Act of God

by Susan R. Sloan

  “And it was your custom to spend a good part of each day and evening with her?”

  “Of course. Where else would I be? My Emma had never been alone. I was there from when she woke up in the morning, until she fell off to sleep at night.”

  “And on the night in question, what time did you leave the hospital?”

  “As soon as she went to sleep. It was a little after midnight.”

  “Did you usually stay that late?”

  Auerbach shook his head. “No. Usually she drifted off around ten, and I left then.”

  “But not that night?”

  “No. That night it was midnight.”

  “It was more than seven months ago. How are you so sure?”

  “Because that night was our fiftieth wedding anniversary,” the little man said with a catch in his voice. “I had a special dinner brought into the hospital, and the doctors were very nice and let her have some champagne. And then I gave her a diamond anniversary band. She always wanted a diamond anniversary band. She was so excited, it took her a long time to get to sleep that night.”

  “So you’re positive, there’s no doubt in your mind, that it was a little past midnight when you left your wife at Harborview Medical Center?”

  “Yes, I’m positive.”

  “And where did you go when you left the hospital?”

  “I went home,” Auerbach said. “Where else would I go at midnight?”

  “How did you get home?”

  “I walked, like always.”

  “You weren’t afraid to walk alone in the neighborhood at night?”

  “Afraid of what? I’m an old man. Is someone going to mug me? I have no money. I fall, I get hurt, there are hospitals all around to take care of me. I sat with my Emma all day, I liked to walk home at night.”

  With a nod from Brian, Mark Hoffman rolled a bulletin board up in front of the jury. Pinned to it was an enlarged map of part of the First Hill section of Seattle, with street names and little boxes identifying the Harborview Medical Center, the Seattle Family Services Center, and the apartment building on Summit Avenue where Milton Auerbach lived clearly marked on it. The prosecutor picked up a black marker.

  “Please tell us, sir, what route you took to get to your home that night,” he instructed.

  “Same route I always took,” Auerbach replied. “I came out of the hospital on Ninth Avenue, and walked along Ninth until I got to Jefferson Street. I took Jefferson up to Boren. Then I walked down Boren until I got to Madison, and there I crossed the street, on the corner where Hill House used to be, and turned right.” He spoke slowly, and Brian used the pen to mark the old man’s path on the map. “I walked up Madison until I got to Summit. Then I turned left on Summit, and walked to my apartment house, which is the third apartment building on the right-hand side.”

  “That’s Ninth to Jefferson to Boren to Madison to Summit,” Brian repeated slowly. “Is that what you said, sir?”

  Auerbach nodded. “That’s what I said.”

  “And that’s the route that you took home from the hospital on the night of your fiftieth wedding anniversary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me if, during your walk home that night, there was anything that caught your attention?”

  “Yes, there was something.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I saw a car parked on the north side of Madison Street, maybe halfway between Boren and Minor.”

  “A parked car?”

  “Yes.”

  “On the north side of Madison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Facing west?”

  “Yes, west. I kind of cut the corner on Boren a little, so I walked right in front of the car.”

  Brian drew a small rectangle on the map, where Auerbach had indicated the car had been parked. “Would you say the car you saw was right about here?”

  The old man peered at the spot and nodded. “Yes, I would say right about there.”

  Brian put the letters CAR in the middle of the rectangle. “All right, you noticed a parked car,” he said. “Now you have to admit that it doesn’t seem terribly unusual to see a car parked on a city street. So can you tell us why you happened to notice that particular vehicle?”

  “To begin with, I noticed because it was the only car parked on the street. The graveyard shift at the hospitals comes on at eleven. After that, there isn’t much traffic in the area at night.”

  “I see,” Brian acknowledged. “All right, what kind of car was it?”

  “It was one of those four-wheel-drive things you see so many of these days.”

  “A sport utility vehicle?”

  “Yes. One of those.”

  “Did you happen to notice the make of the vehicle? Or the model?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t,” the witness confessed. “I don’t know that much about automobiles.”

  “What about the color?”

  Auerbach shrugged. “The streetlights up there do funny things to color, so I’m not sure what color the car was, but I know it was dark. Maybe black or gray.”

  “Could it have been green?”

  “Dark green, sure, or brown, or navy. All I know is it was something dark.”

  “Well then,” Brian inquired, “was there anything about this particular vehicle, other than its simply being there, that called it to your attention?”

  “Yes,” the witness replied. “It had a military sticker on the windshield.”

  “A military sticker?”

  “Yes. That’s really why I noticed it.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because my sister’s boy was in the Navy, and he had a sticker on his windshield, just like the one I saw on that car that night. And I recognized it as I went by.”

  “Can you describe this sticker?”

  “Well, it was maybe three or four inches long by maybe an inch high, and it was white, and it had some numbers and letters on it, and a round Department of Defense logo,” Auerbach said. “And then there was a tab attached to the bottom of it.”

  “Could you tell what color the tab was?”

