“Because the engine was that of an automobile,” Ram replied confidently. “You see, there are only four houses at our end of the street. Mine, Lieutenant Latham’s, and two others. The occupants of the other two houses both drive trucks, each of which has been fitted with a low-cost dual exhaust system. Such engines have a much louder sound than that of a regular automobile, or a sport utility vehicle.”
“Thank you,” Brian said, turning away, and then turning back again. “By the way, Mr. Ram, will you tell the jury what you do for a living?”
“I am an automobile mechanic,” he replied.
There were no further questions. The witness was excused.
Brian watched him leave the courtroom before he turned and addressed the bench. “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”
The judge peered down at Dana. “Will you be prepared to present your first witness tomorrow morning, counsel?” he inquired.
“Yes, we will, Your Honor,” Dana assured him.
Bendali rapped his gavel. “Court will be adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” He turned to the jury for his daily reminder. “I remind the members of the jury that you are not to discuss this case among yourselves, or with anyone else, or to allow anyone to try to influence you about this matter in any way.”
“It’s so hard,” Karleen McKay said, as she and Allison Ackerman traveled down in the elevator together.
“What is?” Allison inquired.
“Well, it’s all a jumble in my head, everything we’ve seen and heard, and I want to talk about it. I need to talk about it. I have to sort it all out, so I’m sure I’ve got it straight. Only we’re not allowed.”
“I know,” the author responded. “That’s why I go home every day after court and have conversations with my computer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m keeping a kind of journal, dumping everything I can remember from each day into my computer, and then I try to look at it from different perspectives.”
“Spoken like a true writer,” Karleen declared. “Does it work?”
“Well, I think so,” Allison replied. “However, it’s a bit like watching a tennis match. First the ball’s in one court, and then it’s in the other.”
Karleen chuckled. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said. And that was as far as either of them would go in discussing the trial.
Since the riot in the courtroom, the crowds outside had grown increasingly restless. Several skirmishes had prompted police to set up barricades along Third Avenue between James and Jefferson to protect the courthouse and reduce traffic to one lane. The demonstrators, essentially pushed away from the building entrance, and out of camera range, began to mill around both cross streets, waving their placards and shouting their slogans.
“Abortion is murder!”
“Freedom is choice!”
Karleen and Allison exited the building, walked to the corner of James, and headed for the garage on Second Avenue where both their cars were parked. Suddenly, a man was blocking their way. He wore a huge button on his lapel that depicted a mutilated fetus and proclaimed the preborn’s right to life.
“You’re on that jury, aren’t you?” he charged.
As the author and the Realtor glanced at each other, both realized, too late, that Karleen had forgotten to remove the juror identification badge from her jacket.
“Excuse us, please,” Allison said, trying to push past.
But the man let out a yell. “Here’s two of them!” he cried. “We got two of them!”
In an instant, the women were surrounded, as some two dozen impassioned protesters looked to vent their frustration.
“Are you going to convict Corey Latham?” someone asked.
“Are you going to take his life for trying to save others?”
“Let us through,” Allison demanded, but no one was listening.
“He’s a saint, not a sinner,” a woman cried.
“He’s a savior,” another claimed.
Suddenly, the mob was two mobs, as a dozen others quickly sized up the situation and descended on the scene, ready and eager to shout and taunt and shove.
“He’s a murderer,” one of them declared.
“Speak for the victims, who no longer have a voice,” someone else entreated.
“Convict the bastard!” another demanded.
Afterward no one could say for sure which side threw the first punch, but that was all it took for the opposing groups to be at each other’s throats. And the two jurors were caught right in the middle of the pushing and punching.
Someone lunged forward at someone else, and a fist caught Allison in the ribs. An instant later, someone else inadvertently rammed an elbow into her kidneys with such force that it knocked her to the ground. She heard Karleen shouting something from above, but she was helpless to respond, as feet began stumbling every which way over her. She tried to crawl, but couldn’t move. She tried to cry out, but could barely breathe. She managed to get her arms up around her head, but that left her body exposed. She counted seventeen stomps before she lost consciousness.
SEVENTEEN
Abraham Bendali was as angry as Robert Niera could ever remember seeing him. One look at Allison Ackerman’s battered body was all it took, as he sat in his chambers on Wednesday morning with the mystery writer and the attorneys. Court was in recess, the other jurors notified to stay at home.
In the aftermath of the street fight, Allison was removed to Harborview Medical Center, where she was obliged to spend an uncomfortable night. In addition to a concussion, her left arm was in a sling, the result of a sprained shoulder. Three stitches had to be taken just above her left eye. There was an ugly bruise across the small of her back, along with numerous lacerations on her arms and legs, and she had sustained four cracked ribs. A night in the hospital had been deemed necessary to evaluate the concussion and monitor her kidney function.
“Do you wish to be removed from the jury, Mrs. Ackerman?” Bendali asked her. “I want you to know I wouldn’t blame you, if you did.”
