Act of God

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Act of God Page 30

by Susan R. Sloan

“I got sick in the end of January,” Joshua replied. “I had a cough and a fever, and my throat hurt real bad.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Big Dug took me to Hill House, to see the doctor.”

  “And what did the doctor do?”

  “He examined me real good, and then he told me to come back the next day for medicine.”

  “And did you?”

  Joshua looked down. “Uh-huh,” he mumbled.

  “I’m sorry,” Brian prompted him, “but you’ll have to speak up.”

  “I went back to Hill House,” Joshua said in a louder voice.

  “The next day, like the doctor told you?”

  The witness looked as though he might cry. “No,” he said, almost whispering. “I went the night before.”

  “Why did you do that?” Brian asked gently.

  “Because I forget, sometimes,” Joshua said. “And I didn’t want to forget the doctor, and not get my medicine.”

  “What did you do at Hill House when you went there?”

  “I found a little place toward the back, where it was nice and cozy, and I went to sleep.”

  “What time did you go to sleep, Joshua, do you remember?”

  “I went to sleep around ten and then I woke up. When I woke up it was around eleven-thirty.”

  “How do you know what time it was?”

  “Because McDonald’s had just closed and the people who work there were going home. That’s what woke me up.”

  “And what happened when you woke up?”

  “Not much for a while. Then the delivery man came.”

  “What do you mean, the delivery man?”

  “A man came to the clinic. He had packages and he took them down the basement.”

  “How much later?”

  “I don’t know… about half an hour. Maybe a little more.”

  “So sometime around midnight, a man came to Hill House and took packages down into the basement?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you see the man clearly?”

  Joshua shrugged. “It was dark, but I could see him.”

  “What can you tell us about him?”

  “He had on a jacket.”

  “What kind of jacket?”

  “It was dark and it had a zipper.”

  Brian picked up a navy windbreaker. “You mean, like this?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He had on a cap.”

  “What kind of cap? Like a baseball cap?”

  Joshua shook his head. “No, like a winter cap.”

  Brian picked up a navy blue seaman’s cap, and showed it to the witness. “Like this?”

  “Yes,” Joshua said. “Just like that.”

  “Were you able to see the man himself, what he looked like?”

  Joshua nodded solemnly. “It was dark, but I could see pretty good,” he said, looking at Corey Latham. “It was him.”

  ELEVEN

  It was early afternoon before Brian finished his examination of Joshua Clune, and the judge advised the jury that the trial would not resume until Wednesday. “If you need more time,” he told Dana, “just let my clerk know.”

  “What do we do now?” Joan asked as the two attorneys left the courthouse.

  “We wait for Craig Jessup to come up with something,” Dana replied. “And we pray.”

  The jurors were delighted to have a day off. In twos and threes, they filed out of the courthouse, into the autumn sunlight, threading their way through the crowds that threatened to block Third Avenue completely, and had already slowed traffic to a crawl. Since the start of the trial, the number of people converging on the area had increased dramatically, from a few dozen during jury selection to what was now estimated to be close to a thousand. They brandished their banners and their posters, shouted their messages, sold their trinkets, prayed, and sang. Aside from a few minor skirmishes, however, the demonstrations had been peaceful. A full complement of police was on hand each day to try to keep it that way.

  “Look at them all,” Karleen McKay commented to Allison Ackerman, as the two women exited together. “Don’t any of them have jobs to go to?”

  “For a lot of them, I think this is their job,” the author replied.

  “Protect the preborn,” a short, slender man with inch-thick eyeglasses beseeched the two jurors, trying to stuff his pamphlets into their hands. “Celebrate life.”

  “Protect free choice,” a short, heavyset woman with facial hair pleaded with them, trying to press her flyers into their hands. “Without it, we’re no better than slaves.”

  “I’m dizzy,” Karleen said, as they got to James Street and turned left.

  “I’m nauseated,” Allison said.

  They parted company at the parking garage on the corner of James and Second. It was on the tip of Allison’s tongue to ask Karleen if she’d like to go for coffee, but it would have been awkward. The trial was what they had in common, and they were not allowed to discuss it.

  The mystery writer drove home to Maple Valley instead, fixed herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and poured herself a glass of milk. “Comfort food” her mother called it, when Allison was a child and worrying over something. It had always worked, and she had done the same with her own daughter.

  Allison sat at the kitchen table while she ate, and watched the horses frolicking in the pasture. Joshua Clune was on her mind. Homeless he might be, and developmentally delayed, as well, but he was also believable. He had no reason to lie. And his identification of Corey Latham was the first piece of evidence in the three-week-long trial that tied the defendant directly to the crime. It was a while coming, she thought, but could not have been more welcome.

  “I’m getting real worried about Joshua,” Big Dug told the nondescript man who had casually sought him out Tuesday morning. “He disappeared on Saturday. I’m starting to think something awful might have happened to him.”

  “I guess it depends on how you look at it,” Craig Jessup said with a shrug. “He appears to be in police custody.”

