The clients drawn to the quaint little law office at the corner of Main and Maple brought problems that Simon was tired of. Bankruptcies, drunk driving charges, delinquent child support, foreclosures, nickel-and-dime car wrecks, suspicious slip-and-falls, dubious claims of disabilities � the stock-in-trade of a run-of-the-mill street lawyer whose law school dreams of riches had faded so dim they were almost gone. Eighteen years into the grind and Simon F. Latch, Attorney and Counselor (both) at Law, was burning out. He was weary of other people�s problems.

Occasionally there was a break in the misery when an aging client needed some estate work, like an updated last will and testament. These were almost always uncomplicated matters that any first-year law student could handle, regardless of how somber Simon tried to make them. For only $250, he could write, or �draft� as he preferred to say, a three-page simple will, print it on heavy gold bond paper, get it notarized by his �staff,� and convey the impression that the client was �executing� something profound.

The truth was half of them didn�t even need a will, regardless of how simple, though no lawyer in the history of American jurisprudence had ever said so to a paying client. It was also true that the $250 fee was a rip-off because the internet was filled with free simple wills that were just as binding. It was also true that Mr. Latch would hardly touch the will. Matilda, his secretary, filled in the blanks and printed the important documents.

The current client was Ms. Eleanor Barnett, age eighty-five, a widow who lived alone in a modest suburban home she and her late second husband had purchased ten years earlier. She had no children, though Harry Korsak, her last husband, had two sons from a bad first marriage and had tried for years to convince Eleanor, his beloved second wife, to adopt the pair for various reasons, none of which appealed to her because, as she confided to Matilda during their lengthy second phone chat, she loathed the boys. They were nothing but trouble.

�And do you have a mortgage on your home?� Matilda had asked, politely interrupting the beginning of what promised to be a windy narrative about the two sorry sons.

No. The house was paid for, as was the car. There were no debts. Harry Korsak had been quite frugal, a child of Depression-era parents, you know, and simply hated the idea of debt. Between phone calls, Matilda did her usual internet checking and learned that the home, as assessed by the county for $280,000, was indeed free of liens, and the car, a fifteen-year-old Lincoln, was also unencumbered. Digging a bit deeper, she found a rap sheet for Clyde Korsak, the elder of the two un-adopted sons. Decades earlier he had been caught peddling cocaine and spent four years in prison.

Ms. Barnett would not discuss any more financial matters over the phone, said she�d rather wait until her meeting with Mr. Latch. She arrived promptly at 2 P.M., dressed like a mildly affluent old lady on her way to church. Matilda had seen a thousand of them come and go, and she sized her up immediately as she poured coffee into a fine china cup she kept around for the old gals. Most clients got paper cups. Ms. Barnett walked just fine, no cane, no tottering, a good stride and nice gait, and she sat properly in a reception chair and sipped her coffee, pinkie in the air, a clear sign of either good manners or a trace of snobbery. From all outward appearances, she was in good shape physically, probably had another decade to go before her new last will and testament would be called into action.

After a few minutes, Matilda announced that Mr. Latch was finished with his �judicial conference call� and would like to see her. She led Ms. Barnett down a short hallway and into the conference room where the dark walls were lined with thick law books Mr. Latch hadn�t touched in years.

Simon�s goal was to be rid of her in thirty minutes. Add another thirty next week when the new will was properly signed, and he would earn, in theory, his hourly rate of $250. A good friend from law school was currently billing four times that much in a Washington tax firm, but Simon tried not to think about such things. Over the years he had almost convinced himself that his quality of life in the small town of Braxton, Virginia, was far better, money be damned.

He turned on the charm, as he always did with the older women, and knew right away that she was smitten. �That�s a lovely necklace,� he said, fawning.

She smiled and flashed a mouth full of natural, yellow teeth. �Why, thank you.�

�I see from the notes that you are single, live alone, and have no children or grandchildren. Two husbands, both deceased.� He scanned Matilda�s report as if reading the Magna Carta.

�And you kept the name Barnett after you married Mr. Korsak.�

�Well, not exactly. After Harry died I decided to go back to �Barnett.� I never really liked the name Korsak, you know? Between the two of us, I enjoyed Vince Barnett a lot more than Harry Korsak. Vince and I were childhood sweethearts, you know, married young and sort of grew up together. We were younger and more romantically active, know what I mean?�

Simon knew exactly what she meant and had no desire to explore further. �Do you have a current will?�

�They don�t expire, do they?�

�Well, no, they don�t.�

�Yes, but I have doubts about it. I�d like to do a new one, and I want to hire you as my attorney for other matters. On a retainer.�

�What other matters concern you?�

�Oh, well, one never knows, especially nowadays with so much fraud and scamming out there. Senior citizens are the favorite targets. It�s just awful how many of them lose everything. I want to be protected, and I want you kept on retainer to review things for me. My friend Doris always keeps a lawyer on retainer.�

At the moment, Simon could think of nothing worse than being at the beck and call of an elderly client who thought she was being scammed. But if she insisted, then $1,000 might be a fair arrangement.

�How much is her retainer?�

�Oh, not much. She says you can get one pretty cheap.�

Simon took a deep breath and tried to get the consultation on track. �Let�s get back to your will. It�s important that I take a look at your previous one.�

�Yes, I know. Matilda out there mentioned it over the phone but I forgot to bring it. Seems like I�m forgetting more and more these days.�

Goes with the territory. If they were over eighty, he assumed a few marbles were missing. He and Matilda would confer later and decide if Ms. Barnett had sufficient mental capacity to understand what she was doing. But the first impression was good, and for $250, he was willing to worry only so much.

�Could you possibly drop it off in a day or so?�

�Yes, no problem. Sorry to be a pain.�

�Quite all right. We need to talk about your assets and liabilities.�

�There are no liabilities. Not one penny of debt. Harry, my late husband, despised debt. Wouldn�t even use a credit card. We lived free and clear.�

Simon loved the sound of those words and could only dream of one day clawing his way out of debt. �That�s admirable,� he said piously, as if she needed his blessings. Everything he owned was heavily mortgaged.

�But I got one after he died. A Visa card.�

He scribbled something meaningless and said, �Okay, what about assets? Do you own your home?� He knew she did but most older clients enjoyed bragging about the things they had accumulated. They were proud of their frugal lifestyles and that after decades of pinching pennies they were financially secure.

�I certainly do.�

�Any idea of its market value these days?�

�Well, not really, but the county has it assessed for two hundred and eighty thousand, I think. Something like that.�

�Okay, that�s close enough. The home is usually the biggest asset in a person�s estate.�

�Not in my case,� she said sharply, as if mildly offended.

He kept scribbling and absorbed the first hint that this little will might not be so simple. �Do you own other real estate? A vacation home? Rental properties?�

�Oh no. Harry didn�t like real estate. Said it was too much trouble.�

Then what, please, did Harry like? �I see. Do you have other investments?�

She took a deep breath and suddenly looked worried. �I can trust you, right, Mr. Latch?�

�Of course. I�m your lawyer, duty bound to keep everything confidential.� Simon noticed a slight flutter in his intestines, as if some truly wonderful and unexpected facts might be in the works. He�d had a few surprises in the past eighteen years as a pseudo estate lawyer, but nothing significant.

�Well, you see Mr. Latch��

�Please call me Simon.�

�Simon, what a nice name. You see, Simon, Harry worked for almost forty years as a district sales rep for Coca-Cola. I think that�s what killed him. He got his blood sugar up, had a stroke at sixty-nine, never recovered. We always had plenty of Coke, the real thing, not diet, in the fridge and he drank too many, at least in my opinion. Anyway, he qualified for stock options, a few at a time, and he bought every share of Coke he could get his hands on. Never sold a share, just enjoyed watching it pile up. And boy did it. Then about thirty years ago, he began selling Coke products to Wal-Mart and became fascinated with the company. It was selling a lot of soft drinks. Harry began buying stock in Wal-Mart and he never sold a share. When he died suddenly, he was wondering what to do with all that stock. He didn�t want to leave it to his boys, because they were nothing but trouble. Still are. And here�s the thing, Simon, the boys don�t know about the stock. Harry never told them, never told anyone but me. He thought it was funny that we lived quietly in our modest little home and no one knew we were worth millions.�

Millions? Simon managed to keep scribbling on his yellow legal pad but his handwriting, illegible on a good day, quickly deteriorated into nothing more than chicken scratch. At that moment, he could not remember a single will he had ever drafted for a person worth a million dollars, excluding the real estate.

He maintained a lawyerly frown as if thoroughly unfazed. �What, uh, did he do with all that stock?�

�He left it to me, along with everything else. What�s it called � �the marital deduction�?�

�Yes, that�s it. You can leave everything to your spouse free of estate taxes. Harry must have been a smart man.�

�Funny thing, he never claimed to be smart. He was quite modest, worked hard, paid his debts, saved his money, bought his stocks, then left it all to me. He wanted to do something to help his sons, and, frankly, he tried everything. But if they had known about his portfolio they would have driven him crazy. So, he never told them. Then he died suddenly.�

It was rare for a client seeking a simple will to throw around words like �portfolio� and �marital deduction.� Simon�s radar went up another notch or two.

�What�s the value of the portfolio?�

She actually put a hand over her mouth as if she couldn�t say. Then she rubbed her eyes and looked frightened. She lowered her voice and said, �And all of this is strictly confidential, right?�

�We�ve already established that, Ms. Barnett. If you want me to draft a proper will, then I have to know what�s in the estate. A simple will may not be what you need.� He could almost feel the new document growing thicker by the moment. And the retainer was growing too, now up to $5,000.

�If people only knew. My friends, Harry�s boys. No one knows, Simon.�

Simon flashed a comforting smile, as if to say, You can tell me anything. Instead, he said, �These walls are made of steel, Ms. Barnett. Nothing leaks through. I�m ethically bound to keep all your secrets.�

Fortified, she gritted her teeth and said, �As of last week, the stocks were worth slightly more than sixteen million. The market goes up and down, you know?�

Simon scribbled down the number while managing to keep a solemn poker face, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.

She leaned in closer and asked, �That�s a lot, right?�

�It is.�

�Is it pretty unusual?�

�I�d say yes. I rarely get a client with this type of net worth.� Rarely? How about never?

�And I don�t know what to do with it all?�

Oh, the questions. And the suggestions.

�Uh, well, how much of the estate is in Coke stock?�

�About ten million. About six or so in Wal-Mart.�

�And the dividends?�

�Well, as you know, Wal-Mart doesn�t pay squat for dividends, pennies per share. But Coke, well that�s a different story. It�s paid four percent a year forever.�

�Four percent of ten million annually?�

�Thereabouts. It�s a bit over four hundred thousand a year. And it just piles up, you know? I don�t know what to do with it. Can you help me, Simon?�

�I�m sure we�ll think of something, but this will not be just a simple will, Ms. Barnett. This will take some time.�

�Could you please call me Netty? It�s my old nickname, but only a few people use it. If you�re Simon, then I�m Netty.�

He gave her the sappiest smile yet and said, �Of course,� as they grew closer. �I guess with that type of income you must have substantial cash in the bank.�

�Yes, I do.�

A pause. �Okay, how much cash?�

�Almost four million.�

�And it�s in, well, what type of accounts?�

�Checking, savings, and certificates of deposit. But the bank�s not here. Harry wouldn�t dare bank with the locals. He was always afraid prying eyes would see our accounts and, well, you know how people love to gossip. So he banked with East Federal in Atlanta, one of the biggest.�

�Atlanta?�

�Yes, we lived there for years. Coke�s headquarters, you know?�

�Of course.� Simon had no idea where Coke was headquartered. He scribbled away as his mind spun in circles. He flipped the pages of his legal pad and started on a blank one. He wrote down the number $10,000, followed by �Retainer.�

�Just curious, Netty, in your last will, who did you leave your assets to? The stocks and bank accounts?�

She sighed as if it might be too painful to talk about. �Well, Simon, that�s one reason I�m here. I don�t like my current will. I signed it weeks ago and I haven�t had a good night�s sleep ever since.�

�Who drafted it?�

�A lawyer across the street. Wally Thackerman. You know him?�

�Oh, sure. I know all the lawyers in town.�

�Do you trust him? Is he a good guy?�

�Yes, no, sort of, maybe. Wally is nice enough, but I wouldn�t call him a friend. Do I trust him? I�m not sure. Why? Do you trust him?�

�I did, but now I don�t know. You see, Simon, I wasn�t sure who to put in my will. Who gets the stocks and the money, you know?�

�Uh-huh.�

�So Wally convinced me to leave it all to him, in trust. When I pass, he�ll sell the stock, put the cash in a trust of some sort, I really never understood it, and then he would have the authority to give the money to my favorite charities.�

�And what are your favorite charities?�

�I don�t have any.�

�None?�

�No. You see, Harry didn�t believe in giving money away. He had the attitude that no one gave him money when he was broke and hungry, as a kid, so why should people expect him to give them something? I wouldn�t say he was stingy, but maybe he was. Whatever, we just never got in the habit of giving.�

�What about after he died and you inherited everything?�

�Well, there was this one charity I liked, or at least I thought so. Years ago I saw something on cable about the spider monkeys in Uganda and how they were starving to death because of some chemicals the government was spraying. Poor things were just shriveling up and dying by the hundreds. It was heartbreaking, so I sent a thousand dollars to the Spider Monkey Trust, had an address in Boston. They said thanks, sent me a calendar and all, made me a member of one of their boards, then asked me for more money. I sent another check, then another, and they kept asking. Wanted to send an executive out here to meet me and have lunch and so on. Then they sold my name and address to somebody else and before long my mailbox was jam-packed with letters from folks trying to save whales and buffaloes and cheetahs and Canadian wolverines. I sent them nothing. Got so bad I changed my mailing address. Then the FBI busted the Spider Monkey Trust, whole thing was a scam. Got me for eleven thousand. So, no, Simon, I don�t fool with charities.�

Simon managed to listen while his mind raced around that little weasel Wally Thackerman across the street, putting his name in the will and controlling everything. It was highly unethical and grounds for disbarment, but then who needs a law license when you�re drowning in cash?

She was prattling on. �Ever since I signed that will I�ve worried about it. Doesn�t seem right for the lawyer to be able to get his hands on everything, right, Simon?�

�I need to see the will, Netty.�

She pulled a tissue out of a pocket and was tapping it on her cheeks. �I�m sorry. This is so confusing. I never really felt right, you know, leaving everything to Mr. Thackerman, a man I don�t really know. That was not very smart, was it?�

Of course not. Downright stupid. But with the client in tears and vulnerable and sitting on a fortune, Simon grew even warmer. �We�ll take care of it, Netty. Trust me. This is easy to fix. Sometimes proper estate planning requires a significant portion of the assets to be placed in trust, and the attorney is often named as the trustee.�

�Legal gobbledygook.�

�Yes, I�m sorry, but the law can get complicated. Let me take a look at the will and we can go from there.�

�Okay.�

Simon was dizzy with rapid thoughts. He closed his legal pad, put the cap on his pen, and said, �Look, tomorrow I have some business in Fairhaven close to where you live. Let�s meet at that new Starbucks on Millmont Street. You know where it is?�

�I think so, but I really don�t mind coming downtown.�

�No, I insist. Same time, two P.M. tomorrow. And I�ll look over your will.�

�I guess.�

�And here�s something sensitive, Netty, something I can tell only you. Matilda out there is not the most discreet person I�ve ever hired. We�ve had issues over her ability to keep secrets, and this is just the type of gossip that she might repeat to the wrong person.�

�Oh dear.�

�Right. I�ll have to terminate her soon enough. A lawyer cannot have a blabbermouth in the office. In the meantime, though, not another word to her. If you need me, just call my cell phone.� He slid across a business card.

�Oh dear.� She was feigning surprise but also enjoying the intrigue.

�It�ll be okay, trust me. I can prepare the will myself and she�ll never see it. It�s best that way.�

�If you say so.�

�Trust me. Two P.M. tomorrow at Starbucks.�

He followed her down the hall to reception, chatting the whole way about the weather. Netty glared at Matilda as she walked by but said nothing. Simon opened the front door and stepped outside with her. As she wandered off and got in her car, the old Lincoln, he stared at the law office across Main Street.

Law Offices of Walter J. Thackerman. What a slimeball.

Back inside, Matilda said, �Nice little lady. You have the questionnaire? I�ll do the will right now.�

Simon stopped and looked out the front window as if there was trouble. �Might have a problem. She could be crazy, really off her rocker. I think she�s being treated, gotta be careful. And she�s not sure what to do with her house so she wants to think about it for a few days. Could be a real pain.�

�I thought she was rather lovely.�

�We�ll see. Do I have any other appointments this afternoon?�

�Yes, the Pendergrasts. Their bankruptcy is causing problems.�

�Great.�

The rest of the day was shot. He couldn�t stomach the thought of sitting for an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Pendergrast as they squabbled over who was to blame for their financial problems. Simon�s speciality was bankruptcies and they were often more trouble than divorces, which he loathed. He called the Pendergrasts and canceled with one of the many standard lawyer fibs used to duck and weave: he said he was suddenly needed in federal court. But he really wasn�t needed anywhere. The most pressing file on his desk involved the purchase and sale of an ice-cream shop down the street, a $20,000 deal for which he might earn a fee of a thousand bucks or so.

