“Cora called this afternoon to offer a plea deal, sort of a formality.”
“It was expected, right?”
“Right. Take a hit for fifteen years, parole after ten, probably, but parole is tough in this state.”
“Fifteen years? I’ll jump off a bridge first.”
“It’s not a bad offer, given the circumstances.”
“What circumstances are you talking about?”
“The facts, Simon, the facts.”
“You still don’t believe me, do you?”
“Oh, I do. I’ve never doubted you. The problem, Simon, is that you look guilty as hell, and I’m not sure how we change that.”
“I’ll testify. I’ll explain everything I did, and I’ll make the jury believe me.”
“Famous last words. Whether you’ll testify or not is a decision we’ll make at the last minute.”
“The answer is no. I’m not guilty and I’m not pleading guilty.”
They worked on their drinks, puffed their cigars. As usual, Casey said little.
For some reason, Raymond began to chuckle. “What is it?” Simon finally snapped.
“Did you really believe the old girl had twenty million dollars?”
“I’m glad you think it’s funny.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“So, what was your first reaction when you were taking notes, the initial consultation with a new client, right, and she says she’s loaded, got twenty mil or so? What was your first thought?”
“Well, it was not a good one. Had something to do with greed.”
Raymond was laughing and Casey appeared to be amused. After a moment or two, Simon wanted to join them. But he couldn’t do it.
He finished his bourbon and left with half a cigar. The only time he walked the streets of Braxton was late at night, usually after leaving Raymond’s. During the day he stayed in his office with the doors locked, and ventured out only after dark.
The air was cool and the night was clear, and so he walked. His thoughts were scrambled around the suggestion that he plead guilty, which was ridiculous, and the destructive lies told by Eleanor, and the prospect of being judged by people who lived far away and knew nothing about the case.
At the moment, Simon felt abandoned by his friends. Not a single one had been loyal. Many had sent quick emails after his arrest, but those had all but stopped. Some of his friends were also friends of Paula’s and, as in most divorces, they couldn’t take sides and found it easier to just ignore the Latches.
The loss of support was crushing. The loss of his children was painful. He called and texted them every day, but they were now four hours away and struggling with their new lives.
And so he walked, for hours.
Chapter 42
In the first week of May two events occurred at virtually the same time, and though neither could rescue Simon from the ugly prospect of being put on trial for murder, they provided the first glimmer of good luck he had seen in months.
First, Paula sold the house in Braxton for more than the list price. After paying off both mortgages, she netted $28,000, a windfall no one was expecting. Simon did the paperwork and charged nothing for the closing. At the last minute, Paula told her ex that she would pay $5,000 in legal fees for his services. It was a fine, generous gesture and, after first protesting meekly, Simon agreed to take the money.
Two days later, his mother called with the welcome news that after twenty-seven unhappy years she was splitting with Arn. Things were somewhat amicable, and they had agreed to a division of the assets. With Arn’s name off her bank accounts, she was now in charge of her money. She was sending her son $10,000 to help with his legal bills. He accepted the money, called it a loan, and promised to repay it at some undetermined time in the future. He was proud of her for showing the courage to walk away from a bad marriage at the age of seventy-three and take her savings with her. He did not know how much money she had squirreled away and he was not about to ask. Never, ever again would he pry into the financial affairs of a senior citizen. On the phone, she sounded ten years younger and was planning a trip to the Greek Isles with some friends. However, if he needed her to be in the courtroom she would happily postpone the trip. He thanked her and promised to consider it.
Off to the Greek Isles with a pocketful of money. He was headed to a courtroom where he would either be condemned to prison or narrowly escape with nothing but the shirt on his back. He had not envied his mother in many years; indeed, he had pitied her because she was stuck with a turd like Arn. Now, she seemed like the luckiest person he knew.
Simon did not want his mother or his children anywhere near the courtroom. He and Paula had discussed the trial at length. It would be impossible to shield the kids from the publicity. Even if the local news in Danville ignored the story, there would be an avalanche of crap online. On the phone, he and Paula had floated the idea of a nightly recap of the trial with the children. She could review the news stories and hold a discussion that would include the facts as presented by the press. It seemed a slightly better idea than simply ignoring the trial and dreaming the kids might somehow escape it. Simon was not afraid of the truth and wanted his children to know that he was not guilty of anything, other than perhaps a little bad judgment. Still, the visual of him going to and from the courthouse, with a horde following and all manner of sensational coverage by the talking heads, was not pleasant.
When the check arrived from his mother, Simon promptly deposited it in his firm’s account and wrote another one to Raymond for legal fees. $10,000. He walked it over to Raymond’s office that night and handed it to him. “One eighty to go,” he said proudly.
“Where’d you get this?” Raymond asked suspiciously.
Simon told him the story. The lawyer put the check in a drawer.
Raymond had talked to some attorney friends in the Tidewater area and was now firmly convinced that moving the case there was of great benefit to Simon. It was far away from the Blue Ridge Mountains and in another world.
To replace Mary Blankenship Pointer, the supreme court had appointed Padma Shyam, one of three female judges on the Virginia Beach Circuit Court. She was forty-six years old, had been on the bench for nine years, and annually received the highest ratings not only from her colleagues, but also from lawyers who appeared before her.
Simon had a good friend from law school who practiced in Chesapeake, next door to Virginia Beach, and the guy raved about Judge Shyam.
Both Raymond and Simon had fretted over Judge Pointer’s recusal. They knew her well and thought they understood her leanings and eccentricities. She was a tough law-and-order judge, but she was unfailingly fair to both sides. Simon was still smarting from the $300,000 bond she had required for his release, not to mention the seven nights in jail, but he had forgiven her and had convinced himself she would give him a break if needed.
Now, though, she was forgotten, at least for the murder trial. Raymond had chatted twice with Judge Shyam and felt comfortable with her. She, too, was worried about publicity and too much press. She had the idea of selecting the jury a week before the announced trial date of May 23. The court clerk could quietly summons fifty or so prospects to an empty courtroom, and the lawyers could grill them about serving on the jury. If more were needed, call another fifty. If they could keep the story away from the press, the majority of the jurors would not know about the case. But if they waited until Monday, May 23, the courthouse would be a circus and the prospective jurors would have to walk through a throng just to get to the courtroom. By then, the story would be front-page. An uninformed and impartial jury would be almost impossible.