“I assume there’s a lot of chatter online.”
“It’s horrible.”
“And social media?”
“It’s horrible.”
She was using the same icy tone Simon had become accustomed to over the years, yet there was an even harder edge to it. He couldn’t blame her.
“What about Janie?”
“She’s a mess. They’re all in shock, Simon. What do you expect? Their father is in jail charged with murder. First our separation, then the divorce, now this. It’s front-page news and viral on the internet. The kids are traumatized.”
“Have you explained to them that I am not guilty, that I haven’t killed anyone?”
“Yes, I’ve tried and they want to believe it, they really do. They love their father. But it’s all so confusing and they’re just overwhelmed. Right now there are two television vans parked in the street in front of the house. We can’t go out. A city cop is guarding the driveway. We had reporters knocking on the door at eight this morning. These creeps are rude and shameless, Simon, but they’re here and they’re not going away. We need to get out of town. I’m thinking of sneaking away to my parents’. Forget school tomorrow. I’m not sending them and they don’t want to go.”
Simon rubbed his eyes with one hand and held the phone with the other. He had never felt so defeated.
She continued, strong and icy, “And this is just the beginning, Simon. Tomorrow you’re in court and it will be a zoo, but it’s just the first appearance, the first of many, all leading up to a trial that will be a world-class shit show. Those creeps in the street will dog you, and your family, every step of the way.”
Simon thought that was a bit over-reactive, but he had no standing to argue. Nor was he hiding in the house, peeking through the curtains at the creeps with cameras.
He said, “Look, Paula, I have to talk to the kids and convince them I’m innocent. They have to know right now, up front, that their father is not a murderer.”
“Simon, right now that seems impossible.”
Another gut punch.
“The sentiment online is running heavily in favor of guilt and there seems to be no shortage of people who want to know why you’re charged with first-degree murder and not capital murder. They want the death penalty.”
Another gut punch.
A thirty-second ceasefire ensued as both realized they were getting nowhere. Finally, Simon said, “I need a favor. Could you please call Raymond Lassiter and ask him to be here at the jail at two this afternoon?”
“And who is Raymond Lassiter?”
“My lawyer, for now anyway.”
“Oh yeah. I saw his name. How much will this cost you, Simon?”
You, not us.
“I don’t know. We’re still negotiating. There’s a good chance he’ll fire me this afternoon.”
“Then who will represent you?”
“Probably some court-appointed kid fresh out of law school. I’ll worry about that tomorrow.”
It was apparent that she was not worrying much about him. She had not asked about bail and the prospect of getting out, nor had she shown any interest in the life behind bars. That was fine with Simon. She was concerned only with the kids.
To end the misery, Simon said, “Gotta go now, I’m out of time.”
“I don’t know what to say, Simon. I’m sorry this is happening. I wish I could help but we are, after all, practically divorced now. My only concern is protecting the children and I’m not sure how to do that right now. Any suggestions?”
“Get ’em out of town.”
Simon opened the door and waited as the guard cuffed his wrists. As he walked by the front desk, Mason said, “Hey Latch, got some reporters outside lurking around. What do you want to do with them?”
“Arrest them, put them in the cell next to me and I’ll give them a story.”
Chapter 36
The street was still dark and empty when Paula opened the garage door a few minutes after five on Monday morning. A police cruiser pulled into the driveway, on schedule, and the officer got out and said hello. She herded the three kids out of the house, each carrying an overnight bag and a backpack. They hustled to the car and sped away behind the officer. No one noticed them. One mile past the city limits, the cruiser turned into the parking lot of a convenience store. Paula tapped the horn and never slowed down. She had no idea when she might return.
She had spent the night in her bed with her laptop, never bothering to put on pajamas and with no thoughts of sleep. The story was huge and growing by the hour, though almost no new facts had surfaced in the past twenty-four hours. The news cycle was now spinning what had already been spun and recycling every tidbit of speculation. Simon’s face was on every major newspaper’s online edition, with print on the way. The story was simply too sensational to ignore. When she saw the headline from a newspaper in Oregon that screamed: “Virginia Lawyer Arrested for Poisoning Rich Client” she knew any hope of fairness was gone. There was no tempering, no throttling, no effort whatsoever to play by the old rules. What rules? Not too long ago any reputable newspaper would try to control itself and cautiously use language like “alleged poisoning.” Not now. Now Simon had been caught and declared guilty.
The comments from the average readers were so mean-spirited and scathing that Paula forced herself to stop reading them. She spent hours throughout the night answering thoughtful emails from many of their friends. By phone, she spoke to her boss and informed him she was taking a week of vacation. Getting out of Braxton couldn’t happen fast enough.
Mercifully, the three kids were asleep within minutes, and as she drove Paula tried to enjoy the solitude without worrying about being watched. She felt sorry for Simon, but there was nothing she could do at the moment.
The chief of police arrived to take charge, and sent for the prisoner. When Simon stepped into the visitation room the chief said, “Look, Simon, you got a packed house today with lots of cameras. Raymond asked for a big favor and I said yes. It might be embarrassing for you to walk into court in your orange coveralls, so take ’em off and put these on again.” He nodded at Simon’s jeans and jacket.
“Thanks Chief.” Simon seemed grateful, but what he really wanted to do was to ask the chief why his jail used bright orange, practically neon orange, coveralls in the first place.
The jail was soon busy with officers. The moment offered excitement and the chief wanted a show of force. Simon wanted to ask why. The victim was an old woman with no family and few friends. Where was the security risk? Who were the cops afraid of?
A pack of dogs waited outside the jail and readied their cameras as the cops filed out. Some couldn’t resist the opportunity and yelled such banalities as “Hey, Simon, how much money is in the estate?” and “Hey, Simon, where’d you get the thallium? It’s banned in the U.S.”
The van was fifteen feet from the back door of the jail and Simon ducked into it. Two motorcycles and a cruiser led the way, with another behind the van. Simon could have walked from the jail to the courthouse in five minutes, but a little parade was necessary. They went down Main Street so everyone could have a look, then circled the square. Simon sat high in the seat and looked through the window. If not handcuffed, he would have waved at his spectators.
Protected by the same security force, he entered the courtroom from a side door and did not look at the crowd. The place was full, and he had no desire to make eye contact with anyone. He took a seat near the jury box and studied his feet, a cop on each side. Raymond bent down and they whispered. When Judge Pointer finished with some paperwork, she called his name. He and Raymond approached the bench. Simon gritted his teeth, looked Her Honor dead in the eyes, and refused to blink.