Act of God (27 page)

They were running out of potential jurors, and Bendali was running out of patience. “I see no cause here, Mr. Ayres,” the
judge declared.

Brian deliberated. The woman clearly had an agenda. Even if Bendali didn’t recognize it, he did. He could feel it, and he
could not afford to make a mistake here. He sighed deeply. “I ask that this juror be excused,” he said.

“Now I bet you’re glad you didn’t spend the last challenge on Ackerman,” Mark breathed. “McAuliffe would have passed Delmonica,
and we would’ve had ourselves a hung jury.”

“That’s random selection for you,” Brian conceded. “You never know who’ll come up when.”

“Look, I don’t care what pretty words you want to put around it,” Geoffrey Walsh declared. “What that guy did to that building
and to those people is inexcusable.”

“Would you be willing to entertain the concept that my client did not set that bomb?” Dana inquired.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, could you be impartial, could you reserve judgment, could you wait until you heard both sides of the case before
you made up your mind about my client’s guilt or innocence?”

The transit worker shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, lady, if he didn’t do it, he wouldn’t be going on trial for it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Walsh,” the judge said, before Dana could get the words out. “You’re excused.”

It didn’t make any difference to Juror Number 116 whether he was selected to the Latham jury or not. Autumn was going into
John Quinn’s slow time anyway and there was nothing his crew couldn’t handle without him. The independent contractor had taken
full advantage of a mini building boom during the past six months to complete two major remodels on Capitol Hill, enlarge
a garage in Magnolia, and add a guest house to a waterfront estate on Mercer Island. Fourteen-hour days, seven days a week
had been his norm, which hadn’t left him with much time for anything more than a quick dinner and five minutes of family time
before hitting the sack. But it had been well worth it. His wife calculated that he had already banked more than half again
his usual year’s income.

“Serving on this jury wouldn’t be a hardship for you?” Dana asked.

“No, ma’am, it wouldn’t be any hardship,” the beefy, forty-four-year-old Ballard resident replied.

“Then tell me, what do you think about the defendant in this case?”

Quinn peered around her to take a good look at Corey Latham. “Don’t rightly know,” he replied. “He sure don’t look like the
kind who could’ve done what it is they’re saying he did. But then looks don’t always tell the whole story, do they?”

“In that case, would you be willing to listen to all the evidence presented before coming to any conclusions?”

“Sure. Isn’t that how it’s done?”

Dana sat down. John Quinn had a circle beside his name.
Like Stuart Dunn, he was as neutral a juror as they were likely to find.

“How do you feel about the bombing of Hill House?” Brian inquired.

The contractor shrugged. “It was an awful thing, no doubt about it—all them people killed,” he said. “But I can’t say as I
could tell you much more than that. I haven’t really been following the story.”

“Are you a churchgoing man, sir?”

“Yep. Every Sunday, like clockwork. And on Christmas and Easter, too. The wife insists. Thinks it’s good for the kids. And
she likes to sing in the choir. I suppose it can’t hurt any of us too much, so I go quietly.”

“Would you say you were a religious man?”

“If you’re asking me if I believe in God, I guess I do. As much as the next man, anyway,” Quinn replied. “And if you’re asking
me if I believe in Jesus being the Son of God—well, as I tell the kids, there’s nothing wrong with hedging your bets. But
if you’re asking me if I believe in treating others the way I want myself treated, then I’ll give you an unqualified absolutely.”

Brian did his best to suppress a smile. “Well, as long as we’re being right up front here, let me ask you another question—where
do you stand on abortion?”

“Don’t know that I stand one place or another,” Quinn replied. “Never came up against it. Me and the wife got two kids, which
is all we wanted, and we just either been careful or lucky since then.”

“And what would you say your position was on the death penalty?”

“I guess I’m for it, but only under the right circumstances,” Quinn declared. “I mean, if you can really prove to me that
that guy over there did what you’re saying he did, well then, okay, in my book, he deserves whatever he gets.”

“You know, it’s weird,” Corey commented when court was adjourned for the afternoon. “I haven’t done anything, day after day,
but just sit here—it’s been how many weeks now? And in all that time, I never once opened my mouth or even stood up. I just
looked and listened. So why do I feel like I’ve been through the wringer?”

“It’s the process,” Dana told him, every bit as weary as he was. “It drains everyone.”

The weekly lunch at Al Boccolino had temporarily gone by the wayside, but Dana found an evening to have dinner with Judith
Purcell. House of Hong, in the International District, was one of their favorites. They both found the crispy Chinese fried
chicken to be irresistible.

“I wish we could do this more often,” Dana said as they slid into a front booth and opened their menus, although they already
knew what they were going to order.

“Me, too,” Judith agreed, brightly. Not for anything in the world would the struggling artist tell Dana that she couldn’t
really afford the meal. After all, she had her pride.

