Chapter 33
What do you wear to your arrest? It was one of those questions that one never thinks about, not even hardened criminals.
Simon chose jeans, a sports coat, and a white shirt.
Raymond said to pack some toiletries, so he filled a paper shopping bag with a few necessities, some clean underwear, and two paperbacks.
He took one last look in the mirror and despised what he saw, then turned off the lights in his office with no idea when he might turn them on again.
In the reception area, he fell into a chair and looked at Tillie in absolute defeat.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, alarmed.
“About two hours ago the grand jury indicted me for the murder of Eleanor Barnett.” The words sounded as if they were spoken by an unseen voice from above. She was stunned and couldn’t speak.
“I’m on my way to the city jail where Raymond Lassiter is waiting. I’ll be processed like the other criminals and put in a cell. I don’t know when I’ll get out.”
“Murder!” she blurted.
He took a deep breath and said, “Evidently, someone poisoned Eleanor when she was in the hospital. Those damned ginger cookies I sent were laced with poison. All eyes are on me.”
She swallowed hard and kept her composure, then wiped her cheeks with tissues and managed to say, “This is ridiculous, Simon. You’re not capable of doing something like that.”
He nodded his agreement but said nothing. Another long moment passed as they ignored the buzzing of the landline on her desk. She asked, “What about Paula and the kids?”
“Pretty ugly. I told her last night after the kids were in bed. She was horrified, angry, frightened, the works. Our greatest concern is protecting our children, but there’s no way.
They are about to be humiliated and I can’t stop it.
I can’t protect them.” His voice cracked and he couldn’t go on.
She wiped her eyes again and seemed determined to contain her emotions.
He said, “I’ll call from the jail as soon as I can. Lock up the office and stay away. I’m sure reporters will be banging on the door very soon, so lay low.”
“I can’t believe this, Simon.”
“I’m sleepwalking through a nightmare, Tillie, and no one has a clue how it will end. There are so many unknowns. The best scenario for next week is that I can make bond and get out. If so, we can try to keep this place afloat until trial.”
“A trial?”
“That’s what usually happens once you’re charged, unless, of course, you plead guilty. I’m not doing that.”
“When is the trial?”
“Who knows? Months.”
He stood and thought about giving her an awkward hug, but since they had never done that, he simply said, “Be strong,” and opened the door.
“You’ll need a coat.”
The temperature was in the twenties and the wind was howling.
He walked down Main Street, past the shops and offices he knew so well, and tried not to guess what those people would think and say when they heard the gossip, the unbelievable news.
He slowed in front of Ethel’s Diner, empty at 4 P.M. on a dreary Friday, but Bella, his favorite waitress, was at the counter drying tea glasses and gabbing at someone in the kitchen.
Bella would never believe that Simon would do something so awful and would volunteer for jury service if possible.
He crossed the street and walked along Monroe until he came to the courthouse, a neoclassical masterpiece that Braxton was so proud of.
A hundred years earlier, the city won a lawsuit against a railroad and wisely chose to put the money into a new monument to itself, with no expense spared.
With its grand arches, vaulted ceilings, and marble columns, it was routinely voted the most beautiful courthouse in Virginia.
He thought of all the clerks, secretaries, janitors, bailiffs, lawyers, and judges who worked there, people he had known for almost twenty years, and tried to picture their faces when they heard the news.
It was almost too painful to think about.
On the second floor, the lights were on in the main courtroom where in a few short days he would be led in, not as a lawyer but as a criminal defendant and facing a judge for an arraignment, his first appearance of many.
He kept walking through the streets of downtown, his town, somewhat aimlessly but in the general direction of the jail.
Sleepwalking.
There was no crowd waiting at the entrance.
No reporters yelling at him. No photographers clicking away.
That would come later, but not late enough.
He stepped inside and saw Raymond chatting with a uniformed officer.
The arrest of a lawyer for murder was a momentous occasion in Braxton, but, thankfully, the police were downplaying it.
Simon had feared a gang of cops loitering about, waiting for a glimpse of their new trophy, but there were only a couple trying their best to ignore him.