  “The cops got Joshua?” Big Dug looked puzzled. “Why? What did he do?”

  “I don’t know that he did anything,” Jessup replied. “All I know is they had him in court this morning, testifying at a trial.”

  “The Hill House trial?” Big Dug asked.

  “Why would you think that?” the investigator asked.

  “Because he was there that night, at Hill House,” the behemoth replied. “The night before the bomb went off. I think he saw the guy who planted it.”

  Jessup’s stomach fell. “Is that so?”

  “But when the police interviewed him a couple weeks ago, they said he wouldn’t have to testify.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Because he couldn’t identify the guy,” Big Dug said. “All he really saw was a shadow. He couldn’t be positive it was that fellow they arrested. The best he could do was say it might be him.”

  “Are you sure?” Jessup inquired.

  “Sure I’m sure. I showed him the defendant’s picture in the newspaper, and even took him to a bar so he could see the guy on television. Joshua couldn’t identify him, not for certain.”

  The investigator frowned. “I see,” he said.

  “What’re the police gonna do with Joshua?”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t think they’ll do anything bad to him,” Jessup said. “They’re probably just keeping track of him until his testimony is over. I expect you’ll see him back here very soon.”

  “It’s my fault, you know,” Big Dug admitted. “I’m the one made him go to the police in the first place. He didn’t want to go. I promised him they wouldn’t put him in jail. But that’s what they did, isn’t it? They put him in jail. After I promised him they wouldn’t.”

  “I think so,” Jessup said.

  “The poor kid, he must be scared to death. And he’ll probably never trust me again, after this. Look, mister, you seem to be
in the know. Do you think you could maybe make sure he’s doing okay? He’s a little slow in the head, you see. He needs looking after.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” the investigator promised, already knowing what he had to do.

  Judith Purcell didn’t remember driving home. She didn’t remember getting out of her car, or going into the house. When Tom Kirby found her, she was sitting on the stairs, in the dark, still in her coat.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked in alarm.

  She shook her head, as if to clear it. “What time is it?”

  “It’s almost six,” he told her. “Where’s Alex?”

  “What day is this?”

  “What do you mean, what day is this? It’s Tuesday.”

  “Then Alex’s at basketball practice. What are you doing here?”

  “I left my blue shirt.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t wash it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

  What’s wrong, she thought, is my whole life is about to collapse. The vice president of the bank had been very kind, but what could he do?

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Purcell,” he had said, “but your mortgage payments, well, they haven’t been made in months. We notified you, repeatedly. We tried to help. We warned you this might happen. We have no choice.”

  “It’s nothing,” she told Tom. What was the point in crying on his shoulder? He couldn’t help her. She didn’t know how he made ends meet, as it was. Whatever it was, when her husband had died so unexpectedly, when her second marriage had fallen apart, no matter, Judith had always somehow managed to land on her feet. Only this time, she knew there was nothing but quicksand beneath her.

  “Well, if this is nothing,” he said, “I’d hate to see you when it’s something. Talk to me.”

  She looked up at him then and sighed. “I’m going to lose my house,” she said.

  “What do you mean, lose your house? Why?”

  “Because I haven’t been able to pay the mortgage for a while, and the bank’s going to foreclose.”

  “How long haven’t you paid the mortgage?”

  She shrugged. “Six months.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

  “What for?” she replied. “It’s my problem, not yours. Besides, I didn’t think you were in a position to help me.”

  “Well, you should have told me anyway,” he insisted. “Who knows? I might have been able to come up with something.”

  She smiled wistfully. “For someone who doesn’t want to get too serious, you’re sounding awfully serious, all of a sudden.”

  “Look, maybe I don’t have the kind of money you need, but there has to be an answer here,” he said. “Do you own anything of value that you could take a loan on?”

  “Anything of value I might have had is long gone,” she told him.

  “What about your friend Dana? She must earn a good living. Couldn’t she lend you some money?”

  “She’s been buying my work at twice its market value for years now. I can’t ask her for any more.”

  “Well, how about your family?”

  “My mother’s done all she can, too,” Judith said, biting her lip to keep it from quivering. “I’m really at the end this time. And it’s not that I mind for me so much, but I mind so terribly for Alex. Having a useless mother isn’t his fault, and he shouldn’t have to pay for it.”

  “What will you do?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Try to get some kind of job, I guess, although God knows what I’m equipped for. Find a cheap apartment for us to live in, if I can. I kept thinking, my big commission is right around the corner, you know,” she said with a catch in her voice. “The one that’ll make my name, and put me over the top.” Tears finally began to roll down her cheeks. “I’m good at what I do, I really am,” she sobbed. “It isn’t fair.”

  “There may be a way,” he said.

  “There isn’t,” she said through her tears. “Believe me, there’s nowhere else I can go. I’ve tapped out everyone I know, and practically put my mother in the poorhouse in the process. I haven’t just robbed Peter, I’ve robbed Paul, too, and now it’s all caught up with me.”

