Act of God (48 page)

“Tell me, sir, were you at home around midnight on the night before the Hill House bombing?”

“I was.”

“Will you please tell the court specifically where you were?”

“At that hour, I was in my bed.”

“Can you recall whether anything unusual happened on that particular night?”

“Yes, indeed,” Ram said in his clipped voice. “Ours is a very quiet neighborhood, you see. So much so that I am usually able
to sleep soundly with my window open. But on that night, I was restless and not sleeping, and I remember distinctly hearing
the sound of an automobile engine being started.”

“Can you tell us what time that was?”

“Oh yes,” the witness replied. “It was at fourteen minutes past midnight.”

“How can you be so sure?” Brian pressed.

“When I heard the vehicle, I looked immediately at the clock beside my bed.”

“Why?”

“In our neighborhood, automobiles are usually in bed, as are their owners, at that hour,” Ram declared. “And I worried that
someone might be ill.”

“Could you tell, sir, where the vehicle you heard was when the engine started?”

“Oh yes,” the man said. “It was directly across the street.”

“Thank you,” Brian said.

“Mr. Ram,” Dana inquired on cross-examination, “when did you report that you had heard a car start up that particular night?”

“A policeman came to my door in the middle of March,” he replied. “It was then that I reported it.”

“That was about six weeks after the bombing, is that correct?”

“Yes, it was.”

“That’s a pretty long time to remember something as unimportant as hearing a car engine, isn’t it?”

“As it turned out, it was not so unimportant.”

“Yes, but you didn’t know that at the time, did you?”

“No, this is true. I did not.”

“And yet you are absolutely positive that you heard the car engine start up on that specific night?”

“Oh yes. You see, my memory is quite good.”

“I’m sure it is. Tell me, where were you, say, the night before?”

“On the Sunday? I think I was at home.”

“You think? You aren’t positive?”

“I am positive,” Ram corrected himself. “I was at home.”

“Did you hear a car engine start up late that night?”

“No, I do not recall hearing one,” the witness said. “I must have been sleeping.”

“On the night you say you heard the engine start up, did you get out of bed and look to see who it was?”

“No, I am sorry to say I did not.”

“Could you see out the window from where you were?”

“No, I could not.”

“So you heard an automobile engine being started, but you cannot testify that the one you heard belonged to my client?”

“No, I cannot say that with any certainty.”

“And am I to assume that also means you did not see who was driving the vehicle?”

“No, I did not,” he said.

“So,” Dana summarized, “your testimony here today, sir, is that you claim to have heard an automobile start up around midnight,
but you cannot positively identify it. You cannot identify the person who was driving it, and you can tell us only that you
believe it came from directly across the street. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“And you’re certain that it was the night before the bombing?”

“I am certain.”

“It couldn’t have been the night before, or even the night after?”

“No,” the witness declared. “I have said it was that night.”

“Thank you. I have nothing further.”

“Mr. Ram,” Brian asked on redirect, “although you can’t positively identify the vehicle you heard for the court, what makes
you think it came from the house directly across the street?”

“Because the engine was that of an automobile,” Ram replied confidently. “You see, there are only four houses at our end of
the street. Mine, Lieutenant Latham’s, and two others. The occupants of the other two houses both drive trucks, each of which
has been fitted with a low-cost dual exhaust system. Such engines have a much louder sound than that of a regular automobile,
or a sport utility vehicle.”

“Thank you,” Brian said, turning away, and then turning back again. “By the way, Mr. Ram, will you tell the jury what you
do for a living?”

“I am an automobile mechanic,” he replied.

There were no further questions. The witness was excused.

Brian watched him leave the courtroom before he turned and addressed the bench. “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

The judge peered down at Dana. “Will you be prepared to present your first witness tomorrow morning, counsel?” he inquired.

“Yes, we will, Your Honor,” Dana assured him.

Bendali rapped his gavel. “Court will be adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” He turned to the jury for his daily
reminder. “I remind the members of the jury that you are not to discuss this case among yourselves, or with anyone else, or
to allow anyone to try to influence you about this matter in any way.”

“It’s so hard,” Karleen McKay said, as she and Allison Ackerman traveled down in the elevator together.

“What is?” Allison inquired.

“Well, it’s all a jumble in my head, everything we’ve seen and heard, and I want to talk about it. I need to talk about it.
I have to sort it all out, so I’m sure I’ve got it straight. Only we’re not allowed.”

“I know,” the author responded. “That’s why I go home every day after court and have conversations with my computer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m keeping a kind of journal, dumping everything I can remember from each day into my computer, and then I try to look at
it from different perspectives.”

“Spoken like a true writer,” Karleen declared. “Does it work?”

“Well, I think so,” Allison replied. “However, it’s a bit like
watching a tennis match. First the ball’s in one court, and then it’s in the other.”

Karleen chuckled. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said. And that was as far as either of them would go in discussing the
trial.

Since the riot in the courtroom, the crowds outside had grown increasingly restless. Several skirmishes had prompted police
to set up barricades along Third Avenue between James and Jefferson to protect the courthouse and reduce traffic to one lane.
The demonstrators, essentially pushed away from the building entrance, and out of camera range, began to mill around both
cross streets, waving their placards and shouting their slogans.

“Abortion is murder!”

“Freedom is choice!”

Karleen and Allison exited the building, walked to the corner of James, and headed for the garage on Second Avenue where both
their cars were parked. Suddenly, a man was blocking their way. He wore a huge button on his lapel that depicted a mutilated
fetus and proclaimed the preborn’s right to life.

