Chapter 46
A friendly bailiff led Simon to a side exit and he was out of the building before Raymond greeted the reporters on the front steps with his usual banter and no-comments.
They had learned by then that he was not about to say anything remotely relevant to the case, but they followed him anyway, in a pack down the sidewalk, taking photos and videos that would look exactly the same as the ones they had taken on Monday.
He answered all their banal questions without saying anything.
Simon, meanwhile, wearing a green John Deere cap, jumped into the front passenger seat of a black Chevy Impala, obviously government-issued, and sped away with Landy behind the wheel.
When the courthouse was out of sight and no one chasing, he sat up and asked, “So how do you think it went?”
“Pretty boring morning, actually. Raymond is smart to agree with the doctors. His steady refrain of ‘Yep, she was poisoned but not by my guy’ resonates. The prosecutor is not that exciting.”
“Few of them are.”
“You weren’t turned on by her leopard-spotted slingbacks?”
“No. They look ridiculous.”
Landy rolled her eyes. “The boys on the jury sure like them.”
“Where are we going?”
“There’s a seafood joint near the beach. Dark and quiet.”
“You do much work around here?”
“A couple of cases a year. Right now we’re talking to witnesses in a bid-rigging case. Extremely monotonous. The life of an FBI agent is not always gunfights and car chases.”
“Are you here tonight?”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Standing,” he said.
“I’ll see if I can work you in. Delano doesn’t like your jury.”
“Tell me about Delano.”
“My partner on this job. He watched the first two hours this morning and he knows his stuff. Spent four years in the federal defender’s office and did a lot of trial work.
Says your jury is not on your side. The first impression was damaging—greedy lawyer sees the opportunity to take advantage of a vulnerable client with no family. ”
“Do you agree?”
“I saw only the first half this morning, and Delano and I can’t hang around this afternoon. Work beckons. But we’re in and out tomorrow. Just trying to help, Simon.”
“Thanks, but you didn’t answer my question. Do you think the jury is against me?”
“They’re hard to read, as always. And all the proof’s not in. I’d say it’s half and half.”
Simon took a deep breath and let it sink in. After a moment, he said, “I didn’t take advantage of my client. I’ve earned nothing from all of this. In fact, I’ve lost everything.”
“I know. I’m on your side. But your client is dead and you bought the cookies.”
The Commonwealth called Dr. Connor Wilkes as its next witness, and she took the stand at 2 P.M. Tuesday.
Cora Cook quickly established that she had been the CEO of the hospital for three years, and she had met with the defendant on several occasions before Ms. Barnett passed away.
Dr. Wilkes described the scene when Mr. Latch appeared in her office with a new power of attorney and advance directive and asked her to review them.
He left and she read them. Then she sent copies to the hospital’s attorney for his review.
He thought the documents were fine but stressed that she, Dr. Wilkes, along with the doctors, had to ensure that the patient was not being pressured to sign anything.
Dr. Wilkes met with the doctors and nurses, several of whom were suspicious and did not want to witness the signings.
However, it was obvious that there were no other family members present.
They walked as a group to Ms. Barnett’s room and met Mr. Latch there.
He passed out copies of the documents and answered all questions.
Slowly and thoughtfully, he explained each sentence to his client.
Though medicated, Ms. Barnett was alert and seemed to enjoy the attention.
At least twice, Mr. Latch offered to postpone the signings until some date in the future.
However, since she was eighty-five years old and in the hospital, they felt like proceeding.
The patient signed everything and Mr. Latch left copies for the hospital.
Yes, it was certainly unusual to sign such documents at the hospital, and Dr. Wilkes could think of only one similar occurrence. But, under the circumstances, she felt as though nothing was wrong. The patient needed the advance directive and power of attorney and knew what she was doing.
As her condition deteriorated rapidly, the defendant visited the hospital several times and met with the medical team.
He was obviously concerned about her care and spoke often to the doctors and nurses.
He refused to make the decision to remove Ms. Barnett from the ventilator.
He said, more than once, that it was a medical decision.
She was pronounced dead at 10:02 A.M., December 30.