Raymond handed him a copy of the indictment, hot off the press, and he read it slowly. The chief of police appeared and said, “I’m sorry, Simon.” They had known each other for a few years and it was obvious the chief preferred to be elsewhere. “I have no choice.”
“I understand. Let’s get it over with.”
The processing took an hour. Simon handed over his wallet, which contained nothing but his driver’s license, and his cell phone.
Because his wristwatch had a leather band he was allowed to keep it, for the logical reason that it might be difficult to murder another inmate with a leather band.
He posed for his mug shot, then surrendered his clothing.
He changed into a pair of bright orange overalls with the words City Jail across the back.
He was allowed to keep his socks and running shoes.
He was fingerprinted and voluntarily gave a sample of blood. The paperwork took fifteen minutes.
It was a humiliating process, to say the least, and frightening, but he was determined to keep a firm jaw and clenched teeth and act as though nothing they dished out could faze him.
He was an innocent man, and once that was proven to the world he could look back and boast, to himself, that he had survived the worst. On his office desk he kept a tall coffee cup filled with pens, pencils, and markers, and on one side was his favorite slogan: What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Tougher.
Once officially an inmate in the city jail, he was led, unshackled, to a small room where lawyers met their clients. In eighteen years, he’d been there a few times, but never as the poor schmuck in coveralls.
“You look nice in orange,” Raymond said.
“You trying to be funny?”
“No. I just talked to Judge Pointer again and she’s not willing to set bond until Monday at the arraignment.”
“No surprise.”
“I practically begged for a release on recognition, but she wouldn’t budge. Didn’t seem too sympathetic. Looks like you’re here for the weekend.”
“I’ll be all right. I brought some books. It’ll be a good time to think, try to sort things out.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Raymond, I really thank you for being here. I know it’s pro bono and all that, but it means a lot.”
“I’m with you, Simon.”
“Could I ask a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Could I borrow your phone? I need to call my mother.”
The leaker struck again Friday night. He or she sent an anonymous email to Iris Kane, a reporter for the Washington Journal. It read:
Breaking news from Braxton, Virginia. Local attorney arrested in poisoning death of wealthy client after revising her will. Simon Latch, 42, was indicted by the grand jury this afternoon and surrendered to authorities at the city jail. Scheduled to appear in Circuit Court Monday morning.
Iris made half a dozen calls and with little progress. Apparently, most sources shut down on Friday night in Braxton. Fifteen minutes later, another anonymous email arrived:
Eleanor Barnett, age 85, was pronounced dead on December 30, at the Blue Ridge Memorial Hospital. Cause of death—pneumonia. But, an autopsy later revealed she had been poisoned. You have the exclusive but act fast. This story has enormous tabloid appeal.
Iris agreed and kept digging online for another hour, again with nothing to show for it. She went to bed early with plans to head over to Braxton in the morning for a long day of investigating.
The cell was twelve-by-twelve with concrete blocks on three sides and a wall of iron bars facing the hallway.
Two bunk beds hung from the wall by metal braces.
Fortunately, the top bunk was unoccupied, and Simon had the cell to himself.
Directly across the hall, Loomis, a car thief, was also solo, and lonely, and wanted to talk to someone.
Actually, he preferred to have someone listen while he went on and on.
Two cells away, Carl, an alleged drug dealer who claimed to be innocent, told Loomis more than once to shut up.
Others yelled back and forth, but as the night wore on, the talking stopped.
Simon tried to read but could not concentrate.
He tried every trick he could remember to keep his thoughts away from his children, but it was impossible.
They were about to be subjected to unrelenting embarrassment because of something he didn’t do, but the damage would be done before he could be cleared. The damage was just beginning.
The cheap mattress was two inches thick.
The blanket was well worn but clean. The temperature was a little on the chilly side, but Loomis said they were lucky because the heat pump had been on the blink.
It was snowing outside, though that was hearsay to Simon.
He didn’t know where the nearest window might be but it wasn’t close.
Loomis said men often cried during their first nights in jail, after lights out. He said you could always hear them in the dark, even with pillows over their faces. The pathetic sobs of grown men locked away from everything they love.
When their wing was finally still, Simon knew the men were awake, waiting to hear him cry.