Raymond countered with the argument that the terms of the will might never be heard by the jury. The will was not the issue. Murder was. Oddly enough, motive was not always a factor and did not have to be proven. Simon believed the will would be the Commonwealth’s first exhibit, dramatically waved in front of the jury by Cora Cook as proof that the defendant was dreaming of huge fees and profiting from the death of Eleanor Barnett.

  He and Raymond argued for several weeks, usually late at night over cigars and bourbon. But Raymond would not budge and even threatened to withdraw, a ploy he used occasionally. The defense filed a motion seeking a change of venue.

  During their discussions and arguments, they were joined by Casey Noland, the newest member of Raymond’s firm. He was thirty years old and had spent the past three years as a federal public defender. His unabashed goal in life was to become a high-octane, radical, colorful criminal defense lawyer, similar to Raymond Lassiter. While his law school buddies dreamed of the big corporate firms and million-dollar salaries, Casey wanted to be in the courtroom defending clients accused of horrible crimes. He wanted to protect the rights of the worst killers. He wanted to face skeptical juries. He wanted the spotlight.

  Casey was also single and worked strange hours. To impress Raymond enough to get a job, he was developing a taste for bourbon and cigars.

  For the hearing, Judge Pointer put two bailiffs at the door of Courtroom B and banned all spectators. She was tired of reporters hanging around the courthouse and bothering her secretary. She had called the police on several occasions to get rid of people digging for dirt about the case.

  Cora Cook opposed the motion because she was supposed to, but she, too, knew a fair trial was impossible in Braxton. Around her office, the sentiment always leaned toward guilt, but that was to be expected among the staff of a prosecutor. No one was willing to give Simon Latch the benefit of the doubt. Forget about the presumption of innocence. Out of respect, her friends never commented on or gossiped about a case, but she knew they thought Simon poisoned Eleanor. Her current boyfriend thought a conviction was a slam dunk.

  As always, the hearing was on the record, but Judge Pointer, as she often did, treated it as informally as possible. The attorneys kept their seats as they bantered back and forth, respectfully. Judge Pointer interrupted when necessary. Simon sat between Raymond and Casey Noland, and passed notes to both, once again thankful that he had not pursued a career as a criminal lawyer. He was still trying to warm up to Casey.

  Virginia, like most states, allowed either side, defense or prosecution, to request a change of venue. However, neither side could suggest a preferred alternate. That was within the sole discretion of the judge.

  After an hour of discussion, and little argument, it was apparent that Judge Pointer had made up her mind. She said, “I’ll grant the motion to change venue and I’ll decide on the jurisdiction later. I’m looking at various parts of the state and I tend to agree with the defense that the trial should be moved far away.”

  The attorneys scribbled notes. No one was surprised. Simon didn’t relish the idea of spending a week or two in a cheap motel in a strange town, but the longer he stayed in Braxton, the more he was convinced that he needed to leave.

  They then quibbled over discovery matters, with Her Honor lecturing both sides on the rules that required full disclosure. Cora Cook had a stellar reputation as an ethical prosecutor and withheld nothing. Raymond’s reputation did not quite match hers but he had nothing to hide.

  At noon, Judge Pointer surprised them when she recessed until 2 P.M. There was nothing left on the agenda, not in Commonwealth of Virginia v. Simon F. Latch, and the lawyers left the courtroom scratching their heads. What was the unfinished business?

  Simon tried diligently to avoid being seen in public anywhere in Braxton, especially downtown where the lawyers and courthouse gang had their lunches. Casey drove them to an old country store where they had sandwiches at a table in a corner. It was one of the few restaurants Simon and Eleanor had not tried.

  At 2 P.M. they reconvened and waited fifteen minutes for Judge Pointer to assume the bench. She was religiously punctual and the slight delay was unusual. When she took her place she dismissed the court reporter and settled in for a casual chat with Raymond, Casey, Cora, and Simon.

  She began, “My husband is from the Tidewater area and I know it well. From here, it’s four hours by car. It’s also another world, very different from the Blue Ridge Mountains that we know and love. There are two million people in the area, big towns like Hampton, Chesapeake, Norfolk, Newport News, Portsmouth. Virginia Beach is the largest, with twice the population of Richmond. The Tidewater Times has the largest circulation and it hardly covered this story. I found only two reports, while the state’s other newspapers were trying to out-scream each other. As you probably know, the area has a strong military influence. The largest naval base in the world is in Norfolk. The population is very diverse and transient. I have no doubt that it will be easier to find impartial jurors. So, I’ve notified the supreme court that I’m moving the case to Virginia Beach. This will not affect the trial date of May twenty-three.”

  She took a sip of water and cleared her throat. “I have also informed the supreme court that I am recusing myself from this case. My reasons are as follows. There are two cases, one criminal, one probate. Under our system, the circuit court has jurisdiction of both, and since I’m the senior circuit judge in Braxton, they’re on my desk. The facts of one case bleed into another. I could learn something from one case that could affect my judgment in the other. It’s best if I turn loose of one. The other reason is that I am facing some medical issues that will require a lighter load for a few months.”