Allison glared at him. “No, I do not,” she said firmly. “I’ve gone too far with this to quit now, just because of a bunch of thugs. If my injuries won’t be a distraction to anyone, Your Honor, I would very much prefer to stay”
Bendali sighed. “This whole thing has gotten totally out of control,” he acknowledged, his irritation obvious in the tone of his voice. “I could order the jury sequestered for the remainder of the trial. How would that be?”
“Inconvenient,” Allison replied. “For me as well as everyone else, I suspect. Besides, I don’t think I was a target out there. They were looking for any excuse to fight each other. I just got in the way.”
The judge considered his options for a long moment. “All right,” he said finally. “If you want to stay, and you don’t want to be sequestered, I’ll arrange for you to have an escort both to and from your home. As a matter of fact. I’ll arrange escorts for everyone. From now on, no member of this jury—no one connected with this trial—is going to be put at risk.”
“Thank you,” Allison said. “I think we’ll all appreciate that.” She was thinking of Karleen McKay, who had endured her own share of cuts and bruises. The Realtor had been with her at the hospital, and had been kind enough to stay until Allison was moved to a private room.
“We’re in recess until tomorrow morning,” Bendali informed the attorneys, and then peered at the juror. “That is, if you think you’ll feel well enough by then,” he added. “If not, we’ll damn well stay in recess until you do.”
“I’ll be well enough,” Allison declared. She had no desire to prolong this ordeal any longer than necessary.
“Tell me the truth,” Corey urged. “How do you think it’s going?”
Dana had gone to the jail to let him know there would be no court today, and they had been allowed to meet in the purple interview room.
“I think we’re doing as well as can be expected,” she told him, prefe
rring to be cautious.
“You sound like a doctor trying not to tell a patient that he’s dying,” Corey said with a grimace.
“The whole thrust of the prosecution’s case was to link together a string of coincidences that on the surface look like they lead only to you,” she said. “I’d be lying to you if I said that Brian Ayres hadn’t done a pretty good job of it. But that’s only half the picture. In our presentation, we’re going to show the other half. We’re going to break some of those links, offer plausible alternatives, and show those coincidences to be just that—nothing but coincidences.”
“I want to get on that stand,” he declared. “I want to get up there and tell the jury I could never have killed all those people.”
“You’ll have your chance,” she assured him.
“I just hope they’ll believe me.”
Dana reached over and squeezed his hand. “So do I,” she said; because she had never made him any promises, she had always been honest.
He looked down at her hand covering his. “That woman who got hurt,” he asked, “she’ll be all right, won’t she?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Corey let out a long sigh. “I want this to be over,” he murmured. “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt because of me.”
“I’m concerned,” Roger Roark confided to his select group of advisors. “My read on this Hill House thing is that McAuliffe has negated enough of the state’s case to end up with a hung jury, if not an out-and-out acquittal. She’s coming up to bat now, and we’ve got to figure out a way to strike her out.”
“What do you have in mind?” someone asked.
“I haven’t a clue. You’re my think tank. I need you to figure it out.”
“I want to say something first,” the bulky man with the crooked nose said. “I’ve been following the case pretty closely, and I have to tell you that I’m not so sure any more that this Corey Latham is guilty.”
“So what?” Roark inquired.
“So maybe we should leave McAuliffe alone. Let her do her job. Why should we want to convict the kid if he’s innocent?”
“You’ve been a member of this group for a long time now,” Roark replied patiently. “Certainly long enough to understand that it’s the cause that matters—not the individual. It’s always the cause.”
It was midnight before Dana could unwind enough to get into bed. She tried to be quiet, but Sam woke up anyway. Or perhaps he’d just been lying there, waiting for her. In either case, he reached over and put his arms around her.
“I know it’s not the same, because there are no lives at stake,” he murmured into her hair. “But I always have this precipitous feeling before a concert, like someone in the audience will discover I’m a fraud, that I can’t really play the violin, and Benaroya Hall will come crashing down. I think they call it stage fright.”
In the darkness, Dana smiled and snuggled against him. “Here, I’ve always thought of you as my rock,” she said. “And it turns out you’re really a jellyfish.”
He chuckled. “Just trying to help,” he said.
“You always do,” she told him.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?”
“I can’t remember a case I’ve been more ready for,” she said. “And yet, I’m not ready at all.”
“It’s because you care,” he suggested. “Maybe more than you’re willing to admit, more than you ever have before.”
“I believe in him,” she said. “I really do. I don’t think he had anything to do with that bombing.” She sighed. “It’s hard for me to explain.”
“Try,” he urged.
“The truth is, ninety-nine percent of our job as defense attorneys is to find a loophole for the client to slither through, whether he’s guilty or innocent. Don’t ask, don’t tell—we don’t care. But this time, it’s different. This time, I do care. And I’m so scared that if I make just one tiny mistake, it could cost Corey Latham his life.”
