Act of God (29 page)

“I can probably make it for most of the trial,” Betsy Toth Umanski said. She reached up and patted the hand that rested on
the back of her wheelchair. “Andy can bring me in the mornings on his way to work, and pick me up after.” Despite her crippling
injuries, she and Andy had married, only two months later than they had originally planned, and were already talking about
adoption.

“My wife won’t be able to come,” Rick Holman told the group. “But I’ll try to be here as often as I can.” Janet Holman had
not recovered from the death of her son. In April, she had tried three times to kill herself. After the third attempt, she
was admitted to a private hospital. The doctors, so far, had not ventured a prognosis.

“I’ll be here,” Joe Romanadis said softly. “For my wife and my triplets.”

“There’s no reason why I can’t be here for most of the trial,” Joseph Heradia volunteered. “I’m not so busy right now that
I can’t make the time.” Neither a victim nor a survivor exactly, he nevertheless felt a kinship with his co-workers. In addition
to that, he had a quarrel with Dana McAuliffe.

“How can you defend that piece of scum?” he demanded when he heard she was representing Corey Latham.

“The same way you can save the life of a man who just murdered a roomful of people and got hurt trying to escape,” she told
him.

“It’s not the same,” he argued. “I’ll save the man, sure, so
he can stand trial for what he did. You’re trying to get the guy off for what he did.”

“It is the same,” she assured him. “Someday I hope you’ll see that.”

Well, he intended to put her to the test, he thought, every day, in the courtroom.

A woman stood up at the back of the room, holding a little girl in her arms. “My name is Shawna Callahan,” she said in a thick
brogue. “My sister Caitlin died in the bombing, and I’ve come to take my niece home with me. I thank all of you who’ll be
at the trial, and ask you to keep Caitlin and Chelsea in your prayers.”

“I’m going to be here for my Brenda,” Raymond Kiley said softly. “I’ve already arranged it with my boss. I get as much time
off as I need.”

“I’d like to be here, too,” Helen Gamble said. “I know my twins are still with me, but I want to come for all those, like
Brenda and Caitlin, who aren’t.”

“Me too,” Marilyn Korba said simply. “I think my Jeff would want me to bear witness.”

“All right then, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” Brian said. “We’ll reserve a block of seats that will be sectioned off and
held for you every day until, say, ten o’clock each morning, after which they’ll be open to the general public. You can coordinate
among yourselves how you want to allot them. Other than that, seating will be on a first-come-first-seated basis. Does that
sound reasonable to everyone?”

There was a general murmur of assent.

“I’m willing to be the clearinghouse,” Frances Stocker offered, rising to face the group. “I can give everyone my telephone
number, and you can call and tell me when you want to come, and I’ll tell you if there’s space available.”

“Wait a minute,” Carl Gentry interrupted. “What about
when the verdict comes in? I think most of us would want to be there for that.”

Everyone nodded, and looked at the prosecutor.

In truth, the value of having survivors sitting in the courtroom every day and reacting to the proceedings, in plain sight
of the jurors, was immeasurable, Brian knew. But once the case went to the jury, the impact of having them there virtually
disappeared, and every journalist in the country would be vying for a seat when the verdict was announced. Fitting them all
into a space that was set up for less than two hundred people would be a major juggling act.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll see what I can do, I promise.”

T
here were few cities as beautiful as Seattle at any time of the year. Summer slipping into autumn was no exception. Poised
as it was between Puget Sound and Lake Washington, and ringed by breathtaking snow-capped mountains, it was the gem of the
Pacific Northwest, and trying to remain one of the country’s best-kept secrets.

The last Monday in September dawned bright and clear, the sun rising like a halo over Mount Rainier and bestowing a gentle
glow over the city. By eight o’clock in the morning, thermometers were already near sixty.

Abraham Bendali did his usual hour of kayaking across Lake Washington, then showered, dressed, breakfasted on oatmeal and
eggs, and kissed his wife goodbye.

“I’ll see you in a couple of months,” he said as he departed.

After forty-three years, Nina Bendali knew what that meant. Her husband might come home in the evenings, and be there on weekends,
to eat and sleep and read in his study, and he might even carry on conversations with her. But until the end
of the Hill House trial, his mind, and yes, she acknowledged, his heart, would be at the courthouse.

Brian Ayres was up by dawn, showered and shaved, and standing in front of the bathroom mirror, practicing his opening statement.
He had been working on the statement for weeks, weaving one element of his case smoothly into the next, bridging his transitions,
perfecting each paragraph, polishing each sentence, and hammering home his main thesis at every opportunity.

He was lucky to be a quick study. Three or four times through the material, and he had it memorized. It always bothered him
to see other prosecutors resort to reading from scripts, unable to make proper eye contact with the jury. It delighted him,
however, when he saw defense attorneys doing it.

Once he was satisfied that there was no more he could do, he put the statement aside and took his family off to Lake Quinault
for the weekend, forcing himself to clear his mind of everything but the fish. When he returned, he picked up his pages again
and read them over, pleased to note that his mind had retained almost everything.

The dress rehearsal in front of his mirror was just icing on the cake.

With the exception of Dana, Elise’s scheduled visits, half an hour with his former roommate, Zach Miller, and several Bible
sessions with Tom Sheridan, Corey Latham spent the last few days before the trial began alone in his cell. He felt so helpless,
so isolated, so depressed, that even the smallest change in routine was a joy. Such as the occasion to shower and dress, and
shed his prison garb for the crisp khaki uniform that Dana brought to the jail. He knew what it meant, of course. It meant
the trial, finally, and he clung to the belief that when it was over,
he would be going home. The alternative was simply too horrific for him to contemplate.

