Judge Shyam warmed up to her own idea. The lawyers thought it would work well. She had never held jury selection before the actual start date of a trial, but there was no procedural rule against it. She also liked the idea of a gag order to quieten the lawyers and witnesses. Raymond, a trial lawyer who loved to see his name in the newspapers, agreed wholeheartedly. He promised not to say a word about the trial and to keep Simon quiet as well.
Simon had no intention of showing his face outside the courtroom.
Through many late-night meetings they had slowly pieced together a defense strategy that was both bold and risky. There was no direct evidence against Simon — no one had seen him buy the thallium and there was nothing to link him to its acquisition. No one had seen him lace the ginger cookies with the poison, nor feed them to Eleanor Barnett. The indirect evidence would undoubtedly be used to create a great deal of suspicion around his actions, but it was not enough to convict. The prosecution would be forced to rely on circumstantial evidence to convince jurors of his guilt.
Raymond had leaned on a friend who knew a pathologist who agreed to study the autopsy for only $1,000, a greatly reduced fee. Dr. Brock, the state medical examiner who performed it, had impressive credentials and experience and would make a believable witness for the Commonwealth. Same for the forensic toxicologist. To attack both would require finding other experts with unimpeachable qualifications who were willing to testify. And they would cost a fortune.
Raymond’s friend agreed with the conclusions of the autopsy.
So why bother? Why attack the experts? The smarter approach was to admit almost everything. Admit Eleanor died of thallium poisoning. Admit Simon bought the ginger cookies at Tan Lu’s, a place he had taken her for lunch three times. Admit she liked the food there and so did he. Admit Matilda visited Eleanor in the hospital on three occasions, twice taking her ginger cookies and other goodies. Admit the will. Admit the power of attorney. Admit the retainer agreement. Admit everything that was true and obvious.
But deny vehemently that Simon poisoned the cookies. Obviously, someone did, but it wasn’t Simon.
So who did it? That was a problem for the police and prosecutors, not for Simon. He was under no obligation to solve the crime.
His only obligation was to save his own skin.
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.