Julia ignores him and quickly scans the victims and the dead. A foot away from the courthouse entrance, a large man with slicked-back dark hair and a long wool coat is crumpled in a heap next to the two undercover police officers Julia thinks she saw earlier. The big man, whom Julia suspects is the prosecution’s surprise witness, Sammy Biggs, and the cop closest to him lie motionless on the granite floor. The other undercover cop is twitching uncontrollably, his body either undergoing shock or in the last throes of dying. Julia feels almost perverse in her relief that David is not among the group as she watches the man writhe beneath her.
“There’s a cop over here! He’s injured. Somebody needs to help him,” Julia says in a raspy voice that no longer sounds like her own.
Navarro looks up in her direction. Julia knows he will find someone to aid the officer, so she continues on.
An older, petite woman covered in dust from the explosion looks like a walking zombie leaving an apocalypse as she limps past the security gate. Julia knows the woman, Beth Watson, a court scheduler who manages all the activities of the courthouse, including arranging tours.
“Beth, please! There was a group of students who just got off the school bus when the bomb went off. Did you see them?”
Beth’s eyes snap back into focus, the task of her day-to-day job tipping her back into reality. “We had two school groups scheduled today. Carelton Elementary and University Hills Elementary.”
“University Hills. That’s Logan’s class. Are the students in the building?”
“No. I gave a tour to the Carelton Elementary school kids. I escorted them back out to their bus and then got a call from the University Hills principal. He said his class was going to be late because they were stuck in traffic.”
Julia feels her body ache with relief.
“What about my husband? David. David Tanner?”
Beth starts to pull away, her eyes narrow in fear. Julia realizes she is clutching the scheduler’s elbow with all her might.
“I don’t know. I just want to get out of here,” Beth says, sounding like a petrified child.
Julia lets go of the woman and begins to sprint, dodging the rubble and almost falling on the slick floor, wet from the overhead sprinklers that automatically came on immediately following the blast. She puts her hand over her nose and mouth to make breathing easier in the thick dust and debris that fill the air. She stops suddenly to regain her footing when the lights go out. She realizes the power to the building has most likely just been cut to ensure there are no further explosions or fires set off by broken gas lines or electrical shorts. Julia clutches her cell phone and uses its light to help her navigate inside the now-dim structure. Once she checks the entire lobby, Julia then heads toward the stairs to the upper stories, where she will search for her husband room by room.
She reaches the top of the second story and feels the floor underneath her list slightly, the building’s infrastructure weakened by the blast. Julia walks carefully down the corridor, sweeping past each of the courtrooms, but they are empty thanks to the lunch hour. Julia completes her check of the floor except for the last room on the right, courtroom number eight, where the Nick Rossi trial is being held.
Julia scans the aisle and shines the light of her phone across each row of the seats in the media gallery and the floor beneath them. She moves her tiny light to the prosecution table, hoping the impossible hope that somehow David will be there, having made it back to the safety of the courtroom before the bomb went off. The table has a legal pad on top of it. The light flicks across the yellow paper and Julia sees the initials I.R. with a question mark after it written in David’s script. She shines the light under the desk. David’s briefcase is underneath it.
“David. Are you in here?” Julia says, feeling the first flicker of hope since the blast.
A weak voice calls out from inside Judge Palmer’s chambers.
“Julia. I’m in here with Judge Palmer. We’re trapped. The judge is hurt. Go get help,” David pleads.
Julia pushes against the door to the interior chamber. It gives about three inches and then bangs against something solid wedged up against it on the other side. She flashes her light inside the narrow crevice. The ceiling above the judge’s chamber has completely caved in. Judge Palmer is unconscious on the floor, and a shattered wooden desk covers half his body. Julia darts the light to the other side of the chamber until she locates her husband, who is pinned on the ground underneath what looks like a metal beam.
“Oh, my God, David! Are you hurt?”
“Something fell on top of me after the blast. I can’t move. Where’s Logan?”
“He never made it to the courthouse. His bus got stuck in traffic. I’m going to try to push the door open.”
The ground underneath Julia undulates violently, and she grabs the wall to steady herself.
“Did you feel that?” Julia asks.
“This section of the building isn’t stable. You need to get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
The floor underneath them lets out a deep groan followed by a sharp snapping sound like thick metal cables beginning to sever. Julia throws her body against the door to the chamber, but it doesn’t budge against her slender frame.
“Go now!” David commands.
“I’m going to grab a chair and try to ram the door open with it.”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to get out of here. If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for Logan and Will. They need at least one of us around.”
“Don’t you say that. Not ever. Everything is going to be fine,” Julia says, the words sounding hollow and untrue as soon as she hears them. “Help! Please, someone! We have two men trapped in here.”
The floor begins to vibrate underneath Julia again, and she struggles to keep her balance.
“I love you, Julia. I always have,” David says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry. Please remember that. You and the boys were always the best part of my life. Now go.”
“I love you too. But this isn’t over. I’m going to get help.”
