It was a humiliating process, to say the least, and frightening, but he was determined to keep a firm jaw and clenched teeth and act as though nothing they dished out could faze him. He was an innocent man, and once that was proven to the world he could look back and boast, to himself, that he had survived the worst. On his office desk he kept a tall coffee cup filled with pens, pencils, and markers, and on one side was his favorite slogan: What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Tougher.

  Once officially an inmate in the city jail, he was led, unshackled, to a small room where lawyers met their clients. In eighteen years, he’d been there a few times, but never as the poor schmuck in coveralls.

  “You look nice in orange,” Raymond said.

  “You trying to be funny?”

  “No. I just talked to Judge Pointer again and she’s not willing to set bond until Monday at the arraignment.”

  “No surprise.”

  “I practically begged for a release on recognition, but she wouldn’t budge. Didn’t seem too sympathetic. Looks like you’re here for the weekend.”

  “I’ll be all right. I brought some books. It’ll be a good time to think, try to sort things out.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Raymond, I really thank you for being here. I know it’s pro bono and all that, but it means a lot.”

  “I’m with you, Simon.”

  “Could I ask a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Could I borrow your phone? I need to call my mother.”

  * * *

  The leaker struck again Friday night. He or she sent an anonymous email to Iris Kane, a reporter for the Washington Journal. It read:

  Breaking news from Braxton, Virginia. Local attorney arrested in poisoning death of wealthy client after revising her will. Simon Latch, 42, was indicted by the grand jury this afternoon and surrendered to authorities at the city jail. Scheduled to appear in Circuit Court Monday morning.

  Iris made half a dozen calls and with little progress. Apparently, most sources shut down on Friday night in Braxton. Fifteen minutes later, another anonymous email arrived:

  Eleanor Barnett, age 85, was pronounced dead on December 30, at the Blue Ridge Memorial Hospital. Cause of death—pneumonia. But, an autopsy later revealed she had been poisoned. You have the exclusive but act fast. This story has enormous tabloid appeal.

  Iris agreed and kept digging online for another hour, again with nothing to show for it. She went to bed early with plans to head over to Braxton in the morning for a long day of investigating.

  * * *

  The cell was twelve-by-twelve with concrete blocks on three sides and a wall of iron bars facing the hallway. Two bunk beds hung from the wall by metal braces. Fortunately, the top bunk was unoccupied, and Simon had the cell to himself. Directly across the hall, Loomis, a car thief, was also solo, and lonely, and wanted to talk to someone. Actually, he preferred to have someone listen while he went on and on. Two cells away, Carl, an alleged drug dealer who claimed to be innocent, told Loomis more than once to shut up. Others yelled back and forth, but as the night wore on, the talking stopped.

  Simon tried to read but could not concentrate. He tried every trick he could remember to keep his thoughts away from his children, but it was impossible. They were about to be subjected to unrelenting embarrassment because of something he didn’t do, but the damage would be done before he could be cleared. The damage was just beginning.

  The cheap mattress was two inches thick. The blanket was well worn but clean. The temperature was a little on the chilly side, but Loomis said they were lucky because the heat pump had been on the blink. It was snowing outside, though that was hearsay to Simon. He didn’t know where the nearest window might be but it wasn’t close.

  Loomis said men often cried during their first nights in jail, after lights out. He said you could always hear them in the dark, even with pillows over their faces. The pathetic sobs of grown men locked away from everything they love.

  When their wing was finally still, Simon knew the men were awake, waiting to hear him cry.

  Chapter 34

  On his first morning of captivity, Simon learned several important things. First, the alarm sounded at five-thirty, according to his wristwatch, which seemed cruel for any day but especially harsh for a cold Saturday in January. Second, breakfast was served fifteen minutes later when a guard slid a tray through a narrow opening under the bars. Third, breakfast was a miserable effort at even the most basic food preparation. The white bread toast was cold and burnt around the edges. The powdered eggs were mush, just as cold, and served on top of three slices of fatty bacon that a dog would only sniff at. The small metal bowl of grits had the smell and texture of caulking compound. The green apple was bitter. The instant coffee was little more than hot water and thoroughly free of any flavor. Fourth, as lousy as it was, it was the best meal of the day, according to Loomis across the hall.

  Simon had no idea how long he would be incarcerated but he couldn’t survive more than a week before starvation became a factor. Something didn’t add up. The food was barely edible but most of the inmates were as fat as the guards. There must be vending machines somewhere in the jail.

  When the guard came to retrieve the tray about fifteen minutes later, Simon said, “Wow, thanks, that was delicious. What time is lunch?”

  The guard, a thick simpleton who had never missed a meal, frowned and said, “Two thousand calories a day, bud, that’s all you get.”

  Yeah, and you get that many with your morning doughnuts.

  Simon reclined on his bunk and braced himself for a long day of boredom and humiliation. He was still hungry. There was one light in the center of the ceiling and it was on. He could not turn it off. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t read, and had no desire to begin the day listening to Loomis over there chatter on about the cars he’d stolen.

