She had Simon’s home address but chose not to upset the family. His wife had filed for divorce. He was sitting in jail charged with murder. She could not imagine the nightmare they were going through.
For lunch, Iris chose another downtown café, one that was not crowded. She ate a salad as she eavesdropped, but there was no talk of the arrest. She returned to her quiet spot in the library and began putting together a story. Her working title was: “Lawyer Arrested in Poisoning Death of Wealthy Client.” She liked it but knew her editor would not. He seldom did.
As if someone were watching, another phantom email pinged. The anonymous source was back with: “DC atty Teddy Hammer represents E. Barnett’s heirs. He likes to talk.”
The informant was trouble because he or she knew far too much about the case. Which, to Iris or any other investigator, meant the informant was probably involved in the crime at some level. Why did this person want Simon Latch investigated and humiliated? Many questions, few answers.
Iris called the office number for Teddy Hammer and got the standard after-hours recording. She left a message and returned to her notes. Ten minutes later her cell phone buzzed, and it was Teddy Hammer.
“I can’t talk on the record,” he said. “But I can share some deep background.”
Cautiously, she asked, “What is your involvement in the case?”
“Can we agree that I will not be sourced? Can we agree this is deep background?”
Iris loathed using unnamed sources and was always irritated by these situations, but she really had no choice. A prominent lawyer knew the case, had a lot to say, and wanted to talk. At the moment her story had too many gaps, and she had a hunch this guy could fill most of them.
She said, “Okay, you’re off the record and now considered deep background.”
“I’m recording this conversation and I suggest you do the same.”
She tapped a key and said, “I’m recording this conversation with Mr. Teddy Hammer on Saturday, January sixteenth, at 2:20 P.M.”
Mr. Hammer immediately said, “There’s been no press so far. How did you hear of the arrest?”
“An anonymous tip, by email, last night.”
A pause as he mulled it over. “Okay, what’s your first question.”
“What is your involvement?”
“I represent the two stepsons of Eleanor Barnett, Jerry and Clyde Korsak. Two weeks ago we rushed to court to prevent the cremation of Ms. Barnett only hours after she died.”
“Who was trying to cremate her?”
“He’s sitting in jail.”
Chapter 35
At five-thirty the following morning, Simon was actually sleeping for a change when the alarm bells sounded and the guards entered the wing, clanging doors and yelling for everyone to wake up. Breakfast was being served. As if breakfast was something to get excited about. In the break room down the hall Simon had found the vending machines and was currently subsisting on Cokes and potato chips.
Cokes. The same thought flashed through his mind: Netty and all that common stock, and he still wondered if it was really there.
The guard, Mason, worked the early shift and thus had the pleasure of serving two gourmet meals to his boys. Simon had managed to chat him up the day before.
“Mornin’, Latch.”
“Well, good morning, Officer Mason. So good to see you again. What’s cooking this morning?”
“The same.”
“Lucky me.”
As Simon was picking up his tray, Mason slid a newspaper under the bars. “Might want to take a look at this. Front page, Metro. You’ve hit the big time, Latch. A real star.”
The Sunday Journal, two inches thick and packed with coupons. Simon knew what was coming so he sat on the edge of his bed and took a deep breath. He thought he had braced himself for the bad PR. It could not have been worse.
Metro, above the fold, a large black-and-white photo of Simon Latch, smiling, jacket and tie, posing for the camera. Someone had borrowed it from the county bar directory published a few years earlier. Beside it was the unrestrained tabloid headline: “Estate Lawyer Accused in Poisoning Death of Wealthy Widow Client.”
It covered everything: a brief bio of the accused; same for the victim; the new will that gave him absolute control of her assets; then a power of attorney and advance directive, signed in the hospital just days before her death, that gave him the power to turn off the ventilator; which he did; the suspicious efforts to cremate the body a few hours after death; the heroic intervention of the stepsons, who demanded an autopsy; and the fact that she was poisoned, probably while in the hospital. It was a long article with no shortage of innuendos and speculations. Indeed, at every point where one word would suffice but three would seem more sinister, Ms. Kane went with the longer sentence. While not a single source agreed to be quoted or identified, off the record they were babbling away. Simon immediately suspected Teddy Hammer as one of the conspirators. His flattering accounts of the actions by his clients, the stepsons, were a bit over-the-top. Some of the details from the injunction hearing before Judge Pointer had to be relayed by a person who was in the courtroom, a clear violation of the judge’s orders.
The article ended with the information that Mr. Latch would appear in court Monday morning at 9 A.M. to be arraigned and request bail, which was discretionary but rarely given in murder cases. The tone was basically an invitation for everyone to come to court tomorrow, have a look at the defendant, and share in the excitement.
Simon wiped sweat from his forehead, realized his hands were shaking, and suddenly bolted for the tiny metal toilet in one corner of his cell. He vomited and retched and gagged until all of yesterday’s potato chips were in either the bowl or on the lid.
Across the hall Loomis asked, “Hey man, you okay?”
But Simon did not answer. When the nausea finally passed he stretched out on his bunk and pulled the blanket up to his eyes. He wanted to die. Was it possible to suffocate oneself with a pillow?
Every potential juror reading the Journal would quickly vote to convict, and Simon couldn’t blame them.
Traffic at the jail was slow on Sunday mornings, and Mason had the front desk to himself. At 9 A.M., another guard put handcuffs on Simon and led him to the front.
“I’d like to use the phone,” he said politely.
“Who you calling?” Mason asked.
“My wife and my lawyer.”
“Local calls?”
“Yes sir.”
Mason nodded at a door and the guard led him into a room with several phones on a long table. The guard removed the handcuffs and said, “I’ll be outside.” He shut the door and Simon was alone.
He called Paula’s cell and she didn’t answer, which was not unusual. She rarely took a call from an unidentified number. Simon left the message that he would call back in five minutes. He did and she answered after the first ring.
“How are the kids?” he asked.
“Coping, I guess. It’s not easy.”
“Have you seen the Journal?”
“Oh yes. The story was posted last night online and Matilda called me. By midnight it was all over town. Now it’s everywhere. My phone’s ringing, lots of emails.”
“Have the kids seen it?”
“Are you kidding? Buck and Danny live online and miss nothing. They’re locked in their rooms and won’t come out. We did a lousy job of monitoring their devices.”