Suddenly, every file seemed so trivial. An elderly client with $16 million in stocks and more in cash had just left his office with a current will that left her fortune to a rat-faced little lawyer across the street. Simon could think of nothing else. As soon as Matilda said goodbye promptly at five, he left ten minutes later and drove to a watering hole in a motel bar out near the interstate. It was favored by lawyers and judges who didn�t want to be seen drinking too much in town, though there were some who drank openly and excessively. Luckily, none of them were there, and Simon nursed a beer in a dark corner and tried to sort out his thoughts.

First things first. He had to see the will to verify that his dear Netty was telling the truth. It was still hard to believe that a lawyer, any lawyer, would be brazen enough to insert himself in a will and have unfettered access to an entire fortune. But the fact that he, the Honorable Simon Latch, was thinking of doing something very similar to that made him realize it was indeed possible. Upon Netty�s death, there would certainly be a massive legal brawl with lawsuits flying, but the only named trustee, at the moment one Wally Thackerman, would be in the driver�s seat.

Of course the fortune wouldn�t be $20 million. Last time he checked, the state and federal estate taxes were 40 percent, almost all of which could be avoided with the marital trust. However, since Netty had no husband, her estate would be on the chopping block and fair game for the tax collectors. Eight million in taxes up in smoke. He actually grimaced at the thought of paying so much to the government.

But $12 million was still more than he would earn working for thirty years at the corner of Main and Maple. Then he remembered something he�d read in a newspaper. Congress had been tinkering with the tax rates before its December recess. He couldn�t recall the details and usually did a half-ass job of staying informed, because his clients never worried about gift and estate taxes.

He called a buddy from law school who practiced in a prestigious tax firm in D.C., an hour away. After the usual chatter, he got around to business. Dirk, his friend, laughed and said, �Come on, Simon. You haven�t heard the big news?�

�I guess not.�

�Congress adjourned without repealing the amendment.�

Simon wasn�t sure what that meant so he kept quiet. Dirk liked to talk anyway. �Those clowns dropped the ball big-time. The estate tax deal fell through, no compromise, no tax. Zero, zilch, nada. For the next twelve months there will be no federal estate taxes, and, since most states follow the Feds, now is the perfect time to die. So tell your geezer clients to get their shit in order and get ready to pull the plug. Have a big Christmas this year, then it�s adios. Their kids and grandkids will love them for it.�

�Right! I saw that. What a screw-up.�

�Par for the course these days.�

As the conversation drifted dangerously close to politics, Simon switched gears and asked about another law school classmate who was battling cancer. Since both were busy lawyers, they managed to wrap up the conversation with promises to get together soon.

Back to $20 million! Simon got another beer and thought about the conversation for a long time. Later, he would go online and do some research, try to find out why Congress allowed the estate tax provisions to slip away. As if one might be able to understand anything Congress did.

Simon and his wife, Paula, had not filed for divorce because they could not afford one. Both desperately wanted out, but since they were barely afloat financially with one household they could not imagine trying to maintain two. Both wounded and scarred, they were tired of fighting and had settled into a somewhat sustainable coexistence that allowed them to pass the days in muted suffering as their three kids grew up. Fortunately, the two older ones were teenagers who were struggling through the usual strains of puberty and adolescence but not yet causing serious problems. They seldom left their bedrooms and never allowed themselves to be caught offline. A device was always in hand. The youngest, Janie, was nine years old and still a sweet kid.

To avoid conflict and keep the tension away from the children, Simon usually slept at the office. He had remodeled a small suite upstairs, knocked out a couple of walls, and configured a small pad where he survived with a tiny bathroom and narrow bed. When talking only to himself he called it The Closet. It wasn�t nice but at least it was away from Paula.

She was out this Tuesday night, the monthly book club gathering where wine seemed to be more important than literature. It gave him the green light to cook his favorite Italian sausage meatballs with pasta and hang out with Janie in the kitchen. They talked about school and soccer and life in general. She caught him off guard by asking, �Where do you go at night?�

�Well, I often work late and just sleep at the office.�

�That�s weird. Why don�t you just come home? It�s not that far away.�

�I don�t want to wake up everybody. Mom�s a light sleeper and needs her rest.�

�Buck thinks you and Mom are getting a divorce.�

Buck had always been a nosy brat and too mature for his years. Simon managed a smile while realizing that it was the first time the word �divorce� had been uttered by one of the children, or at least to his knowledge.

He said, �No, we�re not getting a divorce, Janie. Mom and I are both working too hard and don�t have a lot of time for each other, but that�s not unusual these days. Everything will be okay. Tell Buck to stop talking like that.�

Divorce had been on the table for at least three years but they had been careful around the kids. Buck was sixteen and missed nothing. Danny was fourteen and going through puberty with his head in the clouds. Janie was a little girl who loved both parents. The thought of leaving her was painful.

�It seems weird that you would sleep at the office when your bedroom is here in the house with us.� She watched him as she said this, as if she knew the truth.

�Everything is okay, Janie, I promise. The pasta is ready, so go get your brothers.�

The only time Buck and Danny left their rooms was to eat. Both had insatiable appetites, along with awful table manners. Paula had given up on the rules. Danny ate with earbuds and an iPad with some dreadful acid rock band screeching away, barely audible but loud enough to be annoying. Buck had earbuds and a cell phone. Simon asked them to unplug things and talk about their school days. They looked at him as if he were a trespasser and flagrantly disobeyed. At that point, Simon could slap the table, raise his voice, make a scene, start a fight he could not win, and create even more bad blood. Paula would hear about it and weigh in on behalf of her children. It was easier to ignore their behavior, another act of cowardice that had become routine around the Latch household.

So Simon chatted nonstop with Janie as the boys ate like pigs. The sooner they finished, the sooner they could escape to the safety of their rooms. They left their plates on the table, more rules violations, but Simon just ignored them again. After dinner, when the kitchen was spotless and the house was quiet, Simon kissed Janie on the forehead and said he had to get back to work. She wanted to say something but didn�t. He locked the doors, made sure the house was secure, and left a few minutes before ten. Paula would be home soon, and the less he saw of her the better.

The Starbucks anchored one corner of a strip mall at the edge of a suburb fifteen minutes from his office. It was busy when he arrived half an hour early to scope out the place and look for privacy. He sipped dark roast at four bucks a cup and moved quickly when a corner table opened up. He toyed with his laptop, same as all the other customers, and watched the endless line of cars creep through the drive-thru. Then he saw the old Lincoln turn a corner. Netty couldn�t find a spot and parked far away, straddling a yellow line. She drove like a ninety-year-old who�d been a lousy driver seventy years earlier. As she entered, he stood and waved and helped her to her seat. She seemed ill at ease and glanced around.

�Figures,� she said. �I�m the only senior here.�

�Would you like coffee or tea?�

�Just some water, please.�

Simon left and brought back a bottle of water. She ignored it and asked, �Can we really talk here? I mean, it�s not very private.�

The nearest person was ten feet away, hunched over a laptop with wires running to ears that were invisible under a red hoodie. �Oh, it�s very private. No one can hear a word we say because their ears are plugged.�

�These young people.�

�I know. Addicted to their phones and laptops. What�s the world coming to?�

�I guess.� She unscrewed the cap and drank some water.

Finally, Simon said, �We were going to talk about your will, the one prepared by Wally Thackerman.�

�Yes, I�m just not comfortable with it.�

�Did you bring it?�

She reached into a large handbag and retrieved an envelope. As she handed it to him she glanced around again.

�Please relax, Netty. These kids are totally self-absorbed and have no interest in anything we�re talking about.�

Simon wanted to rip open the envelope and scour the will for the scandalous language, but he managed to take his time and keep smiling at her. It was only four pages long, with the first paragraphs filled with the usual lawyerly crap that he himself charged people for. Then, the juicy part. It established the �Eleanor Korsak Barnett Memorial Trust� and placed all of the liquid assets in it. Her home was to be sold, along with everything else, and the cash added to the trust. All the fancy legal footwork would be done by, of course, the Honorable Wally Thackerman, who was not only the executor of her estate and the sole trustee of her trust, but also the lawyer self-appointed to handle everything. His fees were set at $750 an hour and Simon could almost visualize the thick, padded bills Wally would present to the court for interim payments.

Simon frowned, a grimace prompted by genuine disbelief, but also offered for dramatic effect because Netty was staring at him, waiting. �Is it that bad?� she whispered loudly, then covered her mouth and glanced around again. No one looked at her. No one knew she existed.

�Let me finish,� Simon said calmly with a fake smile, as if what he was reading was definitely outrageous but he alone could fix everything.

Moving beyond the hefty fees to come, the worst part was the power granted unto the trustee. In half a page of thick legalese, Wally gave himself the right to do virtually everything and anything with the trust. He could donate to �appropriate� charities and nonprofits, make loans to virtually anyone, hire consultants, appraisers, accountants, and tax experts to help �protect� the trust. After ten years of such shenanigans, he could, in the event any of the money was left, disburse it at his discretion and close the trust.

Simon worked on his poker face. He had to be careful. He could not outright condemn the will, because he was suddenly emboldened to prepare one very much like it. But, he had to criticize it enough to win her support and convince her that he could steer her assets in a safer direction.

�It doesn�t mention your two stepsons,� he observed, still frowning, reading glasses balanced on the tip of his nose.

�Nothing for them. I thought I told you that.�

�Yes, you did, but that could cause problems. If they receive nothing they might get upset and hire some more lawyers to attack the will.�

�But they�re not entitled to anything, right? That Wally character told me that a person, any person, can exclude a child from her or his will, at least in this state. It that right? And since they�re not really my children, they have no claim to my estate?�

�That�s correct. You can exclude everyone but a spouse.�

�Well, my spouse is dead and he left me everything. Not a dime for those two outlaw sons of his. Nothing. Cut, cut, cut.�

She did the cutting with a glow in her eyes, the first sign of possible meanness. Simon was pleased that she was already referring to her soon-to-be ex-lawyer as �that Wally character.� He read on, frowning intelligently. When he finished, he took a sip of coffee and said, �I don�t like this will.�

�I told you so.�

�It gives too much power to the attorney for your trust.�

�How can we fix it?�

�It�ll take a few hours but I�ll hop right on it. The obvious challenge here, Netty, is to find a place for the money. I want you to make a list of possible charities you�d like to help.�

�Such as?�

�Do you have a church?�

�Yes, sort of. Harry was a Lutheran and we tried to go once a year.�

�That�s an idea. Think big. There are about a million worthy nonprofits you could help.�

�Such as?�

�Such as the Girl Scouts, heart association, orphanages, animal shelters, local library, small colleges, refugees, childhood hunger, environmental groups. You mentioned your work with the spider monkeys.�

�That was a rip-off.�

�Do you like animals?�

�Not really.�

�Okay. Whatever. Sit down tonight and make a list of all the possible groups, causes, and charities that you might want to help.�

�What�s your favorite charity?�

Simon�s lack of generosity was caused by a lack of extra cash rather than an absence of a kind spirit. How could he possibly write checks to help others when he and Paula were underwater and staring at three kids soon going to college? They had not donated more than a hundred bucks in the past five years.

He lied quickly with �The Sierra Club.�

�Never heard of it.�

�It�s not really for you. Have you thought about leaving some money for your friends?�

�My friends, the ones still living, know nothing about the money. If I told them about it they�d drive me crazy and my life would get very complicated. That�s what money does, Simon, it really causes problems.�

So does the lack of it, he thought to himself but managed to maintain an intelligent frown. He scribbled something on his legal pad and said, �Okay, moving right along. Who prepares your tax returns each year?�

�Why do you want to know?� she snapped, quite defensively.

�Well, because when you die, and I hate to say it that way but that�s the real reason we�re here, right, so when you die and your new will comes into play, the attorney for your estate will have to work with your tax advisor to prepare your returns.�

�Who will be the attorney for my estate?�

�That�s entirely up to you, but it�s pretty common for the attorney who prepares the will to also act as the probate attorney.�

�Kinda like that Wally character.�

�Yes, kinda like that.�

�What was the question?�

�Your tax advisor?�

�Oh yes, he�s this little CPA guy in Atlanta, been doing my taxes forever. One of Harry�s old sidekicks. I talk to him once a year, so you don�t need to bother him.�

�Okay, but it might be important for me to make contact.�

�That�s what Wally said. Why do you lawyers always want to pry into everything?� Another flash of anger, maybe even bordering on meanness. She was suddenly defensive and Simon quickly changed strategies and backed off. He had done a good job so far of gaining her trust and he didn�t want to irritate her.

Pry? Oh yes. What Simon really wanted was some proof that his dear Netty actually owned all that Coke and Wal-Mart stock, in addition to several million dollars just sitting in the bank. He believed her, he wanted so desperately to believe her, but he was also cautious enough to proceed slowly. Clients lied to him all the time. Lawyers, often after a few drinks, loved to tell stories of the outrageous lies their clients had fed them.

He assumed the stocks were held in a brokerage account and a nice, neat, concise summary was sent to Netty each month, same as the bank statements. He gritted his teeth and asked, �Do you have a financial advisor?�

She rolled her eyes as if frustrated and glanced around again, looking for eavesdroppers. She frowned and a ridge of thick wrinkles folded across her forehead. �You mean, like, a stockbroker?�

�Yes, who handles the stocks?�

�Well, it�s complicated. You see, Harry did business for years with a firm in Atlanta, then it merged or something with a bigger firm, and so on. After Harry died, one firm got sold to another. I really can�t keep up with it all. Now it�s all handled by this guy in Atlanta.�

�I see. Is there a person I can talk to about your assets?�

�I don�t know. Why do you want to talk to someone about my assets?�

�Because the IRS may require proof of assets.� Simon had no idea what he was talking about but using the IRS might frighten her somewhat.

She mumbled, �Same thing Wally said.� This startled Simon, but he decided to let it go and push later. He pretended to ignore her last comment, cast an important glance at his wristwatch, and said, �Okay, I�ll get started on this. Let�s meet again in a couple of days and go over a rough draft.�

�What�s that?�

�It�s the first version of your new will. In the meantime, please give some thought to some charities and foundations you might want to include.�

�I thought we talked about that. Thought I told you I don�t have any favorite charities.�

No charities, no friends, no family, no distant relatives. No one to receive the fortune when his dear Netty kicked the bucket. Perhaps that�s why Wally Thackerman did not name a single nonprofit. His scheme basically left everything in a new foundation that would become his own little piggy bank after her funeral, with at least a dozen ways to siphon money into his own pocket. Simon hated to admit it, but Wally�s will was impressive, in spite of its blatant effort at being nothing but a naked grab for money.

Simon vowed to do much better. He capped his pen, pulled his notes together, and said, �There is one thing, Netty. I can�t prepare a simple will if I can�t verify your assets. For most of my clients, this is not really necessary because they are not wealthy. But you�re in a different category.�

She was gazing through the window with a blank stare, as if it were time for another nap. She shook her head and said softly, �All this legal stuff.�

�I know, I know. But it�s important to get this right. Your current will is a mess and will only enable Wally Thackerman to end up with most of the money. That�s not right.�

She looked as if she might cry. �I feel so stupid.�

�Please. I can fix this. But I need to know the name of your stockbroker in Atlanta.�

�Buddy Brown.�

He repeated the name to himself. For some reason �Buddy� didn�t quite fit that profession. He uncapped his pen and scribbled on a paper napkin. �And the name of his firm?�

�Appletree something or other.� She was drifting away, her eyelids fluttering, her speech fading as if fatigued. And for the first time Simon wondered about her mental capacity. She was an elderly woman who suddenly looked even older. Hang on, old girl.

Among the many issues roaring through his brain was the challenge of getting her new will witnessed by two people who could attest to her �sound and disposing mind and memory.� Normally, it was a routine matter with Matilda and a secretary next door going through the motions. Oh well. It was something else he would deal with later.

He walked her to her car and watched her drive away, on the wrong side of the road and with one foot on the brake.

Simon had a plan, awful as it was, to free himself of Paula, but he was stuck with Matilda. She had worked for him for twelve years and could practice law, or at least his humble version of it, with her eyes closed. She was very good at what she did, tech-savvy, punctual, a real pro at handling their clients and in dealing with lawyers and judges. Contrary to the fib he�d told Eleanor Barnett, Matilda was discreet and had never, at least to his knowledge, breached a meaningful confidence.