About an hour later, Dr. Wilkes took a phone call from Detective Barr.
On cross-examination, Raymond drilled away at the heart of her testimony: At no time did Simon Latch seem even remotely eager to get involved in the final decisions regarding his client’s care. He didn’t want to be there, but there was no one else.
With that point well made, Raymond caught her off guard by asking if she ever reviewed the visitor sign-in logs at the front desk. No, she did not. He handed her a thick printout and asked her to turn to December 22 of last year.
She found the entries for that date and said, “Okay, sir, I’ve got it.”
Gazing dramatically at the jurors, Raymond asked, “Now, do you see an entry for a man named Jerry Korsak on that date?”
“Yes. He checked in at five thirty-five P.M. to visit Ms. Barnett and stayed about twenty minutes.”
“Did you meet him?”
“No, I don’t regularly meet visitors.”
“Of course not. Do you know who he is?”
“I was informed later that he is the stepson of Ms. Barnett.”
“Indeed he is. Now please turn to December 26, around four P.M. Do you seen an entry for a Mr. Wally Thackerman?”
She flipped and scanned and finally said, “Yes, looks like he checked in at four-eleven.”
“To visit which patient?”
“Eleanor Barnett. Stayed about fifteen minutes and left.”
“Thank you. Now, Dr. Wilkes, does the hospital keep a log of gifts, flowers, candy, cards, that sort of stuff, that is delivered to each patient’s room?”
“No, I’m not aware of any hospital that can keep up with all that stuff.”
Raymond felt it was necessary to introduce the names of Jerry Korsak and Wally Thackerman to the proceedings. It might be helpful later to argue that Eleanor had other guests. Perhaps there could be other suspects.
The owner and director of Cupit & Moke Funeral Home was Douglas Gregg, a pleasant old gentleman who had been embalming Braxton’s dead for decades. If he owned a suit that wasn’t black he’d never been seen in it. He took the stand in his mortician’s finest and looked petrified.
His testimony was that he had met the defendant for the first time on December 29, the day before Ms. Barnett died, when Mr. Latch stopped by to say hello and check on her burial policy.
He showed Mr. Gregg her advance directive, with instructions that she was to be cremated at once and buried in the Eternal Springs Cemetery next to her late husband.
The following day he called to say she had passed.
Cora Cook handed the witness a copy of his office phone records.
On December 30, at 10:49 A.M., Mr. Gregg received a phone call from the defendant and was told that Ms. Barnett had just died and he should send the hearse to pick her up at the hospital as soon as she was released.
In his business, this was quite routine.
After the body was brought to Cupit & Moke, the detective showed up and put a stop to the plans for cremation.
About a month later, Ms. Barnett was finally put to rest, intact, next to her late husband.
Only forty-seven minutes from the official time of death to the call to the funeral home. The Commonwealth would repeat that timeline over and over for the rest of the trial to prove that the defendant was in a hurry to get the body cremated, thus destroying evidence of his poisoning.
On cross-examination, Raymond attempted to coax Mr. Gregg into saying that forty-seven minutes was not unusual, but he wouldn’t budge. Several hours usually passed before he was called in by either the hospital or the family.
“He did seem to be in quite a hurry,” Mr. Gregg said.
Juror number four on the front row was a hard-ass.
Nigel Adcock, forty-eight, district sales rep for a steel company, married, three children, Catholic, probably the best dressed of the seven men.
Simon didn’t like him at first sight and wanted to cut him during jury selection, but Raymond needed his cuts elsewhere.
Adcock had tried to get himself excused from jury duty by claiming he had too many deals in the works, traveled a lot, and was a busy man whose boss would not understand if he lost a week in court.
Judge Shyam was not sympathetic and refused to excuse him.
By Tuesday afternoon, Simon had stolen enough glances at his jury to read them, or at least he thought so. And he knew Adcock had already made up his mind and was not going to help. Simon had passed notes to Raymond and Casey and they were watching too.
The last witness of the day was a roll of the dice for the prosecution.
