“You son of a bitch.”

  “Cuss all you want, Wally, it doesn’t bother me.”

  He cussed some more, then settled down. “When will you probate your will?”

  “Not sure. I’ll have to check with Judge Pointer, she seems to be in charge of things.”

  “I heard about the autopsy. Why bother? She was eighty-five years old.”

  Simon said, “Wasn’t my idea. Looks like Clyde and his brother Jerry hired a big-shot lawyer to gum up the works. You remember Clyde, don’t you?”

  “Funny, Latch. I guess he beat up the wrong lawyer.”

  “You’ll take him in the rematch.”

  “Funny. Mind if I take a look at the will you drafted?”

  “Not until it’s probated.”

  “Who gets the money?”

  “A bunch of nonprofits, nothing to family and friends.”

  “Did you find the money?”

  “Sort of. Did you?”

  Wally waited a long time before saying, “Not really. I made some calls to people she mentioned but I didn’t dig too deep.”

  Simon waited just as long, and before he could speak Wally said, “Pretty shitty deal on your part, Latch. You should’ve told me.”

  “And what would that have accomplished? Probably nothing more than a knee-jerk lawsuit of some sort.”

  “You should’ve told me,” he said again, rather sadly, as if he’d just heard the news that a big pile of money had vanished, a fortune he was counting on.

  Before he could stop himself, Simon blurted, “Eleanor didn’t want me to.” It was a terrible lie, but then she was dead and Wally would never know the difference.

  Long after he ended the call, Simon still couldn’t believe he had lied so easily and convincingly.

  * * *

  Sitting at his desk after another unproductive hour, Simon could almost hear the walls closing in. His building had been built in 1904, so the wall studs and most of the plaster were a century old. They were moving, centimeter by centimeter, slowly toward the center where they would inevitably crunch violently together and slaughter him in the process. There was no way out, nowhere to run, and no one to talk to. Except Raymond, his new free lawyer who was already looking for a way to ditch him if things got hot. And talking to Raymond was a chore. No conversation was complete without at least two war stories about his old courtroom victories. He never said a word about his losses.

  At times Simon could hear the floor squeak, the walls moan, the vents contract, the plaster chip, and his latest daydream would be shattered. He was daydreaming a lot because he was tired, fatigued from sleep deprivation. He had no appetite, not for food anyway, but he worried that he was drinking too much. Most mornings he woke up with a cobweb or two, nothing debilitating that would ruin his day, but some little aches in the brain that told him he needed to cut back. What was the old saying? “If you think you might be drinking too much, then you are.”

  “The Last Will and Testament of Eleanor Barnett” was always somewhere within reach. He had typed it himself some ten months earlier, and was trying to convince himself that he would change nothing about it. Nor would he do anything different.

  Why, then, was he losing sleep and weight and drinking too much?

  * * *

  His worst fears were played out in slow motion. Nine days after the autopsy, and with Eleanor still in the freezer, Raymond called with the troubling news that Detective Barr wanted to arrange a meeting to discuss the case. That was not too unexpected, according to Raymond, who’d been through it many times. Barr suggested the meeting take place in Simon’s office.

  It was immediately obvious that the detective was uneasy around Raymond, probably because of his reputation. But Barr was the investigator and playing offense. He opened the meeting with “I just have a few questions for your client, Mr. Lassiter, and a few requests.”

  “And we have some questions too,” Raymond said smugly.

  Barr ignored this and looked at his notes. “First, as you know, we’ve searched the home of Ms. Barnett, but it was not a thorough search. I’d rather not ransack the place, so I’ll ask you what items have you removed from the home?”

  Raymond nodded at Simon who said, “As her attorney, I am in charge of her financial affairs. I have a copy of the power of attorney for you. I’ve taken her checkbook and a stack of bills. I’ve also removed a small safe from her closet but I have not opened it.”

  “Where was the safe?”

  “Hidden in the bottom of her bedroom closet.”

  “And what’s in the safe?”

  “Don’t know. I was advised by counsel not to open it.”

  Raymond chimed in with “We’ll wait until you get a warrant and open it together.”

  “Okay. Do you have a general idea what’s in the safe?”

  Raymond nodded at Simon who replied, “A burial policy, her last will and testament, property deeds, car title, various insurance policies. That’s all she told me.”

  “Any valuables? Jewelry, cash, the like?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Barr stuck his pen in his shirt pocket and said, “Very well, then, I suggest we meet back here at the same time tomorrow. I’ll have another search warrant.”

  Raymond asked, “We’d like to see the autopsy report.”

  “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Last question—Is Mr. Latch a suspect in the death of Eleanor Barnett?”

  “I can’t answer that right now.”

  * * *

  The following day, Raymond was back in the conference room, chatting with Simon as they drank coffee and waited for Detective Barr, who was running late. Raymond’s cell rang and he answered it. His look became worried and he took a deep breath when the call was over. “Wow. Not good.”

  “What is it?” Simon asked.

  “He’s bringing the Cougar. Dammit.”

