Simon tried to sit tall, take meaningless notes, and present a confident look for everyone.
Raymond wasted no time in attacking the prosecution. He said, “Well, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, once again the great Commonwealth of Virginia, with its endless resources of lawyers, investigators, experts, doctors, and money, has stumbled its way into a courtroom without bringing enough proof to overcome the presumption of innocence. The prosecution has no proof!” His voice boomed throughout the hushed courtroom.
“What the Commonwealth does have is plenty of speculation. Tons of it. Lots of suspicion too. Plenty of circumstantial suspicion. And, it has the dead body of a lovely lady who deserved better. A lady who trusted the defendant because she had no one else to trust. A lady who had once been wealthy and lost it all and was obviously mentally unbalanced in many ways. She still lived in a fantasy world in which she and her late husband were quite wealthy. She was delusional and still dreamed of the lost money. She was lost in the past.
“And how, exactly, was Simon Latch supposed to know it was all a hoax? Maybe he should have dug deeper. I don’t know and it doesn’t really matter right now. All that matters today is that someone poisoned Eleanor Barnett and it wasn’t Simon Latch.”
Raymond stopped pacing and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Greed? You want to talk about greed? Simon Latch never received a single penny in fees from this woman. Nothing. She didn’t believe in paying her legal bills. She had plenty of cash, and he knew that, but he never pressed her for payment.”
Simon kept his eyes on Raymond as he moved back and forth in front of the jury box, and in doing so he caught glimpses of the jurors’ faces. Some watched Raymond and seemed to agree. Most, however, seemed dismissive.
He finished in half an hour and his timing was good. The jury had heard enough. Judge Shyam told them to go home and forget about the case until nine the following morning, Friday.
Landy had been in the courtroom for most of the afternoon and was waiting behind the courthouse near the dumpsters. They made another getaway and drove for an hour west of town. She was of the opinion that the jury was split and would hang itself. Simon was too consumed with fear to say much. He certainly wasn’t hungry.
They stopped at a restaurant in Williamsburg and had drinks on an outdoor terrace as the sun faded. She asked if sex might help and he said no. At the moment, nothing would help but an acquittal.
Chapter 52
What could be the most excruciating waits? Simon had never considered the question until then. Waiting to be executed was certainly at the top of the list. Waiting for a loved one, someone in their prime, to die, when death was imminent?
Waiting for news from a tragedy? Waiting for a killed-in-action list to be posted?
Waiting for your jury had to be in the top three.
Again, he slept only minutes at a time and he couldn’t eat. He knew he looked gaunt, even haggard, and he knew the jury would see him, again, but he couldn’t care about his appearance.
The jurors were sent to their labors at 9:15 by Her Honor, and the waiting started all over again. She ordered him to stay in the courthouse, so he went to an empty courtroom on the second floor and hid in the semidarkness. Then he tried to read a crime novel but the story involved a murder by poison, so he tossed it. The time was now 9:40. He removed his wristwatch. Sitting in a wooden chair, he dozed off and was soon drooling.
Judge Shyam reconvened at 11:20 and everyone hustled back to the courtroom. Simon’s stomach was rolling and he was sweating. When he sat down, Raymond whispered, “No verdict. Just some question about a jury instruction.”
“What does it mean?”
“Hell if I know.”
The jurors filed in and everyone gawked at them, as if their bodies and facial language might tip off their deliberations. If there were signals, Simon didn’t catch them, but then he was no trial lawyer. The foreman said they were making progress but were confused about the issue of motive. Was proving motive necessary to proving murder? Judge Shyam explained that no, it was not, but understood the confusion. She read again the jury instruction pertaining to motive, and in doing so only muddied the water. She said that she was not allowed to offer a more thorough explanation, and told the jurors to get back to work.
After they filed out, Simon asked Raymond what it meant. He wasn’t sure.
The courtroom cleared and Raymond seemed content to sit at the defense table with his client and make small talk. Simon asked, “Is the mob still out there?”
“Afraid so. The vultures are back in full force.”
“Should I say anything?”
“Let’s wait. If it’s a bad verdict, I’ll do the talking and promise a speedy appeal and so on. If it’s a good verdict, we might celebrate together for the cameras.”
“I’d like that,” Simon said, as he let himself dream for a second.
“If it’s split, a hung jury, we should disappear quickly and say nothing. There will be a retrial and nothing we say to the press can really help us.”
“Got it. And Raymond, thanks for everything. You’ve been great. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“It’s been my pleasure. We gave it our best shot.”
They left for lunch, ate as slow as possible, and tried to kill two hours.
The longest afternoon of Simon’s life came to an end at ten minutes after five. The wait was over.
Remarkably for a Friday afternoon, the courtroom was crowded when the jurors returned to their seats for the last time. The foreman handed a sheet of paper to the clerk, who read it, then handed it up to Judge Shyam. She frowned as she looked at it, then said, “Would the defendant please rise.” It was not a question.
With knees of rubber and a laboring heart, Simon Latch stood with an attorney on each side. The courtroom seemed to inhale and hold its collective breath.
Her Honor leaned a bit closer to her microphone so there would be no doubt. “To the charge of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant, Simon Latch, guilty.”
Chapter 53
At the rap of the gavel, a bailiff opened the doors and the crowd rushed out, led by Jerry Korsak. When he was out of the building he speed-dialed Teddy Hammer, who was in his Washington office.
“They nailed him,” Jerry said gleefully. “Guilty, first degree.”
“You’re lying,” Hammer stuttered in disbelief.
“Swear. Took ’em all day.”
“No way.”
“All the way. You got it. Now what?”
“I don’t know. Let me sit down.” Hammer had watched most of the trial and left the day before convinced the Commonwealth had not presented enough proof to convict. In his opinion, the best they could hope for was a hung jury, with a retrial to follow. He said, “Let’s talk tomorrow.”
Jerry stuck his phone in his pocket and looked around. The sidewalk was busy with reporters either talking low or texting furiously. Cameras were waiting in an area cordoned off by bailiffs, though the defendant had not been seen all week.
The defendant sat for a long time at his table, oblivious to the noise and bustle of the crowd in a hurry to leave. The judge and jury were gone. The lawyers and clerks milled about, gathering papers and packing briefcases. Slowly, the crowd thinned on both sides of the bar.
Simon could not acknowledge the pats on the shoulder and the banal offerings of “so sorry” and “we’ll get ’em on appeal.” He was too stunned to respond and kept repeating to himself, “I didn’t kill anyone, I swear. I know I didn’t.” Casey stayed by his side for quiet support as Raymond went through the forced ritual of chatting with the opposing lawyers. He also brushed off some pushy reporters.