Chapter 53 #2
At nine-thirty Monday morning, the jailer unlocked his cell door and said, “Follow me.” No handcuffs were in sight.
Apparently, Raymond had threatened to sue the city, the jail, and each employee personally if Mr. Latch was not treated with enough respect.
Raymond was waiting in the small attorney visitation room and seemed as cranky and aggressive as he had been on Friday and Saturday.
Casey was with him and had brought a thermos of good coffee from home. He poured Simon a cup.
Raymond said, “I spoke to Judge Shyam about an hour ago. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t like this verdict.”
“Welcome to the club,” Simon said.
“She was remarkably candid and said she was stunned by it.”
“So, what can she do?”
“Well, she can do a lot but she’s not willing to grant our motion to set the verdict aside for lack of sufficient proof.
That takes a lot of balls and is almost never done.
It would be very heavy-handed for her or any other judge.
In fact, I’m not sure if I can recall a case in Virginia where the trial judge negated a guilty verdict and set the defendant free. ”
He looked at Casey, as if his associate was supposed to know everything. Casey said, “About ten years ago, in Rockingham County, a judge pulled a guilty verdict in a bank robbery. He was not reappointed.”
“So, we can forget that. But she will allow you to go free until you’re sentenced.”
“When will that happen?”
“We’ll find out in a few minutes.”
“So, I’m walking out today?”
“This morning.”
At ten, they huddled over Casey’s cell phone for the conference call. Judge Shyam’s clerk was recording it. Cora Cook was on the call from her office down the street.
Judge Shyam was all business. “Post-trial motions are due in thirty days, with thirty more days to respond to each other. I will rule on them at the end of sixty days. I have been informed by the defense that it will appeal the verdict to the supreme court. Of course, I don’t control that schedule. ”
Cora Cook said, “Your Honor, the Commonwealth has no post-trial motions.”
“As expected. Mr. Lassiter?”
“Several, Judge. We’ll file them on time.”
“I am scheduling the sentencing for Monday, August twenty-second.”
Raymond said, “Your Honor, we request that the defendant be allowed to remain free on the same bond pending his sentencing.”
“Ms. Cook?”
“The Commonwealth opposes this request, Your Honor.”
“On what grounds?”
“Well, on the grounds that the defendant has been convicted of first-degree murder and is facing the probability of being sentenced to prison for life; on the grounds that the defendant has much more incentive to flee now than before; on the grounds that defendants are almost never allowed to remain free after being convicted. I could go on.”
“Mr. Latch has been free on bond since January and has never failed to appear in court when expected. We have his passport, don’t we?”
Her law clerk said, “Yes, it’s in the vault.”
“Thought so. I see no reason to order him to prison at this time. I’ll do so in ninety days when he’s sentenced. The Commonwealth’s objection is overruled.”
Casey whispered to Simon, “Pack your bags.”
“What bags?”
It was a beautiful spring day, everything in bloom, the town and countryside picturesque.
Simon wanted a long walk to absorb the beauty and drink in the sweet smell of freedom.
Walking around, though, was not a good idea.
He could only imagine the excitement he would create if spotted by someone he knew, or a reporter, or, heaven forbid, one of the town’s legendary gossips.
Braxton was now toxic for Simon, a lost home, a place where his story would rage for years, a place where few, if any, friends would defend him, a grid of streets he could no longer walk.
He wasn’t sure where he would spend the next years, locked up or otherwise, but it would not be in Braxton.
His family had fled to another town to start life over.
His law office was deserted and his building sold.
The state bar association would soon pull his license, as required by statute.
Ducking through alleys and side streets, he made it home without being seen.
He entered his office through a rear door and walked around, inspecting things, as if he’d been gone for years instead of eleven days.
His handshake deal with Chub allowed him to squat until July 1.
After that, well, who knew? With the curtains closed he sat in the reception area and stared at Tillie’s forlorn and dusty desk.
The phone had been disconnected. The outdated word processor even looked like a fossil.
He still could not bring himself to believe that Matilda Clark had the guts to venture into the black market, buy a quantity of a poison she had no experience with, and lace the ginger cookies, all with the intention of killing another human being.
Staring at the spot where she had dutifully worked on his behalf for twelve years, he told himself it couldn’t be true.
How Jerry Korsak figured into the plot was another unknown. It certainly added an avalanche of intrigue.
One certainty remained constant: Simon Latch didn’t do it; therefore, someone else did.
He had eighty-four days.