They tried to avoid each other�s private lives and Simon was saying nothing about his current dust-up at home. They disagreed and bickered occasionally, but always in private and never pushed things too far. She was once a flirt who�d struck out repeatedly with men, and now seemed to have given up on romance. She and Simon never touched each other, not even a little goodbye hug at the end of a long day. There was no physical attraction, to their relief. Indeed, they were determined to keep their distance and show not the slightest interest in anything beyond the employer-employee relationship. In their early years together, Simon had occasionally glanced at her rear end and legs, admiringly, and approved, much the same way he looked at most younger women, but now he tried not to look. She was only thirty-nine, three years younger than him, and she was gradually adding a few pounds per year. In the kitchen fridge she kept an assortment of diet drinks, sugar-free smoothies, protein shakes, meals-in-bottles, herbal flushes, the kind of junk advertised on cable. Evidently, none of it was working, but, of course, Simon only watched with amusement but would never think of commenting.

Tillie, as he called her only in private, arrived each morning promptly at eight, not a minute before, and left each afternoon at five, not a minute after. Depending on how the day was going, she took a flexible hour for lunch to run errands but never to eat, or so she said. Simon admired her for establishing boundaries. She refused to work on weekends, regardless of the urgency, though, truthfully, few of the �open� files on his desk could be considered urgent. She refused to take calls after hours, even from him. She was off on all the federal holidays and planned her summer vacations, ten full working days, in January.

To distance himself from her X-ray vision and constant eavesdropping, and also to prepare for the inevitable showdown with Paula, Simon was creating his own secret world. He was practically living upstairs in The Closet, which he kept locked at all times. If Tillie knew he spent most nights there, she had yet to mention it. He assumed, though, that she knew. She was a massive sponge when it came to gossip. There was a sisterhood amongst the legal secretaries and court clerks in town, and virtually nothing escaped their scrutiny.

He had a post office box in a small town eight miles away and a secret checking account in a small branch bank not far from it. He had a credit card with a $10,000 limit and a small balance, that Paula knew nothing about. A year earlier he had purchased an inexpensive laptop and set up an anonymous email address that only a professional could trace. He used it to place bets occasionally.

At the moment he was using it to track Buddy the stockbroker, who�d worked for Appletree in Atlanta. Netty was correct � Appletree had long since disappeared after having been bought or merged with a regional brokerage firm from Florida, which had then flamed out in bankruptcy and indictments only to be scooped up by a large California discount broker who sold it to a private equity firm in New York who loaded it with debt, almost causing another bankruptcy, before it was sold to a bank in Texas that then sold it to a bank in Atlanta. After numerous name changes and different addresses, it, whatever it was, was now back home. There was no sign of anyone named Buddy. Evidently, he was just one of many casualties of the slick maneuvers perfected by the money runners.

Simon wasted three hours wading through this debris and had nothing to show for it. Reluctantly, he called Spade, a local character who could always find the money. Spade�s background was shadier than anyone Simon had ever met. He was an unindicted felon, an unlicensed operator on all fronts, a Houdini-like character who lived in the shadows. He had no office, no website, no business cards, no phone number that was available to the public. If asked by the right people he would say that he was either an investigator or a forensic accountant, but then he studiously avoided the right people. Spade made his money in big divorce cases where the wife�s lawyers were hot on the trail of hubby�s hidden cash. He could dig more dirt out of the internet than anyone in the business.

�This better be good,� he growled as if highly irritated.

�And good afternoon to you, Spade,� Simon said. �Sounds like you�re having a great day.�

�Does it really matter to you?�

�Of course it does. I think about you all the time.�

�Lawyers and their lies.�

Simon quickly recalled that every conversation with Spade began and ended with insults.

�Right. Look, I�ll buy you a beer tonight at Chub�s.�

�I can buy my own beer, thanks.�

�You�re welcome. Need to have a chat and as always I can�t do it over the phone. Not worried about mine but I assume yours is bugged by some branch of the government, maybe even a foreign power.�

�Or an ex-wife.�

�Them too. Meet me around ten tonight at Chub�s?�

�If I don�t get busy. Duke�s at Georgia Tech tonight, giving eleven. I see something closer. I�ll take Tech for five.�

Simon chewed on it for a second and said, �That�s a bad bet. Duke�s number two in the country and Tech has a losing record.�

�You trying to tell me something I don�t know?�

�Five hundred, right? Not five grand.�

Spade was a high roller who was known to bet big. Simon�s max was $500 for any game. �Hundred,� he grunted, as if someone really was listening.

�That�s an easy one.�

�Put up or shut up.�

�I�m in. See you at ten and we�ll watch the game.�

Professional duties returned and required Simon�s presence in the courtroom down the street. It was a docket call, an antiquated waste of time wherein most of the town�s lawyers gathered in front of an old judge who could barely turn on a computer and dickered about the scheduling of trials for cases that should never have been filed.

As they waited for the judge, the lawyers mingled and gossiped and tried to look important before the crowd of spectators and litigants. They were allowed to drink coffee in the courtroom, but not eat the doughnuts one of the clerks had, for some reason, placed on the stenographer�s table.

Simon went out of his way to engage Wally Thackerman in a pleasant conversation about a new shopping center one of Wally�s clients was planning. As he chatted on, Simon feigned interest in the shopping center while thinking of nothing but the outrageous last will and testament Wally had written for himself and convinced Eleanor Barnett to sign two months earlier.

That he, Simon, was drafting one very similar did not seem relevant.

What will Wally do when she dies and he sprints to the courthouse to probate his version of Eleanor�s last will and testament, only to learn almost immediately that it had just been renounced and held void by a subsequent one prepared by Simon�F. Latch, Attorney and Counselor at Law? It was not a pleasant thought.

Wally rattled on about his shopping center. The breathtaking news was that an exciting new chain of sandwich shops from California was near a deal on a long-term lease, one that would certainly attract other classy tenants.

The problem was that Eleanor had no idea what to do with her fortune and needed serious advice, wisdom she was not getting from anyone else. Someone, and certainly not the windbag going on about avocado hoagies, had to help her. There was no one but Simon.

Mercifully, His Honor rallied long enough to make his appearance and get settled behind his bench. Simon managed to extricate himself from Wally�s deal-making and took a seat at one of the counsel tables. Salmon Subs? Didn�t exactly make your mouth water. Simon shuddered with the thought that some of Eleanor�s money might get invested in such ventures. Wally had a reputation for getting tangled up in bad deals.

The judge picked up some papers, frowned, and said good morning. He went through his tired old routine of thanking the lawyers for being such good lawyers and thanking the clerks, and so on. He read the name of the first case and said the trial would start in an hour. He droned on.

Simon nodded off but caught himself. His mind came back to life when he tried to visualize a hot will contest in that very courtroom. He became dizzy at the visual of him sitting at counsel table being gawked at by everyone else � jurors, lawyers, clerks, spectators � all convinced that he had been caught red-handed trying to con an old woman out of her money.

That, of course, would not be true, since the old woman still had her money up until the moment she died, but nonetheless, the case would quickly devolve into a public relations nightmare for Simon. With time, he could endure the nightmare and eventually survive it, if, of course, he had control of the money.

There were too many bad scenarios.

Eleanor refused to meet again at Starbucks, said she felt too old there, as if, at the age of eighty-five, there was a place where she might feel young. Simon didn�t argue and suggested they meet in his office at 6 P.M. one afternoon, after an alleged long day in court and clearly after 5 P.M. sharp when Matilda clocked out. Any mention of her was now done so in a manner to convey suspicion. Netty admitted that she really didn�t trust her. Atta girl.

So far, the last will and testament Simon was contemplating was a complete mystery to his secretary, and it was imperative that it remain so.

Netty sipped sparkling water and said, �I would really like to get this wrapped up, Simon. It�s weighing on my mind.�

�I understand. Just a couple of things. I�ve made a list here of about three dozen charities and nonprofits that I want you to consider naming in your will. Your trustee will be given the authority to distribute the money at his or her discretion.�

�Who�s my trustee?�

�Well, right now it�s Wally Thackerman.�

�That little crook. The more I think of him the more I despise him.�

�I understand. You mentioned a niece and a nephew.�

Her chin dropped. Her eyes watered. She suddenly looked very sad. She swallowed hard and said, �I mentioned them only because you asked about relatives. You see, Simon, I have no family. My parents died young. My sister Rose and I were never close. I really never liked her, to be honest. She�s dead now and her two kids are my only relatives. It�s kinda sad, you know, going through life with no family, no kin folks.�

�I know some people who would say it�s a blessing,� he replied, but the wisecrack went nowhere.

�Vince Barnett and I tried but we couldn�t have kids. We were so young.�

�Where is your nephew?�

�Oh, gosh, who knows? Last I heard he left his wife and kids and ran off with a college girl.�

Simon was suddenly tentative with his questions. �And you have no relationship with him?�

�None. I saw him briefly at my sister�s funeral fifteen years ago. He barely spoke to me. We just don�t know each other.�

�And your niece?�

A long pause as she managed a slight smile. �Maggie. She�s certainly a better person than her brother, but I haven�t seen her in decades. You see, Simon, their childhood was not good, and Maggie fled as soon as she could. She had to get away from her parents and her brother. She became a veterinarian and moved to Africa where she studies giraffes, last I heard. We�ve had no contact since she was in college, couldn�t even get home for her mother�s funeral. Pretty sad family, wouldn�t you say?�

�I�ve seen a lot worse. What if you made a gift to the foundation she works for?�

�To study giraffes?�

�I�m sure they do good work. Do you know its name?�

�The giraffe?�

Simon took a breath as he scribbled something and asked himself if this was one of those moments when the marbles were loose. �No, the nonprofit Maggie works for?�

�Oh no, of course not. I don�t even know what country she�s in. And besides, she hasn�t bothered to contact me in at least thirty years. So why should I send her a check? I�ll be dead, right? You know, when she gets the check?�

�Right, that�s the purpose of this will.�

�So Maggie gets a check she�s not expecting from her dear Aunt Eleanor, who she has obviously forgotten and never really cared about in the first place, and what�s she supposed to do, write me a thank-you note? I�ll be dead, Simon. Who�s going to read the thank-you note?�

Damned sure won�t be me, Simon thought to himself, but it was an excellent question. �All right, all right, forget the family. Can you think of any person, a friend, neighbor, anyone, who you might want to leave some money to?�

�No. You�ve already asked me this. So did Wally. I said no.�

�Well, you left a chunk to Wally.�

�I did not.�

�Yes, Netty, in paragraph fourteen, section A, there is an outright gift to Wally Thackerman for $485,000.�

Her jaw dropped and she shook her head. �That little creep.�

�He did not explain this to you?�

�Of course not. I don�t think so. If he did I don�t remember it. Why would he do that?�

Simon had been looking for an opening to bring up the gift to Wally. As he suspected, she was unaware of it because she had not carefully read the will. She had trusted Wally, just as she would trust Simon, hopefully enough to allow him to simply explain the provisions of the will, hitting the high points and skirting by the fine print.

�I can�t begin to understand what Wally was thinking,� Simon said.

�You�re not doing that, are you, Simon?�

�Of course not. It�s highly unethical and probably grounds for disbarment.�

�Gobbledygook. Please don�t take advantage of me.�

�There is no gift to me in your will. Period. As the attorney for your estate and for the trust I will be entitled to fees for my services, but all fees must be filed in public records and approved by the court.�

She exhaled, obviously relieved. She reached over and touched his hand. �Thank you, Simon.�

�Just doing my job, Netty. And part of my job is to protect your estate and prevent trouble. For this reason I want you to leave some money to your two stepsons.�

She jerked back her hand and frowned. �Why would I do that?�

�Because they might cause trouble during probate. If they find out how much money you really have, then it�s almost guaranteed they�ll hire a lawyer and contest the will.�

�On what grounds?�

�Oh, lawyers can be very creative when they smell money. They�ll come up with all sorts of claims. But, here�s the clincher. I�ll include in your will a provision that disallows any gift to a person who contests the will. So, say you give each stepson a hundred thousand dollars outright. Now, if one of them contests the will, he runs the risk of losing the gift.�

�You are so clever, Simon.�

He smiled and almost demurred by saying that such a provision was taught to every second-year law student, but passed on the notion of modesty and in silence took full credit for being so clever. �And, besides, wouldn�t Harry want his boys to get some of the money he invested over the years?�

�I suppose.�

�Okay. A hundred thousand to Clyde, same to Jerry. Agreed?�

�Yes, if you say so.�

Simon was scribbling away as he doled out some of her money. Precious little of it, though. �Now, I know I�ve asked you this already, but do you want to make gifts to any friends or acquaintances?�

�I�ve thought about that, yes. Inez Mulberry is an old friend in Atlanta. She�s in a care facility there and not doing well. She�s ninety-one. Do you know anybody that old who�s doing well?� She chuckled at her humor and Simon joined in with a hearty laugh. He wrote down the name and asked, �How much to Inez Mulberry?�

�Uh, let�s say, uh, twenty-five thousand.�

�Okay. That�s not much. Does she need financial assistance?�

�Oh, gosh no. She�s loaded. Her husband worked for Coke with Harry and bought tons of stock.�

Then why are you leaving her a gift? Simon let it pass. It would be easier just to put Inez in the will and keep going. �Okay, I�ll include her at twenty-five thousand. Anyone else?�

�No, can�t think of anyone.�

�Okay, so moving right along. I asked you before about the firm in Atlanta that handles your portfolio, and you said it was Appletree something or other, right?�

She rolled her eyes in frustration and mumbled, �Here we go again.�

Simon pretended to ignore her and continued, �As I said, it is important for me to have a chat with the advisor there who is in charge of your stocks and such.�

�Now you sound like Wally, and that�s not a good thing.�

Simon was being cautious and not about to push. She was proving that she had no loyalty to her estate lawyers and he didn�t want to lose her. His dear Netty could be his ticket to an easier, more rewarding life. He could almost smell the huge fees coming his way. �I understand, but to fully take advantage of the tax laws it may be necessary to protect some of your assets. To protect them, I need to know everything about them.�

She closed her eyes and frowned hard as if hit by a migraine. After a long, heavy pause she said, �You don�t trust me, do you Simon? You don�t believe me when I say I have all this money.� Her voice was breaking and she was about to cry.

The execution of the will was carefully planned, or so Simon thought. Since he was not a criminal, he didn�t think like one. What was the famous line in the movie Body Heat? �When you commit a murder you make ten mistakes. If you can think of seven, you�re a genius.� Or something like that. Simon wasn�t planning a murder, or any other crime for that matter, but he felt guilty anyway. He made lists and charts and diagrams, and when everything seemed to click, he gave it the green light.

It happened on March 27, a day that would find Matilda�s birthday lunch far away from the office. As he often did, Simon asked his neighbors for the favor. Tony and Mary Beth Larson ran a mom-and-pop insurance shop next door to Simon�s office on Main Street and often stepped over to witness will signings. The law required two people not related to the �testatrix,� in this case Eleanor Barnett, to spend a few minutes in easy conversation with her to satisfy any concerns about her mental capacity. As attesting witnesses, they were not expected to read the will � and in this case Simon was certainly determined that they would not � but only to make sure that Ms. Barnett knew what she was doing and was not being unduly influenced.

Simon had written every word of the will on his laptop and printed it in his cramped bathroom, where he kept the new printer he�d paid $150 for at a Wal-Mart. He didn�t normally shop at Wal-Mart but suddenly had a keen interest in the company. Coke too. After several drafts, he was convinced it looked almost identical to one that Matilda could have typed. It was five pages long and packed with a lot of dense language that he managed to explain to Eleanor in simple terms that were not altogether forthcoming.

�Legal gobbledygook,� she said more than once, exasperated. The gist and thrust was that upon her death her fortune would be placed in a foundation, one not too dissimilar to the trust Wally across the street had devised, and the money would be spread over a multitude of local charities that would do all manner of good things. By keeping the money local, Simon believed the will would be more palatable to a jury in the likely event a big lawsuit erupted later. Food banks, homeless shelters, boys� clubs, girls� clubs, Cub Scouts and Brownies, soccer leagues, senior center, United Way, policemen�s fraternal order, a dozen of the town�s largest churches of all denominations. The Eleanor Barnett Foundation would make thousands of people smile for years to come, and Simon Latch would be Santa Claus. As executor of the will, and sole director of the trust, as well as the attorney for the estate, he would be in complete control. His fees would be substantial.

Unlike Wally, the greedy little bastard, Simon would not be getting a direct payment of cash upon Eleanor�s death. In the depths of the densest and most convoluted paragraph of that will, Wally included an outright gift of $485,000 to himself. A magnifying glass was needed to find the language. The payment was for �accrued services,� a vague and unique category of testamentary gifts that, not surprisingly, went undefined. It was absurd to think that Eleanor owed that much money to Wally.

But never mind. It wouldn�t matter. Wally wasn�t getting squat from the will he drafted or the one dear Netty was signing now in the presence of her two attesting witnesses.

