Act of God (40 page)

“How would you know?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You latched on to the defendant, and stopped looking at anyone else, didn’t you?”

“Let me remind you that we were out there ’looking,’ as you call it, for a month before we got to him. We found nothing.”

“Couldn’t that simply mean that the real perpetrator was better at what he did than you were at what you did?”

“In my experience, that’s rarely the case.”

“Granted, it’s rarely the case,” Dana conceded. “But is it possible?”

Tinker shrugged dismissively. “Anything’s possible, I guess.”

Brian Ayres stirred in his seat. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like where this was headed.

“Then isn’t it also possible, Detective,” Dana pressed, “that someone else planted the bomb at some other time between nine
in the evening and eight in the morning, and therefore wasn’t noticed by Mr. Auerbach, or anyone else who has yet come forward?
Which is why you haven’t caught him?”

“Again, Ms. McAuliffe, if you’re going to insist on the hypothetical, anything’s possible.”

“Detective Tinker, who is Jack Pauley?”

“I have no idea,” he replied, doing his best to control his irritation.

In the Hill House section, Frances Stocker’s head shot up. The detective might not know who Jack Pauley was, but the psychologist
did. She still saw his wife in her nightmares, a limp doll with her head attached by a thread to her neck.

“What if I told you that Jack Pauley works in construction, and is considered a demolitions expert? What if I also told you
that he’s a drunk and a wife abuser? What if I further told you that his wife had an appointment with a therapist at Hill
House on the very day of the bombing, and that he ran a real risk of exposure? Would that jog your recollection any?”

“I remember the name now,” Tinker said, pulling a small notebook out of his jacket pocket, and thumbing quickly through it
to refresh his memory. “Let’s see, wasn’t his wife killed in the bombing?”

“Yes,” Dana corroborated. “As a matter of fact, she was.”

“There were two young kids,” he said, finding the page. “We talked to the guy. He said he was out with some friends the night
before the bombing.”

“Did you check?”

“Yes, of course we checked,” Tinker retorted. “We’re not amateurs, Ms. McAuliffe. We confirmed he was at the bar he said he
was at until about one o’clock in the morning. And we also confirmed that he drives a red Dodge pickup.”

“Where did he go after he left his friends?”

“He went home, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, we couldn’t prove otherwise.”

“I see,” the defense attorney declared. “So, here we have someone else with means, motive, and opportunity. He’s a demolitions
expert. His wife was seeking therapy at Hill House after years of physical abuse, and might well have ended up leaving him,
if not pressing criminal charges against him. And no one can vouch for his whereabouts after he left his friends. Don’t you
think he deserved a second look, Detective?”

“We didn’t know about the abuse,” Tinker admitted. “There was no insurance policy or anything like that. We checked. The guy
seemed all broken up over his wife’s death, so we didn’t see that there was any motive.”

“You mean, he didn’t fit your profile, don’t you?” Dana suggested. “His wife hadn’t had an abortion, he didn’t own an SUV
with a military sticker, and he had an alibi for Milton Auerbach’s narrow window of time shortly after midnight.”

“That’s right,” the detective snapped, finally unable to keep the hostility from his voice.

“Thank you,” Dana said, sensing the moment. “I have nothing more.”

With the wisdom that comes from decades on the bench, Abraham Bendali ordered a recess, and no sooner had judge and jury filed
out than the courtroom erupted. Angry spectators began to toss heated words at one another. The group from Hill House turned
to Frances Stocker, seeking confirmation of the
defense’s charge. Reporters dashed out to file new leads for their stories.

Brian Ayres, clearly caught off guard, turned to Dana. “Where did you get that information?” he demanded.

“What information?” Dana asked innocently.

“Don’t play games with me,” he barked, seeing his case suddenly in shambles. “How did you get that stuff on Pauley?”

“The same way you would have if your police department had been doing its job,” she retorted.

“And what about the other thing? Where did that Nevada sticker come from? Was there really a 4Runner parked between Summit
and Minor that night?”

At that, Dana shrugged. “Whether it was there that night or some other night, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “What matters
is that your Detective Tinker should have made it his business to find out.”

“Dammit,” he said under his breath.

“I warned you, Dink,” she reminded him. “Rush to judgment, remember? You know me. You should’ve listened.”

D
inner at the Dunn house was always a boisterous affair, with eight people clamoring for food and attention at the same time.
Oblivious to it all on this night, however, Stuart was playing with his food, pushing a stack of fish sticks around a mound
of potatoes on his plate, first into a square, then a triangle, and finally being brave enough to try a circle.

“What’s the matter?” his wife asked. “I thought you liked fish sticks and mashed potatoes.”

“It’s the trial,” he mumbled, glancing around the table. Seven pairs of eyes were focused on him. He stuffed a fish stick
in his mouth, followed by a bite of potatoes, embarrassed at being caught. “I guess it’s put me a little off my feed.”

His wife nodded. “Not as much fun as you thought it would be?”

Stuart shrugged. “I feel like a piece of taffy, you know. First the prosecutor pulls you in one direction and then, just when
you think you’re on firm ground, the defense comes on and pulls you back in the other direction. It’s only three weeks, and
I’m already worn out. What a process.”

“It could be worse, dad,” his eleven-year-old said with all the angst of a sixth-grader. “You could be back in school.”

Elise Latham reached Dana at home late on Saturday. “The police came back,” she said.

“What did they want?” the attorney asked.