  The witness shook his head. “No. Because of the streetlights, again. They make red look like blue, and blue look like green. So, I couldn’t tell you for sure. Just like I couldn’t tell you for sure about the color of the car.”

  “Well, were there any words printed on the tab?”

  “Yes, I’m pretty sure there were,” Auerbach admitted. “Those tabs are used for base designations. But I didn’t look close enough to read it. I didn’t realize it would be important. It just registered on me that the sticker was like the one my nephew had.”

  “And at what base here in Washington did your nephew serve, sir?”

  “He worked on the submarines,” the little man replied with pride. “And he was assigned to Bangor.”

  At that, Mark Hoffman handed Brian a posterboard, perhaps two feet by three feet in size, and in full view of the jury, the prosecutor showed it to the witness. “Did the sticker you saw, the one you say was just like the one your nephew had, look like this, sir?”

  On the poster was an enlarged version of the Department of Defense decal that was used on military bases for vehicle and occupant identification. The round logo was clear against the white background, and along the bottom was a bright blue tab with the words “SUBASE BANGOR” printed in thick black capital letters.

  Dana was out of her seat in a flash. “Objection,” she exclaimed.

  “Approach,” Bendali instructed, pushing his microphone to the side. “Yes, Ms. McAuliffe?” he inquired as the two attorneys reached the bench.

  “Your Honor,” the defense attorney declared, “this witness was unable to testify as to either the color of the sticker tab, or any words that may have been printed on it. I resent counsel’s attempt to implicate my client unfairly by allowing the jury to see an enlarged version of the precise sticker that he has on his vehicle.”

  The judge glared dow
n at Brian. “What are you doing, Mr. Ayres?”

  “It’s an exhibit that I planned to bring in a little later in the trial, Your Honor,” Brian said ingenuously. “In the interests of economy, I was using it at this time only as an example, for clarification, not implication.”

  “Not in my courtroom,” Bendali retorted, staring him down. “And don’t make me have to repeat myself. Now, step back.”

  “Nice try,” Dana murmured, as they retreated.

  “Just earning a living,” Brian murmured in response.

  “The witness is instructed not to answer the last question,” the judge declared, adjusting his microphone. “And the jury is instructed to disregard the last exhibit.” He glowered one more time at the prosecutor, and then gave him a curt nod.

  “I apologize to the court, if I misled anyone in any way, and I apologize to you, Mr. Auerbach,” Brian said, with just the right amount of contrition in his voice. “Now, if we may, let’s return to the dark-colored sport utility vehicle with the military sticker on the windshield. Do you recall ever having seen that vehicle before that night?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain?”

  The little man shrugged. “As certain as I can be.”

  “And have you seen that vehicle since?”

  “No.”

  “Do you still walk around the neighborhood during the day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still walk home from Harborview Medical Center in the evening?”

  “No,” Auerbach answered.

  “Why not, sir?” Brian asked gently.

  The little man blinked several times before he answered. “My Emma died,” he said.

  A murmur of sympathy ricocheted around the courtroom, as Brian thanked the witness and took his seat.

  “Great,” Dana muttered under her breath, sending a reproachful glance in the prosecutor’s direction. “First, he tries to ambush me, and now I get to beat up on an old man who lost his wife.” With a sigh, she stood up. “I’m very sorry about your wife, Mr. Auerbach,” she said to the witness, and the sincerity in her voice was unmistakable.

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  “Would you like to take a moment?” He shook his head. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Maybe, yes, please,” he replied, and Joan had a glass filled by the time the words were out of his mouth.

  “Thank you,” Auerbach said, as he accepted the glass and took several gulps.

  “Just take your time, sir.”

  “I’m all right now,” he said.

  Dana smiled kindly. “Well then, I have just a few questions for you.”

  “All right,” he said.

  “You say you really noticed the parked car because of the sticker on the windshield, is that correct?”

  “No. First, I noticed it because it was the only one on the street. Second, I noticed it because of the sticker.”

  “Right,” she conceded. “And you also said you couldn’t be sure what the exact color of the vehicle was, only that it was dark? Maybe black or gray, you said.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you know it was a military sticker, but you couldn’t be sure what color the tab was?”

  “No, I couldn’t be sure,” he allowed. “Not with those lights.”

  “And you don’t have a clear idea of what was printed on the tab, is that also correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “By the way,” Dana said casually, “what did your nephew do on the submarines?”

  “He was a communications technician,” the little man said. “He owns an electronics shop now.”

  Dana walked to the defense table, and took an exhibit from Joan. It was a posterboard, measuring approximately two feet by three feet in size, and displaying a Department of Defense sticker with a bright red tab affixed to the bottom of it. Across the tab, printed in thick black letters, were the words “NAS FALLON.”

  “In general, Mr. Auerbach, did the sticker you remember seeing on the windshield of that parked car in any way resemble this one?” she asked, holding the exhibit up for both the witness and the jury to see.

  The little man nodded. “Yes, that could’ve been it,” he said.