As always, Simon choreographed the execution and asked Tony and Mary Beth Larson if they understood that they were vouching for the mental acuity of Ms. Eleanor Barnett. With enthusiasm, both said yes and eagerly signed their names. There were smiles and even giggles all around. Simon notarized both signatures, and in doing so sealed the fate of the most valuable last will and testament he would ever prepare.

As his way of saying thanks to the Larsons, he usually took them to lunch, and today he insisted that Eleanor join them. The invitation seemed harmless, and though it was made in good faith there was an ulterior motive. Simon, now with one distant eye on future litigation, wanted the Larsons to spend even more time with his client. They had no way of knowing that they were quite likely to be called as witnesses if the whole mess blew up. The more time they spent with Eleanor, and especially on the same morning she signed her will, the more credibility their testimony would have.

Of course Simon did not mention their possible involvement in a will contest. The Larsons had been witnessing wills for years and there had never been a problem. Why bother them now? He did have a twinge of guilt because he couldn�t warn them that one day they might get subpoenas, but he forced those thoughts out of his mind for the moment.

Simon pondered these things over chicken salad in a deli two blocks off Main, a hole-in-the-wall seldom frequented by lawyers and the courthouse gang. He did not want Wally to see him out and about with Eleanor Barnett, who was having a delightful time chatting with Tony and Mary Beth. The Larsons were friendly people, they sold insurance, and Eleanor warmed up to them considerably. She seemed to thrive on the interaction and hardly touched her salad.

After an hour of listening, Simon broke up the party with a fib about being needed in court.

The will was done. Properly signed and witnessed and notarized. He had deliberately ignored the matter of the $250 fee, simply because he did not want a check that Matilda might see. Eleanor could keep her money. He had big plans to get it back later, in spades.

That night, a Friday, was the second round of the Sweet Sixteen. Simon had the bright idea to make a friendly call to Paula and suggest the family dine on pizza and watch basketball. She was lukewarm, but that was a big improvement in their relationship. The kids could stay up late. Simon could sleep on the sofa, and if by chance he was discovered there, he and Paula would laugh and say his snoring was keeping her awake.

They ordered pizza and ate on TV trays in the den in front of the big screen. Simon had prepared brackets for the Sweet Sixteen and each family member had picked winners through the Final Four. Simon had skillfully played the Vegas line and used a few tips he�d picked up hanging around Chub�s. Danny and Buck had also done some homework and were already trash-talking about their brilliant picks. Janie, age nine, had chosen her teams based on the school mascots and uniform colors and was undefeated through the first-round games the day before. Paula couldn�t have cared less but gamely hung on as if she wanted to win. She picked her winners based on the head coaches� appearances � fitness, good looks, nice suit, well-coordinated necktie. So far she had won three and lost one. Each member put up five dollars for the winning pot, to be determined by who picked the most teams to reach the Final Four.

Simon desperately wanted a beer to go with his pizza, but alcohol had been banned. A year earlier, the school had been rocked by a scandalous party that went off the rails. A group of freshmen had been left unsupervised in a nice home and proceeded to clean out the liquor cabinet. One boy and one girl passed out and could not be revived. An ambulance was called and the kids spent the night in a hospital. They survived but the families were mortified. The school panicked and held meetings for a month. Some of the parents vowed to keep booze out of their homes. Paula, a light drinker to begin with, took a hard line. Simon had no choice but to agree. It was another good reason to live at the office.

Buck, age sixteen, was not at the party but knew most of the kids involved. He assured his parents that he was not sneaking beers, but he would be driving soon, and Simon knew that when he entered that phase of life all bets were off. Paula was convinced they could lead by example, monitor the kids� activities and friends, and protect them from doing the things that all kids wanted to do.

And she didn�t like the idea of each one putting up five dollars for the winning pot. It was nothing but a form of gambling.

As the first game was about to tip off, Buck asked Danny, �What�s the over?�

Without hesitating, Danny replied, �One twenty-four.�

Simon was a bit startled by the quick response, but said nothing. He would listen even harder and hopefully not detect any more signs of fluency in the betting games. Teenage online gambling, especially in sports, was a growing problem.

Paula frowned and asked, �What does that mean � �the over�?�

Buck and Danny froze. Simon decided to jump and try to help them with �Total points scored by both teams.�

�I didn�t ask you,� she replied calmly. She looked at Danny and asked again, �What is �the over�?�

�Dad�s right. The total points by both teams.�

�And you can bet on that?�

�If you want to. I never do.� He was not convincing.

�Well, I would hope not. I hope you�re not betting at all.�

Buck stared at the television and said, �We�re betting now, Mom. Everybody put up five dollars for the winning pot, so everybody is betting at least five dollars. That�s gambling.�

The tip-off gave them a chance to take a breath and enjoy some silence. Simon was greatly relieved that the moment had passed, but he was also convinced his sons were gambling at some level. He would think of a way to discuss it with them later. Should he really be that worried? Neither had jobs, income, or savings. Like most teenagers, they watched sports around the clock it seemed, and knew more players, stats, and ESPN gossip than he could ever absorb. What if they were gambling and winning? Sure it was illegal for minors to bet online, but the laws were proving to be thoroughly unenforceable.

What if Buck and Danny could pass along inside tips to their father?

Monday morning, Simon stumbled out of The Closet, in his gym shorts and a T-shirt, went downstairs, and sat at his desk. It was not yet seven, so he had a full hour before Matilda arrived and started planning his week. He needed more than an hour. He needed to be in a tiki bar on a beach somewhere, sipping a tall iced drink and watching the waves roll in while his mind went numb with meaningless thoughts.

Aside from having fun with his kids, the weekend had been a tough one. He was still trying to adjust to the fact that his wife was now on the prowl, and he was making progress on that front. The real trouble was the tournament. He was getting wiped out. In the family pool, Janie, sticking with her mascot selections, had won ten games and lost only two. Paula, still picking the best-dressed coaches, was nine and three. Buck and Danny were even. Simon, the serious gambler and true expert, had won four games and lost eight. Last place.

But the five dollars he�d lost at home was nothing compared to the shellacking over at Chub�s, where he was down $7,000, a personal record. He was certain he would get it back with the Final Four, but his confidence was wavering.

He sipped strong coffee and checked in with several online gambling gurus who blathered on with piercing analyses while covering their butts � one picked Duke, another picked Kentucky, another Wisconsin. What was a desperate gambler to do? He looked at his daily calendar and saw nothing but the same slog. In fact, for the entire week he could not see potential fees of more than $2,000.

The Final Four. Only three games left in the tournament, the season. At one point, way back in early January, he was up $4,500. He bounced around during conference play and finished the regular season up $3,000. When he was winning he wanted to play more, and when he was losing he wanted to play even more to catch up. But, as always, he kept his focus and knew his limits. At least he kept telling himself that.

The Final Four. Wisconsin, Duke, Michigan State, and Kentucky. None of which he�d chosen two weeks earlier during bracket mania when every single fan was so much smarter. He stopped fretting and stepped back into The Closet where he managed another shower in a cheap glass tube a client had installed for $500. The water was almost warm and barely dripped from a head that was gathering some ominous form of mold. He banged his elbows on the rickety glass panels and was finished in under a minute. He dressed quickly in khakis, a white shirt and a tie, and went downstairs to the office kitchen for more coffee. The Closet was not equipped with a real kitchen.

In the fridge he noticed a new collection of cartons of diet drinks lined up in a neat row on Tillie�s side. Seltzers flavored with asparagus and other green vegetables. Weight loss practically guaranteed. Simon smiled and shook his head and almost felt sorry for the poor girl as she battled the bulge.

Promptly at 8 A.M., she was not there. Simon listened for the front door to open and the other familiar sounds of his secretary arriving for work. She was rarely late. At 8:15, he thought about calling her, certain that there was a problem. But he waited, and at 8:30, he heard her noises. She always tapped on his door and said �Good morning, Simon.� When she did, at 8:30, he was buried in a document, as if too busy to be concerned with her tardiness.

She walked in and said, �Hey, I know it�s eight-thirty, but I have a new schedule. I�ll come in at this time from now on and leave at five-thirty.�

To make such a decision without asking him was irritating, but he acted nonchalant, as if he didn�t care when she came and went. Same with his wife. He was plotting to get rid of both of them. �And the reason is?�

�I�ve joined a new gym and my class runs from six-thirty to seven-thirty. I need time to run home and shower and such.�

In her desperate search for a toned and pliant body, she had changed gyms several times, with no success. �Okay, we�ll give it a try,� he said without agreeing or disagreeing. For a second she wanted to assert herself and establish her own boundaries, but it was Monday morning, not the best time for a quarrel. She bit her tongue and managed a fake smile, then turned and left his office. As she was leaving, Simon, out of habit, checked her out. Was the asparagus juice working? The new gym? Was it his imagination, or was Tillie actually shedding a few pounds? Or was it that, since he now had the green light from home, he would quite naturally look at women with a different eye.

One thing was certain: On the top-ten list of ways to thoroughly screw up your life, having sex with an employee was somewhere in the first three slots. The laws on sexual harassment were brutal.

Where was gambling on the list?

His thoughts returned to the Final Four, but the phone was ringing now. Wounded and angry people out there needed lawyers.

After grappling with a dozen lame excuses to delay the imperative, Simon and Paula finally reached an agreement, a rarity. They would tell the children at the same time, then somehow survive the aftermath. Inflict the pain, have a good cry, then pick up the pieces. They steadied themselves by reminding each other that many of their friends had managed to survive the same dreadful conversations, and then moved on. The kids would be all right.

On a Friday night, Simon took Buck and Danny to a mall to watch a movie, and afterward they ate ice cream in a food court that overlooked a cheesy waterfall. How does one broach the subject? There was no easy way. He cleared his throat and said, �I guess you guys know that Mom and I are not getting along too well.�

The boys glanced at each other and their eyes said it all. They knew the inevitable but did not want this conversation. The moment they had been dreading had arrived.

�Is that why you�re sleeping at the office?� Buck asked.

�Yes it is.� Paula had told the children the truth when it had become obvious. �We have decided to get a divorce.�

He let the word hang in the air for a few seconds as he watched their reactions. Danny, the younger, was more emotional and his eyes moistened, though he seemed determined to be tough. Buck would be the harder case.

He said, �Mom says you don�t love her anymore.�

�I�ll always love your mom. We created you guys and Janie and we are extremely proud of you.� He had practiced these words many times and they sounded flat and too rehearsed. �But just because you love someone doesn�t mean you can get along. Mom and I simply cannot get along anymore.� To a sixteen-year-old and a fourteen-year-old, or to any kid for that matter, this sounded like impenetrable crap. All kids want their parents to be together and happy.

�Why can�t you get along?� Danny asked.

�Because sometimes people fall in love, get married, have kids, and then grow apart. We got busy with our lives, and, well, things changed.�

Buck said, �So you�re blaming us?�

�I am not, Buck. I�m blaming no one but myself. Let�s make that clear. Your mother has done nothing wrong, neither have I. There�s no bad behavior here. We love you guys and Janie and we�re determined to support you in every way. We just don�t enjoy being around each other anymore.�

To put it mildly. Truth was, he and Paula couldn�t stand each other. And on the subject of bad behavior, he could only fantasize about who she was seeing on the side. He, certainly, was on the prowl, now that he had the green light, but so far had struck out.

The boys went silent, thoroughly confused. Simon had several boxes yet to check, so he rattled them off: �I�m not going to move away, or marry someone else, or miss a ball game or a practice or a birthday or Christmas. I�ll be there for you guys, same as always. And I�m very sorry for what�s happening. Your mother and I are both sorry for this. When we got married seventeen years ago we never dreamed this would happen.�

A group of girls settled around a table nearby and Buck recognized them. After a long silence, he said, �Can we just go home?�

�Sure.�

Their fourth lunch was at a slightly upscale Korean restaurant that Simon had heard was superb. There were tablecloths and linen napkins and an atmosphere that was more subdued than some of their previous dives. So far they had tasted Greece, Thailand, and Afghanistan, and, though Netty was thoroughly enjoying their lunches, she was not impressed with the wide variety of cuisine. Also, she seemed perfectly willing to allow Simon to pay for all the lunches, which he did while bitching only to himself. Lunch was part of his grand seduction scheme.

She dutifully looked over the menu, thoroughly overwhelmed by it. Simon took charge again and ordered traditional dishes of mandu, a pan-fried dumping filled with chopped pork; japchae noodles, thin see-through noodles with sliced mushrooms, carrots, and spinach; and, everyone�s favorite, Korean fried chicken, made even crunchier after first being rolled in rice flour. Simon made sure the waiter understood that they wanted the tamest version of the chicken. The spiciest was talked about around town.

During the second lunch, Eleanor had made it clear that she did not drink alcohol, so no wine. She encouraged Simon to have a glass if he wanted, but he rarely drank at lunch. Booze made the afternoons sluggish.

When the waiter was gone, Simon decided to get to the point. �We have not discussed your arrangements, have we?�

�What do you mean?�

�Well, when Mr. Korsak died suddenly, who stepped up and made the important decisions about his funeral and burial?�

�Oh my.� Her eyes were moist and she looked away. �Is it really time for that?�

�I�m afraid so. As the executor of your will, and in the absence of any family members, I�ll have to make those decisions. Unless, of course, you want someone else to do so.�

�Oh no, Simon. I�m trusting you to do it.�

�Thank you. I appreciate your trust, Netty.�

�Which funeral home?�

�Cupit & Moke, downtown. I guess they�re still around.�

�Oh, they�re both dead, but their families run the funeral home. Mind if I take a look at the policy?�

�Why? I�m not even sure if I can find it. Wasn�t planning on needing it anytime soon.� She cackled at her humor and Simon obliged with a fake laugh. He said, �And your plot is next to Harry�s?�

�That�s right. Out in Eternal Springs, the cemetery. Nicest one around. I go visit once a month and take some flowers. Well, not every month, but most of the time.�

�And the plot is paid for?�

�Oh yes, as far as I know. Haven�t seen a bill in forever.�

�I�m assuming the policy covers the standard mortuary services, casket, and so on.�

�I�m sure it does. Harry�s casket was so handsome, made of oak, had to pay extra.�

�Again, I�d like to see the policy,� Simon said. �There�s a trend nowadays away from traditional burials. Many of my clients are choosing cremation. Have you heard of this?�

�I may have read something. Dottie Watson from the poker club passed two years ago and they cremated her, stuck her in a wall in a mausoleum. We thought her family was just trying to save some money.�

�My wife and I have chosen cremation,� Simon said. �It�s easier, quicker, and much cheaper. Plus, it protects the environment. Think of the millions of people who�ve died and been embalmed and now those chemicals are leaking into the drinking water. It�s a looming environmental disaster.�

Eleanor was about to take a sip of water and she froze, then set down her glass. Shocked, she said, �I never thought about that.�

�It�s true. When a person dies, the morticians fill the body with all manner of chemicals, like formaldehyde, phenol, methanol, and glycerin, to preserve things only until the funeral. It�s ridiculous, really. About a million gallons of chemicals go into the ground each year. Over time, as the body decomposes, the chemicals start leaking out, regardless of what type of casket is used.�

�Well, I never...� Her voice trailed off.

�Cremation is the way to go and it�s definitely the trend, at least in this country. I�ll send you some magazine articles.�

�No casket, nothing like that?�

�Nothing like that. Your ashes are put in a cremation urn and it�s buried in a mausoleum or a columbarium.�

�A what?�

�Columbarium. It�s a structure that holds cremation urns.�

With thoughts of decaying remains hanging in the air, the mandu arrived on a platter. They were small, round rice dumplings that smelled delicious. Netty said, �Let�s change the subject.�

�Good idea.�

Simon could do a passable job with chopsticks but Eleanor was too inexperienced. He suggested they stick to forks and she readily agreed. The eight small dumplings disappeared in minutes, just as the noodles and fried chicken were served. Eleanor had been lukewarm to the kabobs from Afghanistan and the spicy egg rolls from Thailand, but she devoured the crunchy fried chicken. And, in Simon�s opinion, she needed to eat. She was looking thin and frail, not sickly, but she could add a few pounds.

The waiter was a young Korean American kid with a Jersey accent. As he cleared the table Simon asked, �What�s a delicious, authentic dessert?�

�Coming right up,� he said, with confidence. �Coffee?�

�Of course.�

Eleanor asked for spiced tea.

Five minutes later he was back with small plate of sesame honey bars. Eleanor took a bite of one, turned up her nose, and sipped tea.

Simon asked, �Were we finished with the conversation about your arrangements?�

�I don�t know. Were we? I�m not sure about this cremation thing. Could I still be buried next to Harry? He and I never talked much about resting peacefully in the same plot, side by side.� Her eyes watered again.

Simon listened with a smile. He knew for certain that he and Paula would not spend eternity anywhere near each other. He said, �I�m sure you can be placed next to Harry.�

She said, �But there won�t be a casket or anything. Just a little vase or box or��

�An urn. A cremation urn. There are thousands to choose from. It�s a much simpler way to go and also cheaper.�

�Well, let me think about it.�

�There�s no rush, Netty.�

�I certainly hope not,� she said with a laugh that was too loud.

