“According to the information I was able to get, he’s a tabloid journalist who spent several months up here, covering the case,” Jessup told her. “Also according to my information, he wrote the article in Probe. I’m still working on his source.”
Dana sank slowly back into her chair. “Thank you,” she said tonelessly. “Never mind the source. You can go on to other things now.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned because her face had gone pale.
She squared her shoulders and tossed her head. “Sure,” she said automatically. “I’m fine.”
Fortunately, she had little time to think about what Jessup’s news meant before court resumed and Damon Feary came to the witness stand.
The unofficial leader of the support group was a gangly redhead with a pockmarked complexion. He walked down the center aisle with huge loping steps, wearing cowboy boots with metal tips, smiling and grasping hands with the half dozen or so group members who were in attendance for the day’s session.
“Mr. Feary, what is your occupation?” Dana began.
“I’m a carpenter,” he replied. “But I do a little counseling on the side.”
“What kind of counseling, exactly?”
“In simple terms, I help people figure out how to deal with grief.”
“Would you say that kind of help requires a pretty good understanding of human nature?”
“I guess so.”
“Mr. Feary, are you acquainted with the defendant?”
“I am,” Feary replied.
“In what capacity?”
“He’s a member of a support group I belong to.”
“Will you describe for the jury what kind of support group that is?”
“We’re just a bunch of folks who get together every week or so to work through the grieving process that comes with the death of a child, and we try to help others work through it, too.”
“When did Corey Latham join your group?”
“It was sometime at the end of last November, I believe. He was a referral from Tom Sheridan over at the Puget Sound Methodist Church.”
“And what did you understand to be the circumstances of Corey’s joining the group?”
“His wife had an abortion while he was out to sea, and he was trying to come to terms with the loss of his baby.”
“Ballpark figure—how many meetings would you say Corey attended?”
“I’ve been told that he was there just about every time the group met, from the first day he joined until the day he got arrested. Firsthand, I know he was there at least a couple dozen times between November and early February.”
“Were you able to detect any changes in his attitude or his behavior over the course of those meetings?”
“Absolutely,” Feary asserted. “He learned that it was okay to be angry. So many people think they have to bottle it up, you know, and not let it show. But you can’t deal with grief if you’re swallowing the anger all the time. You have to get it out in the air.”
“Corey was having a hard time with that, with knowing what to do with his anger?”
“Yes.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Oh no,” Feary said. “All of us had been there, walking around in his pain. That’s the benefit of a group like ours. We speak from experience. We can all tell you how much it helps someone like Corey to know he’s not alone, that he has someone to lean on, someone to draw strength from.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
He sighed. “Because there is no greater grief one can know than the loss of a child.”
“So you would say his anger was normal?”
“Of course. Anger is a very normal part of the process.”
“And how did Corey respond to your group?”
“Slowly, at first, even though we were meeting three and four times a week.”
“Why so often?”
“Because that’s what we generally do when a new person comes in, all raw and not knowing what to do with his anguish. At first, Corey was withdrawn, which is typical. He sat by himself, listened a lot, said little, and didn’t interact very much.”
“How long did that last?”
“I think it was during the fifth meeting that he stopped shrinking when members of the group came up to hug him. At the sixth meeting, he let himself cry for the first time. By the time we got to the seventh meeting, he was able to start letting it all out. After that, he began to heal.”
“You’re very precise,” Dana observed.
“I take notes,” he told her. “It helps.”
“And how long would you say the healing took?”
“Well, healing is an ongoing process,” Feary said. “Sometimes, it can take years, sometimes it’s never fully accomplished. But Corey was working on it, that much was clear.”
“You said before that he learned it was okay to be angry. Was there any point where you felt he was able to let go of his anger?”
“I don’t know that anyone ever really lets go of anger the way I think you mean. Mostly, it gets redirected down more constructive avenues.”
“What do you mean?” Dana asked.
“Anger can be useful in effecting change,” Feary explained. “Most of the great advances in history were made by people who were distressed by circumstances that surrounded them. People who were angry about conditions in their homeland founded this country. If we’re disgusted enough with the behavior of our politicians, we remove them from office. If we don’t like a law, we lobby to change it.”
Dana didn’t particularly care for where she sensed he was heading. He seemed to be getting on a soapbox, and she had no intention of joining him. “But we’re not talking about global change here,” she said smoothly. “We’re talking about one man’s struggle with grief. At what point would you say that Corey Latham had reconciled to the loss of his unborn baby?”
“By the middle of December, I would say, was when he seemed to be back in control of his emotions,” Feary said agreeably. “He had indicated to us by then that he had forgiven his wife, which is always an important step. He was participating in meetings with an outward focus rather than inward, extending compassion to others. He seemed much more relaxed, much more open, and ready to move on with his life.”
