The Widow

Chapter 43

Monday, May 23.

Simon was awake staring at the digital clock when it chirped at 5 A.M.

It was depressing to begin a day knowing full well that the day would be one of the worst in his life. It was even more depressing to think that tomorrow would be even worse and the following days would only spiral down. He needed strong coffee but there was none in the budget hotel “suite” he had reserved for the next five days. After two nights he was having fond memories of the Braxton city jail.

Perhaps the only bright spot at the moment was the fact that his head was clear; no cobwebs, no dull pain. If Raymond could swear off booze during the trial, then so could his client. He allowed himself five minutes to stare at the dark ceiling and listen to the grind of diesel engines in eighteen-wheelers passing each other on one of the Tidewater’s endless six-lane bypasses. Dawn was an hour away but the traffic was already making noise. Where was he and how did he get there? That question had dogged him for months now, and with effort he could almost piece together a narrative. For the much larger question — Where was he going? — there was no answer, only fear.

The awful day was not going away. It had to be confronted, and if not outright challenged then at least stared down with a faux confidence that he could handle anything the mighty Commonwealth of Virginia threw at him. He kicked off the covers, planted his feet on the cheap carpet, and realized he was already tired. Then he showered quickly and dressed as he had been told. Raymond suggested a dark suit, white shirt, bland tie, nothing that might irritate a juror. As a former gambler, Simon would bet $1,000 on the spot that none of the seven male jurors waiting to judge him would be wearing a tie.

Seven men, five women; nine whites, two blacks, one Asian. Two alternates. He knew their names, occupations, religions, educational backgrounds, and so on. The previous Wednesday, they had been selected in an empty courtroom in less than three hours. Of the forty-eight in the first panel summoned by the clerk, only seven raised their hands when asked if they knew anything about the case. Over half had never heard of Braxton, Virginia. The defense was thrilled with the lack of notoriety. A second panel was not needed. Judge Shyam was a wizard in the courtroom and flawlessly officiated the selection of the jury. Raymond said it was the fairest process he had ever seen in his forty-plus years.

Her Honor was also quite prescient in anticipating publicity. The Sunday edition of the Tidewater Times had a front-page story with a stock photo of Simon, complete with all of the sensational allegations against him. It included hints about the mysterious last will and testament, the alleged fortune, the power of attorney signed on her deathbed, the advance directive which allowed him to pull the plug, the fortuitous passing on December 30, the cremation angle, then the proof of poisoning. On page two there were other stories, one filled with random man-on-the-street comments from folks in Braxton. Most hid behind requests for anonymity. Another story traced the history of murder-by-poison in America and used FBI statistics. Thallium has a long and sordid history with murder.

Simon was nauseous when he read the stories, but also grateful the jury had already been selected. Now that it was empaneled, it had been strongly admonished by Her Honor to avoid the press if possible, speak to no one about the case, and, most important, keep an open mind until all the evidence had been presented. She had dwelt on the presumption of innocence and lectured the jury on the basic principle that Simon Latch was innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.

It certainly sounded strong last Wednesday in an empty courtroom. Today, though, the courtroom would be crowded with journalists of every stripe and ilk, along with dozens of spectators and courthouse regulars. Additional bailiffs and guards had been summoned by Judge Shyam.

As he left his room he stopped to examine himself in the mirror. His pants were loose because he was quite a bit thinner than he’d been before the indictment. Landy, his de facto girlfriend, had said more than once that his face was gaunt and he had bags under his eyes. Raymond said it was important for him to maintain a pleasant look on his face, nothing fake or goofy, just an occasional quick smile, maybe a nod here and there, and never a frown nor a look of concern, though, at the same time, never a look of cockiness or indignation.

Thanks, Raymond. Anything else? Any other tricks to try with my face while I’m trying to listen, analyze, and remember every word spoken in court, and also taking pages of notes while stealing glances at the jurors?

It was still dark when he left the hotel and headed toward Virginia Beach, three miles away. He saw an all-night pancake house and stopped for coffee. He bought the Monday edition of the Tidewater Times, and once again saw his face on the front page.

Raymond had no shortage of trial lawyer buddies around the Commonwealth. Marshall Graff was the king of torts in Virginia Beach and had offered his offices to the defense. They were impressive, a far cry from anything in Braxton. Expensive, ultra-modern furnishings, a splendid conference room with twenty leather chairs around a long, wide table, enough offices to house his twenty-five-lawyer team and support staff, and on the third floor a small workroom where Raymond set up shop with a view of the courthouse.

Simon walked in at 7 A.M. and found the coffeepot. Raymond and Casey Noland arrived a few minutes later. Raymond said he was ready, said it was “showtime,” said if you weren’t nervous the first day of the trial, then something was wrong. He told a couple first-day stories that were hard to follow.

Simon listened as he kept an eye on the street in front of the courthouse. The television vans were arriving and being herded to the proper spots by a small army of city policemen. Barricades were in place to keep the sidewalks clear of reporters and onlookers. The jurors would enter through a side door, away from the press. Simon had his own strategy, one that Marshall Graff had put together with his paralegals.