  Cora Cook had been the city’s Commonwealth’s attorney, or chief prosecutor, for over a decade. Elected by the people, she handled the serious crimes in town, of which there were few. Raymond tangled with her occasionally and didn’t like her, but then he didn’t like most prosecutors. Simon assumed they cared little for him. For a public official, and one who faced the voters every four years, Cora had a colorful reputation as a party girl. She’d been through a couple of husbands, made the rounds in the town’s nicer clubs, avoided the church scene, and preferred younger men. Thus the nickname, one that had stuck. She liked tight leather skirts that were always too short and out of fashion, and spiked heels that would make a hooker blush. She kept her job because she was a good politician and a tough prosecutor.

  Her arrival darkened the mood considerably and Simon was thankful he had an experienced lawyer on his side. A criminal defense lawyer? What the hell was happening? He had committed no crime! He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as the walls began moving again.

  From across the table she slid a document to Raymond and said, “Here’s a search warrant for the safe. I assume you have not opened it.”

  Raymond shook his head smugly as he looked at the warrant without answering her directly.

  The safe was sitting on the end of the table. It was a cheap fireproof box with a handle and a key, available anywhere for less than $100. Simon opened it and removed some legal documents: the will he prepared, the will Wally prepared, some insurance policies rubber-banded together, the title to the old car Netty had destroyed while driving under the influence, the burial policy issued by Cupit & Moke, $300 in cash, and a small velvet pouch with some earrings and bracelets. Not a very impressive stash of assets.

  Detective Barr photographed it all.

  When they were finished with the safe and its contents, Raymond asked, “Is my client a suspect?”

  Ms. Cook replied, “Let’s say he is a person of interest.”

  “Oh come on. If a crime has been committed, define it for us. Stop beating around the bush.”

  Unbothered, she calmly handed over the reports. She said, “The first is the autopsy. The pathologist and the forensic toxicologist found moderate levels of a drug known as thallium, a highly toxic compound no longer on the market but once used in rat poison. It has often been used to kill people because it has no odor, color, or taste. It has a wide range of symptoms, depending on the dosage. These can include fever, nausea, headaches, breathing problems, common symptoms, thus use of the drug can be masked until it’s too late.”

  Simon tried to read the report but the words were blurred. The paper was shaking. He felt like the same symptoms were attacking him.

  She slid across another report, one from the toxicologist. “A report of the examination of the food taken from the hospital room of the victim.”

  Victim? Even in his fog, Simon caught the word “victim.”

  “Eight chocolate brownies, delivered to the room by one Matilda Clark, who, according to one of the nurses, sort of boasted that her pecan fudge brownies were great. Evidently, the victim felt otherwise and wouldn’t eat them. They were analyzed in the lab and nothing unusual was found. There were also eleven cookies, known as Saigon ginger cookies, in two carryout boxes from Tan Lu’s Vietnamese restaurant here in town. All eleven had significant levels of thallium. The cookies were delivered on two occasions by Matilda Clark.”

  Raymond tried to speak, but had to first clear his throat. Finally he said, “Are you suggesting that my client poisoned Ms. Barnett?”

  Simon was dumbstruck, stunned, bewildered, and couldn’t control himself. “What? I didn’t do anything!”

  Raymond held up both hands to quieten him. “That’s enough, Simon.”

  Coolly, the Cougar said, “The grand jury meets in the morning and we will present this evidence.”

  “You gotta be kidding!” Simon yelled across the table. He was wild-eyed and red-faced.

  Raymond said, “Please Simon.”

  Raymond looked at Cora and asked, “What’s the hurry here? At least give us time to review these reports, talk to some witnesses, do our own investigation. This is an ambush. The Commonwealth has had plenty of time to dig for dirt, but you’ve just caught us off guard. There’s nothing fair about this.”

  “I’ve done nothing, okay?” Simon pleaded.

  Cora was closing her file. “We will proceed with the grand jury.”

  * * *

  An hour after she left with Detective Barr, Raymond and Simon were still in the conference room, talking in circles while getting nowhere. There was no shortage of urgent fires to put out, but the most pressing one was the need to prevent a grand jury investigation. Raymond knew, as did Simon, that the grand jury was nothing but a rubber stamp for the prosecutor. If Cora Cook wanted an indictment for murder in the morning she would have one by lunch.

  They talked about other suspects. Who would gain by the death of Eleanor? Obviously Clyde and Jerry were at the top of the list. They had joined forces and hired a slick lawyer from D.C. That could not have been done overnight; thus, they had been planning it for some time. Jerry told Simon he had stopped by the hospital to see his stepmother.

  Wally Thackerman had much to gain by Eleanor’s death. He didn’t know until after she died that his scheme would not work. Put him on the list.

  Raymond got tired of this game and said, “We should concentrate on your defense and not worry about others right now.”

  “My defense? I can’t believe this.”

  “I need to go. I’ll call tomorrow. I suggest you talk to your wife and tell her what might happen.”

  “What might happen?”