“I want you to promise me something,” he told Dana. “I want you to promise, if I’m convicted, you won’t fight execution.”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

“If I’m convicted, it’s a given that I’ll get the death sentence,” he replied. “I don’t want to go through years of appeals,
on the off-chance that maybe I can spend the rest of my life in a place worse than this. If I’m convicted, I want to die—as
soon as possible. That’s my right, isn’t it?”

She didn’t have it in her to tell him that he wasn’t even in control of his own execution. That a death sentence automatically
went to appeal.

Allison Ackerman was up well before dawn, tending to her horses with affection and an extra ration of oats, to make up for
what was likely going to be months of neglect.

Even when working, she would find time during every day to go out to the pastures and exercise her prized thoroughbreds, check
them over, curry them, scrape their hooves, and serve up special treats of apples or carrots. Along with three dogs of indeterminate
breed, they made up her resident family. Her daughter and her three grandchildren, who lived in Pennsylvania, were only occasional
visitors.

Allison’s husband had died of heart disease over a decade ago, and she had never felt any particular urge to replace him.
She had a secure income, a wide circle of good friends, and a full and active life.

And she had a cause. Not only was she successful as the author of a dozen novels whose central character was a strong and
independent female, but also she was committed to encouraging women in all circumstances to come out of the shadows. Although
she would admit it to no one, Allison Ackerman saw the
Hill House trial, with its inevitable national exposure, as a potentially giant step in that direction.

She arrived at the courthouse at eight-thirty, and got caught in a crowd so dense it was almost claustrophobic. Media people
from across the country vied for street space with pro-choice advocates and pro-life demonstrators. Television cameras, barred
from the courtroom, set up shop outside to cover the show. A battalion of police did their best to keep them all at bay, and
to prevent some of them from coming to blows.

“The fun hasn’t even started yet, and tempers are already short,” Allison commented to a burly officer who made a path for
her.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a sigh. “I’m hoping for early rain.”

Safely inside, Allison made her way to the ninth floor, to the jury room at the rear of Judge Bendali’s court, and was surprised
to find she was the first to arrive.

It was not an overly large space, but it was large enough for a rectangular oak table that had twelve chairs drawn up around
it and a row of half a dozen more chairs positioned against the long wall. Two small bathrooms were located in an alcove on
the other side, next to several vending machines. The room’s biggest drawback was that the windows that ran along the short
wall at the far end were too high to look out of.

Allison got herself a cup of coffee, sat down in one of the chairs along the wall, and waited as, one by one, the other jurors
filtered in.

It was an interesting group, the inveterate people-observer decided. Although they had presented themselves in every conceivable
kind of getup during the preliminary phases of jury selection, today all the men appeared in suits and ties, crisply ironed
shirts, and polished shoes. Similarly, all the female jurors had decked themselves out in dresses or stylish suits, with nylon
stockings, high heels, and full makeup. For herself, Allison had chosen a pantsuit.

“I guess we’re going to be spending a fair amount of time together,” Stuart Dunn observed as they milled around the room a
bit self-consciously. “Maybe we should get to know one another.”

“Should we introduce ourselves by name or by number?” a twenty-three-year-old cosmetologist asked with a nervous giggle.

It was a good question. “Why don’t we start with first names,” Allison suggested, “and maintain an illusion of anonymity?”

Everyone looked around at everyone else, and then at the county official whose job it apparently was to baby-sit them. The
man shrugged.

“Sounds good to me,” a fifty-two-year-old barber said. “The name’s Ralph.”

“Well then, I’m Kitty,” said the cosmetologist.

The ice was broken, as each in turn produced a name, and then went on to expand upon that initial identification by volunteering
an occupation, which resulted in further conversation.

“The name’s Eliot,” a fifty-eight-year-old gentleman said. “I’m a pilot.”

“I’m Bill,” said a thirty-five-year-old airplane mechanic. “I’ve been on the line at Boeing for twelve years now, and you’d
never get me up in one of those things.”

“What kind of writing do you do?” Allison asked a twenty-nine-year-old Asian-American woman.

“Computer manuals,” the woman, who had identified herself as Elizabeth, replied.

“Really?” a twenty-six-year-old named David chimed in. “I’m a programmer.”

“What do you teach, Stuart?” a soft-spoken, forty-eight-year-old African-American man asked.

“Middle school history,” Stuart Dunn replied with pride.

The man smiled and nodded. “I’m Aaron, and I teach philosophy at Bellevue Community College,” he said.

By the time Abraham Bendali’s court was called to order, the jurors were already well on their way to getting comfortable
with one another.

With Joan Wills in tow, Dana McAuliffe made her way to Abraham Bendali’s courtroom. The two of them had walked up from Smith
Tower together, Charles Ramsey preferring to make his own way there, and battled through the mess out front. It therefore
came as no particular surprise to Dana, when they exited the elevator on the ninth floor, to find half a dozen camera crews
camped out in both the lobby and the hallway.

“Get used to it,” she murmured to Joan, knowing they would likely run this gauntlet every single day of the trial.

It was barely nine o’clock, yet the spectator section was already packed, every uncomfortable seat occupied, strangers agreeing
to squeeze themselves together in pews that properly sat five to make room for six. Even so, scores of others had been turned
away at the door.

Dana took several moments to sort through the mass of files she and Joan had lugged from the office before turning around.
She was pleased to note that in addition to Elise Latham, looking cool and composed in a soft green dress, about a dozen of
Corey’s friends and family members were seated in the first row behind the defense table. Dean and Barbara Latham had flown
in late last night, and were there along with Zach Miller and two other naval officers from Bangor, Evelyn Biggs, Tom Sheridan,
and several people who identified themselves as members of Corey’s support group.