* * *

  After five more hours of no sleep, Simon showered and changed into the same suit and shirt he’d worn on Monday, drove to the Balfour Hotel, and walked into the lobby at dawn. He found Raymond and Casey in a business-center conference room working on a tall thermos of coffee. A platter of untouched pastries was nearby.

  Raymond, red-eyed and haggard but not hungover, said, “Okay, we’re listening.”

  Simon removed a legal pad from his briefcase and looked at the notes he had labored over for the past six hours. “The first time I met Eleanor was March tenth, last year, in my office. She mentioned her two stepsons, Clyde and Jerry Korsak, but insisted on leaving them nothing. I encouraged her to leave a hundred thousand in cash to each one to prevent trouble.”

  “Nice try,” Raymond said, like a real smart-ass.

  “Thanks. She signed the will, life went on. On June fifteenth, Clyde came to town and assaulted Wally Thackerman in his office. Another story. Still no sign of his brother Jerry. Weeks pass. About that time I noticed that Matilda was looking pretty good. She was losing weight, going to the gym every morning, eating all manner of greens, dressing nicer. This came and went over the years as she bounced from one bad boyfriend to the other. She’s struggled to find Mr. Right.”

  “You ever touch her?” Raymond asked.

  “None of your business but the answer is no.”

  “The skinnier she got the happier too, and I suspected she had found a new guy. There had been several serious ones and I had learned not to ask. My marriage was in the tank and I didn’t want to talk about it. We kept our private lives to ourselves. But it became so obvious that I was tempted to say something, but I bit my tongue. Evidently, about this time, last summer or fall, she met Jerry Korsak.”

  Raymond said, “His brother’s a thug. What’s he like?”

  “Much smoother. Nice-looking, well dressed, I’d guess about fifty years old. I met him only once. Last December, when Eleanor was in the hospital, he came to town and stopped by the office, said he’d been to see his ‘mom,’ as he called her. I had no idea he was also seeing Matilda.”

  “You don’t know that he was.”

  “No, I don’t. But it now looks suspicious. Earlier this year, after I got indicted, the law practice had dried up and I had to part ways with Matilda. At the time she said she was going to Sarasota or someplace down there to live with a friend.”

  “And you haven’t spoken to her since?”

  “Oh, yes, several times. We’re old friends. She worked for me for twelve years.”

  Raymond was irritated by the diversion. “This is quite interesting but it doesn’t change a damned thing. We’re in the middle of a murder trial and now we learn this. We can’t ask for a time-out to chase down your ex-secretary and ask her who she’s sleeping with. This proves nothing.”

  Casey wanted to disagree but could think of nothing to argue. In the middle of a trial, it was far too late to discover new evidence that was potentially relevant. If Simon were to be convicted, he might be able to point the finger at someone else on appeal. If he were acquitted, it wouldn’t matter, at least not to him.

  Raymond munched on a croissant, crumbs scattering around the table. After a long silence in the tense room, he said, “Okay, boys, this is fascinating, but it leads to nowhere, at least not now in the middle of the trial. We have a full day of testimony ahead of us, and witnesses to confront. We’ll deal with it later. Let’s get our eyes back on the ball.”

  Casey looked at Simon and asked, “You think Matilda and Jerry are behind the poisoning?”

  “As of now, they’re the top suspects.”

  “Later boys,” Raymond growled. “Eyes back on the ball.”

  * * *

  As was customary, the Commonwealth had issued subpoenas for more witnesses than it intended to call to the stand. One of them was Wally Thackerman.

  The original copy of Eleanor’s will that Wally prepared two months before Simon typed one of his own had mysteriously disappeared. It was generally thought that it would be with her other important papers, but was not found by Detective Roger Barr. When Wally got his subpoena, he was compelled to appear to testify and instructed to bring his office copy of the will with him. He did not do so.

  Raymond and Casey disagreed over whether the Commonwealth would actually call Wally to the stand. When Cora Cook resumed her case Wednesday morning, she announced, “Your Honor, the Commonwealth calls Mr. Walter Thackerman to the stand.”

  Minutes passed as a bailiff found Wally in the hallway and dragged him in. He took the stand and swore to tell the truth. Weighing his words carefully, he told the story of his history with Eleanor Barnett. She was a widow with no children and needed a simple will. The same story she’d fed Simon two months later. He marveled at her imagination, her thoroughness, and her scheming.

  Most of Wally’s testimony was objectionable on the grounds of hearsay. He was repeating statements made by a dead person. However, neither side objected because both sides wanted the jury to hear the testimony. The Commonwealth was attempting to prove that because of Eleanor’s apparent wealth both lawyers, Wally and especially Simon, were motivated by greed. Because of her assets, a more complicated will was necessary, one that would generate plenty of fees. The defense wanted Wally to portray Eleanor as a nutty old woman still dreaming of her lost fortune.

  Cora asked, “And she signed the will you prepared for her on January seventh of last year, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And what happened to the original?”

  “The client always keeps the original. I kept a copy.”

  “Her original has not been found. Do you have any idea where it might be?”

  Wally cast a casual look at Simon and coolly said, “I do not.”