Julia runs faster now than she ever has, through the courtroom and down the hallway to the stairs. As she descends to the lobby, a massive crash rings out above her. Julia drops to the floor and covers her head as the weakened section of the second story severs and its remains free-fall down to the street below.
CHAPTER 8
Julia clutches her head between her hands and stares with fixed intensity at the sterilized floor of the surgery waiting area at Henry Ford Hospital. She drowns out the scenes of relief and devastation that continue to play out around her as families of the courthouse bombing victims receive news about their loved ones.
Julia prays for the first time since she was a child. She gave up praying when her brother, Ben, never came home. She gives God one more chance, considering the circumstances, and vows she will love and care for David no matter what condition he is in as long as his life is spared. She then says a silent prayer to herself that whoever did this gets what’s coming to them. And if God won’t bring the attacker to justice, she will.
Navarro sidles through the crowd and nabs the empty seat next to Julia.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“No. I’m a bloody wreck,” Julia says. “The surgery is taking longer than what the doctor originally told me. Maybe there were complications. Someone should come out and tell me what’s going on.”
“Hold on. If there was an issue, I’m sure you would have heard by now. I got you some tea. It’s from the cafeteria, not the vending machine, so it should be okay. Are the boys coming to the hospital?”
“No. I don’t want them here right now. It would just confuse and frighten them.”
Julia picks up the Styrofoam cup filled with hot tea from the hospital’s cheap Formica table and holds it between her hands, the warmth feeling somewhat soothing.
“Sammy Biggs, the Butcher, is dead,” Navarro says. “Right now, we th
ink the bomb was in a suitcase when it went off.”
“How did it get through security?”
“It didn’t. We think the bomb was planted outside the doors of the courthouse. From the video surveillance inside the lobby, it looks like the bomb was detonated just as Biggs got into position.”
“I knew it. That’s what this whole goddamn thing is about,” Julia says. “Nick Rossi kills his snitch before he can testify. How many people did he kill?”
“Right now eighteen. Most were getting back from lunch when the bomb went off in the lobby. Thirty more were injured.”
“Rossi better get the death penalty. If he doesn’t, I swear to God, I’ll take him down myself.”
“Easy there. A few of the victims have been treated and released. Russell should go home by tomorrow. He was lucky.”
“That’s good news,” Julia says. The overarching ache of jealousy slithers around her as she wishes David had the same luck as her friend.
“You know, I keep thinking, I would have been at the courthouse with Russell if you hadn’t called me. I might not have been so lucky. I owe you, Gooden.”
“My car broke down and you were doing me a favor. Don’t act like I saved your life. I didn’t save anyone’s life.”
“From what you told me, there’s no way you could have gotten into the judge’s chambers in time to get anyone out of there. The building was collapsing, and chances are that was probably a steel beam blocking the door. I don’t know if I could have moved it out of the way in time. Survivor’s guilt isn’t going to do you any good.”
“I keep replaying everything, when David was trapped inside the judge’s chambers,” Julia says, her tears coming again. “David told me he was sorry, as if he did something wrong for getting hurt, like he was letting me and the boys down. He forced me to leave. I would have stayed otherwise to try to get him out, but he risked his own life to protect me and the boys.”
“As he should have,” Navarro says. “Did David tell you why he was in there with Judge Palmer by himself?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe he got wind of a threat and was in there telling the judge at the last minute before the jury filed back in. It seems odd to me that a prosecutor would be alone in a judge’s chambers during a criminal trial without opposing counsel there, unless David approached him directly or the judge called him in about something.”
“No. David didn’t mention anything like that. Everything was happening so fast. I remember he told me the judge was badly injured. There wasn’t much time to talk about anything else.”
“Judge Palmer is still in a coma,” Navarro says.
“Nick Rossi better be nailed to the cross for this,” Julia says, a bud of fury blooming inside her chest. “What new charges are going to be filed against him? The feds should sweep in from here and charge him with use of weapons of mass destruction like they did with the Boston Marathon bomber. They should pile on as much as they can.”
Navarro rakes his fingers through his dark hair, his usual subliminal habit when he is about to say something he’d prefer not to.
“There aren’t any new charges. We’ve got zero proof right now tying Rossi to the bombing. The guy was in a holding cell at the time the thing went off. Tarburton is pitching a fit in the media right now, saying his client had nothing to do with the bombing and was put in harm’s way since he wasn’t offered proper protection after being falsely accused. Tarburton is threatening to file a civil suit against the state after the legal bullshit around the criminal trial is decided.”
“Nick Rossi is no victim. He obviously had one of his minions pull this off at his direction,” Julia says. “What about the criminal trial on the drug, gambling, and bribery charges against Rossi?”
“It’s an unprecedented situation. The judge in the case hasn’t regained consciousness, and the head prosecutor sustained major injuries, not to mention the prosecution’s key witness was killed.”
“Can’t they find a substitute judge to hear the case? And the second chair from the D.A.’s office could handle the prosecution. I know David would want the trial to proceed without a delay.”
“Come on, Julia. You and I both know that’s probably not going to happen.”