  “There may be a way,” he repeated, a little more emphatically than before, because he could still hear his editor’s voice over the telephone this morning, telling him enough was enough and it was time to fish or cut bait.

  “What?” she asked with a sigh.

  “If you had, say, information of some kind that had value to someone else, maybe that someone else might be willing to pay you for it.”

  “Information? What do you mean, information?” she asked, clearly perplexed. “I don’t have any information that anyone would want to pay me for.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Judith frowned. “Of course I’m sure. What is it you think I know?”

  “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug and then his eyes widened. “Wait a minute. What about the trial?”

  “What trial? You mean the Hill House trial?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, you’ve got to know that the tabloids are tripping all over themselves to get the inside scoop on it, and you just happen to know the lead defense attorney, don’t you? Maybe Dana’s told you something juicy you could offer to sell to them.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” she said. “Dana doesn’t discuss her cases with me. She doesn’t discuss her cases with anyone. Not even with Sam.”

  “She hasn’t told you even a little something?”

  “I assure you, not even a little something.”

  “Well then, what about Dana herself?” he suggested. “She hasn’t exactly gone out and promoted herself, when you’d think that’s exactly what a defense attorney ought to do in this situation.”

  “Well, there’s a reason for that,” Judith said, without thinking.

  He was instantly alert. “If that’s the case, and the reason is juicy enough,” he suggested smoothly, “I bet one of those tabloids would pay really big money to hear it.”

  “Don’t be silly, I couldn’t do that,” Judith declared. “She’s my best friend. I couldn’t rat out my best friend.”

  “Hey, you’re the one with money problems,” he said. “I’m just trying to help here.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, but no,” she told him.

  “It’s too bad,” he said. “Some of those papers would probably pay a hundred thousand for the right story.”

  “Do you mean a hundred thousand dollars?” Judith asked, incredulous.

  “At least,” he said. “Maybe even a hundred and fifty. For the right information, of course.”

  “I had no idea,” she murmured.

  He shrugged. “That’s why I thought, well, you said you’d been friends forever, so it stands to reason you’d know something about her that would make a good story,” he prompted. “And with that much money, you could probably clean up your debt, and keep the house for Alex, and maybe even be able to stick with your art a while longer.”

  Judith shook her head. “It wouldn’t be right,” she said.

  “Okay,” Kirby said, choosing a different strategy and taking her in his arms. “What time does Alex get home?” he murmured into her hair.

  Judith giggled in spite of herself and her predicament. “Any moment now,” she told him. “Can you wait until after dinner?”

  Kirby waited, although he knew he was as close to getting what he wanted as he would ever be, and wasn’t about to let it slip out of his grasp. He dutifully ate the macaroni and cheese, which he had come to loathe, and managed, without much resistance, to get three glasses of wine into Judith.

  When dinner was finally over, she came to him eagerly, and it pleased him that he was able to oblige, because sex was the last thing on his mind.

  “I’m sorry about your money problems,” he said as they lay together afterward. “I didn’t mean to impl
y that you should betray a confidence. I was just trying to help.”

  “I know,” she murmured dreamily. “And I appreciate your caring so much. God knows, I could use the money. And if it were anyone but Dana, I might be tempted. But we go back too far.”

  “Jeez, now you’ve got me curious,” he said with a casual chuckle.

  “Well, it’s not that big a deal, really,” she told him. “It’s mostly just the irony of it.”

  He yawned as if it didn’t mean everything in the world to him. “What irony?”

  “Why, taking this case, of course,” she said. “Dana just plain should never have taken this case.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, when I tell you, you’ll understand,” Judith confided with a little giggle, knowing she could trust him without question.

  He spent half an hour coaxing all the details out of her, and as soon as he had everything he had come for, he made his escape, inventing an early job in the morning. Then he was out the door and in his pickup. He forced himself to drive a safe distance away before he brought the vehicle to a halt and allowed himself a howl of pure animal pleasure.

  “Tracking me down on Tuesday night, when I was going to see you on Thursday, anyway?” Al Roberts said, opening the door of his West Seattle home. “It must be pretty important.”

  “If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” Craig Jessup declared.

  The telephone in Paul Cotter’s private office, the one that bypassed the main switchboard, rang at nine.

  “Glad you’re still there,” said the voice at the other end of the line.

  “I was waiting,” Cotter responded. “I had a feeling you’d call tonight.”

  “It looks like things are going well.”

  “Yes,” the attorney agreed cautiously.

  “What?” asked the caller, suddenly alert. “Do you foresee a problem you haven’t told me about?”

  “No,” Cotter replied. “But I never like to start the celebration too soon.”

  The caller chuckled. “That’s why you’re so good at what you do.”

  “I just hope we’ve got everything covered,” Cotter declared.

  “Don’t you think you do?”

  There was a pause. “Yes,” the attorney said. “But then, you never know when something unexpected will jump up and bite you.”

 

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