Chapter 53
At the rap of the gavel, a bailiff opened the doors and the crowd rushed out, led by Jerry Korsak. When he was out of the building he speed-dialed Teddy Hammer, who was in his Washington office.
“They nailed him,” Jerry said gleefully. “Guilty, first degree.”
“You’re lying,” Hammer stuttered in disbelief.
“Swear. Took ’em all day.”
“No way.”
“All the way. You got it. Now what?”
“I don’t know. Let me sit down.” Hammer had watched most of the trial and left the day before convinced the Commonwealth had not presented enough proof to convict. In his opinion, the best they could hope for was a hung jury, with a retrial to follow. He said, “Let’s talk tomorrow.”
Jerry stuck his phone in his pocket and looked around. The sidewalk was busy with reporters either talking low or texting furiously. Cameras were waiting in an area cordoned off by bailiffs, though the defendant had not been seen all week.
The defendant sat for a long time at his table, oblivious to the noise and bustle of the crowd in a hurry to leave. The judge and jury were gone. The lawyers and clerks milled about, gathering papers and packing briefcases. Slowly, the crowd thinned on both sides of the bar.
Simon could not acknowledge the pats on the shoulder and the banal offerings of “so sorry” and “we’ll get ’em on appeal.
” He was too stunned to respond and kept repeating to himself, “I didn’t kill anyone, I swear.
I know I didn’t.” Casey stayed by his side for quiet support as Raymond went through the forced ritual of chatting with the opposing lawyers.
He also brushed off some pushy reporters.
My poor children, Simon thought, and tried mightily to keep them out of his mind.
Half an hour passed. He sat slumped in his chair, motionless, staring at something on the floor. Two Virginia Beach police officers loitered near the bench, as if waiting to pounce.
Raymond finally sat down beside him, leaned in, and said, “Look, Simon, time to go. They’re taking you to the city jail where you’ll spend the night. I’ll be there. In the morning, some boys from Braxton will fetch you here for the drive home.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“I know you didn’t. I’ve believed you from the beginning and am even more convinced now. But, juries sometimes do strange things and I guess this is one of them. I can’t explain it.”
“What’s next? Prison?”
“No.”
“For the rest of my life?”
“No.”
“I can’t do that, Raymond. I swear I can’t do that.”
“Not so fast. The next step is post-trial motions, then sentencing. Nobody gets in a hurry. I’ll talk to the judge first thing Monday morning and ask her to allow you to remain out on bond until sentencing.
That’s rarely permitted, but it does happen.
We’ll get to the bottom of it, Simon, I swear we will. ”
“I can’t go to prison.”
Raymond looked at Casey as the two police officers walked over. One removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt. Raymond said, “These two guys will take you to the city jail.”
Simon looked at them in horror and said, “Handcuffs? And I gotta ride in the back seat?”
“Afraid so,” Raymond said.
Paula was tidying up her desk as if preparing for the weekend.
The day, like the ones before it, had not been productive.
It was difficult to concentrate on work with one eye on the news.
While the jury was deliberating she couldn’t leave her desk.
A cold sandwich for lunch had gone untouched.
Thankfully, her colleagues had not made the connection, but it was inevitable. They were gone for the day.
She almost shrieked at the headline on her laptop: “Virginia Lawyer Guilty in Poison Case.” A live shot from Action News caught Simon as he was led from a side door of the courthouse to one of two fully marked Virginia Beach police cars.
His wrists were cuffed at his waist and two cops held his elbows.
Though his legs weren’t chained, his captors still walked as slowly as possible, making the most of their brief glow in the cherished ritual of the “perp walk.” Simon seemed dazed and deaf as he deflected the idiotic questions flung from the crowd of reporters.
Another cop opened a rear door as Simon ducked low and was shoved inside.
For some reason, the drivers of both cars needed to turn on all emergency lights and sirens as they inched away from the courthouse, as if the public should be warned that a convicted murderer was passing through on his way to jail.
Within seconds, Paula’s phone buzzed. It was Danny, already in tears.
Raymond was at the jail, threatening to sue anyone who moved.
