Act of God (32 page)

Seated on an aisle in the survivors’ section, Joyce O’Mara reached out and grasped Betsy Toth Umanski’s hand. “Let me know
if this gets too hard to hear,” she whispered. “I can take you out for a while.” The two women, who had been together when
the bomb exploded, had become friends.

“As a result of your investigation,” Brian inquired, “what do you believe caused the destruction of Hill House?”

“We found the remains of a bombing device,” Henderson replied, “and we believe that to have been the cause.”

“What sort of remains?”

“Mostly traces of various chemicals and a number of fibers, which we immediately turned over to the FBI for analysis. And
we also found parts of a small timing mechanism, which we believe was attached to the bomb, and used to fix the time of detonation.”

“Where did you find these remains?”

“In the basement of the building.”

“What, if anything, did you determine about that?”

“We determined that was where the bomb had been placed.”

“Could you determine how the basement would have been accessed?”

“According to the building plans, access was through an outside trapdoor. Easy for anyone to find.”

Over the next two days, Brian took the bomb expert through the particulars of the crime scene, what he had seen, what he had
found. Henderson brought models into the courtroom to demonstrate, step by step and in excruciating detail, exactly what the
bomb had done to Hill House and how. At times, it proved too much for some of the survivors, several of whom left the courtroom
in tears. It was Friday afternoon before Brian was ready to bring his direct examination to a close.

“To do the kind of damage that this bomb did,” he asked his
witness, “would you say the basement was where it should have been placed?”

The weary expert nodded. “To insure maximum effectiveness, the thing couldn’t have been positioned better,” he declared. “And
mind you, it wasn’t just left in the basement. All indications are, it was placed right at the structural center of the building.”

“In your experience, is that something the average person would know, where to set a bomb?”

“In my experience, most people don’t have a clue,” Henderson replied. “They think as long as they get it in the general vicinity,
it’ll do the job. That’s why a lot of bombs fortunately do only minimal damage. This guy, on the other hand, knew exactly
what he was doing.”

Brian nodded and turned toward the defense table. “Your witness,” he said.

“What sort of expertise would it take for someone to know exactly where to plant a bomb?” Dana asked.

“Well, a structural engineer would know, of course,” Henderson responded. “And an architect, I suppose. A building contractor,
probably. And someone trained in, or familiar with, demolition work. There’s a big difference between leaving a bomb next
to a wall, and placing it at the structural center of a building.”

“But how about just some ordinary person who wanted to find out? For example, what if I had in mind to plant a bomb in this
courthouse. I’m not an engineer or an architect or a demolitions expert. Let’s say I’m just an anarchist. How would I find
out where the structural center of the building was?”

Henderson shrugged. “Well, I guess you could go to the planning department at city hall and look up the building plans,” he
said. “Or I suppose you could go to a library and look it up in a reference book.”

“That simple? Just go to a library and look up how to find structural centers in a reference book?”

“Pretty much. If you were that interested.”

“Okay,” Dana said. “What about dumb luck?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What about the average person, who knows nothing about the proper placement of a bomb and doesn’t think of going to city
hall or a library, who just leaves it at the right spot by luck?”

“That’s not been my experience, but I suppose there’s always that chance,” Henderson conceded.

Dana smiled to let him, and the jury, know she did not consider him the enemy. “Let me ask you something else,” she said easily.
“The part of the timing device you recovered from the debris, how big a part was that?”

“There were several parts, actually. The biggest was, oh, maybe an inch by an inch and a quarter.”

“An inch… that’s a pretty big piece. Were there any identifiable fingerprints on it?”

“No.”

“Any kind of fingerprints at all?”

“No. Not even a smudge.”

“I see. Well then, can you tell me, were you able to determine, either from the parts of the timing device, or anything else
in your investigation, when the bomb was set?”

Henderson looked puzzled. “How could I tell that?” he asked.

“Is that a no?”

“Of course. There’s no way to tell that from my investigation. All I know is it was set sometime before two o’clock in the
afternoon. How long before, I don’t have any way of knowing.”

“Well, was there anything to tell you
who
set it?”

“No.”

“So, let me get this straight. You’re saying that in addition to not knowing when the bomb was set or who set it, there was
nothing in any of what you found in your thorough investigation that could in any way be linked to the defendant over there.
Is that correct?”

“I guess so.”

“No fingerprints, no clothing fibers, no hair, no DNA, not even a military issue footprint?”

Henderson shrugged. “No.”

“Thank you,” Dana said. “No further questions.”

It was just before four o’clock, more than enough time for the prosecution to call another witness. But the bomb expert’s
testimony had been grueling, both for the jurors and many of the spectators, and Abraham Bendali took advantage of the break
to adjourn his court for the weekend.

Big Dug sat under the Alaskan Way viaduct and fretted. He had been fretting for some months now, ever since Joshua had told
him about the delivery man. While Joshua might not appreciate the importance of what he had seen, Big Dug certainly did.

The kindly giant had spent the evening at a favorite bar, nursing a beer as long as he could, watching the newscasts and listening
to the television analysts discussing the trial. Then he went in search of Joshua, but couldn’t find him. So he sat with his
back up against a concrete pillar and tried not to doze as he waited for his friend to come along. It was after eleven o’clock
before he finally saw him.

Joshua was sauntering down the street, singing a happy little tune.

“Where you been?” Big Dug asked.