  “Where is your copy?”

  “In my office. In Braxton.”

  “You were supposed to bring it to court today.”

  “I refuse to do so.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that it is my work-product and therefore privileged. The will has not been probated and is not public record. I have been charged with no crime. Therefore, my work-product is not discoverable.”

  “Your Honor, I ask the court to order this witness to produce his copy of the will he prepared for Eleanor Barnett.”

  Judge Shyam had been briefed on the issue by her clerk and did not hesitate. “Your request is denied. The will has not been probated and may never see the light of day. Therefore, it is still considered attorney work-product and privileged. Please proceed.”

  Wally glanced again at Simon and gave a slight nod, as if to say, I’ll protect you. You protect me.

  The dirty little secret of Wally’s gift of $485,000 to himself would remain buried.

  Cora was frustrated but kept her cool. She asked Wally if he could describe in general terms how the money would be distributed by Eleanor’s will. He launched into a windy summary of trusts and their beneficiaries, but continually scoffed at the notion that the money was actually there. He defended his language that gave himself $750 an hour. Yes, it was on the high end, but the work would be complicated. Furthermore, estate lawyers in Washington and New York were charging more than that. There was even a big firm right down the street in Virginia Beach in which the lawyers were billing a thousand bucks an hour. At times he almost made $750 an hour sound like minimum wage.

  Simon was amused and let Wally know it. One day, hopefully, they might be able to have a laugh over a beer.

  During a recess, Raymond, Casey, and Simon debated how to handle Wally on cross. Simon said, “Leave him alone. He did nothing to hurt us.”

  “What about his grab for half a million bucks?” Casey asked.

  “Let it go. It doesn’t help us.”

  Chapter 48

  When Clement Gelly agreed to serve as the conservator of Eleanor Barnett’s estate back in January, he was practically guaranteed by Judge Pointer that he would not get tangled up in any criminal proceedings. He certainly did not want to testify against Simon Latch, a lawyer he liked and respected. Now that he was entangled and even subpoenaed, he tried to avoid taking the stand by filing a motion with the court. Said motion was denied. He pleaded with Judge Pointer to remove him as conservator, but she refused. She apologized for the mess he was in, but had no choice because no other lawyer in Braxton would get near the case.

  He swore to tell the truth and sat in the witness chair with the firm intention of saying as little as necessary. If at all possible, he would say nothing to harm Simon’s defense.

  Using real estate tax records, bank statements, and quarterly notices from Rumke-Brown, he quickly laid out the value of Ms. Barnett’s estate. The house was unencumbered by debt and appraised last year for $292,000. A checking account at Security Bank in Braxton had a balance of $3,300. There were two certificates of deposit held by the East Federal bank in Atlanta, one for $21,000 and one for $13,000. A money market account at the same bank had a balance of $28,400. The estate owned 6,775 shares of common stock in the Coca-Cola corporation, market value the day before of $271,000. Add another $5,000 for furniture and assorted personal items, and the total value was slightly more than $630,000. No state or federal estate taxes were anticipated.

  As Simon scribbled the numbers down and tallied them up, he had to admit that most of the wills he had prepared in his career involved estates with far fewer assets. It was an impressive estate for Braxton, Virginia, but a far, lonely, and pathetic cry from what he once dreamed of. He could not help but remember the first time he tallied up the value of her estate. It had been more than a year earlier, in his conference room, as Netty softly dabbed her eyes with a tissue and lied through those natural yellow teeth. What a smooth and convincing liar she had been. What a gullible and greedy fool he had been.

  Relying on brokerage statements provided by Buddy Brown, Clement gave a succinct summary of Harry Korsak’s investment history and the accumulation of wealth. Because he could not verify the story, he skipped the best part, the volcano that blew Montrouge out of the Caribbean and off the map, and said that Harry had lost most of his money through bad investments. It was a colorful subplot but thoroughly irrelevant.

  Clement showed the jury the mysterious notebook Ms. Barnett kept partially hidden in a check binder, but refused to speculate on why she did so. The jury would have to speculate too. Apparently, the old gal lost her marbles not long after she lost her money, and still pretended she was loaded. In great detail, she had lied to two lawyers and kept her fiction straight.

  Simon thought of the hours lost with her, primarily eating in ethnic restaurants and discussing strange food. And all on his beleaguered credit card.

  She never offered to pay for the first meal.

  The estate was liquid and would provide a nice windfall for someone, probably Jerry and Clyde Korsak. There was enough money to keep a bigshot like Teddy Hammer sticking around. He was back in the courtroom for the third day, second row from the rear, left side, a regular vulture. Praying for a conviction to keep Simon on the sideline for years to come.

  The Commonwealth wanted to use Clement to further its theory that Simon became convinced his client was wealthy; thus, the motive to use her estate as a vehicle to collect some fat fees. In Simon’s opinion, that motive had already been established.

  The next witness piled on. Dirk Wheeler had been subpoenaed by the prosecutor and reluctantly took the stand. Cora established that he was a lawyer in D.C. and had gone to law school with the defendant. They were old friends who kept in touch.

  “Mr. Wheeler, on March the tenth of last year, you received a call on your office phone from the defendant, correct?”

