Authors: Susan R. Sloan
“Cheap shot,” Joan Wills whispered.
“The cheaper the shot, the weaker the case,” Dana whispered back.
Once the preliminaries were out of the way, and Pruitt had detailed the credentials that qualified him as an expert witness,
he proceeded to pluck a file, as if by random, from one of two large boxes that had accompanied him into court, and spread
it open across his lap.
“Case Number KCME00-087,” he recited. “A forty-six-year-old Caucasian woman, medium frame, five feet six inches in height,
weighing one hundred and sixty-five pounds. Presented with crushed skull, severed spinal cord, and multiple other lesser fractures
and lacerations.”
“Were you able to determine the cause of death?” Brian inquired.
“It could have been either of the two main injuries,” the medical examiner replied, “which occurred within milliseconds of
one another. They were both potentially fatal.”
“And do you have an opinion as to what might have caused those injuries?”
“I found them to be consistent with a sudden fall of some distance, with the victim landing on her back.”
“Were you able to establish the time of death?”
“I determined that death was instantaneous,” Pruitt declared, “and according to the wristwatch the victim was wearing on her
left arm at the moment of impact, probably occurred shortly after two o’clock on the afternoon in question.”
In preparation for this testimony, a slide projector and a large light board had been brought into the courtroom. The medical
examiner removed a stack of slides from the file and passed them to Brian, who in turn passed them to his assistant. Mark
Hoffman slipped the stack into the projector and brought the first one into focus on the accompanying screen.
Brian glanced at the jurors. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he saw several of them visibly wince. Then he turned to Pruitt. “Will
you be good enough, doctor, to describe for the court what we’re looking at.”
“We’re looking at a postmortem view of the deceased,” the medical examiner replied. “However, the slides tell only part of
the story. The other part is the X-rays, which, as you will see, define each of the two potentially fatal injuries.” With
that, he pulled a number of films from the file. “If I can have the light board now, I think I’ll be able to make things quite
clear.”
With a nod from the judge, Robert Niera wheeled the cumbersome device to the front of the courtroom. As soon as the bailiff
had it plugged in, Pruitt stepped down from the witness stand and proceeded to clip the X-rays onto the board, in full view
of the jury. Using a pointer, he then went back and forth from the clinical films on the board to the grim slides on the screen
to delineate each of the victim’s primary injuries. And at every step, he endeavored to be as explicit as possible about how
and why, in his opinion, the injury was consistent with the detonation of a bomb.
“If you look at this area here,” he said, indicating one of the X-rays, “it corresponds to the upper section of the spinal
cord, known as the brain stem.” He pointed at the screen, which showed a slide of a female corpse laid out on a table, her
hair covering her face, her back exposed. “The shaded part you see in the X-ray indicates a hyperflexion/hyperextension injury
to the cervical spine that was so severe it severed the spinal cord at the first cervical vertebra. In effect, this separated
the brain from the nervous system, resulting in death.”
“What did you determine was the cause of this kind of injury?” Brian asked.
“A violent contact between the body and another, harder object, in this instance, a floor,” he replied. “A contact that was
so abrupt and so uncompromising that the more pliant of the two objects, the falling body, had no choice but to give way.”
“Is this the kind of injury that could occur in the aftermath of an explosion?”
The medical examiner nodded. “Absolutely. If you think about an explosion that’s strong enough to take out a building, causing
a person to fall from a height, as all indications are this woman did, the falling body would incur what is called, in layman’s
terms, a whiplash. A severe snapping action of the head and neck, backward, then forward, and then back again, which crushed
the skull and severed the spine. She didn’t have a chance.”
Even in the back row of the jury box, Allison Ackerman, who made her living by depicting the grisliest of murders, felt her
stomach turn. It was one thing to fantasize about death, she concluded, and quite another to come face-to-face with the reality.
When the demonstration was over, Pruitt reclaimed the witness stand. After giving the jury a moment to catch its collective
breath, Brian turned to the medical examiner.