By calling Matilda Clark to the stand, Ms. Cook hoped to prove that the defendant typed Eleanor’s will himself and tried his best to hide it from his secretary.
His behavior was highly suspicious. The only reasonable explanation was that he wanted to bury the will until it was time for probate.
Matilda looked great—tanned and toned with a smart new haircut and designer frames Simon had never seen before. But, from the moment she swore to tell the truth she appeared reluctant, as if testifying against her old boss was the last thing she wanted.
Ms. Cook led her through the preliminaries—twelve years with Simon, routine legal work with emphasis on bankruptcies, hundreds of wills, the usual work in a small-town law office. Her voice cracked and her eyes were moist, confirming that she hated being there helping the prosecutors.
She remembered Eleanor Barnett very well and recalled their initial phone conversations.
A lovely lady with no family. Matilda pried some of the basic client info from her, and later verified that she had a nice pension and no debts.
However, Ms. Barnett refused to discuss financial matters with the secretary.
The deceit began immediately, as soon as the client left the office.
As a routine matter, Matilda would take the questionnaire, fill in the blanks, crank out a three-page will, and wait a week or so for the client to return and sign it with Mr. Latch.
The fee had been $250 for years. With Ms. Barnett, though, Simon kept his notes and said she might be trouble.
They would have to wait a few weeks. And so on.
On March 27, Matilda took the day off because it was her birthday. Simon met with Ms. Barnett to sign the will and had it witnessed by two people who worked in the office next door. Matilda found out about the signing and asked Simon, point blank, if he had drafted a will for the client.
He lied and said he had not. Matilda wiped her eyes again, obviously upset by the betrayal of trust. No, in all her years with Simon she could not remember a single will he had ever typed himself. The forms were in her computer and she could spit one out in seconds, nice and customized.
In the weeks that followed, she quizzed him about Ms. Barnett on several occasions. Her file was still open and Matilda ran a tight ship with the files. Simon was always evasive. More betrayal, more tears.
Simon was under a lot of pressure. His marriage was breaking up and he was practically living at the office.
He tried to keep this away from Matilda, but secretaries have a way of knowing everything.
As a lawyer, he was barely staying afloat.
He worked hard and put in the hours, but it was a tough grind in a small town.
Through the spring and summer, at least seven other clients hired Simon to prepare their simple wills, which were done in their routine manner. The fee was still $250.
When Eleanor was injured in the auto accident and hospitalized, Matilda visited her at least three times, twice taking her homemade brownies along with ginger cookies from Tan Lu’s.
Simon explained that he had taken her to lunch there and she loved the cookies.
Matilda was certain that neither the brownies nor the cookies were tampered with in any way before she delivered them to the hospital room.
Her visits were friendly, but short. Eleanor had never shown much interest in Matilda.
Cora handed the witness a document marked Exhibit #8 and asked if she had seen it before. It was the will prepared by Simon, signed by Eleanor Barnett, and witnessed by Tony and Mary Beth Larson on March 27 of the previous year. Matilda said yes, she had been shown a copy a few weeks earlier.
Cora asked, “In your twelve years as the defendant’s secretary, did you ever prepare a will like this one?”
“Oh no. We never tried anything like this. It’s pretty complicated, with all the trusts and such. Simon was not a tax and estate lawyer, never pretended to be. We just did simple wills.”
“What was Mr. Latch’s hourly rate for legal work?”
She sort of shrugged and chuckled and said, “I’m not sure we had one.
He didn’t really work by the hour. He charged flat fees for bankruptcies, real estate closings, small criminal matters in city court, our typical cases.
Occasionally he tried to charge three hundred an hour, but the client usually balked at that and they negotiated down. ”
“This will provides for five hundred dollars an hour. Is that the going rate in a town like Braxton?”
“Oh, I don’t know what the other firms charge. But Simon never got paid that much.”
“Does it seem excessive to you?”
“I can’t say.”
“You handled the billing, right?”
“Yes, and the bookkeeping.”
“How often did the defendant charge five hundred dollars an hour and get paid for it?”
She thought for a second, but the answer was obvious. “I don’t recall a case like that.”