He explained, in rather coarse language that any cop could understand, that his client was not a suspect and was not under the jurisdiction of the Virginia Beach police.
His stay was simply custodial, less than twenty-four hours, and there was no need to process, fingerprint, or photograph Mr. Latch.
He was not going to wear faded orange coveralls that had been worn by a hundred others.
He was not going to be placed in a cell with the general population.
And, he should be allowed to keep his cell phone.
The jailer felt obliged to agree to all terms except the phone.
Simon was put in a single cell reserved for those in protective custody. Raymond said goodbye and left for Braxton. He was cranky, almost belligerent, and pissed-off at the world because of a shellacking in a high-profile case.
The bunk was actually more comfortable than the makeshift bed Simon had been wrestling with for the past fifteen months.
He stretched out on it, closed his eyes, and tried to convince himself he was still dreaming.
His moods swung sharply from despair and hopelessness to anger and retribution.
He managed to block thoughts about his children.
At six, a friendly trustee appeared and slid through a tray of baked ham and boiled vegetables. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.
Simon looked around the empty cell. “There’s nothing to read in here.”
“Books or magazines?”
“Books.”
“I’ll see what I can find.”
Because he was starving and had been hungry for most of the week, he played with his vegetables and managed a few bites. When the trustee returned to fetch the tray, he passed through a battered and dog-eared paperback. Simon looked at it and could not suppress a smile.
The Lonely Silver Rain, by John D. MacDonald.
During his second year of law school, a good friend named Rick had loaned him a mystery titled A Deadly Shade of Gold.
It featured a private investigator named Travis McGee, MacDonald’s most famous hero.
A literary project evolved as the two law students began reading, swapping, and collecting the Travis McGee series.
Their goal was to collect all twenty-one books, paperbacks only, and to pay as little as possible for them.
Both were on tight budgets and any excess cash usually went for beer and pizza, but they diligently searched bargain sites online, and used bookstores, garage sales, anywhere they might find a Travis McGee adventure.
And the cheaper the better. During their last semester they bought the last one, for $2.
25 at a flea market, and read it. When they graduated, they sold their little library to a second-year law student for $200, split the money, and had a steak dinner to celebrate old Travis.
The book was like a drug. Simon kicked off his shoes, stretched out again, and was soon lost in another world.
As humbling as it was, jail was not the worst place for Simon to spend the weekend.
Being behind bars, both in Virginia Beach and later Saturday back home in Braxton, kept him away from the news…
and he was the news. With no access to television or internet, he was shielded from the barrage of sensational press.
The main story—small-town lawyer stumbles upon wealthy widow client then poisons her to take control of her estate—was spun in a dozen different directions.
The cremation scheme was a favorite—rushing her to the funeral home just minutes after pulling the plug to destroy the evidence of thallium poisoning.
The tax deadline was another favorite, killing her just before January 1 to save 40 percent in estate taxes.
And Eleanor’s hoax was almost funny, tricking two dim-witted local lawyers into believing she was worth millions.
Experts of every stripe appeared on cable, speculating freely.
Doctors and toxicologists discussed the exceptional qualities of thallium, as if it was the perfect poison for a good murder.
Estate lawyers with little knowledge of the case thought Latch was scheming to earn millions in fees.
All manner of legal experts dissected the trial, and the general consensus was that Raymond screwed up by not putting his client on the stand.
They were shouted down by more legal experts who believed you never allow the defendant to testify.
Someone found an old friend of Harry Korsak’s who delighted himself by telling the story of the erupting volcano in the Caribbean and the investors getting soaked with nothing but souvenir lava.
Jail was a refuge. Simon had access to his phone at certain times, but had been warned, by Raymond, Casey, Paula, Landy, and the Braxton city police officer who drove him home Saturday morning, not to watch the news.
Landy stopped by for Sunday visitation and brought him three more Travis McGee novels, slick new paperbacks she bought at a Barnes & Noble.
He was starting a new collection and planned to find all twenty-one, again.
Reading them not only helped him escape, it also brought back fond memories of those law school days that now seemed so carefree.