Act of God (44 page)

“Yes, murder,” another person cried. “The murder of all those innocent people. May he burn in hell!”

“The murder of murderers is no crime!”

“That’s not what the Supreme Court says,” someone declared.

“Conception is holy. The hell with the Supreme Court,” another shouted.

With that, a woman threw something that hit Elise in the back of the head. Then several people began hurling things at her,
and at her sister. Corey leaped from his chair and tried to cover his wife with his own body. One of the jailhouse guards
pulled him away, while the other grabbed Elise and pulled her to the floor.

“Abortion is legal in this country,” someone shouted.

“Legalized murder is still murder,” someone else retorted.

“Safeguard women’s rights!”

“Save the preborn!”

“Protect free choice. It’s all that stands between us and slavery!”

“Kill the killers!”

It was only a matter of seconds before the invective turned into violence—shouting, punching, kicking, hair-pulling, clothes-tearing,
and what was later revealed to be spitball-throwing violence. The two deputies stationed at the door to the courtroom jumped
into the fray, with little effectiveness.

Almost immediately, people began looking around for anything that could be used as a weapon. Handbags started swinging. Frances
Stocker’s cane was snatched from her side by a man who promptly began wielding it like a baseball bat.

Betsy Toth Umanski was seated in the first row aisle, where, unable to turn, she could hear, but not see, what was happening
behind her.

“What’s going on?” she asked her husband. It was a rare day when he was able to stay with her. But before he could reply,
she was abruptly and unceremoniously dumped from her wheelchair. As the culprit made off with what he intended to use as a
battering ram, Andy Umanski leaped on top of him. After that, it didn’t matter what ideology one espoused, the madness engulfed
everyone. The crowd had become a mob.

From the very beginning of the trial, Abraham Bendali had been anticipating something like this. When he motioned to Robert
Niera, it was barely an instant before the bailiff was escorting the jury out of the room, through the front, to the judge’s
own chamber. Just as quickly, Corey’s guards removed the defendant, his wife, his mother, his former landlady, and his sister-in-law
to another location, with Charles Ramsey, Joan Wills, and Mark Hoffman scurrying after them.

Just before exiting with the remaining court personnel, the clerk picked up a telephone and called for help. But the judge,
not knowing exactly what he was dealing with, and not about to take any chances, had already pressed the alarm button positioned
beneath his right hand.

Within minutes, half a dozen deputies descended on the scene. In the ninth-floor corridor, network cameramen saw the officers
rush by, and caught a glimpse of the commotion as the courtroom doors opened and closed. But they were obliged to stay where
they were, helpless and frustrated, while inside, reporters scribbled furiously, and the court sketch artist tried his best
to capture at least the essence of what was taking place.

Two of the six deputies pushed their way down the center aisle, and turned to face the gallery, their primary mission to protect
the court. They withdrew their service revolvers, grasped them in both hands, released the safety catches, extended their
arms in firing position, and froze. It was clear that they would fire, if they had to, but only if they had to. With batons
and handcuffs ready, the remaining deputies tackled the crowd.

For some reason that neither of them would later be able to explain, except to say that they felt it their duty to bear witness,
Dana McAuliffe and Brian Ayres remained in the courtroom, alternately fascinated and appalled.

It took almost half an hour and another dozen deputies to quash the brawl and return some semblance of order to the courtroom.
Before it was over, there were seven arrests, two concussions, a broken arm, some cracked ribs, a fractured wrist, a dislocated
shoulder, and numerous cuts and bruises. Joe Romanadis sustained a black eye, Raymond Kiley had a deep cut on his right cheek,
and Andy Umanski had suffered a broken nose. Those arrested went directly to jail. Those with minor injuries were treated
on the scene by a paramedic team, and those who were more seriously injured were taken to Harborview Medical Center.

And during it all, a stony-faced Abraham Bendali sat on the bench and watched. When order was finally restored, he cleared
his throat, and fixed a steely eye on those who remained in the courtroom.

“I trust that we have this all out of our systems now, and will not have to suffer anything that even remotely resembles a
repeat
episode,” he said. “To this end, and I might add, at significant cost to the taxpayers, I will request that a contingent of
armed deputies be on hand for the remainder of the trial.”

As if to emphasize his words, four deputies took up positions at various points around the room. As soon as they were in place,
Bendali peered down at the two attorneys with a heavy sigh. “Would either side object to an adjournment until tomorrow?” he
inquired of them.

“No objection, Your Honor,” Brian said with relief.

“No objection,” Dana echoed weakly.

The judge reconvened his court, apologizing as best he could to the jury and the witness, to the defendant and the defendant’s
wife, and to the contingent of Hill House survivors, after which he recessed the trial until the following morning.

Dana had always considered herself a seasoned professional, in control, and able to handle just about any situation. She had
no idea how frightened she was until it was over, and the rush of adrenaline had subsided, and she tried to stand up, and
found her knees buckling beneath her.

“What just happened?” she asked, wondering how long it would be before her legs would be willing to work again.

“A bit of anarchy,” Brian replied. “Are you all right?”

He was looking pretty shaky himself, Dana thought as she gave him a weak smile. “Ask me again after a few stiff drinks,” she
said, “and I’ll let you know.”

Abraham Bendali went into his chamber and pulled a bottle of scotch from his desk drawer. Taking a glass from the tray on
his credenza, he half filled it, and then downed it in one gulp.

“Are you all right, Your Honor?” his bailiff asked, standing in the doorway.

“Yes, of course, Robert,” he replied. “Come in, come in.” He plucked a second glass from the tray and poured another portion
of scotch. “Here,” he said, holding it out to the young
man. “I can’t believe you don’t need this every bit as much as I do.”