At 8:30, Raymond and Casey loaded their thick briefcases and walked to the front entrance of the courthouse. They attracted plenty of attention, and a smiling Raymond enjoyed bantering with the reporters while saying nothing. They wanted to know where his client was hiding. Raymond said Simon was sleeping in that morning.

An associate of Marshall Graff’s drove Simon to a service entrance, where he jumped out by the dumpsters and entered, unseen. At 8:55, he strode into the courtroom with Raymond and Casey, took a seat at the defense table, and tried not to notice the crowd watching him.

Judge Shyam assumed the bench at precisely 9 A.M. and said good morning. She went through her usual spiel about the trial and her rules governing the decorum in her courtroom. She gave a general outline of how the trial would progress and predicted it would be completed by the end of the week, but there was no rush. She informed the crowd that the jury had already been selected and asked the bailiffs to bring the jurors. They entered, some rather tentatively, and assumed their numbered chairs in the jury box.

Judge Shyam nodded at Cora Cook, who rose and walked purposefully to the podium in front of the jurors. Not a single garment in her closet could be considered conservative, but she was still quite impressive in solid black. The heels were not quite as high and the skirt wasn’t quite as tight, but she kept a nice figure and knew how to display it. The jurors looked her over while she smiled and said hello. Then she began with an obsequious opening in which she thanked the jurors repeatedly for their service, and so on.

Simon scribbled on his legal pad, “as if they have a choice???”

Cora got to the heart of the matter soon enough. “This is a case of murder driven by greed.” Her words were delivered solemnly, with a nice dramatic flair. Simon could feel the jurors’ eyes boring down upon him. He did not look up.

“In March of last year, in the town of Braxton, up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a lovely lady named Eleanor Barnett, a widow with no children, made an appointment to see a lawyer named Simon Latch, the defendant.” Cora paused for more drama and pointed at Simon. He nodded gravely at her finger as if to say, Yes, that’s me but you got the wrong person.

“Ms. Barnett was eighty-five years old and wanted to make a new will. The defendant had been a lawyer in Braxton for eighteen years, was well known, and had prepared many simple, inexpensive wills. The meeting took place as scheduled on March the tenth in his office on Main Street. At some point during the first meeting, the defendant realized that a simple will would not be sufficient for Ms. Barnett, at least not in his opinion. She was not an average client. Indeed, she said she had millions of dollars in assets, and no debts. She claimed to own stock in Coca-Cola and Wal-Mart and said she kept several million dollars in cash in a bank in Atlanta. Greed entered the picture and the defendant decided on a different course of action. For the previous twelve years, his secretary, Matilda Clark, had typed every will in the office. It’s fairly routine legal work. But for some reason, the defendant did not allow Ms. Clark to prepare the will, but rather typed it himself and said nothing to his secretary about it. From that moment on, the defendant had a scheme to ingratiate himself to Ms. Barnett and get as much of her money as possible.”

Simon scribbled, “So far, so good, pretty much on point, got her facts straight. Why am I sweating already?”

Raymond had warned him that most prosecutors try to dehumanize their targets by referring to them only as the defendant. Cora was following the playbook.

She said, “Unfortunately, the scheme ended in the poisoning and death of Ms. Barnett.” In another effort at high drama, she pointed at him again and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Ms. Barnett died at the hands of her own lawyer, this defendant sitting right here.”

Cora then made a harmless mistake by talking about the will the defendant prepared and typed himself. She lost the jury for the moment when she tried to explain some of the trusts. Simon watched them and knew they were either confused or bored.

His mind wandered. To be called a murderer and put on trial would be a nightmarish ordeal even for a guilty person. The horror was the potential punishment: death by lethal injection, or decades in prison. But for an innocent man, the entire charade was overwhelming and surreal. Simon kept telling himself that it wasn’t really happening, that at some pivotal moment the judge would stop everything, dismiss the jury, admonish the prosecutor, and instruct the defendant to walk out of the courthouse, an innocent man. And, oh by the way, sorry for the trouble. But with each hour of each day, he was quietly growing accustomed to the role of the accused. The grinding machinery of American justice was often slow to start, but once the disparate elements finally came together at one time and in one place — the courtroom — there was no stopping the train wreck.

Cora returned to his scheming ways and the jury perked up. The defendant typed the will, then convinced an insurance agent and his wife next door to witness it, then tried his best to keep it quiet. Because of a quirk in our estate tax laws, it would be greatly advantageous to the heirs if Ms. Barnett died in calendar year 2015. Thus, the defendant had a deadline. He slowly befriended Ms. Barnett, spent more time with her, took her to many long lunches, all of which he paid for. During one outing, the couple discovered a Vietnamese restaurant in Braxton. Ms. Barnett especially liked the Saigon ginger cookies the place was known for.