On a perfect spring day in late May, Simon left the office at four with Matilda fighting the phone. He was grateful it was still ringing, though the racket meant there would be a stack of calls to return in the morning. For some unknown reason, his practice had hit a busy cycle after the latest lull and there were some nice fees. But the divorce was looming and would consume money he didn�t have. And the situation at Chub�s had not improved. Betting on NBA games was proving, once again, to be more challenging than the NCAA.

He really wanted to play nine holes of golf for the first time in weeks, but soccer was calling. Janie�s under-10 team, Slash, had yet another game at the sports complex, a place he was learning to loathe. But he didn�t dare skip it because Janie would know before the start that he wasn�t there. Paula, of course, would arrive early, in part to prove she was the more diligent parent. Who cared? They weren�t fighting over custody.

He found the field, one of a dozen, all with games raging, and saw Paula standing alone at one end.

�What�s the score?� he asked as he stood beside her without looking at her.

�One � zip. Janie scored a goal in the first thirty seconds. You missed it.�

�Chalk up another one for you.�

�She�s really quite good. Her coach wants her to play on a summer travel team.�

Simon�s shoulders sagged a bit as he exhaled with frustration. �A travel team? There goes the summer. How many games?�

�Dozens. Six weekend tournaments. Washington, Baltimore, Charlotte, Atlanta, can�t remember the rest.�

�Great. And I suppose you�ve already said yes.�

�No. She mentioned it for the first time this morning at breakfast.�

�How much?�

�Forty-two hundred.�

�You must be kidding.�

�Nope. Fancy uniforms, travel, tournament fees, the works. Plus, a paid coach.�

�A paid coach? She�s nine years old, Paula.�

�Yes. I know.�

They had yet to look at one another. A month or so earlier they had sat together in the bleachers and a little chat grew somewhat testy. It was best if they stayed away from the other fans.

He said, �And I�m sure Janie wants to spend her summer playing soccer.�

�I think so. Her therapist says she wants to stay away from the house as much as possible.�

�Her therapist?�

�Yes. She�s had two sessions.�

�Why didn�t I know this?�

�You haven�t been home. I�m raising the kids now. Solo, it seems.�

He wanted to start yelling and cursing loudly but figured that might disrupt the game and embarrass his daughter. Plus, it would only give Paula more ammunition. He had to stay cool at all times. He ground his teeth and made himself smile.

�How much for the therapist?�

�Two-fifty an hour.� Same rate as the Honorable Simon F. Latch, Attorney and Counselor at Law. He swallowed hard and asked, with as much sarcasm as possible, �Anybody else in the family seeing a shrink, other than you and Janie?�

�Not at this time. I�m going to protect the children, Simon. Whatever it takes.�

�As if I�m trying to harm them?�

�The divorce will do enough damage.�

�And the divorce is a mutual undertaking, right? We both want out and have agreed to get a divorce.�

�The sooner the better.�

The soccer ball bounced nearby, out of play, and Janie scooped it up for the inbounds. �Nice work, Janie! Atta girl!� Simon yelled intensely. Of course, his encouragement was not acknowledged. He glanced at Paula and she rolled her eyes in disgust. What a bitch. He couldn�t even cheer properly.

Simon knew that the odds of Janie earning a single dollar playing soccer were about as slim as him winning billion-dollar verdicts against Big Pharma. But his dreams were over. Janie�s were only beginning.

�Any comments about the property settlement agreement?� he asked, changing the subject to something other than soccer. Why did he pick the PSA?

She sighed and glanced around to check on their privacy. �Is this really the place?�

�No one�s listening. You want me to stop by the house and discuss it in front of the kids?�

�Who prepared it?�

�I did. I told you I would.�

�Figures. I�ll feel better if I have my own lawyer to review the agreement. And I don�t trust any lawyer around here because you know them all.�

�Of course I know them all. Sorta goes with being in the profession. And just because I know a lawyer doesn�t mean I trust him. In fact, I distrust at least half of the lawyers in town and don�t like most of them.�

�I�ll find one.�

�Great. And pay him or her five grand to nitpick a PSA that is straightforward, fair, and includes everything we�ve already agreed to?�

�You�re raising your voice, Simon, please.�

The game dragged on as Simon boiled and Paula seethed and both wanted to walk away but neither would be the first to leave. Janie would know instantly if one of them left. Late in the game she scored a third goal. Simon faked a cheer while wondering how much it might cost him. When the ball went out of bounds at the other end, he turned and walked away without another word.

The following week, a rather belligerent gentleman, badly dressed and reeking of alcohol, made a noisy entrance into the reception area of the law office of Wally Thackerman, across Main Street from Simon�s building.

Fran, the secretary, who had years of experience handling riffraff from the street, sized him up quickly and asked, �May I help you?�

�I wanna see Wally Thackerman, the lawyer,� he demanded.

�Do you have an appointment?�

�Aren�t you in charge of appointments? Sure you are, and if you were doing a half-ass job you�d know that I don�t have an appointment. And I�m not leaving either.�

�Okay. May I have your name and the nature of your business.�

�Name�s Clyde Korsak and my business ain�t none of your business.�

�Well, be that as it may, Mr. Thackerman is with a client right now. I�ll be happy to make an appointment for tomorrow, say around three P.M.�

�Oh how efficient. I�m not coming back tomorrow because I�m not leaving today. I�ll see the sonofabitch right now because I�m not going away.�

Wally happened to be in his firm�s library, which was closer to the front than his office, and when he heard a loud, aggressive voice he inched forward to investigate. �Everything okay, Fran?� He was peeking around from the hallway.

�You Thackerman?� the man snarled.

�Well, yes, I�m Walter Thackerman. And who are you, sir?�

�I�m Clyde Korsak, stepson of Eleanor Barnett, and we need to talk.�

The last she�d heard from Clyde, he was in Iraq working for the United Nations and trying to clean up the postwar mess over there. He said he was in a real danger zone, heard gunfire every day, and just wanted to check in with Eleanor so she would know he was doing something important. That had been years earlier. As usual, she didn�t believe a word of it. A phone call from nowhere almost always led to another one in which he asked for money.

Two nights ago he had called, said he was passing through, and asked to sleep on the sofa. Before she could say no or stall or do anything to avoid him, he was at the front door, banging away. Their history was complicated, filled with tension and distrust, and completely centered on the fact that he was a con man who�d never had a real job, was constantly broke and usually one step ahead of the law, and for the past twenty years had been convinced that Harry, his father, had left behind a pile of money for his widow. He was right about that, though Eleanor had never confirmed it. Harry had been adamant that neither Clyde nor his brother, Jerry, receive a dime of his money.

She fixed him a bowl of tomato soup, which he drank, then two more. As always, he ate like a pig and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Eleanor told him he could not sleep on the sofa or anywhere else in the house, for that matter, and they argued. She was physically afraid of him and thought about calling the police. Instead, she retreated to her bedroom, locked the door, and spent a sleepless night peeking through the blinds to see if his car left the driveway. It did not. When she ventured out early the next morning, Clyde had made himself at home in the kitchen with a pot of coffee and the morning paper.

They spoke and things were cordial but forced. Then she realized she had forgotten to lock the door to her small study where she kept a desk and some file cabinets. The door was partially open. There were two wills: the first prepared by Wally Thackerman and signed by Eleanor four months earlier, and the second prepared by Simon two months ago. The second revoked and negated the first, though poor Wally had no clue. Both were locked in a fireproof safe, along with the deed to her home, car title, burial policy, disability policy, life policy, and a few other papers that she thought were important. The safe was hidden in the bottom of her closet.

On the desk in her study was a neat stack of current bills and a tray of letters and articles and other papers she had chosen not to throw away yet, though almost all would get tossed in a year or so. In the center drawer was her checkbook, issued by Security Bank, and showing a balance of just over $3,100. The drawer was unlocked and would have been an easy target for anyone nosy enough to be browsing.

She did not offer breakfast, though he mentioned at least twice that he was hungry. She mustered the courage to tell him, rather bluntly, that he was overstaying his welcome and it was time to leave. He asked to borrow $5,000 and she flatly refused. He finally stormed out, and she immediately called the locksmith and changed every lock in the house, with the exception of her hidden safe.

On her desk, in the mail tray, under at least two inches of miscellaneous correspondence and other papers, the majority of which she could not remember why she was keeping, she found the problem. It was a letter from the law offices of Walter�J. Thackerman, and it read, in part: �I called twice yesterday and once the day before. Let�s meet next Tuesday at three P.M. in my office to finalize your last will and testament.�

At this point in her narrative, Simon could not help but interrupt. �Any stray letters from me lying around on your desk, Netty?�

�Oh no. I checked.�

He was relieved. He did not want to live the next few months with a pistol in his pocket or within reach.

She went on to explain the obvious: Clyde had searched through her desk during the night and found the letter. After he left, she carefully went through every other piece of paper in her study and found nothing else that might cause problems. Then she threw it all away. �Just junk, stuff I didn�t need.

�What am I going to do, Simon?� she asked, pleading. �He�s sitting over there in jail and there�s no one to help him.�

�Let him sit, Netty. He�s been there before and he deserves it now. The man is dangerous. He carries a gun and he�s desperate.�

�Can he get his gun back?�

�I doubt it.�

�Will he go to jail?�

�More than likely. Judges take a dim view of thugs who attack lawyers in their own offices. Plus, he�s a felon with a firearm. He�ll serve some time.�

�Well, I guess that�s a good thing. He scares me.�

�Will his brother bail him out?�

�I don�t know. Jerry lives down in Florida somewhere and they�re not that close, or at least they were not way back then.�

Matilda had kicked off her heels and was tiptoeing around the building, listening in all the good places. However, Simon and Ms. Barnett were in a small conference room with thick carpet and vents in the floor. The voices didn�t carry.

Simon said, at low volume, �Don�t answer the phone, Netty, and don�t go anywhere near the jail. And please don�t talk to Wally, should he call.�

�Why would Wally call?�

�I don�t know, but he�s probably quite concerned with the will and the notoriety. If word gets out that he got attacked because he prepared the last will for a client whose stepson is unhappy, then the will becomes an issue. The last thing Wally wants is for anyone to know what�s in that will. Don�t forget, Netty, that he provided for himself, to the tune of almost a half a million dollars in cash.�

�I�m confused. That will is no longer valid, right?�

�It�s not valid, it�s not invalid. It�s just sitting there waiting for you to die.�

�Oh dear.�

�Sorry to be so blunt. A will is not valid until it is probated after death. The will I prepared for you expressly revokes the will Wally prepared, so his will becomes invalid. Of course, he doesn�t know that.�

�It seems only fair that we tell him. I mean, he just got beat up over nothing.�

�He just got beat up because Clyde is an idiot. No, the law does not require you or me or anyone to tell Wally that you have prepared a new will that revokes the one he prepared.�

�It seems awfully deceitful.�

�Perhaps, but there are reasons for it. And, sadly, there are plenty of laws that appear to be deceitful but are really necessary.�

�If you say so, Simon. I�m trusting you.�

Simon loaded her suitcase into the trunk of his car and they drove away. Glancing at the rows of identical houses, he said, �And you and Harry moved here ten years ago?�

�Something like that. I�m not good with dates and such. The house was brand-new and we had just settled in when he suddenly passed. It was just awful.�

�I�m so sorry. And you moved here from Atlanta.�

�That�s right. I never liked Atlanta, too big, too much traffic.� Over their series of lunches he had learned that she was from a small town near Nashville and met Harry while vacationing with some friends near Destin. They settled in Atlanta.

�Why�d you move here?� Simon asked.

�Good question. Harry had just retired and we were looking to change scenery. We liked the mountains and a nicer climate. Houses were cheap, or at least a lot cheaper than the other places we looked at.�

Cheap. A word she used frequently. Ten years ago when Harry died he was around the age of sixty-nine and had spent a long career working for Coke, where, as her story went, he had secured all the shares of stock available to him and socked them away. Add the Wal-Mart stock. So, as the guessing went, at the time of his death he had substantial net worth. Why, then, would they have been so hung up on buying a cheaper house?

Simon reminded himself that he probably spent too much time analyzing her story and trying to understand her finances. There was an excellent chance that Harry, a �Depression kid,� was just plain stingy and cheap, and after twenty or so years of marriage Eleanor had picked up the same habits. She had never referred to herself as being poor as a child. �Modest� was her favorite description. Perhaps she, too, had been raised in a family that was extremely frugal.

And there was always the chance that the money was not there. This thought hit Simon from time to time and made him nervous. However, it was still difficult to understand why a person as modest and unassuming as Eleanor would create the fiction that she was worth millions. What could she possibly gain from such a charade?

There was no answer, but Simon, once again, vowed to keep digging.

Her phone rang. She found it deep in her bag, managed to untangle it, took a look and said, �Oh dear. It�s Wally. What should I do?�

Simon knew exactly what to do. He wanted to hear the conversation. �You�d better talk to him. Tell him you�re out of town for a few days. Put him on speaker. I�ll listen but stay quiet.�

She looked thoroughly confused as the phone rang for the fifth time. She tapped it and said, �Hello.�

�Eleanor, it�s me, Wally. How ya doing?�

�Well, I�m fine, Wally, and how are you?�

�I�m okay. I guess you�ve seen the news and all that. Had a little scrape with Clyde Korsak a few days ago. Have you seen him lately?�

She looked at Simon who gave a quick nod.

�Why yes. He stopped by the house a few days ago. I haven�t seen him in years. We�re not close, you know?�

�Right. Well, he came to my office that afternoon, said he wanted to talk about your will, wanted to see it. I explained that I could not discuss such matters. He was drunk and belligerent, pulled a gun and made threats. It was a bad scene, Eleanor. Then he jumped me and threw some punches.�

�I�m so sorry, Wally. Are you okay?�

�I�m fine. He�s still in jail. Have you talked to him since?�

�Oh he�s called once or twice. I�m out of town for a few days.�

A long pause as Wally apparently wondered where she was. �Not a bad idea, really. Here�s the question for you, Eleanor. Since I�d never met Clyde before, how did he know I prepared your last will? Did you tell him? I can�t believe you would do something like that.�

�Oh no, Wally, I said nothing about you. As you cautioned me, my will is top secret. I wouldn�t tell a soul.� She shot a guilty look at Simon, as if he was somehow to blame for something.

�That�s strange. I wonder how Clyde knows that I represent you.�

�Beats me. I haven�t said a word.�

�Okay. Well, be careful. And when you�re back in town let�s get together and review your will. It�s been almost six months.�

�Yes, it has.�

She ended the call and cradled her phone in her lap. Nothing was said for a long time. �I feel deceitful, Simon. I don�t like it.�

�Netty, if you tell Wally about your new will, he�ll go nuts and demand that the two of you sit down and work things out. He�ll call me and make threats. It�ll be a disaster.�

�I guess so.�

Another mile passed in silence. There was so much to say, but the thoughts were scrambled. Finally, she asked, �How long will Clyde stay in jail?�

�Don�t know. Aggravated assault carries up to ten years. I suspect, though, that when Wally comes to his senses he may drop the charges.�

�I don�t understand.�

�That�s right. The last thing Wally needs is for your will to become public. He did a very bad thing when he included a direct cash gift to himself, and not a small one at that. If that became known, and if you said that you were not aware of the gift, then Wally could face disciplinary charges from the state bar.�

�This is all very confusing, Simon. What if I had not signed a new will, the one you prepared? And then I pass on, and then Wally presents, or probates, the will he prepared, with the gift to him? At that point the gift would be made known, right?�

�Right.�

�So wouldn�t he get in trouble anyway? I don�t understand all this.�

�Well, it doesn�t make sense, really. Yes, Wally would probably get in trouble, but he was willing to roll the dice. He would be the attorney for your estate and the trustee for the trusts he established in your will. He would be in a great position to handle a lot of money. I think Wally just saw the opportunity and couldn�t resist the temptation.�

Simon tried not to sound pious. He, too, had seen the opportunity and had not resisted the temptation. True, Wally was bolder and greedier, but Simon�s will certainly took care of Simon. He tried not to fantasize over the fees but it was impossible not to.

�It�s all gobbledygook.�

Worse than that, Simon thought.

For the next two weeks things were quiet as Clyde remained in jail and Netty fell back into her routine of doing almost nothing. Simon filed bankruptcy petitions by the pound and was busier than ever. He and Paula continued their silent war as they ignored each other and hoped that something would force them to sign the divorce papers.

Each morning, Simon checked with his source at the jail to make sure Clyde was still there. Each afternoon, he checked with a secretary in the prosecutor�s office to monitor any activity in the case. The secretary was thirty-five, divorced, and a legendary flirt. She was on his list, if he could ever find the time or energy to chase women again.

