“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll see what I can do, I promise.”
THIRTY
There 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.
T
he 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.
Corey had asked his minister to look out for Elise, and so the man had, picking her up at her front door and bringing her downtown, running interference for her both outside and inside the courthouse, and now sitting protectively at her side.
“I’ve taken a one-month leave from work, so I can be here every day,” she told Dana, her voice sounding somewhat defensive. “After that, I don’t know. I can’t afford to lose my job.”
Dana nodded her appreciation. It was important for Corey’s wife to be in the courtroom, visibly behind her husband. But the attorney had to acknowledge that the young woman, without benefit of assistance from her family, had to earn a living.
“Well, we aren’t going to worry about that now,” Sheridan said, gently patting her hand. “God has a way of providing.”
“Thank you,” Dana murmured, and then turned to smile at her client’s parents. “It’ll mean the world to Corey to have you here,” she said.
“I’m here for the duration,” Barbara said, “but Dean will have to go back.”
Although Dana knew that Elise had invited her in-laws to stay at the house on West Dravus, they had instead chosen to stay at a hotel within walking distance of the courthouse. Sheridan had arranged it, and secured a special rate for them, as well.
“It gives us twenty-four-hour room service, if we need it, and a lot less public exposure,” Dean explained, looking at her from eyes that were very like his son’s.
Worry lines had creased the man’s face, etching themselves deep into his skin, aging him well past his years. The kind of worry lines that, no matter the outcome of this trial, would never go away.
Across the aisle from the defendant’s supporters sat a large contingent of what Dana would come to regard as the Hill House people, that poignant mixture of survivors and relatives of those who had not survived. Even eight months after the tragedy, she still saw canes and braces and wheelchairs. What was not so visible were the broken lives that would never be repaired.
It was unavoidable, she knew. They had every right to be here, however prejudicial their impact on the jury, and Dana knew enough to know it would be considerable. It was a futile effort to file a motion to have them excluded, and Bendali rejected it outright, as she knew he would. But she was obligated to do it on behalf of her client.
On the heels of that thought, Corey Latham entered the courtroom. The khaki officer’s uniform was intended to make him look clean-cut and upstanding, but the effect was all but overshadowed by the shackles on his hands and the escorts at his side.
A sudden hush fell as Corey walked slowly down the aisle, past the reporters in the back rows, past the general public, past the survivors’ section, and past his own contingent of family and friends, to the table where Dana was waiting. At her nod, the escorts removed the shackles and retreated.
Despite Corey’s prison pallor, his face lit up when he saw his parents, and he practically fell into their arms. Barbara couldn’t help herself. Tears ran as freely down her cheeks as they did her son’s. Even Dean made no effort to hold them back.
For perhaps five minutes, the people who loved and believed in Corey Latham embraced him, something they had not been allowed to do since his arrest, as the people of Hill House looked silently on. Dana had no idea what was going through the minds of those who saw, but she hoped that it was a scene they would remember, down the road, when it was time for the real healing to begin.
At exactly nine-thirty, Robert Niera called the court to order and everyone stood as Abraham Bendali appeared. The judge made his way to the bench, taking a moment to adjust himself in his chair, and then peered down at those assembled.
“Be seated,” he directed, in his most magisterial tone, and waited until the scraping and scuffling in the gallery subsided. Then he glanced at his bailiff. “All right,” he said with a nod, “let’s have the jury in.”
Robert walked to the back of the room and through the door in the rear wall. A moment later, he returned, escorting sixteen people down the aisle, and directing them into the jury box. They took their seats according to the sequence of their selection. Allison Ackerman, selected ninth, sat in the third chair in the second row, with Karleen McKay to her right, and John Quinn to her left. The four alternates were then seated in the last two chairs of each row.
It was the first opportunity for most of those in the courtroom to see the jury. The reporters hoped they would be expressive, the Hill House people hoped they would be resolute, and the defendant’s supporters hoped they would be fair.
Abraham Bendali contemplated the packed house before him. All the players were present and accounted for, he determined, and the audience was in place. For the last time—for him anyway—the show was about to begin. He raised his gavel.
Tom Sheridan, holding Elise’s hand on his right, and Barbara’s on his left, closed his eyes and said a prayer. The gavel came down sharply. The trial of Corey Latham was under way.
PART TWO
“Justice and judgment lie often a world apart.”
—Emmeline Pankhurst
ONE
Brian Ayres rose to his feet and faced the jury. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for being here,” he said in his best courtroom voice.
In response, sixteen people mumbled a self-conscious “Good morning.”
The prosecutor smiled. “When I tell you how grateful I am that you are here, because the system wouldn’t work without you, I’m not trying to flatter you, or gain an advantage of any kind. I’m simply telling you the truth. You represent the protection that is guaranteed to every American under the Constitution. Without you, doing what you’re about to do, none of us is safe, and that’s the truth. And that’s what this trial is all about, too—the truth. And your ability to hear it, and recognize it, and act on it.”
He paused for a moment, and Dana smiled to herself. She had to admit he was not only brilliant, but in his element. This was his theater, he had already taken center stage, and he had hooked the jury with his very first lines. And as if that weren’t enough, he looked terrific in his gray suit and blue shirt. Dana watched the jurors closely. As expected, the women were leaning just a little bit forward, while the men were sitting just a little bit taller, and both were listening just a little bit harder.
“I know I don’t have to tell any of you what happened at Hill House on the first Tuesday in February,” Brian continued smoothly. “The details have been in
all the newspapers and newsmagazines and on every television channel in the country, if not the world. You would have to have been off the planet to miss it. So, the primary focus of this trial isn’t going to be on the devastation of Hill House. It’s going to be on the person who caused that devastation. It’s going to be about the state of Washington, represented by me, proving to you, beyond a reasonable doubt, maybe even beyond any doubt, that the man sitting at that table over there,” and here he pointed directly at the defendant, “planted the bomb that blew up Hill House, and killed one hundred and seventy-six men, women, and children.”
As if on cue, it seemed that everyone in the courtroom exhaled. Brian took the opportunity to walk slowly over to his table and pick up a sheet of paper. When he turned back to the jury, the conversational tone of before was gone.
“Susan Marie Abbott, twenty-eight,” he read from the paper. “Jean Arnold, forty-four. Melanie Kay Aronson, thirty. Eleanor Nash Barrington, fifty-three. Richard Bucklin, twenty-two months…”
“Oh, my God,” Corey gasped, when he realized what the prosecutor was doing.
Dana reached over and put her hand on his arm, squeezing as hard as she dared, to steady him as best she could, while Brian Ayres slowly read aloud into the record the litany of the dead.
The prosecutor’s opening statement leapfrogged the lunch hour and lasted into the afternoon. By the time he had finished laying out the evidence he planned to present in the coming weeks, it was past three o’clock, and time for the afternoon break.
Half an hour later, Abraham Bendali looked at Dana.
“Do you wish to proceed at this time?” he asked her. “Or would you prefer we adjourn until tomorrow?”
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