  “More than likely you’ll be arrested in the very near future.”

  “Why don’t you go tell her?”

  “Sorry, Simon.”

  Chapter 33

  What do you wear to your arrest? It was one of those questions that one never thinks about, not even hardened criminals. Simon chose jeans, a sports coat, and a white shirt. Raymond said to pack some toiletries, so he filled a paper shopping bag with a few necessities, some clean underwear, and two paperbacks. He took one last look in the mirror and despised what he saw, then turned off the lights in his office with no idea when he might turn them on again.

  In the reception area, he fell into a chair and looked at Tillie in absolute defeat.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, alarmed.

  “About two hours ago the grand jury indicted me for the murder of Eleanor Barnett.” The words sounded as if they were spoken by an unseen voice from above. She was stunned and couldn’t speak.

  “I’m on my way to the city jail where Raymond Lassiter is waiting. I’ll be processed like the other criminals and put in a cell. I don’t know when I’ll get out.”

  “Murder!” she blurted.

  He took a deep breath and said, “Evidently, someone poisoned Eleanor when she was in the hospital. Those damned ginger cookies I sent were laced with poison. All eyes are on me.”

  She swallowed hard and kept her composure, then wiped her cheeks with tissues and managed to say, “This is ridiculous, Simon. You’re not capable of doing something like that.”

  He nodded his agreement but said nothing. Another long moment passed as they ignored the buzzing of the landline on her desk. She asked, “What about Paula and the kids?”

  “Pretty ugly. I told her last night after the kids were in bed. She was horrified, angry, frightened, the works. Our greatest concern is protecting our children, but there’s no way. They are about to be humiliated and I can’t stop it. I can’t protect them.” His voice cracked and he couldn’t go on. She wiped her eyes again and seemed determined to contain her emotions.

  He said, “I’ll call from the jail as soon as I can. Lock up the office and stay away. I’m sure reporters will be banging on the door very soon, so lay low.”

  “I can’t believe this, Simon.”

  “I’m sleepwalking through a nightmare, Tillie, and no one has a clue how it will end. There are so many unknowns. The best scenario for next week is that I can make bond and get out. If so, we can try to keep this place afloat until trial.”

  “A trial?”

  “That’s what usually happens once you’re charged, unless, of course, you plead guilty. I’m not doing that.”

  “When is the trial?”

  “Who knows? Months.”

  He stood and thought about giving her an awkward hug, but since they had never done that, he simply said, “Be strong,” and opened the door.

  “You’ll need a coat.”

  The temperature was in the twenties and the wind was howling. He walked down Main Street, past the shops and offices he knew so well, and tried not to guess what those people would think and say when they heard the gossip, the unbelievable news. He slowed in front of Ethel’s Diner, empty at 4 P.M. on a dreary Friday, but Bella, his favorite waitress, was at the counter drying tea glasses and gabbing at someone in the kitchen. Bella would never believe that Simon would do something so awful and would volunteer for jury service if possible.

  He crossed the street and walked along Monroe until he came to the courthouse, a neoclassical masterpiece that Braxton was so proud of. A hundred years earlier, the city won a lawsuit against a railroad and wisely chose to put the money into a new monument to itself, with no expense spared. With its grand arches, vaulted ceilings, and marble columns, it was routinely voted the most beautiful courthouse in Virginia.

  He thought of all the clerks, secretaries, janitors, bailiffs, lawyers, and judges who worked there, people he had known for almost twenty years, and tried to picture their faces when they heard the news. It was almost too painful to think about. On the second floor, the lights were on in the main courtroom where in a few short days he would be led in, not as a lawyer but as a criminal defendant and facing a judge for an arraignment, his first appearance of many.

  He kept walking through the streets of downtown, his town, somewhat aimlessly but in the general direction of the jail.

  Sleepwalking.

  * * *

  There was no crowd waiting at the entrance. No reporters yelling at him. No photographers clicking away. That would come later, but not late enough. He stepped inside and saw Raymond chatting with a uniformed officer. The arrest of a lawyer for murder was a momentous occasion in Braxton, but, thankfully, the police were downplaying it. Simon had feared a gang of cops loitering about, waiting for a glimpse of their new trophy, but there were only a couple trying their best to ignore him.

  Raymond handed him a copy of the indictment, hot off the press, and he read it slowly. The chief of police appeared and said, “I’m sorry, Simon.” They had known each other for a few years and it was obvious the chief preferred to be elsewhere. “I have no choice.”

  “I understand. Let’s get it over with.”

  The processing took an hour. Simon handed over his wallet, which contained nothing but his driver’s license, and his cell phone. Because his wristwatch had a leather band he was allowed to keep it, for the logical reason that it might be difficult to murder another inmate with a leather band. He posed for his mug shot, then surrendered his clothing. He changed into a pair of bright orange overalls with the words City Jail across the back. He was allowed to keep his socks and running shoes. He was fingerprinted and voluntarily gave a sample of blood. The paperwork took fifteen minutes.