, from our English forebears.

The founders struck it in stone in the Constitution. Yet state parliaments are fine with dual citizens being elected. So too is New Zealand. And, funnily enough, so nowadays is the UK.

Graeme Orr, Professor of Law, The University of Queensland

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

Our healthcare records outlive us. It’s time to decide what happens to the data once we’re gone.

Jon Cornwall, Victoria University of Wellington

Death is inevitable. The creation of healthcare records about every complaint and ailment we seek treatment for is also a near-certainty.

Data about patients is a vital cog in the provision of efficient health services.

Our study explores what happens to those healthcare records after you die. We focus on New Zealand’s legal situation and practices, but the issue is truly a global one.

Read More: Decades on from Henrietta Lacks, we’re still struggling to find an adequate consent model

Previously, healthcare records were held in paper form and stored in an archive. Next came the advent of digital storage in on-site databases. When you died, your records were either shredded or erased, depending on the technology.

But it is now increasingly common for healthcare records to be digitised and held in a central repository. They can potentially be held for an indefinite period after someone dies, depending on the jurisdiction.

Should we be worried?

A question of value

Large, population-based healthcare data sets have immense value.

This is particularly true of records that include genomic information alongside other healthcare data – a phenomenon that will only increase as information about a person’s genes is more widely used in clinical treatment.

These posthumous healthcare data sets, which will grow in size and detail over the coming decades, could tell us a great deal about diseases and heritability. Data sets from generations of families and communities may well be available for research, and able to be analysed.

Information on this scale is worth a lot, especially for data storage companies and those with a financial interest in these data sets, such as pharmaceutical companies. Imagine, for instance, if a company could quickly analyse millions of genomes to isolate a disease that could be cured by an engineered pharmaceutical, and the commercial value this would create.

So how will this affect the individual whose data is held and their surviving family? Many people would be willing to donate medical records if the downstream result was beneficial for their community and country.

Yet the lines become easily blurred.

Would it be acceptable if data sets were sent to foreign companies? What if they provided a cure free of charge to the families of citizens whose data they used?

How about if the cure was half price, or full price, but the other option was having no cure at all? Would it be all right for companies to make millions of dollars out of this information? There is no easy answer.

What’s the legal situation?

It’s impossible to talk about the long term fate of healthcare data without considering privacy and consent.

As part of medical research, for example, participants are required to provide informed consent and often the gathered data are anonymised. Access to posthumous medical records, on the other hand, is not highly regulated or protected in most countries, and the laws surrounding access are incredibly unclear.

In New Zealand, a deceased person has no privacy rights under the Privacy Act. And while healthcare data has to be held for a minimum of 10 years after death, the regulatory body which is then custodian of that data may decide – broadly – what purposes it may be used for.

Given that the custodian can be anyone from a health board or local doctor to a commercial institution that stores health records, the situation is exceedingly vague.

Read More: Human embryo CRISPR advances science but let’s focus on ethics, not world firsts

It is often argued that use of anonymous data sets do not require consent from an individual – in our case, a deceased person cannot provide this anyway. However the lines of true “anonymity” are becoming more blurred, particularly thanks to genomics.

Your own genome is partly that of your family and relatives. They may also have an emotional stake, and possibly a legal stake, in any action or research where the genome of a deceased family member is involved.

The medical profession has not always dealt well with consent and ethics issues. In one infamous case, the cancer cells of Henrietta Lacks – a 31-year-old American woman who died of cervical cancer in 1951 – have been used thousands of times in research projects.

She unwittingly made an invaluable contribution to global health, yet she never consented and her family was not consulted.

Then there is the fact that if large data bases are readily available, the possibility of data linkage increases – matching data sets that may belong to the same person – potentially undermining the ability to maintain true anonymity for the individual and their family.

What happens now?

The New Zealand and Australian governments have signalled that healthcare data are a widely underused resource. Commercialisation of such data is a possibility.

At some point, large posthumous healthcare data sets from these countries could potentially be accessed by researchers and private institutions around the world.

It is time for the public to decide what they think is reasonable. If the use of posthumous healthcare data is not aligned with the wishes of society, especially its desire for anonymity, the trust between our healthcare providers and patients may become compromised.

