The reality was that Simon’s was the only murder case in Braxton at the moment, and the town had never seen such attention. Journalists snooped around, digging for unique angles. Every lawyer in town was approached for a comment, though most declined. Two true-crime shows, allegedly from Hollywood but actually from Reno and St. Paul, excited the locals with their equipment trailers and bulky cameras. What they were filming was anybody’s guess. At least twice a day a reporter with a film crew stood on the edge of Main Street and shot footage of Simon’s office, with its permanently locked door. Tillie was just behind it, always jittery. She was monitoring the story in the press and online, and her scrapbook was filling up quickly. Simon had no desire to look at it.

  “Simon sightings” were rare because he seldom left his building. He peeked through the shades upstairs and often saw reporters lurking in the alley. He was isolated, depressed, and frightened about the trial and his future. He seldom ate and Tillie fussed at him about his weight, as she continued to tone up.

  He spent hours at his desk writing, by hand—nothing in the computer—and compiling his notes on Netty’s final days. He broke down each one, almost hour by hour, with as much detail as he could recall. Her movements, his movements, her auto accident, his trips to the hospital, who else was there, who were the doctors and nurses, and so on. She had been admitted on December 17, and died on Wednesday, December 30. He charted every day and asked Tillie to double-check her calendars and phone calls. She had made three trips to the hospital to check on Netty and take brownies. She took those damned ginger cookies that Simon had bought at Tan Lu’s. Who did she see at the hospital? Did she log in at the front desk, as required? Yes, the first time, but not for the second and third visits. The hospital was not strict about monitoring visitors.

  The long dreary days of January gave way to more of the same in February. The phone simply wasn’t ringing, and for a street practice that depended on word of mouth, the traffic was far too slow. Word of mouth was out there somewhere, but it was not being kind to Simon Latch.

  In the second week of February, Paula called with the news that she had found a promising job with a new retirement village in the town of Danville, four hours south on the North Carolina state line. Danville was roughly the size of Braxton, with good schools and even a small college, and about as far away as possible while still being in Virginia. She had found an apartment and they would be moving in a matter of days. Her parents were driving her crazy and the kids were climbing the walls. Yes, it was all quite unsettling, but finally they were making progress. He volunteered to help with the move-in and she invited him to join the party.

  Landy’s reluctant efforts to find manufacturers, markets, and dealers for banned poisons was not going well. What she had found so far was something she already knew: there were thousands of banned and/or illegal chemicals, compounds, and drugs smuggled into America every year, for every reason, and from every entry point. Billions were spent trying to stop the flood of cocaine, heroin, and fentanyl. Poisons were not a priority and almost impossible to track.

  Landy and her husband had filed their no-fault divorce and shook hands on the deal. As career FBI agents who moved frequently, they did not own a home. Their condo lease was up in a few months and she would remain in it until she found another apartment. Simon became a regular guest. He enjoyed being away from Braxton almost as much as he enjoyed the high-octane sex life they had jump-started. It was like a flashback twenty years to law school when they almost flunked out due to extracurricular activities.

  But they were no longer twenty, and after a few weeks things cooled off as they slowly realized there was a good reason their old romance had not survived outside the bedroom. In late February, she surprised him with the news that she would be gone for a month on an assignment she could not discuss.

  * * *

  On a snowy day in early March, Tillie walked into Simon’s office and took a seat. She was obviously troubled and got right to the point. “I think it’s time for me to move on.”

  He slowly put down a contract he was mulling over and said, “Okay.”

  “I cannot in good conscience keep getting paid when we’re so low on cash and the business has dried up. We’re fooling ourselves, Simon, if we think things are going to improve. I keep the books. I see the income, what little there is of it. The phones might as well be unplugged. The front door stays locked, and if anyone knocks it’s usually a reporter. We get at least two prank calls every day from idiots who want you dead. I can’t take it anymore.” She was wiping her eyes.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Leave town and go find a job somewhere.”

  “Okay. Any ideas?”

  “Maybe. I have a good friend down in Sarasota, a kid from school. She says there are plenty of jobs and I can stay with her for a few months. I’ll find something.”

  “So it’s come to this?”

  “Afraid so. I’ll always cherish these days, Simon, the good ones anyway. There weren’t many bad ones.”

  “You’ve been wonderful and I don’t want to see you go.”

  “I know. And I know that if you had the income and the business I’d stay forever, but that’s where we are. I’m so worried about you, Simon.”

  “Thanks. Unfortunately, there’s plenty to worry about.”

  They were silent for a long time as they stared at the walls and remembered the good days. She touched her eyes with a tissue and he felt like crying too. Finally, she said, “I’ll leave Friday.”

  “You can always come back, you know?”

  “I wish I could believe that, Simon, I really do.”

  They stood and hugged for the first time, then hugged again for the last time.

