Act of God

by Susan R. Sloan

  Two of the six deputies pushed their way down the center aisle, and turned to face the gallery, their primary mission to protect the court. They withdrew their service revolvers, grasped them in both hands, released the safety catches, extended their arms in firing position, and froze. It was clear that they would fire, if they had to, but only if they had to. With batons and handcuffs ready, the remaining deputies tackled the crowd.

  For some reason that neither of them would later be able to explain, except to say that they felt it their duty to bear witness, Dana McAuliffe and Brian Ayres remained in the courtroom, alternately fascinated and appalled.

  It took almost half an hour and another dozen deputies to quash the brawl and return some semblance of order to the courtroom. Before it was over, there were seven arrests, two concussions, a broken arm, some cracked ribs, a fractured wrist, a dislocated shoulder, and numerous cuts and bruises. Joe Romanadis sustained a black eye, Raymond Kiley had a deep cut on his right cheek, and Andy Umanski had suffered a broken nose. Those arrested went directly to jail. Those with minor injuries were treated on the scene by a paramedic team, and those who were more seriously injured were taken to Harborview Medical Center.

  And during it all, a stony-faced Abraham Bendali sat on the bench and watched. When order was finally restored, he cleared his throat, and fixed a steely eye on those who remained in the courtroom.

  “I trust that we have this all out of our systems now, and will not have to suffer anything that even remotely resembles a repeat episode,” he said. “To this end, and I might add, at significant cost to the taxpayers, I will request that a contingent of armed deputies be on hand for the remainder of the trial.”

  As if to emphasize his words, four deputies took up positions at various points around the room. As soon as they were in place, Bendali peered down at the two attorneys with a heavy sigh. “Would either side object to an adjournment until tomorrow?” he inquired of them.

  “No objection, Your Honor,” Brian said with relief.

  “No objection,” Dana echoed weakly.

  The judge reconvened his court, apologizing as best he could to the jury and the witness, to the defendant and the defendant’s wife, and to the contingent of Hill House survivors, after which he recessed the trial until the following morning.

  Dana had always considered herself a seasoned professional, in control, and able to handle just about any situation. She had no idea how frightened she was until it was over, and the rush of adrenaline had subsided, and she tried to stand up, and found her knees buckling beneath her.

  “What just happened?” she asked, wondering how long it would be before her legs would be willing to work again.

  “A bit of anarchy,” Brian replied. “Are you all right?”

  He was looking pretty shaky himself, Dana thought as she gave him a weak smile. “Ask me again after a few stiff drinks,” she said, “and I’ll let you know.”

  Abraham Bendali went into his chamber and pulled a bottle of scotch from his desk drawer. Taking a glass from the tray on his credenza, he half filled it, and then downed it in one gulp.

  “Are you all right, Your Honor?” his bailiff asked, standing in the doorway.

  “Yes, of course, Robert,” he replied. “Come in, come in.” He plucked a second glass from the tray and poured another portion of scotch. “Here,” he said, holding it out to the young man. “I can’t believe you don’t need this every bit as much as I do.”

  Robert took the glass with a shaking hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said, sipping at it.

  Bendali helped himself to a second drink, and sat contemplating it for a moment. “Just how close do you think we came, Robert?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure, sir,” the bailiff replied. “And to be perfectly honest with you, I’m not sure I want to know, either.”

  “Do you think I did the right thing, calling in the artillery?”

  “Absolutely,” Robert said without hesitation. “I can’t see as you had any choice about that.”

  The judge wagged his head in disgust. “Spitballs,” he muttered.

  “They knew nothing else was going to get through the metal detectors,” the bailiff said.

  “That’s just the point. I summoned an army to fight spitballs.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t know that’s all they had at the time. You couldn’t take the chance that they hadn’t found some way to sneak in a gun or two. And anyway, some of those spitballs weren’t just paper, you know. There were stones in the middle of them.”

  Bendali downed his second scotch and placed the glass on the desk. “I can’t remember the last time a case drove me to drink,” he said. “I think I’m getting too old for this.”

  “You, sir?” the bailiff declared, emboldened by the liquor. “You’ve got the best mind on the bench, and everyone around here knows it.”

  “Thank you, Robert,” Bendali said, genuinely moved. He wondered when the time would be right to tell the young man that this was his final trial.

  FOURTEEN

  Under the eyes of armed deputies, Ronna Keough returned to the witness stand on Friday.

  “I have just a few more questions,” Brian assured her. “Was there an occasion in November of last year when you received a telephone call from the defendant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you please tell the court the substance of that conversation?”

  “He told me that Elise had refused to talk about the miscarriage, and he wanted to know if I knew what had caused it.”

  “The miscarriage?”

  “Yes. I guess Elise told him she’d had a miscarriage, not an abortion.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Well, I didn’t know Elise was going to lie to him. She made me swear not to tell our parents about it, but she didn’t tell me not to say anything to Corey. I guess it never occurred to her that he’d call me. Anyway, at the time, I just thought he’d gotten it wrong. So I told him that she was probably just feeling guilty.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to know what she would have to feel guilty about.”

