Act of God (56 page)

“What, if any, opinion did you form about the kind of person he was?”

“I found him to be a thoughtful, caring, deeply committed human being,” Sheridan said.

“Committed to what, sir?” Dana inquired.

“Committed to people,” the pastor replied. “He was a regular participant in our program to feed the homeless. Whenever he
wasn’t on duty at the base, he was available to anyone in the
congregation who needed assistance, in everything from carpentry to transportation. People sought him out, just to talk, because
he was always willing to listen. He helped organize a volunteer care program for children during church services. And if anyone
were ill, he’d go fetch medicine or bring soup or run errands. Anything he could do to help.”

“In November of last year, did you have occasion to meet with Corey and Elise Latham?”

“Yes, I did,” the minister verified. “We met on a number of occasions.”

“And will you tell the court about the nature of those meetings?”

“The Lathams requested counseling to deal with the loss of a child. We met twice a week for the better part of a month.”

“The loss of a child, Reverend Sheridan?” Dana questioned.

“Yes,” he said. “While Corey was at sea, Elise had opted to abort their baby. They were both having a difficult time dealing
with the emotional consequences of that act, especially Corey.”

“Can you describe for the jury his demeanor at that time?”

“He was distraught, he was despondent, he was angry, he felt betrayed. All the normal things one would feel under the circumstances.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Brian said. “The witness is offering a conclusion by characterizing the behavior of the defendant
as normal.”

“Sustained,” Bendali said.

“Let me rephrase the question,” Dana said. “Reverend Sheridan, have you ever counseled any other people who were in a situation
similar to that of Corey and Elise Latham?”

“Yes, I have,” the minister replied. “Over the past twenty-five years, I’d say I’ve counseled somewhere between fifteen and
twenty couples.”

“And based on your experience as a counselor, can you point to any common behavioral characteristics among people who have
lost a child?”

“Yes, I can,” he said. “They all went through periods of being distraught, despondent, and angry. And depending on the particular
circumstances, some of them felt betrayed.”

“So when you characterized Corey Latham’s behavior as normal, what you meant was that it was consistent with the behavior
of other people you have counseled who have lost a child, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“All right, Reverend,” Dana continued smoothly, “did you ever detect a characteristic in any of the people you counseled that
could be described as a tendency toward violence?”

“I would have to say no.”

“Would you know how to identify such a tendency?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask how you would know?”

“For five years, early in my career, I was a prison chaplain at the state penitentiary in Walla Walla. I know what violence
is, what signs to look for, and how to identify them.”

“So, if I were to ask whether you saw any indication that Corey Latham was so distressed by his wife’s abortion and subsequent
deception that he would have resorted to blowing apart a building full of people, what would you say?”

“I saw no such indication,” Sheridan declared. “In fact, I would say the opposite.”

“Will you explain that?”

“Instead of seeing Corey take his anger out on others, I saw him take it inside himself. I think he blamed himself for the
abortion. There was nothing in anything he said or did that indicated that he blamed either Elise or the clinic.”

“But there has been testimony in this court that Corey did
in fact have at least one loud, potentially physical argument with his wife.”

“People argue, Ms. McAuliffe,” the minister said. “Sometimes, they even shout and throw things. In my experience, that’s just
venting frustration. In many cases, it’s necessary for the health and well-being of a relationship. But it’s a far cry from
premeditated violence.”

“In the course of your counseling the Lathams, did you have occasion to recommend to Corey that he join a support group?”

“I did. It’s not an official church group, but several members of our congregation belong to it. It’s specifically for people
who are grieving the loss of a child. I think they do good work, so I’m happy to make referrals.”

“And you referred Corey Latham to this group?”

“Yes, I did,” the minister confirmed. “I thought he would benefit from the opportunity to verbalize his feelings among people
who would understand what he was going through and be able to help him adjust.”

“And to your knowledge, did he attend any of the group’s meetings?”

“To my knowledge, he was going to the meetings at least once each week, right up until the time he was arrested.”

“Thank you,” Dana said. “That’s all I have.”

“Reverend Sheridan,” Brian inquired, “is the fact that you saw no indication of violence in the defendant a guarantee that
he did not bomb Hill House?”

“Well, no, it’s not a guarantee. It’s simply an evaluation.”

“And, sir, isn’t the real reason you referred the defendant to the support group because you were unable to help him reconcile
his anger in counseling?”

“No,” Sheridan said. “He was making great strides in counseling. I referred him to the support group because he was ready
to take the next step.”

“Not because he was having so much trouble dealing with his anger that he was taking it out on his wife?”

“No,” the minister said. “There was no evidence of that. As I said, in times of stress, Corey seemed to me to turn inward,
not outward.”

“And you’re an expert on behavior?”

“No, Mr. Ayres,” Tom Sheridan suggested mildly, “just an observer.”

“Where’s Charles?” Joan Wills inquired as Brian finished his cross-examination, and the judge announced the lunch break.

“He isn’t going to be with us anymore,” Dana said smoothly. “Cotter said something about another case that required his attention.”

Craig Jessup slipped into the courtroom just before the afternoon session was about to begin.

“Have a minute?” he asked Dana.

“Sure,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Does the name Tom Kirby ring any bells with you?”

Inexplicably, Dana felt the hair rise at the back of her neck and her heart begin to race. “Why do you ask?” she said, somehow
knowing, with a sinking heart, that she knew the answer before she heard it.

“According to the information I was able to get, he’s a tabloid journalist who spent several months up here, covering the
case,” Jessup told her. “Also according to my information, he wrote the article in
Probe.
I’m still working on his source.”

Dana sank slowly back into her chair. “Thank you,” she said tonelessly. “Never mind the source. You can go on to other things
now.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned because her face had gone pale.