But things were not going well. She had not had a new commission in two months, and even those she did have were not enough
to make her anywhere near whole. Her credit cards were just about maxed to the limit, and she didn’t know what she was going
to do.

“I’ve been thinking about crispy fried chicken all day,” Dana declared. “I was standing in court, grilling prospective jurors,
and I swear I could smell it, all the way from here to there.”

“How’s the case going?” Judith asked.

Dana rolled her eyes. “If we can ever get a jury seated, and the trial started, I’ll let you know.”

“It’s still beyond me how you can do this,” Judith said, wagging her head.

“It’s my job,” Dana reminded her.

“Nonsense,” her friend said. “You get to pick and choose your cases. You didn’t have to take this one, and don’t try to tell
me you did. Is it some sort of mislaid Catholic guilt? Is that why?”

“Don’t be silly,” the defense attorney retorted, feeling her spine stiffen. “I happen to believe that Corey Latham did not
bomb Hill House. Now what does guilt have to do with that?”

“All right, never mind,” Judith said. “It’s too late now, anyway. So, are you close to getting your jury?”

“Yes, I think so,” Dana said. She was also, she thought with an inward smile, close to putting Judith in an art gallery of
her own.

The building Sam had told her about would likely be available in November. The elderly woman who owned it had died, and her
heirs were just waiting for her will to pass through probate. Sam had already spoken to them, and they were negotiating a
price.

Dana wished she could tell Judith, right here and now, but she knew it wouldn’t be fair, just in case there was a glitch,
and it all fell through. No, she would wait until the deal was done. Then she and Sam would both tell her, and they would
have a celebration. Judith’s birthday was in November. What a wonderful gift it would be.

On the first Sunday in September, the
Seattle Times
did a feature story on Corey Latham’s lead attorney. It was titled “Who
Is
Dana McAuliffe?” and it was researched and written without the reporter ever getting past Angeline Wilder at Cotter Boland,
or past Sam at the house on 28th Avenue in Magnolia.

“It’s your fifteen minutes of fame,” her husband told her, as they spent the afternoon reading the paper and being lazy.

“Oh goody,” Dana replied, without much interest.

“On the eve of one of the most important criminal trials in American history,” the writer began, “it may seem odd that we
know so little about the attorney who has been chosen to head the defense team of the alleged Hill House bomber. But Dana
McAuliffe makes a point of being a very private person.”

The profile then ran down all the readily obtainable facts—her background, her education, her experience, added what little
information there was available about her personal life, and then appeared to run out of steam.

“After all these words, recounting so many facts,” the piece concluded, “do we really know any more about Dana McAuliffe than
we did before we began? Oddly enough, the answer is—probably not.”

“Would it hurt to talk to some of these people?” Sam asked. “I should think some publicity might be helpful.”

“This case isn’t about me,” Dana replied. “It’s about a terrible tragedy that will have repercussions for decades to come,
and a man unjustifiably caught up in the middle of it. I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding about that.”

“Maybe that’s what you should say.”

Dana shrugged. “I’d rather do my talking in court,” she said.

J
ury selection was completed at four o’clock in the afternoon of September 8, twelve good and true individuals having been
duly impaneled, plus an additional four who would serve as alternates.

Abraham Bendali scheduled opening arguments to begin on Monday two weeks hence, and then promptly took himself, his beloved
wife, Nina, his two sons, their wives, and his three young grandchildren off to the San Juan Islands.

“What’s the matter with dad?” his eldest asked. “He hasn’t taken a holiday off for as long as I can remember.”

“I think it has something to do with retirement,” his mother replied. “He’s trying it on.”

So far, Bendali had said nothing to anyone about the impending end of his career. Not even to his wife of forty-three years,
although sometimes he had the feeling that she knew more about him than he knew about himself. The only decision he had made
was that he would call it retirement. Then, when the time was right, he would sit down quietly with Nina and tell her what
the doctors had found.

Dana came home from the jail, where she had gone to spend time with Corey after court was adjourned, stripped off her clothes,
and ran hot water into the tub, adding half a bottle of bath salts for emphasis. Her skin turned bright red as she stepped
into the tub, but she ignored it, sliding down until the water reached her chin. She could hear Sam downstairs, rattling around
in the kitchen, putting dinner together, and she knew that a good wife would get up and go down to help, but she couldn’t
seem to make herself move. So she stayed where she was, for almost an hour, somewhere between awareness and oblivion, until
she felt the stress beginning to float away and the water grow tepid, and then she climbed out and pulled on a thick terry
robe.

“The prune is here,” she declared, padding into the kitchen. “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” Sam replied. “We’re about ready at this end.” He had grown accustomed to cooking over the years, and to his surprise,
found he thoroughly enjoyed it. “So you can just sit right there and let me contemplate your beautiful shriveled self.”