  * * *

  Iris Kane had a hunch that the best gossip would be in the coffee shops, and she was right. She trudged through the two inches of snow covering the sidewalks, walked past the City Café, saw the crowd, ducked inside, grabbed a stool at the counter, and ordered coffee and a biscuit. A long, stained mirror offered a good view of the customers. A quick glance revealed that she was the only female customer. The men were layered in flannel and heavy down jackets to stay warm. Every head had a trucker’s cap. Half the men had beards. The scene reminded Iris of a logging camp in Oregon she had once covered.

  Everyone seemed to be talking. Nothing like a good murder to stir up the locals, though this one lacked the violence and drama they expected from television. Poisoning an old woman? What a cowardly crime.

  Within two minutes, any rookie reporter would have been well versed in the story of the day.

  “I hear Latch is looking at the death penalty.”

  “Crooked sumbitch was after her money, plain and simple.”

  “Anybody ever meet the old gal?”

  “No. I heard she’s from Atlanta, moved here to retire with a bundle of money.”

  “God help her if she trusted these lawyers.”

  “Well, I never trusted Latch.”

  “He picked her clean, or was trying to.”

  “He’s a tricky one.”

  “Hang on. I like Simon, known him for years. Good boy.”

  “Heard he and his wife filed papers. Splitsville.”

  “Well, she’ll get the house and kids now, with his ass locked up.”

  “When’s he going to court?”

  “Heard it was Monday morning. He’s trying to get out of jail already.”

  “Can he make bond on a murder charge?”

  “Of course he can. He’s a lawyer. No judge is going to keep a lawyer in jail for long. He’ll be out before you know it and they’ll have a helluva time hanging a murder charge on him. Different rules for different folks.”

  “Heard he’s hired Raymond Lassiter.”

  “See what I mean. Slickest dude in Virginia, never loses in the courtroom.”

  “Well, he’s got his hands full with this one.”

  Iris tried to scribble notes without getting caught. She was probably the only outsider in the place and if they suspected she was a reporter they would go silent in an instant. She might even get tossed. She found a copy of a local shopper’s guide and pretended to read it.

  One truth was obvious: Simon Latch and his defense team should demand a change of venue and get the case away from these registered voters. Everyone had an opinion and the clear majority had already decided Latch was guilty.

  Iris paid her bill and left before anyone noticed her. The town was coming to life and merchants up and down Main Street were scraping the sidewalk and shoving snow to the gutter. The public library opened at eight and she found a quiet corner. She opened her laptop and began writing down as many of the comments as possible. She searched for Raymond Lassiter and called his office, but got only the recording. It was, after all, Saturday. She found a number for the city jail but the officer on duty would not confirm the identity of any inmate. She went to the archives for both the Journal and the Braxton Gazette and looked at the rather sparse references to Simon Latch. From the county court records, she found the divorce filing, which revealed very little. There was a reference to a recent petition involving Eleanor Barnett, but the file had been sealed by court order. Suspicious?

  After two hours of digging, Iris needed to walk. She bundled up and went outside. She found the offices of Raymond Lassiter and knocked on the door. No answer. Same at the offices of Simon F. Latch, Attorney and Counselor at Law. The city police department was practically deserted and the officer on duty clammed up when she said she was a reporter. She walked to the jail to try again, but no one would confirm anything. She drove to the hospital and poked around, but if anyone knew anything or had any authority, they were off duty. She stopped by the funeral home where there were no services scheduled for the weekend. A part-time secretary knew nothing.

  She had Simon’s home address but chose not to upset the family. His wife had filed for divorce. He was sitting in jail charged with murder. She could not imagine the nightmare they were going through.

  For lunch, Iris chose another downtown café, one that was not crowded. She ate a salad as she eavesdropped, but there was no talk of the arrest. She returned to her quiet spot in the library and began putting together a story. Her working title was: “Lawyer Arrested in Poisoning Death of Wealthy Client.” She liked it but knew her editor would not. He seldom did.

  As if someone were watching, another phantom email pinged. The anonymous source was back with: “DC atty Teddy Hammer represents E. Barnett’s heirs. He likes to talk.”

  The informant was trouble because he or she knew far too much about the case. Which, to Iris or any other investigator, meant the informant was probably involved in the crime at some level. Why did this person want Simon Latch investigated and humiliated? Many questions, few answers.

  Iris called the office number for Teddy Hammer and got the standard after-hours recording. She left a message and returned to her notes. Ten minutes later her cell phone buzzed, and it was Teddy Hammer.

  “I can’t talk on the record,” he said. “But I can share some deep background.”

  Cautiously, she asked, “What is your involvement in the case?”

  “Can we agree that I will not be sourced? Can we agree this is deep background?”

  Iris loathed using unnamed sources and was always irritated by these situations, but she really had no choice. A prominent lawyer knew the case, had a lot to say, and wanted to talk. At the moment her story had too many gaps, and she had a hunch this guy could fill most of them.

  She said, “Okay, you’re off the record and now considered deep background.”

