Chapter 43
It was depressing to begin a day knowing full well that the day would be one of the worst in his life.
It was even more depressing to think that tomorrow would be even worse and the following days would only spiral down.
He needed strong coffee but there was none in the budget hotel “suite” he had reserved for the next five days.
After two nights he was having fond memories of the Braxton city jail.
Perhaps the only bright spot at the moment was the fact that his head was clear; no cobwebs, no dull pain.
If Raymond could swear off booze during the trial, then so could his client.
He allowed himself five minutes to stare at the dark ceiling and listen to the grind of diesel engines in eighteen-wheelers passing each other on one of the Tidewater’s endless six-lane bypasses.
Dawn was an hour away but the traffic was already making noise.
Where was he and how did he get there? That question had dogged him for months now, and with effort he could almost piece together a narrative.
For the much larger question—Where was he going? —there was no answer, only fear.
Seven men, five women; nine whites, two blacks, one Asian.
Two alternates. He knew their names, occupations, religions, educational backgrounds, and so on.
The previous Wednesday, they had been selected in an empty courtroom in less than three hours.
Of the forty-eight in the first panel summoned by the clerk, only seven raised their hands when asked if they knew anything about the case.
Over half had never heard of Braxton, Virginia.
The defense was thrilled with the lack of notoriety.
A second panel was not needed. Judge Shyam was a wizard in the courtroom and flawlessly officiated the selection of the jury.
Raymond said it was the fairest process he had ever seen in his forty-plus years.
Simon was nauseous when he read the stories, but also grateful the jury had already been selected.
Now that it was empaneled, it had been strongly admonished by Her Honor to avoid the press if possible, speak to no one about the case, and, most important, keep an open mind until all the evidence had been presented.
She had dwelt on the presumption of innocence and lectured the jury on the basic principle that Simon Latch was innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
It certainly sounded strong last Wednesday in an empty courtroom. Today, though, the courtroom would be crowded with journalists of every stripe and ilk, along with dozens of spectators and courthouse regulars. Additional bailiffs and guards had been summoned by Judge Shyam.
As he left his room he stopped to examine himself in the mirror.
His pants were loose because he was quite a bit thinner than he’d been before the indictment.
Landy, his de facto girlfriend, had said more than once that his face was gaunt and he had bags under his eyes.
Raymond said it was important for him to maintain a pleasant look on his face, nothing fake or goofy, just an occasional quick smile, maybe a nod here and there, and never a frown nor a look of concern, though, at the same time, never a look of cockiness or indignation.
Thanks, Raymond. Anything else? Any other tricks to try with my face while I’m trying to listen, analyze, and remember every word spoken in court, and also taking pages of notes while stealing glances at the jurors?
It was still dark when he left the hotel and headed toward Virginia Beach, three miles away. He saw an all-night pancake house and stopped for coffee. He bought the Monday edition of the Tidewater Times, and once again saw his face on the front page.
Raymond had no shortage of trial lawyer buddies around the Commonwealth.
Marshall Graff was the king of torts in Virginia Beach and had offered his offices to the defense.
They were impressive, a far cry from anything in Braxton.
Expensive, ultra-modern furnishings, a splendid conference room with twenty leather chairs around a long, wide table, enough offices to house his twenty-five-lawyer team and support staff, and on the third floor a small workroom where Raymond set up shop with a view of the courthouse.
Simon walked in at 7 A.M. and found the coffeepot. Raymond and Casey Noland arrived a few minutes later. Raymond said he was ready, said it was “showtime,” said if you weren’t nervous the first day of the trial, then something was wrong. He told a couple first-day stories that were hard to follow.
Simon listened as he kept an eye on the street in front of the courthouse.
The television vans were arriving and being herded to the proper spots by a small army of city policemen.
Barricades were in place to keep the sidewalks clear of reporters and onlookers.
The jurors would enter through a side door, away from the press.
Simon had his own strategy, one that Marshall Graff had put together with his paralegals.
At 8:30, Raymond and Casey loaded their thick briefcases and walked to the front entrance of the courthouse.
They attracted plenty of attention, and a smiling Raymond enjoyed bantering with the reporters while saying nothing.
They wanted to know where his client was hiding.
Raymond said Simon was sleeping in that morning.
An associate of Marshall Graff’s drove Simon to a service entrance, where he jumped out by the dumpsters and entered, unseen. At 8:55, he strode into the courtroom with Raymond and Casey, took a seat at the defense table, and tried not to notice the crowd watching him.
Judge Shyam assumed the bench at precisely 9 A.M. and said good morning.
She went through her usual spiel about the trial and her rules governing the decorum in her courtroom.
She gave a general outline of how the trial would progress and predicted it would be completed by the end of the week, but there was no rush.
She informed the crowd that the jury had already been selected and asked the bailiffs to bring the jurors.
They entered, some rather tentatively, and assumed their numbered chairs in the jury box.
Judge Shyam nodded at Cora Cook, who rose and walked purposefully to the podium in front of the jurors.
Not a single garment in her closet could be considered conservative, but she was still quite impressive in solid black.
The heels were not quite as high and the skirt wasn’t quite as tight, but she kept a nice figure and knew how to display it.
The jurors looked her over while she smiled and said hello.
Then she began with an obsequious opening in which she thanked the jurors repeatedly for their service, and so on.
Simon scribbled on his legal pad, “as if they have a choice???”
Cora got to the heart of the matter soon enough. “This is a case of murder driven by greed.” Her words were delivered solemnly, with a nice dramatic flair. Simon could feel the jurors’ eyes boring down upon him. He did not look up.
“In March of last year, in the town of Braxton, up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a lovely lady named Eleanor Barnett, a widow with no children, made an appointment to see a lawyer named Simon Latch, the defendant.” Cora paused for more drama and pointed at Simon.
He nodded gravely at her finger as if to say, Yes, that’s me but you got the wrong person.
“Ms. Barnett was eighty-five years old and wanted to make a new will. The defendant had been a lawyer in Braxton for eighteen years, was well known, and had prepared many simple, inexpensive wills. The meeting took place as scheduled on March the tenth in his office on Main Street. At some point during the first meeting, the defendant realized that a simple will would not be sufficient for Ms. Barnett, at least not in his opinion. She was not an average client. Indeed, she said she had millions of dollars in assets, and no debts. She claimed to own stock in Coca-Cola and Wal-Mart and said she kept several million dollars in cash in a bank in Atlanta. Greed entered the picture and the defendant decided on a different course of action. For the previous twelve years, his secretary, Matilda Clark, had typed every will in the office. It’s fairly routine legal work.
But for some reason, the defendant did not allow Ms. Clark to prepare the will, but rather typed it himself and said nothing to his secretary about it.
From that moment on, the defendant had a scheme to ingratiate himself to Ms. Barnett and get as much of her money as possible. ”
Simon scribbled, “So far, so good, pretty much on point, got her facts straight. Why am I sweating already?”
Raymond had warned him that most prosecutors try to dehumanize their targets by referring to them only as the defendant. Cora was following the playbook.
She said, “Unfortunately, the scheme ended in the poisoning and death of Ms. Barnett.” In another effort at high drama, she pointed at him again and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Ms. Barnett died at the hands of her own lawyer, this defendant sitting right here.”
Cora then made a harmless mistake by talking about the will the defendant prepared and typed himself. She lost the jury for the moment when she tried to explain some of the trusts. Simon watched them and knew they were either confused or bored.