She squared her shoulders and tossed her head. “Sure,” she said automatically. “I’m fine.”

Fortunately, she had little time to think about what Jessup’s news meant before court resumed and Damon Feary came to the
witness stand.

The unofficial leader of the support group was a gangly redhead with a pockmarked complexion. He walked down the center aisle
with huge loping steps, wearing cowboy boots with metal tips, smiling and grasping hands with the half dozen or so group members
who were in attendance for the day’s session.

“Mr. Feary, what is your occupation?” Dana began.

“I’m a carpenter,” he replied. “But I do a little counseling on the side.”

“What kind of counseling, exactly?”

“In simple terms, I help people figure out how to deal with grief.”

“Would you say that kind of help requires a pretty good understanding of human nature?”

“I guess so.”

“Mr. Feary, are you acquainted with the defendant?”

“I am,” Feary replied.

“In what capacity?”

“He’s a member of a support group I belong to.”

“Will you describe for the jury what kind of support group that is?”

“We’re just a bunch of folks who get together every week or so to work through the grieving process that comes with the death
of a child, and we try to help others work through it, too.”

“When did Corey Latham join your group?”

“It was sometime at the end of last November, I believe. He was a referral from Tom Sheridan over at the Puget Sound Methodist
Church.”

“And what did you understand to be the circumstances of Corey’s joining the group?”

“His wife had an abortion while he was out to sea, and he was trying to come to terms with the loss of his baby.”

“Ballpark figure—how many meetings would you say Corey attended?”

“I’ve been told that he was there just about every time the group met, from the first day he joined until the day he got arrested.
Firsthand, I know he was there at least a couple dozen times between November and early February.”

“Were you able to detect any changes in his attitude or his behavior over the course of those meetings?”

“Absolutely,” Feary asserted. “He learned that it was okay to be angry. So many people think they have to bottle it up, you
know, and not let it show. But you can’t deal with grief if you’re swallowing the anger all the time. You have to get it out
in the air.”

“Corey was having a hard time with that, with knowing what to do with his anger?”

“Yes.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Oh no,” Feary said. “All of us had been there, walking around in his pain. That’s the benefit of a group like ours. We speak
from experience. We can all tell you how much it helps someone like Corey to know he’s not alone, that he has someone to lean
on, someone to draw strength from.”

“Why is that, do you think?”

He sighed. “Because there is no greater grief one can know than the loss of a child.”

“So you would say his anger was normal?”

“Of course. Anger is a very normal part of the process.”

“And how did Corey respond to your group?”

“Slowly, at first, even though we were meeting three and four times a week.”

“Why so often?”

“Because that’s what we generally do when a new person comes in, all raw and not knowing what to do with his anguish. At first,
Corey was withdrawn, which is typical. He sat by himself, listened a lot, said little, and didn’t interact very much.”

“How long did that last?”

“I think it was during the fifth meeting that he stopped shrinking when members of the group came up to hug him. At the sixth
meeting, he let himself cry for the first time. By the time we got to the seventh meeting, he was able to start letting it
all out. After that, he began to heal.”

“You’re very precise,” Dana observed.

“I take notes,” he told her. “It helps.”

“And how long would you say the healing took?”

“Well, healing is an ongoing process,” Feary said. “Sometimes, it can take years, sometimes it’s never fully accomplished.
But Corey was working on it, that much was clear.”

“You said before that he learned it was okay to be angry. Was there any point where you felt he was able to let go of his
anger?”

“I don’t know that anyone ever really lets go of anger the way I think you mean. Mostly, it gets redirected down more constructive
avenues.”

“What do you mean?” Dana asked.

“Anger can be useful in effecting change,” Feary explained. “Most of the great advances in history were made by people who
were distressed by circumstances that surrounded them. People who were angry about conditions in their homeland founded this
country. If we’re disgusted enough with the behavior of our politicians, we remove them from office. If we don’t like a law,
we lobby to change it.”

Dana didn’t particularly care for where she sensed he was heading. He seemed to be getting on a soapbox, and she had no intention
of joining him. “But we’re not talking about
global change here,” she said smoothly. “We’re talking about one man’s struggle with grief. At what point would you say that
Corey Latham had reconciled to the loss of his unborn baby?”

“By the middle of December, I would say, was when he seemed to be back in control of his emotions,” Feary said agreeably.
“He had indicated to us by then that he had forgiven his wife, which is always an important step. He was participating in
meetings with an outward focus rather than inward, extending compassion to others. He seemed much more relaxed, much more
open, and ready to move on with his life.”

“Thank you,” Dana said with a nod and a smile, and took her seat.

“Where are you from, Mr. Feary?” Brian asked pleasantly.

“I live in Woodinville,” the witness replied.

“No, I mean where were you raised?”

“Oh, sorry. I was born in Oklahoma.”

“Went to school there and everything, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Anywhere near Tulsa?”

“Not far.”

“Were you there when that abortion clinic was vandalized, and all their equipment destroyed? I think it was in 1985?”

“I was still there in 1985, but I don’t recall that particular incident.”

“And where did you go from there?”

“I went to Colorado.”

“And that was when?”

“Sometime in 1986, I believe.”

“Anywhere near Denver?”

“Yes.”

“And were you still there when two doctors from a clinic in Denver were shot? I believe it was in 1989?”

“As a matter of fact, I was,” Feary said easily. “I heard about
it on the news. They never caught the shooter. But back then, as I recall, there were things like that happening all over
the country. I think a lot of people were very disturbed about how things were going.”

“Where did you go from Denver?”

“To Oregon.”

“And when was that?”

“As I’m sure you already know, it was in 1990.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Brian conceded. “I did know. And when did you move up to Washington?”