  Chapter 40

  With Simon focused on his criminal problems, and with Judge Pointer steadfastly refusing to even discuss Eleanor Barnett’s complicated estate, Teddy Hammer quietly pursued his grand scheme. His plan was to attack the will prepared by Simon on the grounds of undue influence. If Simon was convicted of murder, he would go away for a long time and his will would be worthless. If he was acquitted, something no one really expected, then they would have a huge court fight over his actions in preparing the will. Teddy would also attack the will prepared by Wally Thackerman, also on the grounds of undue influence. He was confident he could use the threat of an ethics complaint to bully Wally into backing off.

  Once Simon and Wally and their wills were out of the picture, Teddy could reveal his secret. Neither lawyer had discovered that there was a third will, one signed by Harry Korsak in 1988. According to Jerry Korsak, who had a copy of the old will, his father had agreed to leave everything to Eleanor, in trust. Upon her death, the assets would go to Jerry and Clyde in equal shares. Because Eleanor had such strong feelings against the boys, Harry had not told her about the will and she did not sign a similar one at that time.

  Teddy at first doubted the story because he had learned to doubt almost everything Jerry told him. However, the old will was straightforward and attempted to protect Jerry and Clyde upon Eleanor’s death. The will had been prepared by a lawyer who died years earlier, and it was a near perfect example of legal malpractice. It virtually guaranteed years of litigation. For example, Harry kept his assets jointly owned with Eleanor while at the same time attempting to shield the assets in a poorly drafted trust. Why the old will was not probated at Harry’s death was not clear. Teddy surmised that Eleanor knew nothing about it and managed to avoid probate because the assets were jointly owned. He was also certain that neither Simon nor Wally knew about the old will. How could they? There were many unanswered questions, but the bottom line was that Clyde and Jerry were the only blood relatives still around. Eleanor’s niece and nephew didn’t even know she was dead.

  The most pressing matter was the issue of the assets. What was in Eleanor’s estate? Jerry was convinced there was plenty. He knew his father owned stock in Coke and Wal-Mart, but some of his claims seemed rather grandiose. Before Teddy invested hundreds of hours of work, he needed to make sure there were significant assets. Otherwise, the case was not worth pursuing. To investigate, Teddy befriended the conservator, Clement Gelly, the conscientious young lawyer who had not asked to be involved. Judge Pointer trusted him and leaned on him for the favor.

  Teddy convinced Clement to take a trip together. After getting Judge Pointer’s quiet approval, they flew together, at Teddy’s expense, to Atlanta and checked into a splendid hotel in the ritzy Buckhead neighborhood. Teddy had learned the identity of Buddy Brown, a principal in Rumke-Brown, Harry’s old brokerage house. However, his two attempts to get him on the phone had gone nowhere.

  Buddy was fully aware of Eleanor’s death and the surrounding drama with her lawyer in Braxton, Virginia. In fact, he had a file with the press clippings and had followed the chatter online. He knew he would be involved at some point, so when the conservator, one Clement Gelly, called and asked for a meeting, Buddy really had no choice but to agree.

  Teddy stayed at the hotel and kept busy while Clement took a cab a few blocks away to an office building filled with professionals and firms that seemed to want little attention. Rumke-Brown’s first-floor suite spoke of understated wealth. The walls and floors were decorated in a minimalist theme, with contemporary paintings and strange bronzes on the end tables. The mood was subdued and quiet with soft background music. There was no receptionist because the firm did not allow walk-ins or encourage visitors. An assistant met Clement and led him through the halls to a large corner office where Buddy Brown was waiting with a smile.

  The firm’s website followed the minimalist theme of revealing almost nothing. There were a few partners and about a dozen associates, all much younger than Brown. Though his age was not given, he graduated from Emory in 1962, so he was in his mid-seventies. Fit, tanned, vigorous, ready for the next tennis match. No pickleball for him. The same assistant served them coffee and designer water on the conference table. Brown rolled up his sleeves, glanced at his watch, and was ready to donate one hour to the cause, whatever it was.

  He said, “Looks like you got yourself a real mess up there.”

  “Lots of drama,” Clement agreed. “I was minding my own business when the judge hooked me in as the conservator.”

  “Yes, that’s what you said on the phone.” In other words, I’ve already heard this. “Where is the case procedurally?”

  “Which one? The murder trial is set for May twenty-third. The estate mess is on hold until the criminal matters are resolved. Same judge with both cases and she’s very much in control.”

  “So, what’s my involvement at this point?”

  “Nothing officially. I’m just trying to verify Ms. Barnett’s assets.”

  “Okay, I spent an hour with our attorney yesterday and this is my position. I have, or had, a fiduciary relationship with Harry Korsak and Eleanor Barnett, both now deceased. It was a confidential, privileged relationship, as with all our clients. However, upon their deaths, the confidentiality became somewhat less strict, shall we say. I will agree to give a deposition, with my attorney present, for the record. I will not agree to testify in any proceeding, unless, of course, I am subpoenaed, at which time I will comply. Fair enough?”

  “I suppose.”