“I think it’s an awesome responsibility, to do what you do,” Sam said. “But it seems to me, with you behind him, he’s already way ahead of the game.”
Dana considered his words for a long moment. “In law school,” she said, “we were taught that it was dangerous to get emotionally involved in a case because it could cloud the judgment.”
“Speaking strictly from personal experience, of course,” Sam said, nuzzling her neck, “I’d have to say that getting emotionally involved can also clarify the judgment.”
She sighed with a mixture of despair and relief. “Without you, I couldn’t do it, you know,” she told him.
“I know.”
“That interview my ex gave to the tabloids—painful as it is for me to admit, there was some truth in it.”
“I know that, too.”
“And you’re still here?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I guess, because here is exactly where I want to be.”
She wrapped her arms around him. “I was right the first time,” she said. “You are a rock.”
“Yes, indeed,” he said with a deep chuckle. “And at the moment, I just happen to be able to prove it to you.”
His hands began to reach under her nightgown.
“Oh my,” she said with a nervous giggle, because she couldn’t recall the last time they had made love. “I’ve been so preoccupied with other things, I’m afraid I might have forgotten how.”
“Hmmm,” he replied, as he followed his hands with his lips. “Well, if you have, it will be my unadulterated pleasure to refresh your memory.”
EIGHTEEN
Ms. McAuliffe, you may call your first witness,” Abraham Bendali declared at ten o’clock on Thursday morning.
Dana rose from her chair, dressed in a beige suit and pumps, with a simple gold chain around her neck. She looked expensive but not extravagant.
“The defense calls Dr. Ronald Stern,” she said.
The fifty-six-year-old Harvard-educated psychiatrist made his way slowly to the witness stand, dragging a shriveled right leg. A victim of polio, he was dependent on both a leg brace and a forearm crutch to support him.
Without realizing it, those in the courtroom held their collective breath as he maneuvered himself onto the stand, and then awkwardly shifted both his crutch and his weight so he could use his hands to take the oath. They watched as he twisted his body into the chair. And then they listened, fascinated, as he detailed his professional history.
Among other things, he was a professor emeritus from his alma mater, and he was preeminent in the field of criminal behavior, specializing, over the last two decades, in the psychology of terrorism.
During the past six months, he had been to Cedar Falls, Annapolis, Orlando, Charleston, and Groton, and had made fifteen separate trips to Seattle.
“Dr. Stern,” the defense attorney began, when he had been accepted as an expert witness, “how much are we paying you for your testimony here today?”
Several of the jurors blinked, and Brian Ayres, seated at the prosecution table, smiled wryly to himself. Although he knew exactly how good Dana Reid McAuliffe was, every once in a while, she still managed to surprise him.
“You’re not paying me anything,” Stern replied.
“I beg your pardon?” Dana questioned.
“I provided my services to your firm, free of charge.”
“I see. Well, we’re at least paying all your traveling expenses, are we not?”
Stern shook his head. “No,” he said. “The United States government is.”
“Well, far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth, but may I ask why?”
“It’s part of an ongoing program, designed to study various acts of terrorism, both past and present, in an effort to formulate reliable psychological profiles of known terrorists. It’s hoped that these profiles will give us a reasonably accurate way to identify potential terrorists in the future.”
“What are some of the specifics you
look for?”
“Specifically, we are looking for recognizable aberrant behavior patterns stemming from early childhood,” Stern replied. “To that end, and wherever possible, we investigate family background and conduct. We also examine the nature of relationships that are outside the family unit. We look at the level of education and research the educational experience, interviewing teachers, students, and administrators. We perform exhaustive psychological testing. We’re particularly interested in evaluating communication skills. And in those cases where it is appropriate, we analyze job history.”
“Will you tell the court some of the incidents you’ve investigated?”
“We did a detailed analysis of the recent school shootings—Mississippi, Kentucky, Tennessee, Oregon, Colorado, California. We studied various aspects of the World Trade Center bombing, the Oklahoma City bombing, the embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania, and the Lockerbie incident. Of course, in some of those cases, we weren’t able to interview the subjects.”
“In those instances where you were able to interview the subjects, did you find that their psychological characteristics consistently fit the criteria of your profiles?”
“Yes,” the psychiatrist replied without hesitation. “I’m pleased to report that they did, with almost textbook accuracy.”
“Was there any particular characteristic you can point to that was consistent among those you studied?”
“Yes, an obvious one, really,” he said. “But one that did need to be proven.”
“And what was that?”
“We realized that, while motives and methods might vary, terrorists have one thing in common: a deep-rooted anger manifesting itself in the need to cause destruction.”
“As part of your study, Dr. Stern, you interviewed a great many people connected to my client, Corey Latham, did you not?”
“Yes, I did. All told, I spoke with close to a hundred people.”
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