The gossip finally died down, without a peep about a suspicious will prepared by Wally. As far as Simon could tell, Eleanor�s name had not been linked to the story of the �attack.� Nor had his. There was also gossip that Wally�s nose was as big as a football and his entire face was rainbow-colored as the bruises matured and blended together. He was hiding, with his cases being continued while he was on medical leave.

Fran enjoyed a brief moment of fame as the fearless secretary who�d fired away and threatened to castrate Clyde with a single bullet. The backstory was that she had been raised with three older brothers who hunted year-round, with or without proper licenses. Any deer was always in season. She had killed her first buck when she was thirteen.

Behind the scenes, though, Wally was working a deal, as Simon predicted. He offered to drop all charges but a simple assault if Clyde agreed to leave town and never return. It would be a misdemeanor, nothing permanent on his record, with one year suspended. No fine. Just get out of town. Clyde jumped at the deal, and after eighteen days walked out. He never answered a question from a cop, never spoke to anyone about the incident. He got in his old car and left town, leaving nothing behind but a few stitches in Wally�s face.

On a glorious Saturday morning in early September, with a chill in the air and the golden leaves falling from the oaks and maples, Simon rose early in The Closet and left to do what he now dreaded: stand away from the crowd and watch his talented nine-year-old daughter chase a soccer ball around the field. Kickoff was eight-thirty, so he arrived ten minutes early to make sure Janie saw him, which she did. Paula had watched the last game. This one was his. The tag-team approach worked because they had no choice.

They had survived the summer travel schedule by taking turns, which meant Simon had spent long weekends in Raleigh, Pittsburgh, and Baltimore. Since Janie was playing in a local recreation league for the fall, all games were at the complex, in the same place. Simon was thankful for small miracles, but it had not been easy. The same guy who�d coached the summer team (at $4,200 per player) was also coaching a fall travel team (another $4,500), with weekend tournaments as far away as Atlanta. Five games guaranteed with dozens of college scouts taking notes as they analyzed ten-year-old athletes. Of course, Janie had been keen to do fall travel, but, in a rare moment of cooperation, both parents said no.

Simon was startled when Paula suddenly said, �I brought you a coffee.� She handed him a tall white cup with a lid.

�Thanks. What are you doing here?�

�It wouldn�t be a real Saturday without soccer, now would it?�

�I thought you were at a swim meet with Danny.�

�He quit.�

�Danny quit swimming?�

�He did.�

�When?�

�This morning. He wouldn�t get out of bed, said he was quitting.�

Simon wanted to celebrate. Of all the sports the kids had tried so far, swimming was the worst because it was year-round. Danny had been a fish until he was twelve years old, then the other kids caught up. Now he rarely won a race and was losing his love for the sport.

The ref blew her whistle and the game was on.

�How�s Janie�s attitude these days?� he asked.

�Who knows? One day she�s okay, the next she�s in a mood. She�s having a rougher time with the divorce than the boys. Our house is a pretty gloomy place these days.�

�Then let�s get the divorce behind us and move on.�

�Move on to where?�

The great question. Where were they going? What was their endgame after splitting the family? Was that supposed to make life fulfilling again? Simon had no answers, nor did Paula, but the only thing they were sure of was that they could not stay together.

She said, �There�s something else.� Then silence.

Ah, now the real reason for her unscheduled appearance at another soccer game too early on a Saturday morning. He waited without a word, refusing to help her.

�The Glen is being sold, another merger of some variety. I�m not sure what it means for me.� She had a master�s degree in business administration and earned $72,000 a year as the finance director at a midrange retirement community called The Glen. It was owned by a large, shifty corporation that changed its name every three years and had a reputation that was not exactly stellar.

�We had our first round of layoffs yesterday.�

�And what are your chances of being laid off?�

�Not sure, but the place is in full panic mode.�

The last thing they needed was more uncertainty. Her steady salary had been the one constant in their otherwise unsteady finances.

�Any idea when the second round will take place?�

�No. The big boys aren�t saying much, probably because they don�t know and they�re scared too. The decisions are being made in San Diego.�

�I�m sorry.� And he really was. A layoff could only add misery to what was already a forgettable year. The pressure on him to produce even more would get ratcheted up. They would probably be forced to broach the subject of selling their home.

Like clockwork, Janie scored the first goal, a twenty-yard-line drive that landed high in the net and stunned the other team. Simon managed to clap his hands together, the proud father. Paula yelled something that could not be heard.

Regardless of his firm�s revenues and expenses, Simon managed to cook the books enough each year to net more than his wife. It was a matter of pride. He was a lawyer, with seven years of higher education and membership in an old, honored profession. He was expected to earn big bucks! Never mind the fact that most of the lawyers up and down Main Street were grunting out a living and taking home less than a union truck driver.

�Why don�t you sign the property settlement so we can get it filed?�

�Because we need a little cash around the house.�

�What else is new?� Simon asked in frustration.

�I will not be reduced to begging you for money, Simon. These are our children we�re talking about.�

Kelsey, from the morning coffee club, appeared from nowhere and went through the silly ritual of quick hugs. She was a horrible gossip and probably couldn�t withstand the temptation to butt into the Latches� latest soccer spat. The rumors of a breakup were rampant and Kelsey, of course, was dying of curiosity and eager to see or hear something she could report to the others. Simon and Paula forced some small talk about the kids and school. Kelsey finally took the hint and said so long.

�They�re all watching,� Paula said.

�Let�s get the divorce filed and be done with it.�

�I need twelve thousand dollars, cash.�

�For what?�

�Driving lessons for Buck, braces for Danny, piano for Janie, plus a transmission for the car, four thousand there, and a new oven. Give me a check for twelve thousand and I�ll sign the property settlement on Monday, at my lawyer�s office.�

�And who may I ask is your new lawyer?�

�Myrna Covington.�

�Never heard of her.�

�She�s not from around here.�

�And how much of the twelve thousand goes for her fees?�

�Can�t say. That�s privileged.�

He mumbled to himself and left. He walked past field after field, game after game, hundreds of happy kids and thousands of proud parents and grandparents, all watching and dreaming of future soccer glory.

Simon didn�t have a spare $12,000 lying around, unneeded, in a bank account. He did have a line of credit with a friendly banker down the street, a loyal pal who�d been loaning him small sums for years. Most lawyers in town needed an occasional bump when the fees ran thin, and this banker in particular had always rolled the dice with them.

Ironically, the funds Paula needed equaled almost exactly Simon�s current deficit down at Chub�s. Saturday was a big day in college football, with showdowns in every major conference, and Simon had studied the board all week. He�d read the game summaries, followed the handicappers in Vegas, or at least the ones he trusted, pored over gamblers� cheat sheets, and listened to podcasts, and he was convinced the day was perfect for bold, unconventional action.

He went online and spread $7,000 over seven games. He called Chub and put $3,500 on the same seven.

There was no way to lose.

After another restless night that was continually interrupted by nightmares of handcuffs and headlines, Simon went downstairs, in jeans and a T-shirt, and made coffee. It promised to be another dreary Monday. He had a list of eleven unpleasant phone calls that he had carried over from the last unproductive week. First, though, he had to deal with his wealthiest client and her mounting legal problems.

He actually paused for a moment and stared at his phones. Which one should he use? Cell or landline? Since he was such a small-time gambler, would the FBI really have an interest in him? Would Yolanda send him a warning if he were a serious target? And would they really be listening in? Such thoughts had kept him awake all night. He decided to use the old phone on his desk.

Regarding Eleanor�s auto insurance, he felt compelled to at least notify the company that she had received three tickets for moving violations. He was careful to point out that he, as her lawyer, was contesting the charges, and that there had been no final adjudication. He was just putting Allstate on notice.

He placed a call to the city prosecutor�s office and talked to a secretary. The assistant prosecutors were quite busy, it was after all a Monday morning, but someone would call him back. Half an hour later, a rookie prosecutor called to inform Mr. Latch that she did not have the authority to reduce the penalties for traffic violations. She was stiff and important and seemed to equate bad driving with capital murder. After the call, Simon checked her out online and learned that she finished law school in May and had just passed the bar exam.

His banker finally called him back just before ten, and Simon was forced to sing and dance through the same routine about needing another jolt to his line of credit. The terms of that wretched agreement were clear and did not require him to justify anything. The $25,000 was there for his taking, no questions asked, but he was expected to notify the bank before hitting it again.

He cursed the line of credit every day of his life. The damned thing was not his fault. Five years earlier, he had been working at his desk late one night when he saw a pile of mail Tillie had opened and left in the in-tray on his desk. The friendly solicitation from Union Bank asked, �Do you need $10,000?� In fact, at that moment he did. The first paragraph proclaimed that the money was his because he had somehow qualified. No application. No credit check. No security. No repayments for twelve months. The money was his simply because he was a self-employed lawyer. Cautiously, he signed on for only $4,000. That relieved some pain and was so easy. Within the year he was up to the limit, needed more, and the bank happily raised him to $15,000. His excuse had been a dispute with the IRS, something the bank heard all the time from lawyers. More tax problems followed and the bank finally stopped the bleeding at $25,000.

After the first round of Monday morning phone calls, he was in a dark mood and decided to make matters even worse. There would never be a good time to tell Tillie, and doing so would not be pleasant. So why not do it during an already awful day, as opposed to ruining a good one?

Just before lunch he asked her to step into his office, close the door, have a seat, and ignore the phone. Neither could remember the last time she sat down in his office.

�Paula and I are getting a divorce.�

She took it with a sad face but also with a little nod that said she figured as much. Indeed, she had known for some time that the marriage was not stable. �I�m so sorry.�

�You�ve probably noticed that I�ve been spending a lot of time here at the office.�

�Are you living here?�

�Basically, yes.�

�I�m sorry, Simon. It must be awful.�

�It is, especially for the children. But it�s also been awful with the two of us living in the same house.�

Tillie and Paula had long since realized that their lives were easier if they remained in their own separate corners. Paula had lost interest in Simon�s career years earlier and wanted nothing to do with it, except, of course, the income it generated and what that meant to their ever-straining budget. Tillie had always seen her as aloof, probably because she had a college degree and a professional job.

�May I ask if things are civilized?�

�You may and they are, for the most part. I�ve prepared a simple property settlement agreement and she�s considering it. She gets everything, basically, including the kids. I have liberal visitation. We�re splitting expenses, with me paying the mortgage. So far, no fireworks. There are no allegations of bad behavior.�

�This is so sad.�

�It is, but we�ll be okay. I�m determined to get through it and move on to a happier life, hopefully. It should not impact you in any way.�

�I wasn�t thinking about myself, Simon.�

�I know. I appreciate the work you do here, Tillie, and I know I don�t say that enough.�

�Thank you, Simon. I like my job.�

�That�s good to hear. And on another unhappy note, I�ve gone to the bank again because Paula needs some cash. You know how much I hate to do that, but I have no choice.�

�Your call, boss.� She smiled and got to her feet. �And, if you need someone to talk to, I�m always here. With, you know, the female perspective. Plus, I have one divorce under my belt so I�ve been through it.�

�Thank you.�

She turned and walked to the door. Simon couldn�t help but admire the view. Tillie was really getting in shape. After she closed the door, Simon pondered something that he should have already noticed. Tillie was a brighter, happier person these days, and she was spending more time not only in the gym but also at the mirror. The clothes, in smaller sizes, were more stylish and flattering.

Could it be that Tillie, after a long dry spell, had found someone new? He certainly hoped so.

Eleanor was getting pushier about their lunches, which she was now describing as their �dates.� Simon was suffering through them because they might lead to a pot of gold. However, the culinary adventure had been his idea and he couldn�t stop it. Plus, he was getting closer to Netty and she was relying on him more and more. She even let it slip that she �needed� him.

Her friend Doris had eaten twice at the Bombay Oven, a quaint little caf� in a converted gas station five miles west of town. Eleanor was determined to go there, if for no other reason than to keep up with Doris, who was quite envious that her friend was lunching with a handsome young lawyer. The more Simon heard about Doris, the less he wanted to meet her.

He arrived early as always so he could scope out the parking situation and position himself, low behind the wheel, to study Eleanor�s driving ability. It was a county road with little traffic, but Netty managed to find plenty of it. When she came into view, puttering along in the old Lincoln at no more than thirty miles an hour, there were a dozen cars bumper-to-bumper behind her. As she slowed even more and began to pull off the road, the idea of a turning signal never crossed her mind. Horns were blowing as the traffic passed.

He helped her out of her car. She looked great, as always, ready for church in a pretty blue dress, one he�d seen several times, a floral scarf bunched around her neck, dark hose, low heels. As they entered the caf�, Simon half-expected to smell diesel fuel and axle grease, but the interior was ultra-modern with black and white tiled floors, mirrors, glass, and tables adorned with linen cloths.

So much for a cheap lunch, he thought to himself. They ordered tea and a baked flatbread to get started. The restaurant was quiet and not crowded, the tables spaced reasonably apart. Simon had an agenda but did not want to hurry. These outings meant a lot to Eleanor.

After some chitchat about their complete lack of knowledge of Indian cuisine, they put down the menus. She got serious with �Wally Thackerman called again this morning.�

�Again?�

�Yes, he�s been calling for a month now, wants me to come to his office to review my estate and such.�

At that moment, Simon could think of nothing in his complicated life that was as important as Eleanor�s estate. The idea of another lawyer, especially a worm like Wally, getting anywhere near it was quite unsettling.

He gave a nonchalant shrug and asked, �What did you tell him?�

�I�m not a liar, Simon,� she said, with a look that implied he thought she would lie.

�Who said you were?� he asked, defensively.

�I told him I wasn�t feeling well, which at that moment was a true statement because his calls were upsetting me. But he isn�t going away, evidently. What are we going to do?�

Shoot the little bastard, Simon instantly thought, but let it pass. �Well, we could always call Clyde and tell him to come on back and finish the job.� Simon was smiling at his own humor. Eleanor was not.

�Sorry, just joking.�

�I�m serious here, Simon. I still feel deceitful for not telling Wally the truth, that I�ve signed another will and the one he prepared is no good. This just doesn�t seem right.�

�And you think Wally�s been up-front with you? Keep in mind, Netty, he secretly hid a gift to himself in your will and didn�t tell you about it. Almost half a million dollars. You�re not dealing with an ethical person here. As I have explained, more than once, you have no obligation to inform Wally about our will. And why worry, Netty? You have at least ten more years, maybe twenty.�

That made her smile. The waitress brought over a platter of naan with a bowl of spiced garlic hummus. They each took a bite. She said, �Well, what if I go to his office and talk to him, just to see what he�s up to? I don�t have to tell him anything and I don�t have to agree to anything, right?�

�Right. Great idea. Go sit with Wally, talk about his episode with Clyde, and so on. See what he�s thinking.�

�That�s what I�ll do.�

When the waitress returned, Simon said, �An Indian friend recommended the kofta, meatballs stuffed with pork and onions and other things, and your chicken curry.�

�I�ll take the same,� Eleanor said.

The waitress sized them up and said, �I recommend that you go pretty light on the spices, okay?�

They agreed and she took their menus.

Simon said, �I�d like to finish the conversation about your final arrangements, if you don�t mind.�

�That�s not one of my favorite topics.�

�Understood. But we�re talking about dying, Netty, otherwise you would never have called my office in the first place. As soon as we can get all the paperwork done, then we can stop talking about dying.�

She crunched on some flatbread and looked like she was about to cry. �Do you really think I�ll live ten more years?�

�Yes, at least ten,� he said with a smile.

�And you think I should do the cremation thing?�

�Yes, I really do. It�s quick, easy, and more sustainable for the environment.�

�Okay. If you insist.�

Simon scribbled some meaningless notes on a small scrap of paper. �What about your funeral service? I asked you to write down some ideas.�

�That�s ten years away.�

�Look, Netty, I really don�t want to be doing this. I�m your lawyer, not a blood relative. This is a job for someone in your family, you understand? I don�t really care how you want to be buried.�

She burst into tears and he felt like a heel for whatever he�d said. She removed her glasses and wiped her eyes. Simon looked around to see if anyone was watching. She put her glasses back on, swallowed hard, and said, �I have no one. I�ve told you this.�

�I�m sorry, Netty. I didn�t mean to upset you. But, again, the sooner we get these matters wrapped up, the sooner we can stop talking about them.�

�I�ve made some notes about my service and I�ll bring them next time. It will be a small affair in the chapel at the funeral home with the Lutheran minister doing the honors. Just a few friends, that�s all. My niece and nephew will never know I�m gone. So sad, isn�t it, Simon? To have no one.�

She looked as if she might cry some more and he truly felt sorry for her. The chicken curry arrived first in small bowls. The aroma was delicious and they ate in silence for a few minutes.