  “But there are some things I can tell you now, off the record, and in confidence, that might help you inventory her assets. Are we off the record?”

  Clement wasn’t sure what the record was, and he knew he would immediately debrief with Teddy Hammer over lunch. He wasn’t a journalist working on a story, and he had not traveled all the way to Atlanta to get stiff-armed. “Sure,” he said.

  Buddy started at the beginning.

  * * *

  He was a stockbroker with Merrill Lynch in Atlanta when he met Harry and Eleanor. Her first husband died a few years earlier and she had $50,000 in life insurance. Harry was working for Coca-Cola and had just qualified for its employee stock-option plan. They put all their money in Coke and kept buying shares for many years. They were frugal, saved as much as possible, and for thirty years bought all the Coke stock they could afford. Later, they began buying Wal-Mart shares with the same strategy. Both companies grew over the years and split their common stock numerous times. The little Korsak nest egg became a fortune. Around 1990, they splurged on a vacation and went to a small Caribbean island few people had heard of. It was called Montrouge, in the French West Indies, near Guadeloupe. Some executives at Coke had discovered the place and were trying to keep it quiet. It was paradise, just a speck of an island with beautiful mountains and white beaches. Harry and Eleanor fell for the place and bought a nice bungalow for half a million. An Atlanta developer showed up and saw the potential. The plan was to buy the entire island, sell off individual lots, put in a resort or two, and watch the value increase. Sort of like Mustique. Harry, whose health was not great, was tired of working and began dreaming of a glorious retirement on the island. He put $5 million into the development and built a bigger house on the beach. The land was selling at outrageous prices. A few celebrities moved in and the prices went even higher. A deal to sell Montrouge for $200 million fell through. Harry’s piece would have been worth 15 percent of the total. More financing was needed to finish a third resort, and Harry put up another $5 million. Buddy voiced his concern at that point, but Harry was determined. The limited partners began squabbling and lawsuits were filed. The resorts were doing well and the property values were through the roof, but there was discord among the ownership. One group tried to buy another in a hostile takeover. Harry sided with the losing group. A hefty loan was in default. Harry put in another $5 million. Almost all of his Coke and Wal-Mart stock was gone but his real estate protected his net worth. Then, an unbelievable disaster. On the first day of June 1999, the volcano on Montrouge erupted for the first time in 240 years. The island was practically blown out of the ocean and off the map. Over a hundred people, tourists and residents, were killed, most of them never found. Harry and Eleanor had been there the week before. Their luxury home was totally destroyed. The typical insurance coverage on the island protected the homes and resorts against fire, wind, flooding, and so on. Not a single one mentioned volcanoes. Big lawsuits were filed by the owners, and the litigation raged until the owners got tired of losing. The insurance companies won every case.

  Harry’s bad health deteriorated even faster. He and Eleanor had nervous breakdowns together and went into therapy. To run away, they sold their home in Atlanta and moved to the hills of northern Virginia. Harry died not long after the move.

  It was a very sad story.

  The obvious question was: How much, if any, of the money was left?

  Buddy dodged the question for a while, then said, “Upon the advice of counsel, I can’t give you the exact value of the stocks in the portfolio. I will if a court orders me to, but I can’t now.”

  Clement was frustrated by Buddy’s reluctance and said, “Okay, I get that, but I’m trying to anticipate litigation, and it would be helpful if I had an idea, in the ballpark, of the value of Eleanor’s stocks.”

  “I understand. At its peak, the Coke stock was worth a little over ten million. What’s left is less than half a million. Wal-Mart was about six mil, and it’s all gone.”

  Clement managed to stifle his reaction. “That’s quite a bit less than we thought.”

  “Substantially less than half a million.”

  * * *

  Clement left after an hour and a half, returned to the hotel, and found Teddy Hammer at a small desk in the business center. He sat in a chair across from him, smiling as he shook his head, and said, “It’s all a hoax.”

  Chapter 41

  A month before the trial, Judge Pointer scheduled a closed hearing to address a number of issues, the most important of which was venue.

  Raymond had been adamant from day one that the trial must take place far away from Braxton. He really didn’t care where, but preferably out of the reach of the Washington and Richmond press. His client had been pilloried and savaged from the day of his indictment and the damage was irreversible. The only remaining question in the press was: Where was the firing squad? Raymond had been a prominent criminal defense lawyer for forty years and had never represented a defendant so thoroughly condemned by his neighbors and townsfolk. His own secretary, a compassionate soul, had quietly said to him several times, “Better get a plea bargain.”

  Simon had been reluctant at first. For a while he argued that by the terms of the will he drafted for Eleanor, virtually everyone in Braxton would benefit from her generosity. The trust he so cleverly created spread her money to every church, civic club, food bank, scout troop, garden club, and so on. And, more important, the will did not give Simon Latch a dime of her money. He had to earn it! He would be paid $500 an hour and his fees would be impressive, but an hour away in Washington the going rate for the big firm guys was double that. Under oath and on cross-examination he was confident he could justify his billings.