  “Simon Latch called me, yes.”

  “According to your phone records, the call lasted for almost fifteen minutes.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Let’s say it is.”

  “You have my phone records, Ms. Cook, and Simon’s as well. You know exactly how long the call lasted.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “The weather, college basketball, life in general, a law school friend who has some medical issues.”

  “What prompted the call?”

  “Simon placed the call. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Well, among other things, he said he had a client with a substantial net worth and wanted some off-the-cuff tax advice.”

  “And you’re a tax lawyer, correct?”

  “Yes, estate and tax.”

  “What kind of off-the-cuff tax advice?”

  “Rates, primarily.”

  “Can you explain this to the jury?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  After an awkward pause during which Cora glared at the witness and the witness never blinked, she said, “Then please do so.”

  “We never got into the current rate structure for estate taxes because there were no estate taxes for last year. It was a loophole Congress overlooked. I explained this to Simon.”

  “He didn’t know it?”

  “If he had known it, he wouldn’t have called and asked me.”

  “Wasn’t this rather basic knowledge at the time?”

  Dirk snickered as if she was an idiot and said, “Absolutely not. Very few lawyers were aware of the loophole last year. It’s a tax issue, and most lawyers stay away from tax work. It’s all I do.”

  “How often does the defendant call you for advice?”

  “I don’t log my personal phone calls, Ms. Cook. Simon and I talk all the time. Last year I had a bankruptcy question so I called him. Back and forth. That’s what lawyers do. There was nothing at all unusual about the call you’re referring to.”

  Dirk was believable and Cora was on her heels, six-inch ones. Actually, lawyers, or at least the ones Simon knew, rarely relied on one another for legal advice. To do so would be to admit ignorance. But Dirk was scoring points for the defense and the Commonwealth was losing interest.

  On cross-examination, Raymond asked, “Mr. Wheeler, what’s the going hourly rate for estate tax lawyers these days in Washington, D.C.?”

  “Oh, they vary, same as most legal fees. The big firms with the big clients are charging fifteen hundred an hour. Smaller tax firms are trying to catch up.”

  “May I ask how much you charge per hour?”

  “Sure. It’s no secret. We post all of our fees for any new client. Right now my rate is nine hundred an hour.”

  “That sounds like a lot of money?”

  “It is indeed, but we deal with wealthy clients with many assets, often in different countries. They owe a lot in taxes and prefer to avoid them as much as possible. These are complicated situations that require a high level of skill.”

  “Do you think five hundred an hour is a fair rate for the legal work involved in Ms. Barnett’s estate?”

  “More than fair.”

  Simon glanced at the jury box and made eye contact with Number Eleven, Mindy Rutledge, a thirty-four-year-old mother of three whose husband had just been kicked out of the Navy. The disgusted look she gave Simon meant only one thing: How dare you expect me to believe that anybody is worth five hundred dollars an hour?

  * * *

  During lunch, they hustled back to the offices of Marshall Graff and met in the “war room,” as they called it. They were standing and eating cold sandwiches when Landy arrived and shut the door behind her. “This meeting never happened, okay?”

  They agreed and gathered around her laptop on the table. She pressed a key and the video began. Landy narrated, “At eight-oh-four this morning, Matilda Clark left the Hampton Inn. That’s her in front, behind is Jerry Korsak. They stopped, said goodbye, quick peck on the cheek, and they got in separate cars.”

  She froze the video for a close-up of Tillie. Simon, Raymond, and Casey leaned in closer.

  “Ms. Clark drove three hours to Fredericksburg, Virginia, where she parked in a lot next to an apartment building in a large complex. Unit 614 has been rented by Jerry Korsak since February of this year. About an hour after she entered the building, a repairman knocked on the door, she answered, and he apologized, said he had the wrong place. He works for us and verified her identity. Meanwhile, Jerry returned to the courtroom and found a seat on the back row. He’s wearing glasses and may be trying to disguise himself.”

  Simon said, “I saw him. He’s been here every day.”

  Casey: “I guess he’s an interested party.”

  Simon said, “His lawyer, Teddy Hammer, is back there too. They smell blood.”

  “And money.”

  Landy closed her laptop and said, “Okay, boys, I could get fired for this, so mum’s the word. The agency takes a very dim view of moonlighting.”

  “Not a word,” Raymond said.

  “Thanks a lot, Landy.”

  “Don’t mention it. Good luck.”

  She nodded and left, no handshake, no peck on the cheek of her old boyfriend. Strictly business.

  Raymond crunched on some chips and said, “Fascinating, yes, but right now it’s a diversion, one that we have to ignore.”

  Simon was bewildered by the images of Tillie and Jerry together. He said, “I don’t understand. Shouldn’t we tell the judge about this?”

  Both defense lawyers shook their heads. Raymond said, “No, you can’t simply call time-out and say, ‘Hey Judge, we might have some more clues here.’ ”

  Casey said, “It’s suspicious as hell, all right, but we have no proof of anything even remotely relevant.”

  Simon sat down loudly, raked his fingers through his hair, and said, “This jury is going to crush me, I can tell.”