  “Let the record show, Your Honor, that the sticker just identified by the witness as generally resembling the one he saw on the night in question is a photocopy of a sticker used at the Fallon Naval Air Station in Fallon, Nevada.”

  “So noted,” Bendali said, as a buzz rippled through the courtroom.

  From the corner of her eye, the defense attorney caught a grudging glance of respect from the prosecutor.

  “Now, Mr. Auerbach,” she continued, “did you happen to notice the license plate on the vehicle you saw?”

  The witness paused for a moment. “No, not really,” he said. “Not to remember it, anyway.”

  “Please think hard, sir,” Dana prompted. “It would have been the front plate, and you’ve already testified that the car was facing toward you, and that you passed directly in front of it.”

  “Yes I did,” the little man acknowledged. “I think the plate must have been there, because I don’t have the impression it was missing. But I just don’t remember seeing it.”

  “Well, was it your impression, at least, that it was a Washington State license plate?”

  Auerbach had to think again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t even be sure of that.”

  “All right,” Dana continued, “you testified earlier that you walked from Ninth to Jefferson to Boren, and then crossed at Madison, and walked up Madison to Summit, is that correct?”

  The little man nodded. “That’s correct.”

  “Did you always follow the same route every time you walked home from the hospital?”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean exactly, sir. I mean, is it possible that you usually crossed at Boren, but maybe sometimes you walked up Madison and crossed at Minor?”

  “Well, yes, I crossed at Minor some of the time, if the light was against me at Boren,” he explained. “But mostly I crossed at Boren.”

  “But you’re pretty sure that on that night, you crossed at Boren.”

  “Well, I think so. Of course, it was quite a long time ago.”

  “Just one more thing, then, sir,” Dana continued. “When did you go to the police to report having seen the car? Was it immediately after the bombing, or did you wait a period of time?”

  “I didn’t go to them,” Auerbach corrected her. “They came to me.”

  “Oh? How was that?”

  The witness shrugged. “They were out on the street for several days, asking people in the neighborhood if they’d seen or heard anything around the time of the bombing. I was walking to the market. One of them stopped me and asked, so I told him about the car.”

  “Do you remember approximately when that was?”

  “I believe it was around the first of March,” he said.

  “About a month after the bombing?”

  “Yes, I would say so.”

  “So, you didn’t think seeing the car was all that important, did you, until the police approached you?”

  The witness blinked. “Why should I?” he said. “It was just a car, like a lot of others.”

  In the survivors’ section, Carl Gentry shook his head in disgust. “What good is that?” he muttered to no one in particular.

  Dana smiled again. “Thank you, Mr. Auerbach. That’s all I have.”

  The little man stepped down from the stand, and walked up the aisle and out of the courtroom. Allison watched him go. He was totally neutral, she decided, with no ax to grind, no position to protect. What he saw was what he saw, nothing more.

  “Dirty pool,” Dana said to Brian, as Bendali adjourned for the day.

  “Good comeback,” the prosecutor acknowledged.

  “You gave me no choice.”

  “It was my own fault then, Punk,” Brian conceded. “I should have remembered
.”

  “Remembered what?” Dana asked.

  He grinned. “That you’re as good as I am.”

  Sam greeted her at the door with a big kiss. “I hope you had a good day,” he said.

  “Why?” she asked, instantly suspicious.

  He plucked a tabloid off the kitchen counter. “Saw it at the market this afternoon.”

  Smeared across the front page was a picture of Dana, apparently taken one day as she was leaving the courthouse, side by side with a picture of her ex-husband.

  “MY EX-WIFE WAS A BIGAMIST,” the headline screamed. The piece then went on to recount all the sleazy details of a failed marriage that the writer could either elicit or invent.

  “My ex-wife was a bigamist,” the petulant San Francisco divorce attorney declared at the very end of the interview. “All the time she was married to me, she was really married to her career.”

  Dana shook her head when she was finished reading. She was seething inside, furious that the spineless worm would air his petty insecurities in public. But all she said was, “Let’s try not to let Molly see this.”

  “I don’t particularly like the way things are looking,” Prudence Chaffey confided to an AIM board member, having spent the evening getting up to date on the proceedings in Abraham Bendali’s courtroom. “I thought we could count on Ms. McAuliffe to argue a case for justifiable homicide. But so far, she’s just trying to refute the state’s evidence.”

  “And making mincemeat out of it,” the board member observed.

  “Granted we want an acquittal,” Prudence said. “But this is all about the election, and we need an acquittal for the right reasons. Isn’t there something we can do?”

  “We’re already on it,” the board member told her.

  SIX

  At exactly six o’clock on Saturday evening, a sleek silver limousine pulled up in front of Rose Gregory’s modest Queen Anne cottage, and a man in gray livery stepped out and walked smartly up the path to ring the doorbell.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Rose exclaimed. “I get to ride in a limousine?”

  The only other time Rose had ridden in such luxury was twenty-two years ago, to her husband’s funeral, and the two occasions could not be compared.