Miracle Creek(53)

“Withdrawn.” A smile passed through Abe’s face like a fast-moving cloud as he put a poster on the easel. “This is a copy of the marked-up chart Ms. Haug introduced yesterday.”




Pak looked at the red letters blaming him for the destruction of his patients’ lives, his daughter’s face, his own legs.

“Pak, your name is all over this chart. Let’s explore that. First, ownership or possession of the weapon—in this case, Camel cigarettes. Did you have any last summer?”

“No. I have no-smoking rule. It is too dangerous with oxygen.”

“How about before last summer? Have you ever smoked?”

Pak had asked Abe not to ask this, but Abe said Shannon was sure to have evidence of his past smoking, and admitting it first would deflate her planned attack. “Yes, in Baltimore. But never in Virginia.”

“Have you bought cigarettes or anything else from any 7-Eleven, anywhere?”

“No. I saw 7-Eleven in Baltimore, but I never go inside. I never saw 7-Eleven near Miracle Creek.”

Abe stepped closer. “Did you buy or even touch any cigarettes last summer?”

Pak swallowed. There was no shame in white lies, answers that were technically untrue but ultimately served the greater good. “No.”

Abe took out a red marker, marched to the easel, and crossed out P. YOO next to Suspect ownership/possession. Abe closed the marker, the cap’s click an auditory exclamation point to the slashing of Pak’s name. “Next, Opportunity to commit crime. There’s been a lot of confusion here, with your neighbor, your voice, all that. So tell us, once and for all: Where were you during the last dive, before the explosion?”

Pak spoke slowly, deliberately, elongating each syllable. “I was inside the barn. The entire time.” This wasn’t a lie. Not really. Not when it had no impact on the ultimate question of who set the fire.

“Did you immediately open the hatch?”

“No.” And it was true, he wouldn’t have done that. Pak explained what he would’ve done if he’d been there: turn off oxygen at the emergency valves in case the controls were damaged, then extra-slow depressurization to make sure the pressure changes wouldn’t cause another detonation, resulting in the delay of the hatch opening by more than a minute.

“That makes sense. Thank you,” Abe said. “Now, Pak, do you have any other proof that you never went outside by the oxygen tanks before the explosion?”

“Yes, my cell telephone record,” Pak said, as Abe handed out copies. “8:05 to 8:22 p.m., I was on the telephone. I called the power company to ask when they will fix, and also my wife, to ask her when she will return with batteries. Seventeen minutes, continuous telephone calls.”

“Okay, I see that, but so what? You could’ve been on the phone while you were outside, setting fire under the oxygen tube.”

Pak couldn’t help a little smile as he shook his head. “No. That is impossible.”

Abe frowned, pretending to be mystified. “Why?”

“There is no cell reception near oxygen tank. Yes, in front of the barn. Not in back. Inside or outside. All my patients know this. If they wish to call, they must walk to front.”

“I see. So you couldn’t be anywhere near the fire’s starting point from 8:05 until the explosion. No vicinity, no opportunity.” Abe popped the marker open and crossed out his name next to Opportunity to commit crime. “Let’s turn to ‘Special knowledge and interest,’ next to which Ms. Haug has written ‘P. YOO.’”

Pak heard tittering, and he thought of Abe’s explanation of the juvenile humor of this abbreviation. “Intentional, I’m sure. I hate that woman,” Abe had said.

“Pak, as a licensed HBOT operator, you did research HBOT fires, correct?”

“Yes. I researched to learn how to avoid fires. Improve safety.”

“Thank you.” Under the P. YOO next to Special knowledge and interest, Abe wrote (for good reason—safety) and said, “We come to the last remaining item. Motive. Let me ask straight-out: Did you set fire to your own business with your patients inside and your family nearby to get 1.3 million dollars?”

Pak didn’t have to fake laughing in incredulity at this notion. “No.” He looked at the jurors, focusing in on the older faces. “If you have any children, you know. I never, never risk my child for money. We came to America for our daughter. Her future. Everything is for my family.” The jurors nodded. “I was excited about my business. Miracle Submarine! Many parents of disabled children call, we have waiting list for patients. We are happy. There is no reason to destroy this. Why?”

“I suppose some would answer, 1.3 million dollars. That’s a lot of money.”

Pak looked down at his useless legs in the wheelchair, touched the steel—even in this hot courtroom, it remained cold. “The hospital bills. They are one-half-million dollars. My daughter was in a coma. Doctors say maybe I never walk again.” Pak looked at Mary, her cheeks wet from tears. “No. 1.3 million dollars is not a lot of money.”

Abe looked at the jurors, all twelve now looking at Pak with sympathy in their eyes, leaning forward in their seats toward him as if they wanted to reach across the railings and touch him, comfort him. Abe touched the tip of the red marker to the P in P. YOO next to Motive to commit crime. He stared and shook his head. Slowly, definitively, he put a red gash through Pak’s name.