Iris made half a dozen calls and with little progress. Apparently, most sources shut down on Friday night in Braxton. Fifteen minutes later, another anonymous email arrived:
Eleanor Barnett, age 85, was pronounced dead on December 30, at the Blue Ridge Memorial Hospital. Cause of death — pneumonia. But, an autopsy later revealed she had been poisoned. You have the exclusive but act fast. This story has enormous tabloid appeal.
Iris agreed and kept digging online for another hour, again with nothing to show for it. She went to bed early with plans to head over to Braxton in the morning for a long day of investigating.
The cell was twelve-by-twelve with concrete blocks on three sides and a wall of iron bars facing the hallway. Two bunk beds hung from the wall by metal braces. Fortunately, the top bunk was unoccupied, and Simon had the cell to himself. Directly across the hall, Loomis, a car thief, was also solo, and lonely, and wanted to talk to someone. Actually, he preferred to have someone listen while he went on and on. Two cells away, Carl, an alleged drug dealer who claimed to be innocent, told Loomis more than once to shut up. Others yelled back and forth, but as the night wore on, the talking stopped.
Simon tried to read but could not concentrate. He tried every trick he could remember to keep his thoughts away from his children, but it was impossible. They were about to be subjected to unrelenting embarrassment because of something he didn’t do, but the damage would be done before he could be cleared. The damage was just beginning.
The cheap mattress was two inches thick. The blanket was well worn but clean. The temperature was a little on the chilly side, but Loomis said they were lucky because the heat pump had been on the blink. It was snowing outside, though that was hearsay to Simon. He didn’t know where the nearest window might be but it wasn’t close.
Loomis said men often cried during their first nights in jail, after lights out. He said you could always hear them in the dark, even with pillows over their faces. The pathetic sobs of grown men locked away from everything they love.
When their wing was finally still, Simon knew the men were awake, waiting to hear him cry.
Chapter 34
On his first morning of captivity, Simon learned several important things. First, the alarm sounded at five-thirty, according to his wristwatch, which seemed cruel for any day but especially harsh for a cold Saturday in January. Second, breakfast was served fifteen minutes later when a guard slid a tray through a narrow opening under the bars. Third, breakfast was a miserable effort at even the most basic food preparation. The white bread toast was cold and burnt around the edges. The powdered eggs were mush, just as cold, and served on top of three slices of fatty bacon that a dog would only sniff at. The small metal bowl of grits had the smell and texture of caulking compound. The green apple was bitter. The instant coffee was little more than hot water and thoroughly free of any flavor. Fourth, as lousy as it was, it was the best meal of the day, according to Loomis across the hall.
Simon had no idea how long he would be incarcerated but he couldn’t survive more than a week before starvation became a factor. Something didn’t add up. The food was barely edible but most of the inmates were as fat as the guards. There must be vending machines somewhere in the jail.
When the guard came to retrieve the tray about fifteen minutes later, Simon said, “Wow, thanks, that was delicious. What time is lunch?”
The guard, a thick simpleton who had never missed a meal, frowned and said, “Two thousand calories a day, bud, that’s all you get.”
Yeah, and you get that many with your morning doughnuts.
Simon reclined on his bunk and braced himself for a long day of boredom and humiliation. He was still hungry. There was one light in the center of the ceiling and it was on. He could not turn it off. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t read, and had no desire to begin the day listening to Loomis over there chatter on about the cars he’d stolen.
Iris Kane had a hunch that the best gossip would be in the coffee shops, and she was right. She trudged through the two inches of snow covering the sidewalks, walked past the City Café, saw the crowd, ducked inside, grabbed a stool at the counter, and ordered coffee and a biscuit. A long, stained mirror offered a good view of the customers. A quick glance revealed that she was the only female customer. The men were layered in flannel and heavy down jackets to stay warm. Every head had a trucker’s cap. Half the men had beards. The scene reminded Iris of a logging camp in Oregon she had once covered.
Everyone seemed to be talking. Nothing like a good murder to stir up the locals, though this one lacked the violence and drama they expected from television. Poisoning an old woman? What a cowardly crime.
Within two minutes, any rookie reporter would have been well versed in the story of the day.
“I hear Latch is looking at the death penalty.”
“Crooked sumbitch was after her money, plain and simple.”
“Anybody ever meet the old gal?”
“No. I heard she’s from Atlanta, moved here to retire with a bundle of money.”
“God help her if she trusted these lawyers.”
“Well, I never trusted Latch.”
“He picked her clean, or was trying to.”
“He’s a tricky one.”
“Hang on. I like Simon, known him for years. Good boy.”
“Heard he and his wife filed papers. Splitsville.”
“Well, she’ll get the house and kids now, with his ass locked up.”
“When’s he going to court?”
“Heard it was Monday morning. He’s trying to get out of jail already.”
“Can he make bond on a murder charge?”
“Of course he can. He’s a lawyer. No judge is going to keep a lawyer in jail for long. He’ll be out before you know it and they’ll have a helluva time hanging a murder charge on him. Different rules for different folks.”
“Heard he’s hired Raymond Lassiter.”
“See what I mean. Slickest dude in Virginia, never loses in the courtroom.”
“Well, he’s got his hands full with this one.”
Iris tried to scribble notes without getting caught. She was probably the only outsider in the place and if they suspected she was a reporter they would go silent in an instant. She might even get tossed. She found a copy of a local shopper’s guide and pretended to read it.
One truth was obvious: Simon Latch and his defense team should demand a change of venue and get the case away from these registered voters. Everyone had an opinion and the clear majority had already decided Latch was guilty.
Iris paid her bill and left before anyone noticed her. The town was coming to life and merchants up and down Main Street were scraping the sidewalk and shoving snow to the gutter. The public library opened at eight and she found a quiet corner. She opened her laptop and began writing down as many of the comments as possible. She searched for Raymond Lassiter and called his office, but got only the recording. It was, after all, Saturday. She found a number for the city jail but the officer on duty would not confirm the identity of any inmate. She went to the archives for both the Journal and the Braxton Gazette and looked at the rather sparse references to Simon Latch. From the county court records, she found the divorce filing, which revealed very little. There was a reference to a recent petition involving Eleanor Barnett, but the file had been sealed by court order. Suspicious?
After two hours of digging, Iris needed to walk. She bundled up and went outside. She found the offices of Raymond Lassiter and knocked on the door. No answer. Same at the offices of Simon F. Latch, Attorney and Counselor at Law. The city police department was practically deserted and the officer on duty clammed up when she said she was a reporter. She walked to the jail to try again, but no one would confirm anything. She drove to the hospital and poked around, but if anyone knew anything or had any authority, they were off duty. She stopped by the funeral home where there were no services scheduled for the weekend. A part-time secretary knew nothing.