He explained that he possessed an extensive collection of materials regarding the suspect: his personnel, employment, HR files from the four hospitals where he had worked in the past decade; the voluminous medical records of patients in those hospitals who had died either by poisoning or similar, though undiagnosed, symptoms; along with a mountain of materials regarding the claims of two deceased patients in Scranton, Pennsylvania.

  Shelia Wycoff asked, “How did you obtain the personnel records from the hospitals?”

  “I paid a hacker. I don’t know anything about hacking, so I found someone who did.”

  “Did you violate statutes?”

  “Oh hell yeah, and maybe I’ll do it again. What are you gonna do, indict me? Look, Ms. Wycoff, I’ve already been convicted, wrongfully, you see, and I’m headed to prison for a long time. I really don’t give a damn about breaking laws at this point. Pile it on. I don’t care if you indict me.”

  Carmen Riddle asked, “Okay, what about the claims, the lawsuits, in Scranton. Where did that information come from?”

  “It started with the same hacker, you see. A young lady with a boyfriend who’s in a federal prison camp with two laptops and three phones, all contraband. They’re a great team, unless they get caught. You guys should really tighten up security at your camps. Anyway, they picked up the trail of the Scranton claims and located a lawyer who was involved. I went to see him three days ago and I learned all we need to know about Oscar Kofie. He’s a serial homicidal poisoner with at least three dead bodies notched in his belt, maybe as many as five more. But you don’t have to prove those. Prove only one. Prove only Eleanor Barnett, and send him away for life.”

  It was obvious Simon was miles ahead of them, not only on the facts but also with strategies. Carmen Riddle was curious about the role of the local police.

  Simon dismissed it immediately. “Don’t waste your time. Their case is closed. They got the killer, the wrong one, and they’ll probably defend their bogus investigation until hell freezes over. Standard procedure for law enforcement. Sorry, but that includes the FBI. In wrongful convictions the stakes are too great, and the mistakes are so catastrophic, that no one can ever admit getting the wrong guy. Forget the locals. Nice boys and all that, but you don’t need them. I’m handing you the case, okay?”

  “Got it.”

  Carmen Riddle looked at Landy and asked, “Should we put Kofie under surveillance?”

  Simon barged in with “Why? He’s not going anywhere, unless he gets spooked. Play it cool, don’t tip him off, grab him one day at work, then trash his apartment.”

  Riddle said, “We’ll handle that part, Mr. Latch. For now, I advise you to stop your illegal monitoring of his email.”

  Simon shrugged as if he’d think about it. “Will you get a warrant and watch the apartment?”

  “That’s what we usually do. We’ll tap his phone and his computer.”

  Simon found it funny and said, “Well, if your boys need any help, just let me know. My hackers are already there.”

  The three women seemed startled and glanced at each other. Carmen Riddle took a deep breath and asked Simon, “Do you know the medical director at the hospital in Braxton?”

  “Yes, quite well. Dr. Connor Wilkes.”

  “Well, how should we approach her?”

  “Simple. The most urgent matter right now, other than me saving my own neck, is to make sure this guy does not poison anyone else. Right now the hospital has no clue. They think the Barnett murder is solved, life goes on as usual. Though I’ve heard through the grapevine that they’ve banned all carry-in food. No more cookies and brownies for Grandma. Which is a shame because they should ban all the food from their own cafeteria.”

  Simon paused for a bit of laughter, or at least a nod to his quick wit. Nothing.

  “And I’ve also heard that Tan Lu’s Vietnamese restaurant can’t give the damned ginger cookies away these days. Too bad.”

  Carmen said, “If we could get back to the issues.”

  “Sure. If I were you, I’d have a powwow with the hospital brass soon, tomorrow if possible, and make sure their lawyers are there. Tell them the truth. Tell them that Eleanor Barnett was not poisoned by me. Tell them they have a probable serial killer on their payroll, and that the FBI has the place surrounded.

  “Their exposure is enormous. A trial lawyer’s dream. A public relations nightmare that could easily bankrupt the hospital. Who would want to go there for critical care? Make sure someone inside is watching Kofie to keep him away from the patients. You need the hospital’s cooperation right now, at least until he’s in custody. Once that happens, the shit hits the fan. It’s front-page headlines and the hospital turns into a bunker. I don’t really care. Kofie is their employee. He’ll go to prison and the hospital will be mired in lawsuits for years.”

  Riddle and Wycoff scribbled furiously. Landy looked at some notes. To Simon, the silence indicated they would like to hear some additional thoughts from him. He continued, “Once you meet with the hospital and drop that bomb, you lose control of the story. You can’t trust everyone to keep quiet. If I were in charge, I’d move quickly but carefully. Get your warrants, go through his apartment, where you’re probably going to find one or two locked toolboxes where he keeps his little pharmacy, his collection of poisons. I’ve seen pictures. It’s quite impressive. Includes thallium, which appears to be his favorite. When you find that, you have probable cause.”

  Riddle asked, “And what’s your schedule?”

  “As you know, I’m trying to set aside my guilty verdict. We have a hearing next week, a closed one. You should be there. Let me know and I’ll get you front-row seats.”

