Act of God (57 page)

“About five years ago.”

“And that’s when you started your little support group?”

“Well, not exactly,” Feary clarified. “The group just seemed to come together about four years ago. I didn’t start it.”

“You said you did grief counseling for these people, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any accredited training as a counselor?”

“No. Just personal experience.”

“This group you counsel is for people who’ve lost a child, is that what you said?”

“Yes.”

“Then if you’re counseling them from experience, I assume that means that you’re also grieving the loss of a child?”

“Yes,” Feary said.

“Under what circumstances did you lose your child, sir?”

“My first wife had an abortion.”

“When was that?”

“About six years ago.”

“Where?”

“At a clinic in Portland.”

“I see,” Brian said deliberately. “All right, let’s go back over some of your previous testimony. You’ve told us that the
defendant redirected his anger. Can you tell us where?”

“I’m sorry?” the witness said.

“You said that no one lets go of anger, it just gets redirected. I assume you were speaking from personal experience, as well
as observation. So, I’m asking you, as an experienced observer, where do you think Corey Latham redirected his anger?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily know that,” Feary replied.

“Why not?”

Feary arched an eyebrow. “Well, to be accurate, I never asked, and he never told.”

“Well, if you didn’t ask, and the defendant didn’t tell, and you don’t know, doesn’t that mean he could very well have redirected
his anger toward Hill House?”

Feary paused for what might have been a second too long. “Anything’s possible,” he said finally. “But that doesn’t make it
probable.”

At that, Corey glanced up at the witness with a puzzled frown.

“But you can’t rule out, absolutely, that the defendant might have turned the full force of his anger away from his wife by
finding another target at which he could aim it, can you?” Brian persisted.

“Well no, not absolutely,” the witness allowed. “After all, you can never be absolutely sure about anyone but yourself.”

“What’s he doing?” Joan Wills murmured.

“I think he’s equivocating,” Dana told her, feeling an unpleasant sensation along her spine.

“Does your support group advocate violence, sir?” the prosecutor inquired.

“Our support group?” Feary declared, looking out at the members among the spectators with a warm smile. “Hardly. These people
know all about suffering. They have no interest in causing anguish for others.”

“What about you?”

“Me?” Feary asked.

“Yes, sir, do you advocate the use of violence to promote your beliefs?”

The smile turned cynical. “Are you asking me if I’m a terrorist, Mr. Ayres?”

“Are you?” Brian countered.

An expression that Dana had never seen before crept into Corey’s glance as he waited for the witness to respond.

Feary leaned back in his chair and crossed one knee over the other. “Let me assure you that my work with the support group
is about forgiveness, not violence,” he said. “These people have nothing to do with terrorism.”

“Then what about your work outside the group?”

“What about it?” Feary replied. “I’m a carpenter.”

“That’s how you earn your living,” Brian responded. “I’m referring to your extracurricular activities.”

“Other than the group, I don’t know that I have any.”

“Really?”

Feary sighed. “Look, I’m not sure where you’re trying to go with this, but let me help you. I build things, I repair things,
and in my spare time, I try to help people.”

“Yes, of course,” Brian responded. “Where is your first wife now, sir?”

The man shrugged. “Last I heard, she was in Virginia.”

“And the clinic where she had her abortion, where is that?”

“It was in Portland.”

“Was?”

“Last I heard, it wasn’t there anymore.”

“Can you tell us what happened to it?”

“I heard someone set fire to it, burned it right down to the ground.”

“I see,” the prosecutor said thoughtfully. “When was that?”

“I don’t know,” Feary said. “Maybe five or six years ago.”

“I see,” Brian remarked. “Which would have been not too
long after your former wife had her abortion there, is that correct?”

The witness shrugged. “I guess so. I never thought about it.”

Damon Feary now had Corey Latham’s full attention. The defendant’s eyes were narrowed and he was leaning forward in his chair,
intent upon the witness. It was the most interest Dana had seen him display since Elise had taken the stand.

“Well,
I’ve
been thinking about it, Mr. Feary,” Brian declared. “So tell us, as the guru of your support group, do you think it’s possible
that the vandalism in Tulsa, or the shootings in Denver, or that fire in Portland, might have been a redirection of someone’s
anger?”

“Objection,” Dana interrupted. “Your Honor, it’s patently clear that all the prosecutor is trying to do here is sling mud
against the wall, in hopes that some of it will stick.”

“Don’t I have the right to inquire into this witness’s veracity?” Brian argued.

“Approach,” Bendali said, turning aside his microphone as the attorneys came to the bench.

“I was willing to give him some leeway,” Dana said. “But first he tries to suggest that Mr. Feary is a terrorist. Then he
goes on to suggest that he recruits other terrorists. And while it makes for fascinating listening, it is without any foundation
or relevance.”

“Mr. Ayres?” Bendali inquired.

“I’m just trying to determine how competent the witness is to assess the defendant’s anger.”

“No, Your Honor,” Dana argued. “What he’s trying to do is put in the minds of the jurors the idea that Mr. Feary is a terrorist
who may well have gotten away with vandalizing a clinic in Tulsa, shooting at doctors in Denver, and burning down a clinic
in Portland. Without offering a shred of evidence to confirm any of it. He then wants the jury to jump to the inescapable
conclusion
that, because my client happens to be acquainted with Mr. Feary, ergo, he must be a terrorist, too.”

“Do you have any evidence to present to the jury on this matter, Mr. Ayres?” the judge inquired.

“No, Your Honor,” Brian conceded.

“Then I’m inclined to agree with defense counsel.”