Healthcare data sets have immense value, but the public must be consulted about their use. Only then can the potential of posthumous healthcare data sets be properly realised.

Jon Cornwall, Senior Lecturer, Faculty of Health, Victoria University of Wellington

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

© Provided by ABC Business

- Jeremy Story Carter & Damien Carrick for The Law Report

Imagine returning from an overseas work trip and being greeted with a $191,000 phone bill.

Kim Beveridge’s first reaction after counting the zeros wasn’t one of horror or even shock, but amazement. He couldn’t fathom how a mobile phone service could rack up that sort of a bill.

He’s fought the charge since he received the bill in 2014 — arguing he shouldn’t be responsible for the staggering fee (which included more than $17,000 in GST).

It took until last month, but the Supreme Court of Victoria has now upheld a decision that Mr Beveridge shouldn’t be responsible for the charges.

So how did it happen?

4,484 calls in 20 hours?

By 2014 standards, Mr Beveridge seemingly did everything right before travelling from Melbourne to Barcelona.

A senior executive at a software company, Mr Beveridge contacted his mobile phone service provider TeleChoice, a reseller of the Telstra mobile service, and enquired about international roaming.

He paid a bond to TeleChoice for the roaming service, which included a daily capped charge amount, and activated it on the way to the airport.

Ironically, Mr Beveridge was attending a mobile phone and payments conference in the Catalan city.

Then his phone was pickpocketed around 5:30am after a late night out with colleagues.

He called Australia the next day — roughly 20 hours later — and reported the theft.

“They had just notified me that they detected some suspect calls and suspect behaviour on my account, so they had blocked the account at that point,” Mr Beveridge said.

“I got home and a week or so after, I had a $191,000 bill land in my inbox.”

The bill documented pages and pages of calls that were made during that 20 hours.

In total, there were 4,484 calls amounting to 1,161 hours of conversation, and thousands more text messages.

The numbers didn’t add up. Mr Beveridge couldn’t understand what he was looking at.

It transpired he had been the victim of a sophisticated scam.

“What seems to have happened is the scammers have removed the SIM card from my phone and put it in another phone and activated call forwarding to a number in Latvia,” said Mr Beveridge.

“Then they’ve set up some sort of service so many calls could be made at the same time.”

TeleChoice knock the price down… to $34,000

Mr Beveridge contacted TeleChoice, who verified the bill and insisted he would have to pay the full amount.

He refused, and contacted the Telecommunications Industry Ombudsman. They said they could not assist with matters over $50,000, and advised Mr Beveridge to contact a lawyer.

TeleChoice pursued Mr Beveridge for the full amount, and the case wound up in the County Court of Victoria.

Nine months later, after the judge threatened to rule their pursuit of the $191,000 charge as unconscionable, TeleChoice reduced their claim to $34,000.

Mr Beveridge’s legal team’s defence centred on the terms of his contract with TeleChoice, challenging their entitlement to charge for call-forwarding on international roaming services.

In 2016, the County Court found in favour of Mr Beveridge, dismissing TeleChoice’s claim and ordering them to pay court costs.

Dissatisfied with the outcome, the telco took the case to the Victorian Supreme Court, dragging the legal battle on for another a year.

Finally last month, the Supreme Court of Victoria upheld the decision.

“It’s been a long battle,” said Mr Beveridge.

“It’s been a pretty stressful time. We’re just trying to put the case behind us.”

Due to changes in the way telcos offer international mobile services, Mr Beveridge’s case is thankfully rare.

The Telecommunications Customer Ombudsman calls the situation “very unusual”, with international roaming now accounting for less than 1 per cent of complaints.

Mr Beveridge considers himself lucky that he had the means to defend himself in the courts. But he’s changed the way he uses his phone while overseas.

“All of my family has switched to a prepaid service. You know what you’re up for and it’ll be cut off after your balance is reached,” he said.

“That’s it.”

The Law Report contacted TeleChoice for comment but they declined, saying they are still considering their legal position.

Original article can be found HERE at msn.com