  “What did you say?”

  Ronna sighed. “I told him maybe the reason she was feeling guilty was because abortion was a mortal sin.”

  “So you were the one who told the defendant that his wife had had an abortion, not a miscarriage?”

  “I didn’t mean to, but yes, I guess so.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “The telephone went silent,” Fonna replied. “He never said another word. After maybe a minute or two, he hung up.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Keough,” the prosecutor said. “That’s all I have.”

  Dana contemplated the witness. While the state could not compel the defendant’s wife to testify against her husband, no such privilege extended to the wife’s sister. Brian had done a clever end run in getting Elise Latham’s abortion into evidence, as well as the lie. It went a long way toward providing Corey Latham with a motive for bombing Hill House. The damage was done, and could not be undone. It would be foolish even to try.

  “We have no questions for this witness, Your Honor,” the defense attorney said.

  Elise Latham did not return to the courtroom on Friday, and would not return until she was called to testify. Her month’s leave of absence from her job was up, and she was expected back at work. That and the fear of another public assault gave her a convenient reason to move quietly out of the picture.

  Dean Latham had returned to Iowa, and Corey’s Navy buddies, who had taken precious vacation time to be at the courthouse for the first weeks of trial, had gone back on duty. That left Barbara Latham, Evelyn Biggs, and two or three rotating members of Corey’s support group holding the banner on the defense side of the aisle. Occasionally, Tom Sheridan made an appearance. Fortunately, today was one of those occasions, and from the corner of her eye, Dana saw the minister put his arm comfortingly around Barbara.

  The prosecutor’s last
witness of the week was Alan Neff, the doctor from Hill House who had performed Elise Latham’s abortion. By a sheer stroke of luck on his part, Dr. Neff had been sick with the flu the week of the bombing, recuperating at his home in Lake Forest Park.

  “I want to make it perfectly clear to you,” the physician had told the prosecutor, when he was subpoenaed to testify, “I am bound by the terms of doctor-patient confidentiality. I cannot and I will not discuss Mrs. Latham’s care or treatment.”

  “I have no intention of asking you about your interaction with Mrs. Latham,” Brian assured him. “I’m going to ask you about your interaction with Mrs. Latham’s husband.”

  There was a pause. “How do you know I had any interaction with her husband?” Neff inquired.

  “Lucky guess, maybe,” Brian replied with a shrug. “And telephone records.”

  The doctor sighed. “All right,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

  “Thank you for coming in today, Dr. Neff,” Brian said, as the physician settled himself in the witness box, four months to the day after their conversation. “I would like to begin by asking if you know Corey Dean Latham.”

  “I know who he is,” Neff replied, “but we’ve never met, face-to-face.”

  “When you say you know who he is, what do you mean?”

  “I mean, I know he’s the defendant in this trial,” the witness said. “And I also know he’s the husband of one of my patients.”

  “Doctor, you said you never met the defendant, face-to-face. Did you have another kind of contact with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you explain for the court?”

  “There were a whole lot of telephone calls, perhaps as many as two dozen of them in the period of a week. Calls made to my office, and to my home.”

  “What was the nature of these calls?”

  Neff paused. “Demanding,” he said finally.

  “Demanding, how?” Brian asked.

  “He wanted to discuss something I was not at liberty to discuss with him.”

  “Did this something concern his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened when you told him you couldn’t discuss it?”

  “He became… frustrated,” the doctor replied. “And then the, harassment started. At first, he would call me at the clinic. After a few days of trying to reason with him, I just refused to come to the phone, so then he began calling me at home, at all hours of the night, demanding that I talk to him about his wife. I tried to tell him that the discussion he needed to have was with his wife, not with me, but that just made him angry. So finally I had to tell him that if he didn’t stop calling, I would call the police.”

  “So, by the time you told him to stop calling, he was angry?”

  “Yes, I’d say so. Very angry.”

  “And to the best of your recollection, when did these telephone calls take place?”

  “Last November,” Neff replied.

  “Now, without going into detail, or abrogating any doctor-patient confidentiality, did you have occasion to see the defendant’s wife on a medical matter, prior to these telephone calls? Say, in September of last year?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Brian turned to the bench. “I’d like these telephone logs entered into evidence, Your Honor,” he said.

  Bendali nodded. “So ordered.”

  “Thank you,” the prosecutor said to his witness. “That’s all I have.”

  “These telephone calls that annoyed you so much, Dr. Neff,” Dana said, rising as Brian sat. “When you told my client you felt he was harassing you, did they stop?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t have to call the police, or try to dissuade him further?”

  “No.”

  “So my client may have been desperate for help and begging for information, but he wasn’t irrational, or intimidating, or anything like that, was he?”

  “Well, he was angry.”