  “I’m recording this conversation and I suggest you do the same.”

  She tapped a key and said, “I’m recording this conversation with Mr. Teddy Hammer on Saturday, January sixteenth, at 2:20 P.M.”

  Mr. Hammer immediately said, “There’s been no press so far. How did you hear of the arrest?”

  “An anonymous tip, by email, last night.”

  A pause as he mulled it over. “Okay, what’s your first question.”

  “What is your involvement?”

  “I represent the two stepsons of Eleanor Barnett, Jerry and Clyde Korsak. Two weeks ago we rushed to court to prevent the cremation of Ms. Barnett only hours after she died.”

  “Who was trying to cremate her?”

  “He’s sitting in jail.”

  Chapter 35

  At five-thirty the following morning, Simon was actually sleeping for a change when the alarm bells sounded and the guards entered the wing, clanging doors and yelling for everyone to wake up. Breakfast was being served. As if breakfast was something to get excited about. In the break room down the hall Simon had found the vending machines and was currently subsisting on Cokes and potato chips.

  Cokes. The same thought flashed through his mind: Netty and all that common stock, and he still wondered if it was really there.

  The guard, Mason, worked the early shift and thus had the pleasure of serving two gourmet meals to his boys. Simon had managed to chat him up the day before.

  “Mornin’, Latch.”

  “Well, good morning, Officer Mason. So good to see you again. What’s cooking this morning?”

  “The same.”

  “Lucky me.”

  As Simon was picking up his tray, Mason slid a newspaper under the bars. “Might want to take a look at this. Front page, Metro. You’ve hit the big time, Latch. A real star.”

  The Sunday Journal, two inches thick and packed with coupons. Simon knew what was coming so he sat on the edge of his bed and took a deep breath. He thought he had braced himself for the bad PR. It could not have been worse.

  Metro, above the fold, a large black-and-white photo of Simon Latch, smiling, jacket and tie, posing for the camera. Someone had borrowed it from the county bar directory published a few years earlier. Beside it was the unrestrained tabloid headline: “Estate Lawyer Accused in Poisoning Death of Wealthy Widow Client.”

  It covered everything: a brief bio of the accused; same for the victim; the new will that gave him absolute control of her assets; then a power of attorney and advance directive, signed in the hospital just days before her death, that gave him the power to turn off the ventilator; which he did; the suspicious efforts to cremate the body a few hours after death; the heroic intervention of the stepsons, who demanded an autopsy; and the fact that she was poisoned, probably while in the hospital. It was a long article with no shortage of innuendos and speculations. Indeed, at every point where one word would suffice but three would seem more sinister, Ms. Kane went with the longer sentence. While not a single source agreed to be quoted or identified, off the record they were babbling away. Simon immediately suspected Teddy Hammer as one of the conspirators. His flattering accounts of the actions by his clients, the stepsons, were a bit over-the-top. Some of the details from the injunction hearing before Judge Pointer had to be relayed by a person who was in the courtroom, a clear violation of the judge’s orders.

  The article ended with the information that Mr. Latch would appear in court Monday morning at 9 A.M. to be arraigned and request bail, which was discretionary but rarely given in murder cases. The tone was basically an invitation for everyone to come to court tomorrow, have a look at the defendant, and share in the excitement.

  Simon wiped sweat from his forehead, realized his hands were shaking, and suddenly bolted for the tiny metal toilet in one corner of his cell. He vomited and retched and gagged until all of yesterday’s potato chips were in either the bowl or on the lid.

  Across the hall Loomis asked, “Hey man, you okay?”

  But Simon did not answer. When the nausea finally passed he stretched out on his bunk and pulled the blanket up to his eyes. He wanted to die. Was it possible to suffocate oneself with a pillow?

  Every potential juror reading the Journal would quickly vote to convict, and Simon couldn’t blame them.

  * * *

  Traffic at the jail was slow on Sunday mornings, and Mason had the front desk to himself. At 9 A.M., another guard put handcuffs on Simon and led him to the front.

  “I’d like to use the phone,” he said politely.

  “Who you calling?” Mason asked.

  “My wife and my lawyer.”

  “Local calls?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Mason nodded at a door and the guard led him into a room with several phones on a long table. The guard removed the handcuffs and said, “I’ll be outside.” He shut the door and Simon was alone.

  He called Paula’s cell and she didn’t answer, which was not unusual. She rarely took a call from an unidentified number. Simon left the message that he would call back in five minutes. He did and she answered after the first ring.

  “How are the kids?” he asked.

  “Coping, I guess. It’s not easy.”

  “Have you seen the Journal?”

  “Oh yes. The story was posted last night online and Matilda called me. By midnight it was all over town. Now it’s everywhere. My phone’s ringing, lots of emails.”

  “Have the kids seen it?”

  “Are you kidding? Buck and Danny live online and miss nothing. They’re locked in their rooms and won’t come out. We did a lousy job of monitoring their devices.”

  “I assume there’s a lot of chatter online.”

  “It’s horrible.”

  “And social media?”