Chapter 52
What could be the most excruciating waits? Simon had never considered the question until then. Waiting to be executed was certainly at the top of the list. Waiting for a loved one, someone in their prime, to die, when death was imminent?
Waiting for news from a tragedy? Waiting for a killed-in-action list to be posted?
Waiting for your jury had to be in the top three.
Again, he slept only minutes at a time and he couldn’t eat. He knew he looked gaunt, even haggard, and he knew the jury would see him, again, but he couldn’t care about his appearance.
The jurors were sent to their labors at 9:15 by Her Honor, and the waiting started all over again.
She ordered him to stay in the courthouse, so he went to an empty courtroom on the second floor and hid in the semidarkness.
Then he tried to read a crime novel but the story involved a murder by poison, so he tossed it.
The time was now 9:40. He removed his wristwatch.
Sitting in a wooden chair, he dozed off and was soon drooling.
Judge Shyam reconvened at 11:20 and everyone hustled back to the courtroom. Simon’s stomach was rolling and he was sweating. When he sat down, Raymond whispered, “No verdict. Just some question about a jury instruction.”
“What does it mean?”
“Hell if I know.”
The jurors filed in and everyone gawked at them, as if their bodies and facial language might tip off their deliberations.
If there were signals, Simon didn’t catch them, but then he was no trial lawyer.
The foreman said they were making progress but were confused about the issue of motive.
Was proving motive necessary to proving murder?
Judge Shyam explained that no, it was not, but understood the confusion.
She read again the jury instruction pertaining to motive, and in doing so only muddied the water.
She said that she was not allowed to offer a more thorough explanation, and told the jurors to get back to work.
After they filed out, Simon asked Raymond what it meant. He wasn’t sure.
The courtroom cleared and Raymond seemed content to sit at the defense table with his client and make small talk. Simon asked, “Is the mob still out there?”
“Afraid so. The vultures are back in full force.”
“Should I say anything?”
“Let’s wait. If it’s a bad verdict, I’ll do the talking and promise a speedy appeal and so on. If it’s a good verdict, we might celebrate together for the cameras.”
“I’d like that,” Simon said, as he let himself dream for a second.
“If it’s split, a hung jury, we should disappear quickly and say nothing. There will be a retrial and nothing we say to the press can really help us.”
“Got it. And Raymond, thanks for everything. You’ve been great. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“It’s been my pleasure. We gave it our best shot.”
They left for lunch, ate as slow as possible, and tried to kill two hours.
The longest afternoon of Simon’s life came to an end at ten minutes after five. The wait was over.
Remarkably for a Friday afternoon, the courtroom was crowded when the jurors returned to their seats for the last time.
The foreman handed a sheet of paper to the clerk, who read it, then handed it up to Judge Shyam.
She frowned as she looked at it, then said, “Would the defendant please rise.” It was not a question.
With knees of rubber and a laboring heart, Simon Latch stood with an attorney on each side. The courtroom seemed to inhale and hold its collective breath.
Her Honor leaned a bit closer to her microphone so there would be no doubt. “To the charge of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant, Simon Latch, guilty.”