She took a drink of tea and said, �Well, sorta glad we asked them to go light on the spices. This stuff is hot.�

�It�s delicious though,� Simon said. He drank some tea and decided to lunge forward. There was really no way around it. �There�s another matter, Netty, that is somewhat delicate.�

�Oh dear. You lawyers.�

�Yes, you�re spot-on. Lawyers work by the hour. Our time is all we have to sell, and I�m spending a lot of it handling your legal matters.�

�Where is this going?� she asked suspiciously. Her look and tone were so cautious, Simon thought he was making a mistake. But it didn�t matter anymore. He couldn�t work for free.

�I need to get paid, Netty, same as any other lawyer in town. You�re my favorite client right now, but all clients have to pay their lawyers. It�s that simple.�

�Harry didn�t believe in paying lawyers.�

�Yes, and Harry�s been dead for ten years. I�m not being disrespectful, but I really don�t care what Harry thought about lawyers. I have an office to pay for and a family to support, and I need to be paid.�

�How much?�

What a question. Simon had struggled with it for weeks. If he went high she might be offended and walk out the door. He doubted that would happen, but he did not want to appear greedy. Bigger bucks were around the corner. He had to keep Netty happy. And if he went low, he would not get the fees he had earned and so desperately needed. He had decided to aim for the middle, and said, �Just over three thousand dollars.�

She waved him off with a casual flick of the wrist and said, �Is that all?�

What beautiful words. He could always make up later with a heftier bill. �Yes, Netty, my fees are very fair. I enjoy my clients.�

What a lie.

�I�ll take care of it,� she said as she took a bite. �When do we go to court?�

She was thinking of traffic court. Simon had his mind on probate. They were in different worlds.

�Couple of weeks. I�ll check the docket.� Oh how lawyers loved the word docket. It implied important trials and hearings in crowded courtrooms with justice hanging in the balance. But in traffic court it was little more than a sign-up sheet hanging on a clipboard.

The meatballs arrived with an aroma that was even more sumptuous. Netty said, �You promised me I�d meet your family, Simon. I�ll bet your wife and kids are adorable.�

Not exactly. Janie was a delight to be around, but the others were too troubled. Paula would never consent to meeting someone like Netty, not with the divorce hanging over their heads. She wanted nothing to do with her husband or his practice. Buck and Danny were awkward teenagers who had never learned to shake hands and introduce themselves to adults. They had no desire to meet anyone over the age of eighteen.

Simon smiled and lied, �I promise, I promise. Everybody is just so busy. School, soccer, drama, choir, piano, homework. Seems like every day is booked. I�ll try to get them all together sometime.�

Dessert was rice pudding topped with pistachios and sliced almonds, with strong coffee that Simon needed for the afternoon. Ninety minutes after they sat down, the waitress placed the check on the table. Once again, Eleanor, who constantly gazed about the dining room while eating and seemed to miss nothing, commenting occasionally on other dishes being served, on the decor, on what another cultured lady might be wearing, was totally oblivious to the bill.

This was at least their seventh lunch. Simon finally put down a credit card and paid again. $77.35. An expensive lunch for rural Virginia. He�d get it back.

Driving to the office, he schemed to rework his monthly bill, add in a lunch or two, and pad things a bit. She had scoffed at his initial amount with words he would remember: Is that all? He vowed to send her a more impressive bill.

Truthfully, he didn�t care what the lunch had cost because he and Netty had cleared the air about his fees. He was about to get paid for the first time in the many months he had known her.

Since it would be impossible to hide the billing and receipts from his secretary, he met with her that afternoon and described his business with Eleanor Barnett. Some of it. He was billing her several hours for two matters: (1) representation in traffic court, and (2) consultation for estate planning. The bill was $3,650 and Tillie mailed it that afternoon.

He did not tell Tillie that he had prepared a will for Eleanor, saying only that they were still discussing her estate, one that had become more �complicated.� Tillie took this in stride, knowing full well that he was lying.

The line of credit was stretched yet again. Simon received an email notice from the bank informing him that $12,000 had just been deposited in his personal checking account.

The money provided several options. The first, and the most sensible and obvious, was to write a check to Paula so she would sign the property settlement agreement and get the divorce filed.

The second was to make a withdrawal, stuff $7,900 in an envelope, try to find Chub somewhere away from his clubs, and pay off his gambling debts once and for all.

The third was to take all the money, pack a bag, book a flight to the Virgin Islands, and disappear. No more fear of being watched by the FBI, no more worries about debts, no more nitpicking phone calls from disgruntled clients, no more stress from Paula, no more sleeping on a bed with all the comforts of a surplus army cot, and no more scheming of ways to get rich off Eleanor Barnett. Drinking on the beach seemed like the perfect solution.

That would last for about a month before the money ran out. But what a great month it would be. Reentry would be another nightmare.

He withdrew $7,900 and went to find his bookie. For a man who lived in the shadows, sipped beer until midnight, and locked the doors to his nightclubs until almost noon, Chub was not an early bird. He stumbled forth around ten and made his way to a greasy spoon on the edge of town. It was a working-class joint with a menu dominated by bleached flour and lard. Chub needed grease every morning of his life. If you wanted to see him before noon, head on over to Bobby�s Biscuits.

Simon saw his truck parked on the street. Chub was wealthy but lived a modest life, doing nothing to attract the attention of those dreadful people who carried badges. His truck was a muscled-up late-model Ford with a thick brush guard, huge rims, and tires that could claw up the sides of mountains. Though built for off-road adventures, it was shined and spotless and gave the impression that it never left the pavement.

Inside, the smell of grease greeted Simon like a blast of tropical air. A thick layer of smoke, not from cigarettes, hung close to the ceiling. Chub was not hard to spot because he wore, as always, one of his red, orange, or yellow jogging suits. Today was orange.

He was alone at his favorite table, readers on the tip of his red, bulbous nose, studying a folded newspaper. �Well, well, what brings a lawyer to this part of town?� he asked with a genuine smile. But he knew immediately that something was amiss.

�Mind if I join?� On the off chance that Chub was being wired these days, Simon had planned this surprise visit at a place they�d never met before. If he had a wire, it was still in his truck or his backpack.

�No, not at all.� Chub put away his newspaper. Simon could see he had circled some horse-racing results. The sparse remains of biscuits, eggs, and country ham were on his plate. �You hungry? Have a seat.�

�No thanks.� Simon�s mild hunger pains of five minutes earlier had dissipated in the fog of smoke and grease. He sat down as a waitress hustled by and barely stopped long enough to fill the two cups. Simon quickly handed over the envelope and said, �Seventy-nine hundred, cash. Zeroes out my account.�

As fast as Simon presented the money, Chub took it and stuffed it into one of many hidden pockets. �You sure that�s enough?�

�Positive.�

�What�s the occasion?�

�I�m retiring.�

�Aw, that�s no fun, Latch. You�ve done well.�

�Maybe I broke even, if I was lucky. And I�m spending far too much time breaking even.�

Chub smiled and took another drink from his cup. �You know, Latch, I always thought you were smarter than the others. It�s a fool�s game. Nobody wins but the house. The bookies, casinos, lotteries. There�s a very good reason they keep building more casinos.�

�I�ve always known that, but, like most players, I�ve always thought I could beat the house. But it can�t be done, can it Chub?�

He smiled and wiped egg off his mustache. �I�ve never seen it.�

�Come on, Chub. Surely you�ve seen a few guys who were successful at picking winners.�

�Maybe one, maybe two. The secret is slowing down when you�re ahead and speeding up when you�re behind. It�s counterintuitive. I�ve seen guys have a good run for a year or two, then lose their mojo and give it all back. You�re a smart one, Latch. But don�t tell anyone I said that.�

Simon laughed and said, �I doubt you�ll ever see a drop-off. The experts say just the opposite. Studies show Americans gamble more and more each year.�

�I hope so.�

�Seen Spade lately?�

Chub held his gaze for a moment then looked at his cell phone. �Spade�s in twice a week. Why do you ask?�

�No reason. I like him, a good guy. Kinda shady, like most of your regulars.�

Chub laughed and said, �You�re right about that.�

Simon glanced at his watch and said, �Gotta get to the office.�

�Don�t be a stranger, Latch. Drop in and I�ll buy you a beer.�

�I will, Chub. I promise.�

When Eleanor finally turned off the engine, her Lincoln was straddling two clearly marked parking spaces in a small lot just off Maple Street. She got out and made her way slowly, somewhat reluctantly, to the row of buildings with awnings over the sidewalk next to Main Street. She stopped at the door of Walter F. Thackerman, Attorney at Law, and seemed to hesitate. Then she pushed it and went inside.

Simon watched intently from a dark second-floor window across the street. When the door closed behind her and she disappeared, he shut his eyes and wondered what might transpire over there in the next hour. At times she was so easily influenced that he could see Wally getting under her skin and rattling her to the point of blurting out the truth. Everything could blow up. He waited for the phone to ring, waited for Wally to call yelling and threatening.

Simon and Netty had tried to rehearse the day before but she couldn�t concentrate. The efforts convinced him that she was not that reliable.

Fran greeted her with unusual warmth. She declined coffee, tea, and water, and had little to say about the weather. Because she could not dare to do so herself, Fran was hoping Eleanor would bring up the subject of Clyde Korsak�s rather memorable visit a few weeks earlier. Fran had told the story to virtually anyone who would listen, and for a while it was a hot topic around town. But with time, the story ran out of gas. Wally warned her not to discuss the incident with their prized client.

Eleanor waited only a few minutes while Mr. Thackerman was �completing a conference call with a federal judge.� Fran stood and said, �Please follow me.� As they walked down the narrow hallway, Fran said in a whisper, �He�s been terribly busy since the shooting.� Eleanor gave her a blank look.

Wally met her at the door and led her to a cushioned chair near a coffee table. When Fran left, she stepped into the hallway, where she could hear every word. Wally wanted her to listen. They would debrief after Eleanor left and discuss her mental soundness.

The last will and testament she had typed for Ms. Barnett was signed last January. Wally had instructed Fran to include the language gifting him $485,000, and his story was that the up-front money would serve as some sort of a retainer that he would whittle down in fees once the estate was up and running. In her fifteen years with Wally, Fran had never seen such a clause, or a retainer, and she knew immediately it was a scam. When he knew she was unconvinced, he offered to give her a cash bonus of $50,000, and that made Fran happy. They had a marvelous time divvying up Eleanor�s estate before she even signed the will.

Wally decided to deal with the unpleasant matter first. �I�ve been puzzled by something, Eleanor.� She allowed Simon to call her Netty, but not Wally. �How did Clyde Korsak know that I�m your lawyer?�

�You�ve already asked me that.�

�Well, I�m asking again. I�m really curious.�

�Oh, I don�t know. I really don�t. That has puzzled me too, to be honest.�

�He�s never lived here, knows no one as far as I can tell. Yet, he somehow picked me as your lawyer. How�d that happen?�

�I just don�t know.�

�Well, did he ask who your lawyer is?�

�I don�t recall. He asked a lot of questions. I finally told him to leave the house. He was never invited in, to be honest. I�ve never liked him or his brother, Jerry.�

�Did he ask for money?�

�Of course. First, he wanted to borrow five thousand dollars. I said no. Then he got arrested and demanded twenty-five thousand to make his bail. I said no again. I don�t like these questions.�

Wally knew it was time to back off, but he had one more: �Do Clyde and Jerry know about the Coke and Wal-Mart stock?�

She took a deep breath and thought for a moment. �Oh, I don�t know. Maybe. Many, many years ago, Harry and I were discussing the boys and how much trouble they were causing, and he said something suggesting that he had mistakenly told them about the stock. But I can hardly remember our conversation and I do not know what he told them. It must have been twenty years ago.�

Wally took a sip of coffee and frowned as if it was time to get down to business. �Have you read our will, your will, lately?�

�No.� Which was partly true. The day before, at a coffee shop, Simon had pulled out the will and summarized it. He showed her the long, dense paragraph where Wally had added the words �four-hundred-and-eighty-five thousand dollars.� It was to be paid to him �as soon as practical� upon probating the will. To deflect attention away from the amount, Wally had chosen to use no numerals or dollar signs. Simon was of the opinion that such greed and trickery would lead to serious problems with the bar association if anyone complained.

However, she and Simon had not read the entire will; thus, her answer was sort of true.

�Is there anything in your will you would like to change, or to discuss?�

Other than the money you�re raking off? �No, I don�t think so.� Simon had coached her to say as little as possible. Don�t volunteer, don�t agree to anything new, pretend as though everything is okay.

She didn�t like the pretending. Lawyers and their games!

She did have a trace of sympathy for the poor guy, though. What a shock it would be when he got to the courthouse with her �old� will, only to learn that Simon had just left after probating her �new� one.

Though it was not yet 11 A.M., Wally suggested they have lunch together, with Fran of course. He knew just the right place, a new sushi restaurant that opened early and was getting rave reviews.

Eleanor thanked him politely. She was caught off guard by the suggestion, but managed to decline with grace, said she had a bit of a stomach bug.

She and Simon had eaten there and had not been too impressed.

They wrapped things up in under thirty minutes. Eleanor thanked Wally for his time, and he thanked her as well. He walked her out of the office and onto the sidewalk, where Simon could see them from across the street.

The call came on his cell late on a Thursday night as he was watching a college basketball game, one of those pre-season sleepers where the home team pays good �road money� to a much weaker visiting team that usually gives up at least 90 points and scores half as many. He had no skin in the game and sorely missed his gambling days. It was from Eleanor�s cell so he took it immediately. �Mr. Latch?� an unknown male voice said.

�This is Simon Latch. Who is this?�

�Sergeant Pully, Braxton PD. I think we met once in court.�

�Oh yeah, I remember.� Simon had never met the guy but it was always a good idea to humor the cops, especially when they were calling at odd hours. Something was up and it wasn�t good. �What�s going on?�

�Well, there�s been an accident involving Eleanor Barnett. She�s in the hospital with some injuries, but they do not appear to be life-threatening. She asked me to call you, said you were in charge of her affairs.�

They had never agreed that he would be in charge of her affairs, but as their relationship had evolved there was really no one else. And that was fine with Simon. �Yes, I am. Can you tell me what happened?�

�Well, sure, but she wants to see you. I�m at the hospital, so come on down and we�ll have a chat.� It was more of an order than a request.

Twenty minutes later, they were standing outside the ER entrance because Pully needed a smoke. He was saying, �Ms. Barnett was driving and she had a passenger, Doris Platt. You know Ms. Platt?�

�Sort of. We�ve actually never met.�

�According to Ms. Platt, they went to a little Christmas party, a bunch of old ladies, and they played cards, gin rummy I think, and they had dinner and such, and they also hit the sherry pretty hard. They left, with Ms. Barnett behind the wheel.�

�She�s not supposed to drive at night.�

�With good reason. Not supposed to drink and drive either. Ms. Platt said she was all over the road, and they were yapping back and forth when they ran a red light on South Poplar and T-boned another car. The two people in that one are pretty banged up, but nothing fatal, or at least that�s the initial report.�

�Oh boy,� Simon said, shaking his head.

�Happened about two hours ago. All four came in by ambulance and I think they�re all stable. I had time to check Ms. Barnett�s record. Not good. She has three speeding tickets pending, one is reckless. Her insurance just canceled.�

�Say what?�

�Afraid so. Allstate notified the DMV on December the second.�

Simon frowned and shook his head. The officer said, �I thought you were in charge of her affairs.�

�Not all of them. She pays her own bills, or at least she�s supposed to. Are you certain this accident was her fault?�

�We�re still at the scene investigating, but there were eyewitnesses who saw her run the red light. Plus, Doris Platt agrees with them.�

�And she had no insurance.�

�Apparently not. Plus, it looks like she was drinking.�

�She doesn�t drink.�

�Well, she did tonight. Doris confirms it.�

Doris needs to shut up, Simon thought but held his tongue.

Pully said, �She gave us a blood sample. Waiting on results.�

�You took a blood sample?�

�Yep, she consented, in writing.�

�Did she know what she was signing?�

�Yep. Two nurses witnessed it, both said she was lucid.�

�Did she ever lose consciousness?�

�I don�t think so, but, again, I wasn�t there. Her left leg is pretty banged up, not sure about the X-rays. They�re still looking her over.� Pully frowned and listened to his earphone. �I need to go check something. Why don�t you hang out in the waiting room and I�ll be back in a minute?�

Simon hadn�t smoked since college, but he bummed a cigarette off Pully and said he would stay outside. An hour later, the cop was back. He fired up another and said, �Preliminary blood work shows point-zero-nine. Over the limit. They just moved her to a private room and the doc says you can say hello. She�s really upset and wants to talk to you.�

�Is she still drunk?�

Pully found that funny and laughed. �Probably got a pretty good buzz. Let�s go. I�ll take you up there.�

There were a couple of lawyers in town who were known to hang around hospital emergency rooms and hallways waiting to pounce on the families of people injured in car wrecks or on the job. They were throwbacks to an earlier time before the deluge of TV and billboard advertising, back when �ambulance chasing� was frowned upon. They monitored police scanners and bribed tow-truck drivers and used a dozen other tricks to land clients. Simon knew them well and was determined to keep them away from Eleanor, though it would soon be known that she was likely to be a defendant and not a plaintiff.

