During Arthur Pruitt’s four days of testimony, the Kiley evaluation was more or less repeated one hundred and seventy-five times. And each time was as disturbing as the first, especially when it came to the children who had been in the day care center, and the newborns who had not even lived long enough to have their names recorded.
With his never-ending supply of photographs, X-rays, and uncompromising details, the medical examiner chronicled the injuries that every victim had sustained, and wherever possible, linked the primary injury to the victim’s death, and the cause of injury to the results of an explosion. By the time he finished, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the one hundred and seventy-six people who died as a result of being at Hill House on the first Tuesday in February had met their end by the detonation of a bomb.
It was also apparent that by the end of the four days, jurors and spectators alike were emotionally exhausted, and some, perhaps, even growing a little resentful of the siege. Over half of the Hill House people had not made it through the entire testimony.
“Thank you, Dr. Pruitt,” Brian said as he sank into his chair. It was obvious that he, too, was feeling the effects. And in showing that, the jurors found themselves able to separate the prosecution’s presentation, which they loathed, from the prosecutor himself, whom they liked.
Across the aisle, Dana glanced at her client. Corey Latham sat with his head down, gray-faced and withdrawn, gone inside himself for protection.
“I have only one question of this witness,” she informed the bench, incurring a look of gratitude and relief from the jurors, because they liked her, too.
“Was there anything in your determinations, Dr. Pruitt, that indicated who set the bomb that killed these people?”
“No,” the medical examiner replied.
“Thank you,” Dana said, true to her word. “That’s all.”
It was barely three o’clock, but Abraham Bendali didn’t care. He knew when enough was enough, and he had certainly had enough. Without preamble, other than to admonish the jury about discussing the case, he banged his gavel.
“We’re adjourned,” he said.
“Was the prosecution right to get the blood and gore over and done with so early?” Joan Wills asked over a yogurt in the Cotter Boland lunchroom. “This could be a long trial. Don’t they run the risk of having the impact diluted by the end of it?”
Dana shrugged. “I think Brian wanted to start with what he thought would have the biggest impact. Sometimes, if you set the scene well enough, you can blind the jury to the actual weakness of your case.”
“But four days of it? I hate to say it, because I really hurt for the victims and their families, but after the second day, all those corpses, and pieces of corpses, stopped being real to me, and started looking like mannequins.”
“I don’t know,” Dana said. “I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the pictures of some of those babies. They looked very real to me.”
“Well, yes, I guess that part got pretty bad,” Joan conceded. “Maybe I’m just reacting like a defense attorney, and Brian was right. Sow the seeds and reap the verdict.”
“We were never going to be able to deny that all those people died,” Dana told her associate. “Or that they died because of a bomb. That was going to be established, no matter what.”
“But where does that leave us?”
“Our position hasn’t changed. What happened was horrendous, it should never have happened. There’s no possible justification for it, and the person who planted that bomb and killed all those people deserves to hang. It just wasn’t our client. And that’s the bottom line, even if Brian is hoping that after this no one is going to give a damn whether Corey did it or not.”
Jonathan Heal swept into Seattle’s Alexis Hotel, his considerable entourage in his wake, and was immediately shown to an opulent suite on one of the two floors he had reserved. He had scheduled a week of prayer meetings, to be broadcast across the country, conveniently coinciding with the advent of the Hill House trial. It was the first time the televangelist had made a pilgrimage to Seattle, and he had booked the bulk of the convention center for the occasion. All performances, including a thousand-dollar-a-head gala on Saturday, were sold out in the first twelve hours after the event was announced.
Special invitations for the gala had been issued to a select few that Reverend Heal was quick to explain were supporters who had been especially devoted down through the years. He announced that they would sit at the head table on Saturday night, and be recognized for their loyalty. Among those who were to be so honored was, to her astonishment, Rose Gregory.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so excited,” Rose told her granddaughter. “To be singled out by that dear man.”
“Grandma, you deserve it more than anyone I know,” the granddaughter said.
“But to sit at the head table, with all those really important people, and Reverend Heal, too? Surely, I don’t deserve that.”
“Why not? You’ve supported him and his ministry for as long as I can remember. You should be rewarded.” There was little doubt in the young woman’s mind that the amount of money her grandmother had contributed to Jonathan Heal’s coffers over the past two decades easily added up to thousands.
“Well I dare say, it’ll be a sight more pleasant to think about than this terrible trial I’m involved in,” Rose declared. She squared her shoulders as a little smile, the first in days, brightened her eyes. “I think I’ll wear my lilac lace.”
All Allison Ackerman wanted to do was go home and take a long, hot bath. Her knees were wobbly and her brain felt like mush, and she longed for the peace and quiet of her farm. But at the last moment, she thought of her pantry, and forced herself to stop at the market. She didn’t notice the van that drove into the lot right behind her, not even when it pulled into the parking space beside her, not even when she walked right past it on her way into the store.
“Allison? Allison, is that you?” a woman of about her own age called, climbing out of the van.
The mystery writer turned. The person approaching her was dressed in jeans and riding boots, had her predominantly gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, and appeared to be wearing little if any makeup. Allison hadn’t the faintest idea who she was.
“Yes?” she responded politely.
“I thought that was you,” the woman bubbled. “It’s Julia, Julia Campbell. We met last year, at the FOCUS convention in San Francisco.”
“Of course,” Allison said, recognizing the board member’s name, but recalling a widow, like herself, in smart business suits, with upswept hair and perfect makeup. “I’m sorry for not remembering you. I’m afraid my brain isn’t functioning very well at the moment. How are you? What are you doing here?”
Julia smiled. “I’m fine,” she replied. “And I’m here because of you.”
“Me?” Allison responded with clear and immediate caution. Because of her widespread reputation as an author, she was routinely bombarded by promoters soliciting her endorsement of everything from politically sanctioned murder to pantyhose.
“Yes, you told me so many wonderful things about Maple Valley, I had to come see for myself. So I came, and I saw, and I live here now.”
“Well, for goodness sake,” Allison said, relief evident in her voice.
“Oh yes, and I have to tell you, I love it. It was time for a change. California was getting so bad. And I was looking for more acreage than I could afford there, anyway. I have Arabians, you know, and judging by the way they’ve been kicking up their heels lately, I think they’re pretty happy, too.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Just since last month.”
“You should have called me,” Allison said, automatically warming to another horse person. “There was no need to wait until we just happened to bump into one another.”
“Well, you’re busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Nonsense,” the mystery writer declared. “Now that you’re h
ere, we’ll have to get together, and at least celebrate your arrival.”
“I’d like that,” Julia said.
“Oh dear,” Allison said, remembering. “I’m afraid it might have to wait awhile, though.”
“Of course. You have deadlines.”
Allison chuckled. “Actually, what I’ve got right now is jury duty.”
Julia’s eyes widened. “You must be kidding. How excruciating.”
“It’s my own fault,” the author said with a shrug. “I was just too arrogant to get out of it.”
“Then I hope at least you got on an interesting case,” Julia declared.
“Well, I’m really not allowed to discuss it, but I think you could say it’s interesting,” Allison said. “I just didn’t want you to think I was putting you off.”
“No, I understand.”
“And I promise, we will get together, just as soon as it’s over, and give you a proper welcome.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Julia said with a bright smile.
FIVE
Each 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.”
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