“In that case, I withdraw the question,” Brian said.

Bendali repositioned his microphone as the attorneys returned to their seats. “The witness is instructed not to answer the
last question,” he declared. “And the jury is instructed to disregard it.”

Brian regarded the witness. “You’ve made a lot of statements here today about how the defendant ’seemed to be this,’ and ’indicated
that,’” he said. “But the truth is, you really can’t say, with any assurance at all, that the defendant did not plant a bomb
in the basement of Hill House, and blow the place to smithereens, can you?”

“No,” Damon Feary admitted, “I can’t.”

“That’s all I have.”

“Absolutes and assurances aside,” Dana asked her witness on redirect, “as a person who’s been involved in grief counseling
for the past five years, would you say that Corey Latham fits the profile of a terrorist, of someone who would deliberately
turn his anger on innocent people?”

At that, Feary almost chuckled. “Not from where I sit,” he said, not sharing the joke. “In fact, I can’t say as I know anyone
who fits it less.”

“Was it a mistake to put Feary on the stand?” Joan asked, as court adjourned for the day, and they were being escorted back
to Smith Tower.

Dana shrugged. “We needed him.”

“He was certainly singing a much more positive song both
times we interviewed him,” Joan reflected. “I wonder what happened on the way to the courtroom.”

“I don’t know,” Dana said. “But there was something about him when he got on the stand that I couldn’t quite put my finger
on.”

“Good heavens, you don’t suppose he really did have something to do with those clinics and those doctors, do you?” Joan asked.

“Who knows?” Dana said with a shrug. “But if Brian had any hard evidence, he wouldn’t have hesitated to nail Feary with it.
How could he resist trying to tie Corey to an antiabortion terrorist?”

The Magnolia house was still dark and silent when Dana unlocked the door. No Molly came tumbling down the stairs, no music
floated from the stereo, no tantalizing smells emanated from the kitchen. And there was still no word from Sam.

It was then, walking through the empty rooms, that Dana realized just how much she had always taken him for granted, assumed
his forgiveness and his forbearance. Raised in her father’s image, she had always believed that she ran the show, made things
happen, moved the earth. When all the time, it was really Sam.

She had never before let herself admit how dependent she had become on him. Only now, when it was too late, when she had done
the unforgivable, and was face-to-face with the consequences, was she willing to acknowledge the truth.

It would be easy to blame Judith for what had happened, but Dana knew it wasn’t her fault. Judith may have betrayed a confidence,
but Dana had betrayed her husband. She had lived with that guilt for almost five years. Now Sam would live with the reality
for the rest of his life.

How had she gotten to this point? It was simple, really. She had tried to have it all, and because of that, she had lost it
all.
The real question was, now what? But Dana knew she couldn’t face the answer to that question tonight. Not when tomorrow was
the most important day of the Hill House trial, and she needed all her wits about her to get through it. Nor could she face
going into the kitchen to fix herself something to eat. She dragged herself upstairs and went to bed.

A
re you ready?” Dana asked.

Seated beside her in a freshly pressed uniform, Corey nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

Dana smiled to herself. He must be nervous, she thought. He hadn’t called her that in months. She stood up and smoothed the
skirt of her jade green suit.

“At this time, the defense calls Corey Dean Latham,” she said in a clear voice.

The defendant rose, stepped out from behind the table that had shielded him for so many weeks, and made his way deliberately
to the witness stand.

From the first row of spectator seats, Barbara Latham watched her son, so bright, so confident, so proud. It reminded her
of the first time Corey had ridden his two-wheeler without help, the ceremony when he made Eagle Scout, the evening that he
got up on a stage and became Hamlet, the day he graduated from Annapolis. The milestones of a mother’s life, she thought.

Evelyn Biggs had been in court every single day of the trial.
Now she squeezed Barbara’s hand, and gave her a reassuring smile. Tom Sheridan was there, too, sharing the first row with
Barbara and Evelyn, intending to lend whatever support he could to them all.

Across the aisle, the Hill House section was packed with survivors who had waited nine months to hear from the man accused
of bombing their clinic and murdering their friends and loved ones.

Frances Stocker had been studying Corey Latham since the beginning of the trial. She wanted more than anything for the police
to have gotten it right. She wanted him to be guilty. She wanted his conviction to erase the image of Grace Pauley from her
nightmares. But as the days and weeks went by, the psychologist was finding it harder and harder to believe that the young
man who now sat in the witness box was capable of such evil. She hoped his testimony would tell her he was.

Ruth Zelkin had never seen the defendant. She had spent her days in court listening to other people talk about him. Now she
moved as far forward in her seat as she could, not to miss a word he said.

Joseph Heradia had made a point of being here today. He no longer knew whether Corey Latham was guilty or not, and he was
anxious to hear what the young man had to say for himself.

Betsy Toth Umanski sat in her wheelchair. She, too, was waiting to hear from the man that the police were certain had denied
her the ability to bear children.

Marilyn Korba was seated in the first row. Painful though she knew it would be to actually hear the voice of her husband’s
killer, she had been unable to stay away.

Joe Romanadis would not have missed this day for anything. He was confident he would know whether this man had murdered his
wife and his unborn triplets just by looking in his eyes and listening to his voice.

In the third row, Helen Gamble and Raymond Kiley sat together, holding hands. They hoped Corey Latham was guilty and would
be convicted so they could at least have some closure, if not peace. But neither one of them was very sure anymore.

“Do you swear or affirm to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” Abraham Bendali asked.

“I swear,” Corey said firmly. “So help me God.”

“State your name.”