  Chapter 65

  Judge Shyam made the wise decision to hear the defendant’s motion several days before she was to sentence him on August 22. That day was on the record, well known and publicized, and thus on the calendar for the reporters, journalists, news crews, and other tabloid junkies. Justice would be better served if those people were not watching. She personally called the lawyers and arranged a closed hearing a week earlier, on August 16, in Virginia Beach. She cautioned them to keep it confidential and wanted no leaks. She even drove home the point by threatening sanctions.

  Before the hearing, she put three deputies at the main door to check the guest list she had screened. Only a handful of people were allowed inside. When they were seated, she entered the courtroom and greeted her invitees. She began with “Mr. Lassiter, it’s your motion to vacate. Please get things started. Feel free to keep your seat.”

  There was no way Raymond could speak properly to a judge while seated. He stood, fiddled with his silk tie, thanked her properly, and said, “Your Honor, my client, Simon Latch, was found guilty in this courtroom on May the twenty-seventh. I was shocked at the verdict, as was Mr. Latch and many others. Since then, we have worked desperately to solve the mystery of who poisoned Eleanor Barnett, and through the rather heroic efforts of Mr. Latch himself, we now know. Our first witness will testify under a pseudonym. His identity must be protected. After he testifies, I will tender to the court an affidavit with his real identification along with an explanation of need for secrecy. This affidavit should not go into the record.”

  “Very well, Mr. Lassiter. You have briefed me and the Commonwealth’s attorney on this. You may call your first witness.”

  “John Doe the Third.”

  “How original,” Simon whispered to Casey.

  Alan Teel took the witness stand with all the confidence of a seasoned trial lawyer who’d had a brilliant career in courtrooms. After being sworn, and after a slight prompt from Raymond, he was off and running. He began his story eight years earlier when a secretary in his unnamed firm got a tip from a nurse about an unusual death at a local hospital, also unnamed. This happened in Pennsylvania. The tip led to more information, then to an investigation by the law firm.

  Cora Cook stood and said, “Your Honor, I hate to interrupt, but are we ignoring all rules of procedure and evidence here? Are we allowing the witness to use hearsay and irrelevant facts and anything else he wants?”

  Judge Shyam said, “Yes we are, Ms. Cook. I want the entire story and I’m the sole decider at this point. There is no jury in the box. I’ll filter the testimony and decide what’s relevant. Thank you.”

  The prosecutor shrugged in defeat and sat down.

  Alan hardly missed a beat and continued with a narrative that he obviously enjoyed sharing with the sparse crowd. He was a wonderful raconteur, like most trial lawyers, and his audience was rapt.

  Simon sipped coffee at the defense table and casually looked around the courtroom. Landy and her boss, Shelia Wycoff, were in the front row. On the far side of the courtroom, Detective Roger Barr sat alone, listening and not taking notes. Then, the usual cast: court reporter, two clerks, one bailiff, the judge.

  After Teel had rambled for an hour, Raymond thought Judge Shyam might be getting bored. So, he decided to liven things up with a video. Casey tapped keys on his laptop and an image appeared on a screen in front of the jury box.

  Teel said, “This is a video of the search inside Oscar Kofie’s apartment. The date is May third, 2009. There are the two metal toolboxes, locked. Our technicians took them to a makeshift lab.” The video continued with footage of the metal boxes being opened, the bottles removed, the samples taken. An unseen voice narrated the action. The video stopped after seventeen minutes.

  Teel described some of the toxins and substances found in the boxes. Then he returned to the lawsuits, the negotiations with the hospital, and so on. He whitewashed his departure from his firm as simply a misunderstanding and did not disparage his former partners in any way. He never mentioned their names. When he finished, some two hours after he started, his small audience was still hanging on his words.

  Judge Shyam said, “Ms. Cook, any cross-examination?”

  Cora appeared flustered, even shell-shocked, as if she was beginning to understand that her conviction was in serious jeopardy and that perhaps she had prosecuted the wrong man. She stood, fumbled with a legal pad, and said, “So, Mr. Doe, your law firm did not prosecute Oscar Kofie when it knew the truth, is that right?”

  “That’s correct. My ex–law firm. I quit by the time the settlement was complete. But yes, they took the money and remained silent.”

  “And that’s why you left the firm?”

  “The main reason, yes. They allowed the killer to walk away without a word to the police. They were hoping that maybe Kofie had learned his lesson and would change his ways, but the problem was that Kofie never knew he’d been caught. It was buried from everyone. His job got cut with several others and he left town, none the wiser. It was a cowardly move by the law firm. And they were praying that he would not kill again. Well, they were wrong. The man is a sociopath, like most serial killers. He works in health care, a place where homicidal poisonings are prevalent. He enjoys watching his victims die, it gives him a perverted sense of control. He eventually showed up in Braxton, Virginia, and here we are.”

  Cora’s questions were getting more answers than she cared to hear, so she sat down. Raymond rose and said, “Your Honor, the defense calls FBI special agent in charge Ms. Shelia Wycoff.”

