Chapter 34
On his first morning of captivity, Simon learned several important things.
First, the alarm sounded at five-thirty, according to his wristwatch, which seemed cruel for any day but especially harsh for a cold Saturday in January.
Second, breakfast was served fifteen minutes later when a guard slid a tray through a narrow opening under the bars.
Third, breakfast was a miserable effort at even the most basic food preparation.
The white bread toast was cold and burnt around the edges.
The powdered eggs were mush, just as cold, and served on top of three slices of fatty bacon that a dog would only sniff at.
The small metal bowl of grits had the smell and texture of caulking compound.
The green apple was bitter. The instant coffee was little more than hot water and thoroughly free of any flavor.
Fourth, as lousy as it was, it was the best meal of the day, according to Loomis across the hall.
Simon had no idea how long he would be incarcerated but he couldn’t survive more than a week before starvation became a factor. Something didn’t add up. The food was barely edible but most of the inmates were as fat as the guards. There must be vending machines somewhere in the jail.
When the guard came to retrieve the tray about fifteen minutes later, Simon said, “Wow, thanks, that was delicious. What time is lunch?”
The guard, a thick simpleton who had never missed a meal, frowned and said, “Two thousand calories a day, bud, that’s all you get.”
Yeah, and you get that many with your morning doughnuts.
Simon reclined on his bunk and braced himself for a long day of boredom and humiliation.
He was still hungry. There was one light in the center of the ceiling and it was on.
He could not turn it off. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t read, and had no desire to begin the day listening to Loomis over there chatter on about the cars he’d stolen.
Iris Kane had a hunch that the best gossip would be in the coffee shops, and she was right.
She trudged through the two inches of snow covering the sidewalks, walked past the City Café, saw the crowd, ducked inside, grabbed a stool at the counter, and ordered coffee and a biscuit.
A long, stained mirror offered a good view of the customers.
A quick glance revealed that she was the only female customer.
The men were layered in flannel and heavy down jackets to stay warm.
Every head had a trucker’s cap. Half the men had beards.
The scene reminded Iris of a logging camp in Oregon she had once covered.
Everyone seemed to be talking. Nothing like a good murder to stir up the locals, though this one lacked the violence and drama they expected from television. Poisoning an old woman? What a cowardly crime.
Within two minutes, any rookie reporter would have been well versed in the story of the day.
“I hear Latch is looking at the death penalty.”
“Crooked sumbitch was after her money, plain and simple.”
“Anybody ever meet the old gal?”
“No. I heard she’s from Atlanta, moved here to retire with a bundle of money.”
“God help her if she trusted these lawyers.”
“Well, I never trusted Latch.”
“He picked her clean, or was trying to.”
“He’s a tricky one.”
“Hang on. I like Simon, known him for years. Good boy.”
“Heard he and his wife filed papers. Splitsville.”
“Well, she’ll get the house and kids now, with his ass locked up.”
“When’s he going to court?”
“Heard it was Monday morning. He’s trying to get out of jail already.”
“Can he make bond on a murder charge?”
“Of course he can. He’s a lawyer. No judge is going to keep a lawyer in jail for long. He’ll be out before you know it and they’ll have a helluva time hanging a murder charge on him. Different rules for different folks.”
“Heard he’s hired Raymond Lassiter.”
“See what I mean. Slickest dude in Virginia, never loses in the courtroom.”
“Well, he’s got his hands full with this one.”
Iris tried to scribble notes without getting caught. She was probably the only outsider in the place and if they suspected she was a reporter they would go silent in an instant. She might even get tossed. She found a copy of a local shopper’s guide and pretended to read it.
One truth was obvious: Simon Latch and his defense team should demand a change of venue and get the case away from these registered voters. Everyone had an opinion and the clear majority had already decided Latch was guilty.
Iris paid her bill and left before anyone noticed her.
The town was coming to life and merchants up and down Main Street were scraping the sidewalk and shoving snow to the gutter.
The public library opened at eight and she found a quiet corner.
She opened her laptop and began writing down as many of the comments as possible.
She searched for Raymond Lassiter and called his office, but got only the recording.
It was, after all, Saturday. She found a number for the city jail but the officer on duty would not confirm the identity of any inmate.
She went to the archives for both the Journal and the Braxton Gazette and looked at the rather sparse references to Simon Latch.
From the county court records, she found the divorce filing, which revealed very little.
There was a reference to a recent petition involving Eleanor Barnett, but the file had been sealed by court order. Suspicious?
After two hours of digging, Iris needed to walk.
She bundled up and went outside. She found the offices of Raymond Lassiter and knocked on the door.
No answer. Same at the offices of Simon F.
Latch, Attorney and Counselor at Law. The city police department was practically deserted and the officer on duty clammed up when she said she was a reporter.
She walked to the jail to try again, but no one would confirm anything.
She drove to the hospital and poked around, but if anyone knew anything or had any authority, they were off duty.
She stopped by the funeral home where there were no services scheduled for the weekend. A part-time secretary knew nothing.
She had Simon’s home address but chose not to upset the family. His wife had filed for divorce. He was sitting in jail charged with murder. She could not imagine the nightmare they were going through.
For lunch, Iris chose another downtown café, one that was not crowded.
She ate a salad as she eavesdropped, but there was no talk of the arrest. She returned to her quiet spot in the library and began putting together a story.
Her working title was: “Lawyer Arrested in Poisoning Death of Wealthy Client.” She liked it but knew her editor would not. He seldom did.
As if someone were watching, another phantom email pinged. The anonymous source was back with: “DC atty Teddy Hammer represents E. Barnett’s heirs. He likes to talk.”
The informant was trouble because he or she knew far too much about the case. Which, to Iris or any other investigator, meant the informant was probably involved in the crime at some level. Why did this person want Simon Latch investigated and humiliated? Many questions, few answers.
Iris called the office number for Teddy Hammer and got the standard after-hours recording. She left a message and returned to her notes. Ten minutes later her cell phone buzzed, and it was Teddy Hammer.
“I can’t talk on the record,” he said. “But I can share some deep background.”
Cautiously, she asked, “What is your involvement in the case?”
“Can we agree that I will not be sourced? Can we agree this is deep background?”
Iris loathed using unnamed sources and was always irritated by these situations, but she really had no choice. A prominent lawyer knew the case, had a lot to say, and wanted to talk. At the moment her story had too many gaps, and she had a hunch this guy could fill most of them.
She said, “Okay, you’re off the record and now considered deep background.”
“I’m recording this conversation and I suggest you do the same.”
She tapped a key and said, “I’m recording this conversation with Mr. Teddy Hammer on Saturday, January sixteenth, at 2:20 P.M.”
Mr. Hammer immediately said, “There’s been no press so far. How did you hear of the arrest?”
“An anonymous tip, by email, last night.”
A pause as he mulled it over. “Okay, what’s your first question.”
“What is your involvement?”
“I represent the two stepsons of Eleanor Barnett, Jerry and Clyde Korsak. Two weeks ago we rushed to court to prevent the cremation of Ms. Barnett only hours after she died.”
“Who was trying to cremate her?”
“He’s sitting in jail.”