Robert took the glass with a shaking hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said, sipping at it.

Bendali helped himself to a second drink, and sat contemplating it for a moment. “Just how close do you think we came, Robert?”
he asked.

“I’m not sure, sir,” the bailiff replied. “And to be perfectly honest with you, I’m not sure I want to know, either.”

“Do you think I did the right thing, calling in the artillery?”

“Absolutely,” Robert said without hesitation. “I can’t see as you had any choice about that.”

The judge wagged his head in disgust. “Spitballs,” he muttered.

“They knew nothing else was going to get through the metal detectors,” the bailiff said.

“That’s just the point. I summoned an army to fight spitballs.”

“Yes, but you didn’t know that’s all they had at the time. You couldn’t take the chance that they hadn’t found some way to
sneak in a gun or two. And anyway, some of those spitballs weren’t just paper, you know. There were stones in the middle of
them.”

Bendali downed his second scotch and placed the glass on the desk. “I can’t remember the last time a case drove me to drink,”
he said. “I think I’m getting too old for this.”

“You, sir?” the bailiff declared, emboldened by the liquor. “You’ve got the best mind on the bench, and everyone around here
knows it.”

“Thank you, Robert,” Bendali said, genuinely moved. He wondered when the time would be right to tell the young man that this
was his final trial.

U
nder the eyes of armed deputies, Ronna Keough returned to the witness stand on Friday.

“I have just a few more questions,” Brian assured her. “Was there an occasion in November of last year when you received a
telephone call from the defendant?”

“Yes.”

“Will you please tell the court the substance of that conversation?”

“He told me that Elise had refused to talk about the miscarriage, and he wanted to know if I knew what had caused it.”

“The miscarriage?”

“Yes. I guess Elise told him she’d had a miscarriage, not an abortion.”

“What did you say?”

“Well, I didn’t know Elise was going to lie to him. She made me swear not to tell our parents about it, but she didn’t tell
me not to say anything to Corey. I guess it never occurred to her that he’d call me. Anyway, at the time, I just thought he’d
gotten
it wrong. So I told him that she was probably just feeling guilty.”

“What did he say?”

“He wanted to know what she would have to feel guilty about.”

“What did you say?”

Ronna sighed. “I told him maybe the reason she was feeling guilty was because abortion was a mortal sin.”

“So you were the one who told the defendant that his wife had had an abortion, not a miscarriage?”

“I didn’t mean to, but yes, I guess so.”

“What was his reaction?”

“The telephone went silent,” Fonna replied. “He never said another word. After maybe a minute or two, he hung up.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Keough,” the prosecutor said. “That’s all I have.”

Dana contemplated the witness. While the state could not compel the defendant’s wife to testify against her husband, no such
privilege extended to the wife’s sister. Brian had done a clever end run in getting Elise Latham’s abortion into evidence,
as well as the lie. It went a long way toward providing Corey Latham with a motive for bombing Hill House. The damage was
done, and could not be undone. It would be foolish even to try.

“We have no questions for this witness, Your Honor,” the defense attorney said.

Elise Latham did not return to the courtroom on Friday, and would not return until she was called to testify. Her month’s
leave of absence from her job was up, and she was expected back at work. That and the fear of another public assault gave
her a convenient reason to move quietly out of the picture.

Dean Latham had returned to Iowa, and Corey’s Navy buddies, who had taken precious vacation time to be at the courthouse for
the first weeks of trial, had gone back on duty. That left Barbara Latham, Evelyn Biggs, and two or three rotating
members of Corey’s support group holding the banner on the defense side of the aisle. Occasionally, Tom Sheridan made an appearance.
Fortunately, today was one of those occasions, and from the corner of her eye, Dana saw the minister put his arm comfortingly
around Barbara.

The prosecutor’s last witness of the week was Alan Neff, the doctor from Hill House who had performed Elise Latham’s abortion.
By a sheer stroke of luck on his part, Dr. Neff had been sick with the flu the week of the bombing, recuperating at his home
in Lake Forest Park.

“I want to make it perfectly clear to you,” the physician had told the prosecutor, when he was subpoenaed to testify, “I am
bound by the terms of doctor-patient confidentiality. I cannot and I will not discuss Mrs. Latham’s care or treatment.”

“I have no intention of asking you about your interaction with Mrs. Latham,” Brian assured him. “I’m going to ask you about
your interaction with Mrs. Latham’s husband.”

There was a pause. “How do you know I had any interaction with her husband?” Neff inquired.

“Lucky guess, maybe,” Brian replied with a shrug. “And telephone records.”

The doctor sighed. “All right,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

“Thank you for coming in today, Dr. Neff,” Brian said, as the physician settled himself in the witness box, four months to
the day after their conversation. “I would like to begin by asking if you know Corey Dean Latham.”

“I know who he is,” Neff replied, “but we’ve never met, face-to-face.”

“When you say you know who he is, what do you mean?”

“I mean, I know he’s the defendant in this trial,” the witness said. “And I also know he’s the husband of one of my patients.”

“Doctor, you said you never met the defendant, face-to-face. Did you have another kind of contact with him?”

“Yes.”

“Will you explain for the court?”

“There were a whole lot of telephone calls, perhaps as many as two dozen of them in the period of a week. Calls made to my
office, and to my home.”

“What was the nature of these calls?”

Neff paused. “Demanding,” he said finally.

“Demanding, how?” Brian asked.

“He wanted to discuss something I was not at liberty to discuss with him.”

“Did this something concern his wife?”