Act of God (34 page)

“I’ll look forward to it,” Julia said with a bright smile.

E
ach morning before court, Dana and Joan met at Smith Tower to discuss the progress of the trial before walking up to the courthouse
together, leaving Charles Ramsey, who did not bother to sit in on these conversations, to make his own way there. There was
comfort in having a comrade to help negotiate the journey across Third Avenue.

“It looks like there are more of them every day,” Joan remarked on the morning after the medical examiner had completed his
testimony, as they tried to slip between the lines of protesters, gawkers, and cameramen. “It’s getting harder to tell the
players, even
with
a scorecard. Or a placard, as the case may be.”

Dana shrugged. “Like it or not, that’s what a free country is all about,” she said.

“What?” Joan declared. “Free speech or mob mentality? Look at those cameramen. They’re like ghouls, hanging around,
hoping
for something to happen that they can record and replay umpteen times on the nightly news. Look at the platform they’re willing
to give these crazies. Never mind the impact it’ll
have, they don’t give a damn about that. They just need to justify their existence. Mark my words, there’s going to be trouble
before this trial is over.”

As if to underscore her words, a heavyset woman with bleached blond hair was suddenly in front of them, barring their way.
“How can you do this? How can you defend the butcher who murdered those poor defenseless babies?” she screeched at Dana, her
spittle spraying the attorney’s face. “You want to set him free to murder other innocent children?”

From the corner of her eye, Dana saw the cameras swinging around to focus their lenses on the little scene. She opened her
mouth to make as benign a response as she knew how, but before she could find the appropriate words, Joan stepped between
them.

“Madam,” the associate said to the blonde, in a voice made of satin, “I sincerely hope that neither you nor any of your loved
ones ever know the pain and anguish of being accused of a crime you did not commit. And I can think of two you’re committing
right now—harassment and assault.”

“Huh?” the woman retorted.

“And if those policemen over there should see fit to arrest you, I hope your attorney will fight to protect your rights as
vigorously as Mrs. McAuliffe is fighting to protect Lieutenant Latham’s.”

With that, she turned her back on the startled protester and the cameras, and propelled her partner ahead of her into the
courthouse.

“Oh my God,” Dana gasped. “I can’t believe you did that. Harassment? Assault?”

“Hey, why not? She did assault you, didn’t she? With her saliva.”

“You’re too much,” Dana said.

Jesse Montero took the stand first thing Friday morning, walking slowly down the aisle to the witness box, nodding to people
in the survivors’ section, who in turn gave him encouraging smiles as he passed.

Brian approached his witness. “Mr. Montero, please tell the court what you were doing for a living last February,” he instructed.

“I worked then as head custodian at Hill House,” he replied. “I mean, the Seattle Family Services Center.”

“In that capacity, you knew the building very well, did you not?”

“I knew every inch of her.”

“On the evening before the bombing, what time did you leave work?”

“At nine o’clock, same as always,” Jesse replied. “Building closes at six, cleaning staff works, then I make sure everything’s
done right.”

“Were you usually the last to leave the building?”

The former custodian nodded. “I come in last, sometimes, at noon. I leave last. I lock up.”

“And what time did the clinic open in the morning?”

“People come in at eight.”

“So that’s eleven hours that the building was unoccupied?”

“Except if there was an emergency, or if someone just delivered,” Jesse clarified. “Then people, they could be there all night.”

“Was there any emergency that night? Or a new mother staying over?”

“No.”

“How many doors were there to Hill House?”

“Three. Front door, side door, back door.”

“And you locked up all three every night?”

Jesse shook his head. “Side door was always locked, never open,” he said. “I locked front door and back door.”

“What about the basement?”

“I check, but I don’t lock.”

“Why not?”

“No lock to lock. Nothing’s ever kept in that basement. I go down every night, make sure there are no rats. That’s all.”

“When you went to the basement Mr. Montero, how did you get there?”

“From the outside,” he said. “Around the path to the trapdoor.”

“Not from inside?”

“No way down there from the inside,” Jesse told him. “Only from the outside.”

“Where is the trapdoor?”

“Around the side of the building, toward the back.”

“In plain sight of anyone who might be looking for it?”

Jesse nodded. “Through the side gate and up a little ways.”

“Could anyone have gained access to that basement?”

“Sure,” the custodian said with a shrug. “Whoever want to. No lock. Anyone could get in.”

“All right then, you left Hill House at nine o’clock that night, having locked the front and back doors to the building, and
checked in the basement?”

“Yes.”

“At that time, did you see anything that wasn’t there the night before?”

“No. There was nothing.”

“Nothing that caught your eye, nothing that looked suspicious?”

“Nothing at all. I tell you, nothing was ever kept in that basement.”

“Then you’re positive, absolutely positive,” Brian persisted, “that at nine o’clock on the night before the bombing, that
basement was empty. There was nothing in it that looked like a
bomb, or looked like it might have held a bomb, like duffel bags, maybe, or big sacks, anywhere at all?”

Jesse shook his head. “I tell you, I would’ve seen something if it was there,” he declared. “I saw nothing. No bags, no bombs,
no rats.”

The last witness of the week was seventy-two-year-old Milton Auerbach. He was an innocuous little man with wispy gray hair,
rimless spectacles, and a mouthful of gold teeth. As he walked to the stand and took the oath, his eyes darted from the judge
to the jury to the attorneys, and as he perched on the edge of his chair, he looked, to Allison at least, like a bird in a
cage.

“State your name and address,” the clerk directed.

“Milton Auerbach,” he said in a reedy voice. “I live at 2212 Summit Avenue in Seattle.”

Brian greeted him with a warm smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Auerbach,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” the little man replied.

“Thank you for coming in today.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Can you tell us, sir, how long have you lived on Summit Avenue?”

“Going on forty-two years now,” Auerbach replied. “But I think it’s time for me to move.”

“Forty-two years?” Brian echoed. “That’s a long time to live in one place. You must know the neighborhood quite well.”

“As well as anyone, I suppose.”

“Do you do much walking around in the area? In the daytime, that is?”

“Of course. No need to take out the car when you have two good legs.”

“I expect you’ve seen a lot of changes in all those years.”

Auerbach snorted a little. “Used to be a nice, quiet neighborhood. People knew one another. Kids could play outside. No
one ever even thought to lock a door. Now you hardly know anyone. There’ve been three burglaries in my building in just the
past year. You take your life in your hands every time you cross a street, and in broad daylight, too.”

“What about at night?”

“Night? Now, that’s different. After eleven o’clock, things get pretty quiet. It’s the hospitals, you know. After the night
shift comes on, businesses shut down. Even McDonald’s closes up. Although, with the food they serve, the hospitals should
pay them to stay open. Keep the heart attacks coming.”

A little titter floated through the courtroom and Auerbach looked up, surprised that anyone would find humor in his words.

“Sir,” Brian said, suppressing his own chuckle, “where were you on the night before the bombing of Hill House?”

“Where I was every night, with my wife, my Emma.”

“And where was she?”

“In the hospital,” he replied.

“What hospital was that, sir?”

“Harborview Medical Center.”

“You said you were with your wife every night last winter,” Brian said gently. “Will you tell us why?”

“She had a stroke the Sunday after Thanksgiving, right in the middle of breakfast. I remember we were having waffles. Emma
didn’t fix waffles very often. The doctor said they weren’t good for us. She was in the hospital for three months.”

“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.”