“You’re on that jury, aren’t you?” he charged.

As the author and the Realtor glanced at each other, both realized, too late, that Karleen had forgotten to remove the juror
identification badge from her jacket.

“Excuse us, please,” Allison said, trying to push past.

But the man let out a yell. “Here’s two of them!” he cried. “We got two of them!”

In an instant, the women were surrounded, as some two dozen impassioned protesters looked to vent their frustration.

“Are you going to convict Corey Latham?” someone asked.

“Are you going to take his life for trying to save others?”

“Let us through,” Allison demanded, but no one was listening.

“He’s a saint, not a sinner,” a woman cried.

“He’s a savior,” another claimed.

Suddenly, the mob was two mobs, as a dozen others quickly sized up the situation and descended on the scene, ready and eager
to shout and taunt and shove.

“He’s a murderer,” one of them declared.

“Speak for the victims, who no longer have a voice,” someone else entreated.

“Convict the bastard!” another demanded.

Afterward no one could say for sure which side threw the first punch, but that was all it took for the opposing groups to
be at each other’s throats. And the two jurors were caught right in the middle of the pushing and punching.

Someone lunged forward at someone else, and a fist caught Allison in the ribs. An instant later, someone else inadvertently
rammed an elbow into her kidneys with such force that it knocked her to the ground. She heard Karleen shouting something from
above, but she was helpless to respond, as feet began stumbling every which way over her. She tried to crawl, but couldn’t
move. She tried to cry out, but could barely breathe. She managed to get her arms up around her head, but that left her body
exposed. She counted seventeen stomps before she lost consciousness.

A
braham Bendali was as angry as Robert Niera could ever remember seeing him. One look at Allison Ackerman’s battered body was
all it took, as he sat in his chambers on Wednesday morning with the mystery writer and the attorneys. Court was in recess,
the other jurors notified to stay at home.

In the aftermath of the street fight, Allison was removed to Harborview Medical Center, where she was obliged to spend an
uncomfortable night. In addition to a concussion, her left arm was in a sling, the result of a sprained shoulder. Three stitches
had to be taken just above her left eye. There was an ugly bruise across the small of her back, along with numerous lacerations
on her arms and legs, and she had sustained four cracked ribs. A night in the hospital had been deemed necessary to evaluate
the concussion and monitor her kidney function.

“Do you wish to be removed from the jury, Mrs. Ackerman?” Bendali asked her. “I want you to know I wouldn’t blame you, if
you did.”

Allison glared at him. “No, I do not,” she said firmly. “I’ve gone too far with this to quit now, just because of a bunch
of
thugs. If my injuries won’t be a distraction to anyone, Your Honor, I would very much prefer to stay”

Bendali sighed. “This whole thing has gotten totally out of control,” he acknowledged, his irritation obvious in the tone
of his voice. “I could order the jury sequestered for the remainder of the trial. How would that be?”

“Inconvenient,” Allison replied. “For me as well as everyone else, I suspect. Besides, I don’t think I was a target out there.
They were looking for any excuse to fight each other. I just got in the way.”

The judge considered his options for a long moment. “All right,” he said finally. “If you want to stay, and you don’t want
to be sequestered, I’ll arrange for you to have an escort both to and from your home. As a matter of fact. I’ll arrange escorts
for everyone. From now on, no member of this jury—no one connected with this trial—is going to be put at risk.”

“Thank you,” Allison said. “I think we’ll all appreciate that.” She was thinking of Karleen McKay, who had endured her own
share of cuts and bruises. The Realtor had been with her at the hospital, and had been kind enough to stay until Allison was
moved to a private room.

“We’re in recess until tomorrow morning,” Bendali informed the attorneys, and then peered at the juror. “That is, if you think
you’ll feel well enough by then,” he added. “If not, we’ll damn well stay in recess until you do.”

“I’ll be well enough,” Allison declared. She had no desire to prolong this ordeal any longer than necessary.

“Tell me the truth,” Corey urged. “How do you think it’s going?”

Dana had gone to the jail to let him know there would be no court today, and they had been allowed to meet in the purple interview
room.

“I think we’re doing as well as can be expected,” she told him, preferring to be cautious.

“You sound like a doctor trying not to tell a patient that he’s dying,” Corey said with a grimace.

“The whole thrust of the prosecution’s case was to link together a string of coincidences that on the surface look like they
lead only to you,” she said. “I’d be lying to you if I said that Brian Ayres hadn’t done a pretty good job of it. But that’s
only half the picture. In our presentation, we’re going to show the other half. We’re going to break some of those links,
offer plausible alternatives, and show those coincidences to be just that—nothing but coincidences.”

“I want to get on that stand,” he declared. “I want to get up there and tell the jury I could never have killed all those
people.”

“You’ll have your chance,” she assured him.

“I just hope they’ll believe me.”

Dana reached over and squeezed his hand. “So do I,” she said; because she had never made him any promises, she had always
been honest.

He looked down at her hand covering his. “That woman who got hurt,” he asked, “she’ll be all right, won’t she?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Corey let out a long sigh. “I want this to be over,” he murmured. “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt because of me.”

“I’m concerned,” Roger Roark confided to his select group of advisors. “My read on this Hill House thing is that McAuliffe
has negated enough of the state’s case to end up with a hung jury, if not an out-and-out acquittal. She’s coming up to bat
now, and we’ve got to figure out a way to strike her out.”