“Thank you,” Dana said with a nod and a smile, and took her seat.
“Where are you from, Mr. Feary?” Brian asked pleasantly.
“I live in Woodinville,” the witness replied.
“No, I mean where were you raised?”
“Oh, sorry. I was born in Oklahoma.”
“Went to school there and everything, did you?”
“Yes.”
“Anywhere near Tulsa?”
“Not far.”
“Were you there when that abortion clinic was vandalized, and all their equipment destroyed? I think it was in 1985?”
“I was still there in 1985, but I don’t recall that particular incident.”
“And where did you go from there?”
“I went to Colorado.”
“And that was when?”
“Sometime in 1986, I believe.”
“Anywhere near Denver?”
“Yes.”
“And were you still there when two doctors from a clinic in Denver were shot? I believe it was in 1989?”
“As a matter of fact, I was,” Feary said easily. “I heard about it on the news. They never caught the shooter. But back then, as I recall, there were things like that happening all over the country. I think a lot of people were very disturbed about how things were going.”
“Where did you go from Denver?”
“To Oregon.”
“And when was that?”
“As I’m sure you already know, it was in 1990.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Brian conceded. “I did know. And when did you move up to Washington?”
“About five years ago.”
“And that’s when you started your little support group?”
“Well, not exactly,” Feary clarified. “The group just seemed to come together about four years ago. I didn’t start it.”
“You said you did grief counseling for these people, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any accredited training as a counselor?”
“No. Just personal experience.”
“This group you counsel is for people who’ve lost a child, is that what you said?”
“Yes.”
“Then if you’re counseling them from experience, I assume that means that you’re also grieving the loss of a child?”
“Yes,” Feary said.
“Under what circumstances did you lose your child, sir?”
“My first wife had an abortion.”
“When was that?”
“About six years ago.”
“Where?”
“At a clinic in Portland.”
“I see,” Brian said deliberately. “All right, let’s go back over some of your previous testimony. You’ve told us that the defendant redirected his anger. Can you tell us where?”
“I’m sorry?” the witness said.
“You said that no one lets go of anger, it just gets redirected. I assume you were speaking from personal experience, as well as observation. So, I’m asking you, as an experienced observer, where do you think Corey Latham redirected his anger?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily know that,” Feary replied.
“Why not?”
Feary arched an eyebrow. “Well, to be accurate, I never asked, and he never told.”
“Well, if you didn’t ask, and the defendant didn’t tell, and you don’t know, doesn’t that mean he could very well have redirected his anger toward Hill House?”
Feary paused for what might have been a second too long. “Anything’s possible,” he said finally. “But that doesn’t make it probable.”
At that, Corey glanced up at the witness with a puzzled frown.
“But you can’t rule out, absolutely, that the defendant might have turned the full force of his anger away from his wife by finding another target at which he could aim it, can you?” Brian persisted.
“Well no, not absolutely,” the witness allowed. “After all, you can never be absolutely sure about anyone but yourself.”
“What’s he doing?” Joan Wills murmured.
“I think he’s equivocating,” Dana told her, feeling an unpleasant sensation along her spine.
“Does your support group advocate violence, sir?” the prosecutor inquired.
“Our support group?” Feary declared, looking out at the members among the spectators with a warm smile. “Hardly. These people know all about suffering. They have no interest in causing anguish for others.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” Feary asked.
“Yes, sir, do you advocate the use of violence to promote your beliefs?”
The smile turned cynical. “Are you asking me if I’m a terrorist, Mr. Ayres?”
“Are you?” Brian countered.
An expression that Dana had never seen before crept into Corey’s glance as he waited for the witness to respond.
Feary leaned back in his chair and crossed one knee over the other. “Let me assure you that my work with the support group is about forgiveness, not violence,” he said. “These people have nothing to do with terrorism.”
“Then what about your work outside the group?”
“What about it?” Feary replied. “I’m a carpenter.”
“That’s how you earn your living,” Brian responded. “I’m referring to your extracurricular activities.”
“Other than the group, I don’t know that I have any.”
“Really?”
Feary sighed. “Look, I’m not sure where you’re trying to go with this, but let me help you. I build things, I repair things, and in my spare time, I try to help people.”
“Yes, of course,” Brian responded. “Where is your first wife now, sir?”
The man shrugged. “Last I heard, she was in Virginia.”
“And the clinic where she had her abortion, where is that?”
“It was in Portland.”
“Was?”
“Last I heard, it wasn’t there anymore.”
“Can you tell us what happened to it?”
“I heard someone set fire to it, burned it right down to the ground.”
“I see,” the prosecutor said thoughtfully. “When was that?”
“I don’t know,” Feary said. “Maybe five or six years ago.”
“I see,” Brian remarked. “Which would have been not too long after your former wife had her abortion there, is that correct?”