“I been down to Ivar’s,” Joshua told him. “I was over to Colman Dock, and this couple come off the nine-ten ferry, all dressed
up nice and clean like, and asks me if I’m hungry. Well, I was, so I said yes. And the next thing I know, they take me to
Ivar’s and sit me down at a table with a real napkin, and tell me to order anything I want. I sure wish you’d been there.”

“What did you order?”

Joshua’s eyes shone. “I had a big bowl of chowder and then I had two orders of fish and chips, and a root beer. And then I
had ice cream. And the waiter said it was all paid for.” He rummaged around in the pocket of his coat. “It’s probably not
too hot anymore, but I got extra so I could bring it to you.” He offered his friend a pile of limp potatoes and three pieces
of fried fish wrapped in a red napkin.

Big Dug ate the food gratefully. The beer he had drunk earlier had been his only dinner. “We need to talk,” he said when he
was done.

“About what?” Joshua asked.

“About the delivery man,” Big Dug told him.

“Oh that,” Joshua said. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“I know you don’t, but you got to.”

“Why?”

“Because it might be important,” Big Dug said.

“Why?”

“It’s the trial, you see, the trial of that guy they say bombed Hill House.”

“What’s a trial?” Joshua asked.

“It’s like a public hearing that they hold up at the courthouse,” Big Dug said patiently, “when the people who say that someone
did something very bad and the people who say that he didn’t get together to try to convince this other group of people that
they’re right.”

“What about it?”

“Well, what you saw could make a difference in how the whole thing ends up. If this guy did bomb Hill House the way the prosecutor
says he did, then there should be a conviction.”

“What’s a conviction?”

“It’s when this other group of people, called a jury, all agree that someone broke the law and did something very bad.”

Joshua frowned. “Like me, because I slept at Hill House?”

“No, not like you,” Big Dug assured him. “You didn’t start the fire. You didn’t break the law. You didn’t do anything bad,
I told you that. But the thing is, you see, as it turns out, by being there that night, you may have done something good.”

“How?”

“You may be an eyewitness.”

“What’s an eyewitness?”

“That’s someone who saw what happened.”

“But I didn’t see what happened,” Joshua protested. “I just saw the delivery man.”

“That’s the whole point,” Big Dug said. “I think that delivery man might just be the guy who planted the bomb.”

Joshua’s eyes opened wide. “How do you know?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure. That’s why I think we should go to the police, and tell them. They’ll know.”

“What would I have to do?”

“They’ll probably ask if you can identify the man you saw.”

“But I can’t,” Joshua said. “I didn’t see him very good, I told you that. I couldn’t even tell if it was that guy they showed
on the television.”

“Then that’s what you tell them.”

“Are you sure I won’t get in trouble?”

“I promise,” Big Dug said. “You’re not going to get in trouble. The police are just going to want to talk to you, that’s all.
Look, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go there with you, just to make sure they treat you right.”

Joshua thought about it for a long moment, about how safe and good his life was with Big Dug looking after him, and about
how he didn’t want any of that to change. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “It’s kinda scary.”

“I know,” his friend told him gently. “But I think it’s something you gotta do.”

“Can I study on it for a while?”

Big Dug shrugged. “I guess so, sure,” he said. He didn’t have to push. He knew, sooner or later, Joshua would come around.

Roger Roark, the executive director of the Coalition for Conservative Causes, met with a few of his inner circle advisors.

“McAuliffe is already doing a better job than I expected,” he declared. “I thought she was supposed to be weak in capital
cases.”

“Inexperienced, perhaps,” someone suggested, “but not weak. My understanding is that she’s as sharp as they come.”

“Then we have work to do,” Roark said. “Our position here is quite simple: Latham has to be convicted.”

“What for?” a bulky man with a crooked nose inquired. “For acting on our beliefs? I thought this sort of thing was exactly
what we want to encourage.”

“Normally, it would be,” Roark conceded. “But we’ve got an election coming up, and our candidate wants an all-American symbol
he can ram down the throats of the opposition. An acquittal is of no use to us. Not when we’ve got a golden opportunity to
create a martyr.”

“Good God, we can’t go public with that,” an elderly gentleman exclaimed.

“Who said anything about going public?” Roark retorted. “I simply want it understood within our own organization: Whatever
it takes, whatever it costs, we get a conviction.”

T
he King County medical examiner was called to the stand first thing Monday morning. Arthur Pruitt was a rotund little man
of fifty-two, with a bristling mustache and receding hairline. His one outstanding feature was a pair of enormous hands. They
were so large, in fact, that they had prompted one young assistant of some years ago to suggest that a football would easily
disappear in just one of them, and another to wonder how he could perform his anatomical work with such precision.

As soon as the doctor had taken the oath, given his name, and settled his bulk in the witness box, Brian Ayres stood up and
greeted the jury. Then he nodded to the judge.

Abraham Bendali cleared his throat. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, addressing the spectators in the packed
courtroom, particularly those in the survivors’ section. “This witness is going to be testifying at some length about those
who died in the Hill House bombing. It’s likely that it will be very graphic and disturbing testimony, and I want to warn
you of that in advance, should any of you feel you might not want to be here during it.”

There was a general rearrangement among the spectators as a handful rose and exited the room, not one of them a survivor.

“I don’t think anything could be more graphic or more disturbing than what I lived through every day for two weeks with my
Jeffrey before he died,” Marilyn Korba was heard to murmur, as she stayed where she was.

Across the aisle, Dana smiled wryly to herself. Brian was going to play every card he had, even if it meant using the survivors.
She didn’t blame him. In his position, she would have done the same.