“Extraordinary circumstances. They’re going to call a mistrial,” Julia realizes. “They can’t do that. Rossi doesn’t get to just walk away from the charges, even if you don’t have enough evidence right now to charge him with the bombing.”
“You know how this works. It’s not what’s right or wrong. The law decides. If a mistrial is declared, Tarburton could claim double jeopardy and Rossi can’t be tried twice for the same offense.”
“But Judge Palmer isn’t in any condition to declare a mistrial even if he wanted to, not now anyway.”
“Last I heard, the Michigan Supreme Court Chief Justice is going to announce a decision. Unless we can find something that connects Rossi to the bombing, he could walk.”
“You can’t let that happen.”
“The bomb squad is trying to get a print, but they’ve got nothing. The type of bomb, they think, is new, nothing like they’ve ever seen before.”
“Everyone needs to work harder,” Julia says.
“Believe me, everyone is working as hard as they can,” Navarro answers, a hint of annoyance entering his voice. “We lost two cops, not to mention a couple of kids who died in the blast.”
“There was a badly injured boy I tried to help, and I’m pretty sure his dad was killed. I talked to him while I was trying to get to the courthouse. He wanted me to stay with him,” Julia says, knotting her hands into fists over the memory. “The boy’s name is Michael Cole. If you find out he’s here, can you let me know?”
“I’ve got to interview a witness, a guy who was leaving the lobby right before the bomb went off. He’s in a room up the hall. He got pretty beat up in the explosion. Let me talk to him and then if I can, I’ll ask around about the boy.”
Navarro leaves to interview his witness and Julia is left alone to face her uncertain future. She tries to ignore her worst fear that David won’t make it through the surgery and instead concentrates on trying to assemble the dangling pieces of the case. She pulls out her reporter’s notebook and pen and starts scribbling down theories. If the bomber, working under Rossi’s direction, made the explosive, it would be difficult to trace. But if the person bought it, there would be a paper trail, she figures.
Working the crime beat on the streets of Detroit for the past decade, Julia knows there’s always a way to find someone to talk, you just have to know who to ask. Someone always knows something. Julia writes down the words uncashed favor and a question mark and recalls the promise given to her by an unlikely prospect, Salvatore Gallo, Rossi’s uncle. Three years ago, Gallo had been arrested for the murder of Vincent Bombardi, a young hothead who was rumored to be rising up in the ranks of his nephew’s operation. Bombardi had been found stabbed to death in his car parked across the street from Gallo’s home. Julia investigated the story and uncovered a small-time hood had killed Bombardi on a territory dispute and had left the body in front of Salvatore Gallo’s home so the cops would link the murder to Rossi. But the cops didn’t see it that way and liked Gallo for the murder. After Gallo was released from prison, he asked Julia for a personal meeting, where he told her if she ever needed anything, he would help her. Julia taps the end of her pencil against the paper and decides if she reached out to Gallo to help her get information about the bombing, he’d obviously pick the side of his nephew, despite his promise.
The doors to the surgery wing open and David’s neurosurgeon, Dr. Steven Whitcomb, emerges. Julia jumps to her feet and tries to read the doctor’s expression to give her a clue on how the surgery went.
Dr. Whitcomb motions Julia over, away from the busy room, so they can talk in private.
Dr. Whitcomb is young for a surgeon, just a few years older than Julia, but she comforts herself with the reminder that he is considered
one of the best neurosurgeons in the Detroit area.
“The surgery overall went well,” Dr. Whitcomb says. “David pulled through and we were able to relieve the pressure on his brain caused by the bleeding. It’s too early yet to determine how much mental function, if any, he lost because of the hemorrhaging. The positive news is that he is strong and was in excellent physical health before this happened. But he sustained extensive trauma from the fall.”
“What exactly are you telling me?” Julia asks.
“That we don’t know yet how he’s going to come out of this. Some patients suffer seizures, strokes, or permanent brain damage. With the type of injury David sustained, it could affect his vision for the long term. I’ve also had patients with injuries in similar areas of the brain who had minimal or no side effects. As I said, it’s too early to tell.”
“David is going to be fine. I know it,” Julia says. “I want to see him.”
“David is stable, but you need to keep this first visit short. Are your children here?”
“No, it’s just me.”
“David still had his wallet and cell phone in his jacket pocket when he was brought in here. His personal effects are in his room. Feel free to take them home with you if you like.”
Dr. Whitcomb leads Julia to the room where David is recovering following the surgery. Julia tried to prepare herself ahead of time, but she is shocked over David’s appearance. His perfect face is almost unrecognizable, marred with deep purple bruises and swelling. His recently closed-cropped hair has been shaved, and the thin six-inch scar from his recent incision stands out like an angry red line on his scalp.
Julia waits until she is alone with her husband, when it is just them again. She wills herself not to break down, pulls up a stool, and gently takes his hand. Julia closes her eyes and savors happy memories with David early on in their relationship.
(“You can’t be scared of lightning,” David said as he ran his finger down the length of Julia’s face, wiping off the single raindrop that had fallen on her as a harbinger of the coming storm in the distance.
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