  The lawyers frowned appropriately. Judge Pointer certainly looked as healthy as ever. There were suddenly plenty of questions, but none were asked.

  “My prognosis is good but it may take some time.” Another sip of water. “And there’s something else, something that may or may not be relevant in the criminal case. I had a talk with Clement Gelly last week and he informed me, sort of off the record, that he has learned something important. He went to Atlanta and met with the investment advisor for Eleanor Barnett. It looks as though she rather outrageously inflated the value of her estate. Her late husband lost his fortune, some fifteen million, in bad investments. Then they moved here and he promptly died. Clement values her home at two hundred and fifty thousand, about the same for her stocks and cash.”

  Simon wanted to puke again, but he managed a poker face and nodded as if he’d known this all along, no big deal. It had been a year since he met her. A year since she had uttered, almost in a whisper, the words that wrecked his life: Ten million in Coke stock, six million in Wal-Mart stock, about four million in cash.

  How could a pleasant old widow who appeared perfectly normal and acted like the other eighty-five-year-olds be afflicted with some weird strain of insanity? Nothing else in her life, or at least nothing Simon had noticed, gave any indication of mental illness. The word “sucker” rattled around his brain.

  Judge Pointer kept talking, something about the will contest, but Simon heard nothing.

  * * *

  At least three nights a week, Simon found himself in Raymond’s law library. He worked on briefs and motions, all designed to aid his own defense. He read dozens of criminal cases involving poison. He studied procedure and began to understand criminal law. He read every report and researched every witness to be offered against him by the Commonwealth.

  Raymond’s office was down the hall, his door always open, his cigar smoke wafting through the entire building. At least once each night, he would bark, “Simon,” as if his client was just another paralegal. Simon always answered the call. It was the least he could do for an expensive lawyer working for free.

  On the night of the venue hearing, around 10 P.M., Simon sat down and inhaled a load of smoke. Casey joined, in jogging shorts and running shoes. Raymond walked to the liquor cabinet, poured three stiff bourbons, and closed his door. They clinked glasses.

  “Cora called this afternoon to offer a plea deal, sort of a formality.”

  “It was expected, right?”

  “Right. Take a hit for fifteen years, parole after ten, probably, but parole is tough in this state.”

  “Fifteen years? I’ll jump off a bridge first.”

  “It’s not a bad offer, given the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances are you talking about?”

  “The facts, Simon, the facts.”

  “You still don’t believe me, do you?”

  “Oh, I do. I’ve never doubted you. The problem, Simon, is that you look guilty as hell, and I’m not sure how we change that.”

  “I’ll testify. I’ll explain everything I did, and I’ll make the jury believe me.”

  “Famous last words. Whether you’ll testify or not is a decision we’ll make at the last minute.”

  “The answer is no. I’m not guilty and I’m not pleading guilty.”

  They worked on their drinks, puffed their cigars. As usual, Casey said little.

  For some reason, Raymond began to chuckle. “What is it?” Simon finally snapped.

  “Did you really believe the old girl had twenty million dollars?”

  “I’m glad you think it’s funny.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, what was your first reaction when you were taking notes, the initial consultation with a new client, right, and she says she’s loaded, got twenty mil or so? What was your first thought?”

  “Well, it was not a good one. Had something to do with greed.”

  Raymond was laughing and Casey appeared to be amused. After a moment or two, Simon wanted to join them. But he couldn’t do it.

  He finished his bourbon and left with half a cigar. The only time he walked the streets of Braxton was late at night, usually after leaving Raymond’s. During the day he stayed in his office with the doors locked, and ventured out only after dark.

  The air was cool and the night was clear, and so he walked. His thoughts were scrambled around the suggestion that he plead guilty, which was ridiculous, and the destructive lies told by Eleanor, and the prospect of being judged by people who lived far away and knew nothing about the case.

  At the moment, Simon felt abandoned by his friends. Not a single one had been loyal. Many had sent quick emails after his arrest, but those had all but stopped. Some of his friends were also friends of Paula’s and, as in most divorces, they couldn’t take sides and found it easier to just ignore the Latches.

  The loss of support was crushing. The loss of his children was painful. He called and texted them every day, but they were now four hours away and struggling with their new lives.

  And so he walked, for hours.

  Chapter 42

  In the first week of May two events occurred at virtually the same time, and though neither could rescue Simon from the ugly prospect of being put on trial for murder, they provided the first glimmer of good luck he had seen in months.

  First, Paula sold the house in Braxton for more than the list price. After paying off both mortgages, she netted $28,000, a windfall no one was expecting. Simon did the paperwork and charged nothing for the closing. At the last minute, Paula told her ex that she would pay $5,000 in legal fees for his services. It was a fine, generous gesture and, after first protesting meekly, Simon agreed to take the money.

  Two days later, his mother called with the welcome news that after twenty-seven unhappy years she was splitting with Arn. Things were somewhat amicable, and they had agreed to a division of the assets. With Arn’s name off her bank accounts, she was now in charge of her money. She was sending her son $10,000 to help with his legal bills. He accepted the money, called it a loan, and promised to repay it at some undetermined time in the future. He was proud of her for showing the courage to walk away from a bad marriage at the age of seventy-three and take her savings with her. He did not know how much money she had squirreled away and he was not about to ask. Never, ever again would he pry into the financial affairs of a senior citizen. On the phone, she sounded ten years younger and was planning a trip to the Greek Isles with some friends. However, if he needed her to be in the courtroom she would happily postpone the trip. He thanked her and promised to consider it.