“I don’t know, they didn’t tell me. They just went to the closet, and took Corey’s seaman’s cap and his windbreaker.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Thank you for calling,” Dana said. She hung up the telephone with a puzzled frown on her face.

“What’s the matter?” Sam asked.

“I’m not sure,” she replied.

Elise hung up the telephone and put on her coat. Then she slipped out the back door, cut through to the alley behind the house,
and made her way to the waiting BMW.

“Allison, it’s Julia Campbell,” the voice at the other end of the telephone said.

“Hello,” Allison replied breathlessly. It was a little after eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, and she had just that moment
come in from the pasture.

“Well, I know we were supposed to wait until you were finished with your jury duty thing before we got together, but I find
myself in need of some advice, and I was hoping you wouldn’t mind my jumping the gun a bit, and calling you now.”

“Not at all. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I’m assuming that you know a good horse vet,” Julia said with a little sigh.

“Sure,” Allison responded. “At least, I think the one I use is pretty good. Why? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. One of my mares is acting funny.”

“Well, his name is Bill Barrett, and he’s in the book, but I don’t know where you’ll be able to reach him today.”

“Oh, that’s right, it’s Sunday. I forgot. Why is it our animals always seem to have a crisis on weekends?”

“He has an emergency number. I can give it to you if you think it’s that serious.”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. She seems fine, and then I saddle her up, and she starts tearing the place apart.” There was
a pause. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come take a look at her, would you? Maybe an objective eye would tell me if
it’s serious.”

The last thing Allison wanted to do was go out on the one day of the week she reserved for her animals. With a sigh, she reached
for a pad and pen on the nightstand. “Sure,” she said. “Tell me where you are.”

An hour later, the two women sat in Julia Campbell’s warm, cheerful kitchen, drinking coffee.

“You probably think I’m a ninny,” Julia said. “Not to think of something so simple as having a burr in the cinch.”

Allison shrugged. “As you said, sometimes it takes an objective eye.”

“Well, I thank you, and the mare thanks you.” Julia got up and poured more coffee. Then she pulled a tin of muffins, a spinach
omelet, and a platter of sausages from the oven, and put them on the table.

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” Allison said.

“But I insist,” her hostess declared. “I drag you out on a Sunday, you save me a veterinarian bill, not to mention keeping
me from making a complete fool of myself. The least I can do is feed you.”

“In that case,” the author said, “you twisted my arm.”

“So,” Julia said casually, as the food was being devoured, “how’s your trial going?”

Allison rolled her eyes. “Let’s just say, I’d like to be somewhere else. Anywhere else, actually.”

“That bad?”

“Well, that grisly, anyway.”

“Oh my, are you on a murder case?”

“A murder case to end all murder cases, I’m afraid.”

Suddenly, Julia’s eyes popped. “Oh no,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re on the jury in that terrible bombing case.”

“That’s the one,” Allison said.

“Well, you have my deepest sympathy,” Julia declared. “I can imagine, just from the little I’ve been seeing on television
and reading in the newspapers, how horrendous it must be.”

“Some of it
has
been pretty bad,” Allison admitted. “A lot worse than I anticipated.”

“I know you can’t talk about the trial itself, but I’m really surprised you even got on the jury,” Julia said. “I thought
that McAuliffe woman was supposed to be so smart. You’d think she would have excused you right off the bat. I don’t know what
she could have been thinking. But you sure found a way to fool her.”

“I did?”

“Well, I mean, I know you. I know what you believe in. And in spite of that, you figured out how to get on that jury.”

“To be honest, I never expected to get on,” Allison said. “I gave both sides plenty of opportunity to kick me off. I was certain
one of them would. And I’m as surprised as you are that neither did.”

“Amazing,” Julia murmured. “With all the research they do on prospective jurors these days, and all those high-priced consultants
they’re using, I can’t believe McAuliffe didn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“Well, know that with you on the jury, she would never get an acquittal.”

“Why is that?” Allison asked.

Julia looked puzzled. “I guess I just assumed,” she said. “I
mean, of course you’ll vote to convict, won’t you? How could you not? He’s guilty, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know yet,” Allison replied carefully. “Do you?”

“Oh come on,” Julia exclaimed. “From everything we’re hearing about the case, it’s obvious he’s guilty as sin. You can’t have
any doubt about that, despite his attorney’s bag of tricks. Besides, you don’t want to send the wrong message, do you?”

“What message is that?” The author knew she was not supposed to discuss anything about the case, but she was intrigued.

“You don’t want people to think that the continued suppression of women is acceptable, do you?” Julia demanded, then dismissed
the idea. “No, of course you don’t. You couldn’t possibly. You’re one of us.”

“If by that you mean a committed member of FOCUS, yes I am,” Allison granted.

“Sure you are. And I don’t have to tell you that we’re fighting for our very existence here, and the future of our daughters
and our granddaughters. That’s what this election is all about, for heaven’s sake. Making sure we get the proper people into
office. People who will make women’s rights a Constitutional protection. But of course, you know that.”

“Yes, I know that,” Allison said. “But what does it have to do with this trial?”

“It’s because you’re
somebody,”
Julia declared. “And when a somebody speaks, people listen. You’ve just been given the most visible platform in the country,
my girl. You have to use it to promote our position. And what could support our position more than the conviction of a terrorist
like Corey Latham? Landing on this jury might have been a fluke, but now that you’ve done it, let’s be practical—you’ve got
to take advantage of it.”