  “So you said. Did he threaten you? Did he threaten to harm your family?”

  “No.”

  “And after that week in November, did my client ever attempt to telephone you again?”

  “No.”

  Dana contemplated the witness for a moment. “Do you think he held you personally responsible for something in connection with his wife?”

  “I think, by his actions, he made that perfectly clear,” the physician replied.

  “Your house wasn’t bombed, was it?”

  “No, of course it wasn’t. But Hill House certainly was.”

  “Yes, two and a half months later,” Dana acknowledged. “And if I remember correctly, you weren’t at the clinic that day, were you?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t.”

  “That’s right. You were at home. As a matter of fact, you were at home all that week, with a bad case of the flu, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, well, maybe your client didn’t know that,” Neff suggested.

  “All it would have taken was one phone call to find out, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You suppose?” Dana fingered a piece of paper. “Doctor, are you acquainted with a woman by the name of Maureen O’Connor?”

  “Yes, I am,” he replied with a puzzled frown. “She’s a patient of mine.”

  “Well, Mrs. O’Connor is willing to come here and testify, if necessary, that on the Monday before the bombing, she called the clinic to speak to you, and was told that you were out with the flu, and had canceled all your appointments for the rest of the week. Now, let me ask you again, would it have taken anything more than one phone call to determine that you were not at Hill House?”

  “No, I guess not,” he conceded.

  “And yet, Dr. Neff,” the attorney continued, “you were perfectly willing to let this jury believe that it was my client’s anger at you that prompted the bombing of Hill House, weren’t you?”

  “What the jury believes is up to the prosecutor,” the physician declared. “All I said was the defendant was very angry.”

  “Yes, you did say that,” Dana granted, thoughtfully. “You lost a lot of good friends that day at Hill House, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did,” he replied.

  “And you’d like to believe that the police did their job, the way police are supposed to do it, and caught the right man, wouldn’t you?”

  “Sure I would.”

  “It wouldn’t bring your friends back, of course, but it would mean at least some kind of closure, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And those of you who are left could start putting the whole tragedy behind you, and begin getting on with your lives, couldn’t you?”

  Neff blinked several times. “Yes,” he said.

  “Doctor, do you blame yourself for the bombing of Hill House?”

  He sighed. “Maybe, a little,” he said, his voice catching a bit.

  “Enough to want to help hang an innocent man?”

  “No, of course not,” he said. “I would never want to do that.”

  “All right then, after the telephone calls ended, did you have any further contact with my client?”

  “I did,” he replied after a slight pause.

  “Can you tell us what that contact consisted of?”

  “About two weeks later, I got a letter from him.”

  Brian shot a look at Mark Hoffman, who shrugged in response.

  “Will you please tell the court what the gist of that letter was?”

  “As I remember, it said that he and his wife had finally been able to talk, that they had gotten into counseling, and that he had faith things would work out. He apologized for his harassment, hoped I understood, and thanked me for not reporting him to the police.”

  “Did this letter sound like someone who was so consumed with anger that he was going to go right out and plant a bomb?”

  “No, I guess it didn’t,” he answered.

  “Or did it sound like someone who had suf
fered a severe shock, but was trying to come to grips with it in as adult a manner as he could?”

  “Well, yes,” he said, with a nod. “I’d have to say that it did sound a little like that.”

  “Thank you,” Dana said. “I have nothing further.”

  “Why didn’t we know about that letter?” Brian barked at his associate.

  “He never said anything about it,” Mark replied. “And we never asked.”

  “Ayres sets them up, and McAuliffe knocks them down,” Paul Cotter’s caller observed.

  “Well, that’s what a defense attorney does,” Cotter responded.

  “Yes, and she does it very well, doesn’t she?” the caller said. “Perhaps even better than any of us realized.”

  “I have good news,” Sam declared at the dinner table that night. “We’ve come to terms on the Pioneer Square building.”

  Dana’s eyes widened. “Really?” she gasped. “It’s ours?”

  “As soon as all the paperwork is done.”

  “Oh how wonderful! How scary! We have to tell Judith. I can’t believe this! Let’s invite her to dinner on Sunday, and just drop it on her then.”

  At ten o’clock on Friday evening, Tom Kirby knocked at Judith’s door.

  “Oh my God, where have you been?” she cried. “They said you’d checked out. I’ve been going crazy.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “It was a last-minute thing. I didn’t have a chance to call.”

  He looked different. His hair was neatly cut, he was cleanshaven, he was dressed in a jacket and tie, and his shoes were polished. But Judith hardly noticed.

  “Where were you?”

  “I was in Los Angeles,” he told her. “I was down there lining up a job.”

  “You took a job… in Los Angeles?” she asked blankly.

  He sighed. “Look, I told you it was only a matter of time before I moved on,” he said. “Well, it’s time. Truth is, if it weren’t for you, I would’ve been gone long ago, and this job, well, it’s too good to pass up.”