On a large screen hung from the wall across from the jury, Cora flashed a color photo of one of the ginger cookies. Flat, about two inches in diameter. Then she added a photo of the Tan Lu’s box. For $6.25 you got a dozen cookies. The last photo was a small mound of white powder on a lab test tray. It resembled baking soda. She said it was a sample of thallium, a poison no longer produced in America but not illegal to possess. Until recently it was commonly used in rat poison. Most of it came from China and India. It was odorless, tasteless, invisible when mixed with other substances, and lethal.

In a movement that was quite dramatic, Cora walked to the exhibit table near the bench and from a cardboard box removed a standard, plastic hospital tray. Two of Tan Lu’s boxes were in the center of it. She held it in front of the jury and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, here’s the murder weapon. Eleven cookies. Nine in one box, two in the other, all laced with thallium. The thirteen that are missing were consumed by the victim. All were purchased by the defendant on two separate days last December, then taken by his secretary to the hospital room of Eleanor Barnett. After the cookies were consumed over a one-week period, Ms. Barnett died of acute toxic poisoning. Her death was slow, painful, and agonizing. The state medical examiner will describe the condition of her body.”

The courtroom was perfectly still. Everyone watched as Cora carefully placed the tray back in the cardboard box. She handled it as if the slightest jiggle might unleash the thallium and kill her, the court reporter, maybe the judge as well.

She returned to the podium and flipped through her notes. Simon could almost feel the stares from some of the jurors, and they were not conveying sympathy.

“Now, once Ms. Barnett was dead, the defendant tried desperately to cover his tracks, to hide the evidence.” She lifted a document and waved it around. “This is called an advance directive. Also known as a living will. Typed up by the defendant, presented to Ms. Barnett in the hospital, probably while she was eating the cookies, and signed by her there, upon his advice.”

Raymond startled everyone by standing and yelling, “Objection, Your Honor. Pure speculation. Ms. Cook doesn’t know when the deceased ate the cookies.”

Her Honor was as shaken as everyone else by the outburst and took a second to react. Raymond thundered away, “Please instruct the prosecutor to stick to the facts, Your Honor.” He turned and glared at Cora and said, “Or maybe you do know if she was eating and what she was eating when she signed the document, and if you do know then please tell us, but don’t just fabricate facts.”

“Order, order, Mr. Lassiter,” the judge said. “That’s enough. This is an opening statement and great latitude is allowed. You’ll get your chance in a moment, Mr. Lassiter. Objection is overruled.”

Raymond angrily fell into his chair, still glaring at Cora as if she’d committed a major sin. She had not. She had simply massaged the facts a bit, something that happened all the time and was routinely allowed. Raymond’s loud interruption was nothing but drama, an attempt to intimidate Cora and also set the tone for the trial. He would not be pushed around.

Cora was flustered for a moment and lost her place. She shuffled some papers, checked her notes, and lifted another document, holding each by a corner as if they were sticky and odorous. “And this is a power of attorney signed by Ms. Barnett as she was signing her advance directive. Taken together, both documents gave the defendant the power to terminate her medical care with, of course, the advice of her doctors. On Wednesday, December 30, while on a ventilator and showing no brain activity, the defendant, along with the doctors, decided to pull the plug. She died ninety minutes later.”

Simon glanced at his watch, though there was no need. A large clock hung on the wall high above the bench. Cora had been going strong for almost an hour, and the jury was still captivated. Simon felt ill and struggled to maintain a look of concerned confidence.

Cora Cook was good and quite effective. She didn’t yell or preach or overplay the facts. She stuck to them, probably because they were in her favor. She walked the jury through the actions taken by the defendant immediately after Ms. Barnett died. Within two hours he called the funeral home and arranged to have her picked up from the hospital and whisked away to be...cremated!

Burning a corpse, even when done intentionally by a mortician, was such a dramatic visual and Cora banged the drum too long. Simon scribbled, “Enough already!”

What was the killer’s motive? Greed, money, absolute control of the estate, huge fees. The will the defendant typed himself and signed by Ms. Barnett gave him complete control of her assets. Her home, her stocks, everything she owned would be sold and the proceeds put in a trust and there was only one trustee — the defendant. He controlled the checkbook. He could play Santa Claus and give it all away. And while doing so he could pay himself rather generously to the tune of $500 an hour. Such a rate might seem low on Wall Street where billionaires and giant corporations sue each other, but for a general practice lawyer doing simple estate work in small-town America, the rate was excessive.

Again, she went on a bit too long as she found the greed angle irresistible. But she seemed to realize it, and moved quickly to the punch line, to the joke, to the hoax. It seemed as if the defendant’s scheme to collect huge fees was all for naught. At one point in her life Eleanor Barnett was a very wealthy woman, but the money vanished in bad investments. There was no fortune. Perhaps she was living in the past, still dreaming, but we’ll never know.

Cora finally began to wind down. Judge Shyam had not set a time limit and perhaps that was a mistake. Cora read the situation right and rushed through her final comments. She promised the jurors that when all the proof was in, they would have no problem believing the defendant poisoned his client. It would be their sworn duty to return a verdict of guilty.

Judge Shyam recessed for twenty minutes.