“Were you able to identify the victim?” he asked softly.
Pruitt consulted his file. “Yes, I was,” he replied. “Brenda Kiley.”
In the third row of the survivors’ section, Raymond Kiley was unable to stifle a sob. Beside him, Helen Gamble grasped
his hand in both of hers. At the defense table, Corey Latham winced. None of it was lost on the jurors.
“The miracle here,” the medical examiner concluded, “is that I understand she was holding two babies in her arms at the time
of the explosion. They both survived with minimal injuries.”
During Arthur Pruitt’s four days of testimony, the Kiley evaluation was more or less repeated one hundred and seventy-five
times. And each time was as disturbing as the first, especially when it came to the children who had been in the day care
center, and the newborns who had not even lived long enough to have their names recorded.
With his never-ending supply of photographs, X-rays, and uncompromising details, the medical examiner chronicled the injuries
that every victim had sustained, and wherever possible, linked the primary injury to the victim’s death, and the cause of
injury to the results of an explosion. By the time he finished, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the one hundred and
seventy-six people who died as a result of being at Hill House on the first Tuesday in February had met their end by the detonation
of a bomb.
It was also apparent that by the end of the four days, jurors and spectators alike were emotionally exhausted, and some, perhaps,
even growing a little resentful of the siege. Over half of the Hill House people had not made it through the entire testimony.
“Thank you, Dr. Pruitt,” Brian said as he sank into his chair. It was obvious that he, too, was feeling the effects. And in
showing that, the jurors found themselves able to separate the prosecution’s presentation, which they loathed, from the prosecutor
himself, whom they liked.
Across the aisle, Dana glanced at her client. Corey Latham
sat with his head down, gray-faced and withdrawn, gone inside himself for protection.
“I have only one question of this witness,” she informed the bench, incurring a look of gratitude and relief from the jurors,
because they liked her, too.
“Was there anything in your determinations, Dr. Pruitt, that indicated who set the bomb that killed these people?”
“No,” the medical examiner replied.
“Thank you,” Dana said, true to her word. “That’s all.”
It was barely three o’clock, but Abraham Bendali didn’t care. He knew when enough was enough, and he had certainly had enough.
Without preamble, other than to admonish the jury about discussing the case, he banged his gavel.
“We’re adjourned,” he said.
“Was the prosecution right to get the blood and gore over and done with so early?” Joan Wills asked over a yogurt in the Cotter
Boland lunchroom. “This could be a long trial. Don’t they run the risk of having the impact diluted by the end of it?”
Dana shrugged. “I think Brian wanted to start with what he thought would have the biggest impact. Sometimes, if you set the
scene well enough, you can blind the jury to the actual weakness of your case.”
“But four days of it? I hate to say it, because I really hurt for the victims and their families, but after the second day,
all those corpses, and pieces of corpses, stopped being real to me, and started looking like mannequins.”
“I don’t know,” Dana said. “I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the pictures of some of those babies. They looked very real to me.”
“Well, yes, I guess that part got pretty bad,” Joan conceded. “Maybe I’m just reacting like a defense attorney, and Brian
was right. Sow the seeds and reap the verdict.”
“We were never going to be able to deny that all those people
died,” Dana told her associate. “Or that they died because of a bomb. That was going to be established, no matter what.”
“But where does that leave us?”
“Our position hasn’t changed. What happened was horrendous, it should never have happened. There’s no possible justification
for it, and the person who planted that bomb and killed all those people deserves to hang. It just wasn’t our client. And
that’s the bottom line, even if Brian is hoping that after this no one is going to give a damn whether Corey did it or not.”
Jonathan Heal swept into Seattle’s Alexis Hotel, his considerable entourage in his wake, and was immediately shown to an opulent
suite on one of the two floors he had reserved. He had scheduled a week of prayer meetings, to be broadcast across the country,
conveniently coinciding with the advent of the Hill House trial. It was the first time the televangelist had made a pilgrimage
to Seattle, and he had booked the bulk of the convention center for the occasion. All performances, including a thousand-dollar-a-head
gala on Saturday, were sold out in the first twelve hours after the event was announced.