  Off to the Greek Isles with a pocketful of money. He was headed to a courtroom where he would either be condemned to prison or narrowly escape with nothing but the shirt on his back. He had not envied his mother in many years; indeed, he had pitied her because she was stuck with a turd like Arn. Now, she seemed like the luckiest person he knew.

  Simon did not want his mother or his children anywhere near the courtroom. He and Paula had discussed the trial at length. It would be impossible to shield the kids from the publicity. Even if the local news in Danville ignored the story, there would be an avalanche of crap online. On the phone, he and Paula had floated the idea of a nightly recap of the trial with the children. She could review the news stories and hold a discussion that would include the facts as presented by the press. It seemed a slightly better idea than simply ignoring the trial and dreaming the kids might somehow escape it. Simon was not afraid of the truth and wanted his children to know that he was not guilty of anything, other than perhaps a little bad judgment. Still, the visual of him going to and from the courthouse, with a horde following and all manner of sensational coverage by the talking heads, was not pleasant.

  When the check arrived from his mother, Simon promptly deposited it in his firm’s account and wrote another one to Raymond for legal fees. $10,000. He walked it over to Raymond’s office that night and handed it to him. “One eighty to go,” he said proudly.

  “Where’d you get this?” Raymond asked suspiciously.

  Simon told him the story. The lawyer put the check in a drawer.

  Raymond had talked to some attorney friends in the Tidewater area and was now firmly convinced that moving the case there was of great benefit to Simon. It was far away from the Blue Ridge Mountains and in another world.

  To replace Mary Blankenship Pointer, the supreme court had appointed Padma Shyam, one of three female judges on the Virginia Beach Circuit Court. She was forty-six years old, had been on the bench for nine years, and annually received the highest ratings not only from her colleagues, but also from lawyers who appeared before her.

  Simon had a good friend from law school who practiced in Chesapeake, next door to Virginia Beach, and the guy raved about Judge Shyam.

  Both Raymond and Simon had fretted over Judge Pointer’s recusal. They knew her well and thought they understood her leanings and eccentricities. She was a tough law-and-order judge, but she was unfailingly fair to both sides. Simon was still smarting from the $300,000 bond she had required for his release, not to mention the seven nights in jail, but he had forgiven her and had convinced himself she would give him a break if needed.

  Now, though, she was forgotten, at least for the murder trial. Raymond had chatted twice with Judge Shyam and felt comfortable with her. She, too, was worried about publicity and too much press. She had the idea of selecting the jury a week before the announced trial date of May 23. The court clerk could quietly summons fifty or so prospects to an empty courtroom, and the lawyers could grill them about serving on the jury. If more were needed, call another fifty. If they could keep the story away from the press, the majority of the jurors would not know about the case. But if they waited until Monday, May 23, the courthouse would be a circus and the prospective jurors would have to walk through a throng just to get to the courtroom. By then, the story would be front-page. An uninformed and impartial jury would be almost impossible.

  Judge Shyam warmed up to her own idea. The lawyers thought it would work well. She had never held jury selection before the actual start date of a trial, but there was no procedural rule against it. She also liked the idea of a gag order to quieten the lawyers and witnesses. Raymond, a trial lawyer who loved to see his name in the newspapers, agreed wholeheartedly. He promised not to say a word about the trial and to keep Simon quiet as well.

  Simon had no intention of showing his face outside the courtroom.

  * * *

  Through many late-night meetings they had slowly pieced together a defense strategy that was both bold and risky. There was no direct evidence against Simon—no one had seen him buy the thallium and there was nothing to link him to its acquisition. No one had seen him lace the ginger cookies with the poison, nor feed them to Eleanor Barnett. The indirect evidence would undoubtedly be used to create a great deal of suspicion around his actions, but it was not enough to convict. The prosecution would be forced to rely on circumstantial evidence to convince jurors of his guilt.

  Raymond had leaned on a friend who knew a pathologist who agreed to study the autopsy for only $1,000, a greatly reduced fee. Dr. Brock, the state medical examiner who performed it, had impressive credentials and experience and would make a believable witness for the Commonwealth. Same for the forensic toxicologist. To attack both would require finding other experts with unimpeachable qualifications who were willing to testify. And they would cost a fortune.

  Raymond’s friend agreed with the conclusions of the autopsy.

  So why bother? Why attack the experts? The smarter approach was to admit almost everything. Admit Eleanor died of thallium poisoning. Admit Simon bought the ginger cookies at Tan Lu’s, a place he had taken her for lunch three times. Admit she liked the food there and so did he. Admit Matilda visited Eleanor in the hospital on three occasions, twice taking her ginger cookies and other goodies. Admit the will. Admit the power of attorney. Admit the retainer agreement. Admit everything that was true and obvious.