The witness shrugged. “I guess so. I never thought about it.”
Damon Feary now had Corey Latham’s full attention. The defendant’s eyes were narrowed and he was leaning forward in his chair, intent upon the witness. It was the most interest Dana had seen him display since Elise had taken the stand.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it, Mr. Feary,” Brian declared. “So tell us, as the guru of your support group, do you think it’s possible that the vandalism in Tulsa, or the shootings in Denver, or that fire in Portland, might have been a redirection of someone’s anger?”
“Objection,” Dana interrupted. “Your Honor, it’s patently clear that all the prosecutor is trying to do here is sling mud against the wall, in hopes that some of it will stick.”
“Don’t I have the right to inquire into this witness’s veracity?” Brian argued.
“Approach,” Bendali said, turning aside his microphone as the attorneys came to the bench.
“I was willing to give him some leeway,” Dana said. “But first he tries to suggest that Mr. Feary is a terrorist. Then he goes on to suggest that he recruits other terrorists. And while it makes for fascinating listening, it is without any foundation or relevance.”
“Mr. Ayres?” Bendali inquired.
“I’m just trying to determine how competent the witness is to assess the defendant’s anger.”
“No, Your Honor,” Dana argued. “What he’s trying to do is put in the minds of the jurors the idea that Mr. Feary is a terrorist who may well have gotten away with vandalizing a clinic in Tulsa, shooting at doctors in Denver, and burning down a clinic in Portland. Without offering a shred of evidence to confirm any of it. He then wants the jury to jump to the inescapable conclusion that, because my client happens to be acquainted with Mr. Feary, ergo, he must be a terrorist, too.”
“Do you have any evidence to present to the jury on this matter, Mr. Ayres?” the judge inquired.
“No, Your Honor,” Brian conceded.
“Then I’m inclined to agree with defense counsel.”
“In that case, I withdraw the question,” Brian said.
Bendali repositioned his microphone as the attorneys returned to their seats. “The witness is instructed not to answer the last question,” he declared. “And the jury is instructed to disregard it.”
Brian regarded the witness. “You’ve made a lot of statements here today about how the defendant ’seemed to be this,’ and ’indicated that,’” he said. “But the truth is, you really can’t say, with any assurance at all, that the defendant did not plant a bomb in the basement of Hill House, and blow the place to smithereens, can you?”
“No,” Damon Feary admitted, “I can’t.”
“That’s all I have.”
“Absolutes and assurances aside,” Dana asked her witness on redirect, “as a person who’s been involved in grief counseling for the past five years, would you say that Corey Latham fits the profile of a terrorist, of someone who would deliberately turn his anger on innocent people?”
At that, Feary almost chuckled. “Not from where I sit,” he said, not sharing the joke. “In fact, I can’t say as I know anyone who fits it less.”
“Was it a mistake to put Feary on the stand?” Joan asked, as court adjourned for the day, and th
ey were being escorted back to Smith Tower.
Dana shrugged. “We needed him.”
“He was certainly singing a much more positive song both times we interviewed him,” Joan reflected. “I wonder what happened on the way to the courtroom.”
“I don’t know,” Dana said. “But there was something about him when he got on the stand that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.”
“Good heavens, you don’t suppose he really did have something to do with those clinics and those doctors, do you?” Joan asked.
“Who knows?” Dana said with a shrug. “But if Brian had any hard evidence, he wouldn’t have hesitated to nail Feary with it. How could he resist trying to tie Corey to an antiabortion terrorist?”
The Magnolia house was still dark and silent when Dana unlocked the door. No Molly came tumbling down the stairs, no music floated from the stereo, no tantalizing smells emanated from the kitchen. And there was still no word from Sam.
It was then, walking through the empty rooms, that Dana realized just how much she had always taken him for granted, assumed his forgiveness and his forbearance. Raised in her father’s image, she had always believed that she ran the show, made things happen, moved the earth. When all the time, it was really Sam.
She had never before let herself admit how dependent she had become on him. Only now, when it was too late, when she had done the unforgivable, and was face-to-face with the consequences, was she willing to acknowledge the truth.
It would be easy to blame Judith for what had happened, but Dana knew it wasn’t her fault. Judith may have betrayed a confidence, but Dana had betrayed her husband. She had lived with that guilt for almost five years. Now Sam would live with the reality for the rest of his life.
How had she gotten to this point? It was simple, really. She had tried to have it all, and because of that, she had lost it all. The real question was, now what? But Dana knew she couldn’t face the answer to that question tonight. Not when tomorrow was the most important day of the Hill House trial, and she needed all her wits about her to get through it. Nor could she face going into the kitchen to fix herself something to eat. She dragged herself upstairs and went to bed.
Act of God Page 41