Special invitations for the gala had been issued to a select few that Reverend Heal was quick to explain were supporters who
had been especially devoted down through the years. He announced that they would sit at the head table on Saturday night,
and be recognized for their loyalty. Among those who were to be so honored was, to her astonishment, Rose Gregory.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so excited,” Rose told her granddaughter. “To be singled out by that dear man.”
“Grandma, you deserve it more than anyone I know,” the granddaughter said.
“But to sit at the head table, with all those really important people, and Reverend Heal, too? Surely, I don’t deserve that.”
“Why not? You’ve supported him and his ministry for as
long as I can remember. You should be rewarded.” There was little doubt in the young woman’s mind that the amount of money
her grandmother had contributed to Jonathan Heal’s coffers over the past two decades easily added up to thousands.
“Well I dare say, it’ll be a sight more pleasant to think about than this terrible trial I’m involved in,” Rose declared.
She squared her shoulders as a little smile, the first in days, brightened her eyes. “I think I’ll wear my lilac lace.”
All Allison Ackerman wanted to do was go home and take a long, hot bath. Her knees were wobbly and her brain felt like mush,
and she longed for the peace and quiet of her farm. But at the last moment, she thought of her pantry, and forced herself
to stop at the market. She didn’t notice the van that drove into the lot right behind her, not even when it pulled into the
parking space beside her, not even when she walked right past it on her way into the store.
“Allison? Allison, is that you?” a woman of about her own age called, climbing out of the van.
The mystery writer turned. The person approaching her was dressed in jeans and riding boots, had her predominantly gray hair
pulled back in a ponytail, and appeared to be wearing little if any makeup. Allison hadn’t the faintest idea who she was.
“Yes?” she responded politely.
“I thought that was you,” the woman bubbled. “It’s Julia, Julia Campbell. We met last year, at the FOCUS convention in San
Francisco.”
“Of course,” Allison said, recognizing the board member’s name, but recalling a widow, like herself, in smart business suits,
with upswept hair and perfect makeup. “I’m sorry for not remembering you. I’m afraid my brain isn’t functioning very well
at the moment. How are you? What are you doing here?”
Julia smiled. “I’m fine,” she replied. “And I’m here because of you.”
“Me?” Allison responded with clear and immediate caution. Because of her widespread reputation as an author, she was routinely
bombarded by promoters soliciting her endorsement of everything from politically sanctioned murder to pantyhose.
“Yes, you told me so many wonderful things about Maple Valley, I had to come see for myself. So I came, and I saw, and I live
here now.”
“Well, for goodness sake,” Allison said, relief evident in her voice.
“Oh yes, and I have to tell you, I love it. It was time for a change. California was getting so bad. And I was looking for
more acreage than I could afford there, anyway. I have Arabians, you know, and judging by the way they’ve been kicking up
their heels lately, I think they’re pretty happy, too.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Just since last month.”
“You should have called me,” Allison said, automatically warming to another horse person. “There was no need to wait until
we just happened to bump into one another.”
“Well, you’re busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Nonsense,” the mystery writer declared. “Now that you’re here, we’ll have to get together, and at least celebrate your arrival.”
“I’d like that,” Julia said.
“Oh dear,” Allison said, remembering. “I’m afraid it might have to wait awhile, though.”
“Of course. You have deadlines.”
Allison chuckled. “Actually, what I’ve got right now is jury duty.”
Julia’s eyes widened. “You must be kidding. How excruciating.”
“It’s my own fault,” the author said with a shrug. “I was just too arrogant to get out of it.”
“Then I hope at least you got on an interesting case,” Julia declared.
“Well, I’m really not allowed to discuss it, but I think you could say it’s interesting,” Allison said. “I just didn’t want
you to think I was putting you off.”
“No, I understand.”
“And I promise, we
will
get together, just as soon as it’s over, and give you a proper welcome.”