  Simon glanced at Landy in the front row and gave her a grin. She crossed her legs and smiled in return. It was odd how much better a pretty woman looked in an empty, stale, dusty old courtroom.

  Wycoff testifed that the FBI received information regarding a possible murder, or murders, ten days earlier, and opened an investigation into one Oscar Kofie. He had worked in the hospital for three years, and left under the cloud just described by John Doe the Third. From there he went to a hospital in Baltimore for two years, then to Braxton. At each hospital, there were mysterious deaths that could have been caused by poisoning, and the FBI was investigating.

  At the moment, the FBI was concentrating on the suspect, Oscar Kofie. In fact, the day before, the FBI had obtained a warrant to raid his apartment in Braxton. The raid was successful and yielded a number of poisons, including thallium.

  Simon enjoyed a long look over at Cora Cook, whose face was ashen in disbelief. Her world would only get worse.

  Luckily, the suspect had just received a package containing 25 grams of thallium. It came by U.S. mail from a bogus address in Durban, South Africa. There was a video of the search if the court wanted to view it.

  “Maybe later,” Shyam said, leaving little doubt she had seen enough and had little curiosity left.

  Then the bomb landed, and Simon could almost feel himself sprinting from the courtroom, a free man.

  Wycoff said, “Yesterday at approximately seven-twenty P.M., the suspect was taken into custody as he left the hospital, and he is now locked away in an undisclosed location. He will be charged with one count of first-degree murder. His case will be presented to a federal grand jury next Tuesday.”

  It was the perfect stopping point. There was really nothing left to say. Raymond read it nicely and said, “We tender the witness.” As if Cora could possibly undo any of the damage with a brilliant cross-examination. Instead, she shook her head in defeat.

  “You may be excused, Ms. Wycoff. Your next witness, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “I believe the court has heard enough, Your Honor. The real killer has been arrested by the FBI and will be indicted next week. The Commonwealth made a grave mistake in prosecuting Simon Latch, an innocent man. You should vacate that conviction and set him free.”

  “Ms. Cook.”

  She stood slowly, searching for words. “Perhaps not so fast, Judge. A jury of twelve informed citizens heard the proof and returned a unanimous verdict of guilty. We can’t just ignore that and sweep it aside. The defendant got a fair trial in this courtroom and, at least in my opinion, there was no reversible error. A clean, fair trial.”

  Judge Shyam leaned forward and held some notes. “Ms. Cook, are you familiar with the case of Commonwealth of Virginia versus Herman Dungee?”

  It came from left field and Cora was at a loss. “Maybe. Sounds somewhat familiar.”

  “Mr. Dungee spent thirty-one years in a prison for a rape and murder committed by someone else. Three years ago he was cleared by DNA testing and exonerated. His trial in 1985 was in this very courtroom. The jury returned a unanimous verdict of guilty. The jury got it wrong. Are you familiar with the case of Commonwealth versus Boyd Keenan?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “A case out of Norfolk, just down the road. Mr. Keenan spent eighteen years in prison for a bank robbery that did not go as planned. Two bank tellers were killed. When the crime occurred, Mr. Keenan was working in South Carolina. Nevertheless, the jury convicted him. The jury got it wrong.

  “Are you familiar with the case of Commonwealth versus Harlan Miller, another local screwup?”

  “No.” Cora sat down.

  “Mr. Miller served twenty-eight years on death row and came within six hours of being executed. DNA cleared him. The jury, again in this courtroom, found him guilty and recommended death.”

  She laid down her notes and glared at the prosecutor. “I could go on. In the past thirty years, at least forty-one people in this Commonwealth have been convicted by well-meaning juries, only to be exonerated years later. Across the country, over three thousand innocent people have been cleared, and virtually all of them were convicted by unanimous juries.”

  If Cora had had a white flag, she would have waved it.

  Judge Shyam said, “Would the defendant please rise?”

  Simon was startled, but nonetheless managed to get to his feet. Raymond stood beside him, suppressing a grin.

  “Mr. Latch, on behalf of the Commonwealth of Virginia I apologize for this miscarriage of justice. I was surprised when the jury found you guilty. Fortunately, our rules of criminal procedure allow me to correct a wrong decision. I hereby grant your motion to vacate the verdict of guilty and dismiss the charges against you, with prejudice. I will instruct the Commonwealth’s attorney to close this file and disavow any notion of a re-indictment. You are free to go.”

  Simon’s knees went soft and he fell back into his chair. He covered his eyes with his palms and began to cry.

  * * *

  They drove south for an hour until they came to the Outer Banks. Simon was lost in another world and said nothing. Landy drove with no destination in mind, just happy to be out of Virginia. She glanced at him occasionally to make sure he was okay. His eyes were closed but he was not sleeping.

  What a waste. Of time, money, emotions, lives. What needless suffering. There was so much to say, but no energy to say it.

  They stopped at a convenience store in Currituck because she needed something to eat. Simon saw a picnic table under a tree and said, “I’m going to walk over there and call my kids, and tell them that their father has been declared innocent.”

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