He returned to the hospital at 7 A.M. and found her still sound asleep. He set up camp beside her bed with the morning papers and a tall cup of coffee, as if he�d been there all night. He coughed and rattled the papers and tried to make as much noise as possible. Eventually, Netty roused herself and opened her eyes. He sat on the edge of her bed and asked how she felt. She wasn�t sure. A doctor popped in and did a cursory exam of her bandages. After he left, Simon asked, �Would you like something to eat?�

�No, thanks. It�s so good to see you here, Simon.�

Wouldn�t miss it for the world. �How about some coffee?�

�No, but some water would be good.�

He fetched her some in a plastic cup and thought about asking, How�s your hangover?

She sipped through a straw and asked, �Where is Doris?�

�Down the hall. She�s okay. Seems as though she was wearing a seat belt. And you were not.�

�Oh my. I really don�t remember much.�

�You took a blow to the head, got some stitches, a couple of broken ribs.�

�Can you tell me what happened?�

He patted her arm and said, �It�s a long story, and not a good one.�

Simon did not want to be in the house after dark, with a strange car in the driveway. He did not want nosy neighbors ringing the doorbell and asking questions. He did not want to look like a lawyer or a person with authority so he wore jeans and a sports coat. And, he did not want to be rushed.

At 3 P.M. he parked where the old Lincoln once parked and turned off the engine. He had just left Netty�s car in the city lot, waiting to be hauled to the scrap heap. It was a total loss, and he considered her lucky to escape with minor injuries. He took some photos for the file but would never need them.

The house had no alarm system. She said Harry didn�t believe in them and wouldn�t spend the money. Harry had been dead for ten years and she often talked about him as if he were still around.

Once inside the den he inhaled a pleasant aroma, probably the remains of a scented candle. Maybe pine. He switched on lights in the den and kitchen and paused to take inventory. The house was spotless, with everything in order. The kitchen counters were uncluttered, with only a toaster and coffeepot, both at least thirty years old. He wiped a finger across a wooden snack bar. Not a trace of dust. The furniture was fairly modern, nothing ancient, nothing new. The television was a bit dated, though, an old Motorola with two remotes. There was an upright piano against one wall. He could not remember Netty ever saying anything about a piano. He stepped into her small study and went straight to her desk, a government surplus throwback from the 1960s with chrome legs and metal panels. As she said, the current mail was in a tray in the right corner.

Her chair was a wicker straight-back that was fragile and shaky and seemed designed for a woman who weighed less than a hundred pounds. He settled into it, moving slowly to make sure it would not collapse. The desktop was covered in glass and well organized with nothing out of place. A large cup held the usual collection of pens, pencils, paper clips, etc. Netty was very neat and tidy. There was no computer, no iPad, no devices at all. He took a stack of mail and began sifting through it, at first careful not to misplace anything. He did not find a bill for an internet provider. Perhaps it was packaged with her cable, as was his. He knew that the stack did not include all of her monthly bills. Others would arrive later.

Though his curiosity was piqued, he felt like some creepy voyeur looking at the private affairs of an old woman. He kept telling himself that he had no choice. Someone had to do it.

He found the rather abrupt letters from Allstate canceling her auto insurance. He found several other past-due notices and unpaid bills. The checkbook was in the bottom drawer, left side, exactly where she said. It was in a blue leather notebook-style binder, with three checks to a page and stubs that dated back two years. He flipped through the stubs and got a clear picture of where she shopped and what she bought, and nothing was unusual or surprising. She did indeed have a credit card, a Visa, which she had been forced to use when she checked out of the lake cabin two months earlier. But she used it sparingly. In another drawer he found the old Visa statements filed in perfect monthly order. Behind them were the monthly statements from the local bank. The latest was for October and showed a balance in her checking account of $3,100. There was no sign of the past-due bill from his office. An hour passed before he realized it.

In the bottom right drawer was a stack of old magazines � AARP, Southern Living, Medicare Bulletin, Travel & Leisure. Some were ten years old and there was nothing to indicate why they had been kept.

What Simon wanted to find was a monthly statement from Rumke-Brown, the wealth management firm in Atlanta that handled her stocks. And he wanted bank statements from East Federal, the bank where she allegedly stashed her cash. The fact that he found neither was troubling. Why would she hide them?

She said her important papers were in a locked safe hidden in the bottom of her closet. He did not ask for the key and she did not offer.

When he had gone through every drawer it was dark outside. He had been there long enough for the first visit, though he had more questions now than when he arrived.

The doorbell rang and Simon jumped out of his skin, as if he�d been caught in a burglary. He rushed to the front door, opened it, and smiled at a couple in their sixties.

�We live next door and saw the car,� the man said.

�What are you doing here?� the woman demanded.

�My name is Simon Latch, I�m Eleanor�s attorney. She�s in the hospital.�

�We know. We heard all about it.�

Simon looked them over as they examined him. He said, �Relax. I�m helping take care of her business.�

�How�s she doing?� the man asked.

�Okay, I guess. She�ll be there for a few days.�

�We heard she was drunk,� the woman said. �Drinking and driving, but that doesn�t sound like Eleanor.�

�I can�t comment, sorry.�

�What�s your name again?� the man asked.

�And what�s yours?�

�Frazier, Norris Frazier. And my wife Rose.�

�Great. Nice to meet you. I�m Simon Latch, attorney. I�ll tell Eleanor that you checked on things.�

�You do that. Can we visit her in the hospital? We probably won�t though. Last year Rose was in the hospital for a week and not a word from Eleanor. No sir.�

For a second Simon wasn�t sure of a response. He said, �Not yet, maybe in a couple of days. I�ll let you know. And you�ll probably see my car parked here off and on for some time. Feel free to say hello.� He was closing the door as he spoke.

Was it Frazier Norris or Norris Frazier? He would have to report it to Netty and he couldn�t even remember the name. Rose was the wife. His head was spinning with questions and possibilities and his heart was still racing from the interruption. He needed to get out of the house. Avoiding her fragile chair, he sat on a leather stool near her desk, closed his eyes, and took ten deep breaths. An ugly reality was falling slowly around him as he sunk into a dark gloom.

There was no money, no fortune, no pot of gold filled with shares of stock in Coca-Cola and Wal-Mart, no pile of cash in an Atlanta bank. He was a sucker, the victim of a nutty old woman with a devious mind, a lonely soul who had duped him and probably others into believing she was rich. Rich? He looked around her small study and saw nothing to indicate Eleanor Barnett had the slightest bit of real wealth. Sure, everything was paid for, and given his current state of affairs that was a dream, but she was no richer than many elderly widows whose husbands had been frugal. In the nine months he had known her, he had not seen her spend one dime on anything that wasn�t necessary. She wouldn�t even pay her bills. She had stiffed him for a dozen lunches. She wore the same clothes over and over. She never traveled, never talked about doing so.

And now she was banged up in the hospital facing lawsuits and a nasty drunk driving charge. Why in hell was he in the middle of this mess?

Greed.

At least he could admit it.

Two days before Christmas, Matilda announced that she was leaving an hour early to do some shopping. Since the legal profession was known for loafing through half of December anyway, the office was quiet, and Simon didn�t care when she left. He was re-drafting some leases for a real estate client, work that was so dull he�d been putting it off for a month. He was determined to finish it now and not punt it into 2016, a year that promised to be just as tedious and unproductive as the present, unless, of course, some lucrative estate work popped up. Eleanor Barnett�s estate. He shook his head as he once again thought of the hours he had wasted dreaming of her death.

When he looked up and saw his secretary he said, �I thought you were gone.�

�I was leaving when a man walked in.�

�I�m not showing any appointments.�

�He doesn�t have one.�

�Then get rid of him.� Simon had learned years earlier that the drop-ins were both bothersome and broke. They never brought their checkbooks.

�You should make time for this guy.� She looked uneasy.

�Who is it?�

�Name�s Jerry Korsak. Brother of Clyde. Stepson of you know who. I don�t think he�s leaving.�

�Does he appear to be violent?� Simon asked as he quietly pulled open a drawer and glanced at his .38.

�No, actually he�s rather polite. Wears a tie.�

Simon was not wearing one. He took a deep breath as reality set in. �Okay. Can you break it up in thirty minutes?�

�I�m going shopping, remember?�

�Right. Call me in thirty minutes with some urgent matter.�

�Will do.�

Simon paused for a second and checked the drawer again. He shook his head and said, �I�ll be okay.�

�I can�t shoot like Fran but I can make some noise.�

Both of them chuckled at the legend of Fran. Her threat to blast off Clyde�s testicles was still good for a laugh around town. Simon said, �Thanks, but I�m fine.�

�Okay. And I�ll run by the hospital and see Eleanor. I made her some brownies and have a few other things. Poor lady doesn�t see many visitors.�

�Thanks for doing that, Tillie. She�s a dear old woman in a lot of trouble.�

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Simon went to the house he once called home and said goodbye to his family. Paula and the children were packing up for the two-hour drive to Richmond where they would spend a couple of nights with their grandparents. Paula planned to wait until the day after Christmas to break the news about the divorce. Simon was still kicking the can with his mother and stepfather, who he had no plans to see until after the New Year.

The kids were in the holiday spirit and looking forward to seeing their grandparents. Two cousins lived close by and they enjoyed their time together. Simon was delighted to miss the trip.

After they left, he locked the house and went to check on Eleanor�s. Ming�s Chinese restaurant opened at eleven, and he was the first customer there. For carryout, he ordered two large portions of shrimp spring rolls and a box of crunchy rice cakes. He drove to the hospital and found Eleanor in a wheelchair singing carols with a dozen other patients in the small chapel. A youth minister from the Methodist church was leading them as he banged on the piano. Simon waited in the lobby and checked the Vegas line on football games.

For lunch he pushed her to the cafeteria and found a table with a nice view of the mountains. He unwrapped the spring rolls and poured honey on the side. She took two bites and seemed bored.

Eleanor was not herself. The head bandage was gone and the stitched wound looked awful. Not for the first time, he wondered how much damage the blow had caused. And he wondered how much of a toll the meds were taking. Her left leg was practically useless and would require hours of rehab before she could walk. She fretted over her legal problems and cried at the thought of causing the accident that hurt two others. Her speech was slow, her recall fuzzy. She coughed a lot and made noise when she breathed. Her nurse said they were worried about her fevers and headaches.

She said over and over, �Sy, please promise me I won�t go to jail.�

�I promise. You have my word.�

And she wasn�t going to jail. He had talked to the prosecutor several times and they were working out a deal. No one wanted her behind bars. Officer Pully had been reined in and was no longer threatening handcuffs.

She showed a bit more interest in the crunchy rice cakes, and Simon fetched some coffee. She ate one and nibbled on another before giving up. When she said she was tired, Simon pushed her back to her room and waited in the hall while two orderlies put her to bed. She was already asleep when he entered the room and quietly took a seat.

On the table near the bed, there were five floral arrangements, four from his office and one from a person he didn�t know. There were four get-well cards, a platter of untouched brownies, and two boxes of Saigon ginger cookies from Tan Lu�s.

Her breathing was heavy, even labored at times, but the monitors were not alarmed. Then she became quiet and slept peacefully. He wondered if the only other guest, other than himself and Tillie, had been Jerry Korsak. Did that clown really stop by this room, or was he lying? What was his game?

Simon closed his eyes and could see trouble around every corner.

The cough persisted and did not respond to the usual medications. It became more worrisome when Eleanor began spitting mucus. Her fevers and headaches came and went, but always returned with sweating, followed by chills. She complained of a heavy chest and difficulty breathing. Her appetite was gone and she refused everything but the ginger cookies and green tea. She was fatigued but couldn�t sleep because of all the coughing. Two days after Christmas, Dr. Lilly informed Simon that she had pneumonia, but it was under control. A few rounds of strong antibiotics should do the trick.

The pneumonia kept her in bed and prevented physical therapy. She had been in the hospital for a week with little improvement. The antibiotics did nothing to help and her breathing became even more labored. When a monitor erupted she was put on a ventilator. On the morning of December 28, Simon and Tillie went to the hospital to check on Eleanor. While Tillie sat by her bed, Simon met with Dr. Lilly, Dr. Wilkes, and two other physicians, and listened as they discussed options. They would immediately begin draining her lungs. She was conscious, most of the time.

Simon was practically living at the hospital, where he camped out in a waiting room. A couple of her girlfriends from the �poker club� showed up, but they were not allowed into her room.

After ten hours on the ventilator, her lungs were filling up faster than they could be drained. Simon whispered in her ear and, for the first time, there was no response. He huddled with Dr. Lilly who said, �She cannot breathe on her own. I�m afraid she�s choking. There is virtually no brain activity.�

Simon was well aware that what he said and did in the next few hours would probably be reviewed by lawyers, so he said as little as possible.

Then Dr. Lilly said, �Let�s wait a few more hours.�

Simon mumbled a soft �Okay.� He left the hospital, drove to his office, and tried to nap.

Tillie woke him up and said he was needed at the hospital. He asked her to go with him. He might need a witness, though that was not mentioned. As always, he carried his briefcase. In it was the file with the advance directive and power of attorney signed by Eleanor.

Her condition was even more hopeless. Even with the ventilator at full throttle, her frail and aged body could barely breathe. Her brain had already ceased showing any activity, and her lungs and heart were working only with the aid of a machine.

Dr. Wilkes said, �Simon, it looks like the decision is yours.�

He had been anticipating this moment and was already shaking his head. �No, I�m not doing that, not going there. It�s a medical decision.�

Dr. Wilkes said, �The advance directive is quite clear. No resuscitation, no ventilators, no feeding tubes, no device to prolong a heartbeat.�

�I know, I wrote it. But I�m not making the decision. I�m not a blood relative and I do not feel comfortable being in this room.�

Dr. Lilly tossed the advance directive on the table and said, �Okay, let�s meet here at eight in the morning.� He walked out of the room, followed by two other doctors and Loretta Goodwin.

The year would not end on a quiet note. On Thursday, December 31, Circuit Court Judge Mary Blankenship Pointer was having her morning coffee with her husband at their little breakfast nook, both still in pajamas. They were discussing a small New Year�s Eve dinner party they had been invited to but would rather avoid, when their landline rang.

The voice on the other end identified himself as Teddy Hammer, attorney, of the firm of such and such in Washington, D.C. He had an emergency matter that needed to be heard that morning, if at all possible. Judge Pointer explained that she normally kept her office open until noon on New Year�s Eve, though there was never much activity. Mr. Hammer explained the nature of his emergency and said he was emailing a copy of his petition for a temporary injunction at that very moment. It was brief, only two pages, and he could be in her courtroom by 10 A.M.

As she waited for the petition to arrive via internet, she checked out Mr. Hammer, a lawyer she had never heard of, but then there were at least a million of them in D.C. The big city was far away from Braxton in so many ways. His firm had ten lawyers with an office on Connecticut Avenue and another one in Arlington. It was a typical lawyer�s website, with lots of bluster and self-congratulations.

Mr. Hammer represented Jerry and Clyde Korsak, two stepsons of Ms. Eleanor Barnett, who had passed away the day before. His clients were concerned about the �mysterious circumstances� surrounding her death and wanted to get to the bottom of things. They requested that all funeral and burial arrangements be stopped, or �held in abeyance� in lawyer talk, until an autopsy could be performed. At the bottom of the second page, Mr. Hammer stated that a copy of the petition was being emailed simultaneously to the Honorable Simon F. Latch, attorney for Eleanor Barnett.

Attorney Latch was at his desk studying Vegas lines for bowl games, with his coffee, when the email came across. In one dreadful split second he forgot about football and yelled an expletive. His office door was open but the place was empty. Tillie, of course, had the entire day off. There were no appointments. Simon was still in his boxers.

In the middle of his desk was a small bowl filled with low-fat Greek yogurt, blueberries, and granola, and he had been preparing to dive in. Now, he stared at the food with no desire whatsoever. His stomach churned. He fought off a wave of nausea.

Was this the beginning of the end? Was his grand scheme and scam finally unraveling? What could possibly be mysterious about Netty�s death? He had watched her deteriorate as pneumonia set in. The coughing, fevers, labored breathing � all the symptoms were there and he had discussed her condition with the nurses and the doctors. An eighty-five-year-old woman got banged up in a car wreck, couldn�t walk, didn�t eat much, took plenty of meds, and slowly withered away. Where was the mystery?

Now the vultures were swarming.

Once he had collected his thoughts, somewhat, and the room had stopped spinning, he thought about calling Mr. Teddy Hammer and cursing him. But the more diplomatic and beneficial approach might be to call with a professional hello and dig for information. Either call was a bad idea.

He searched Hammer�s firm, absorbed the first image of the man, and loathed everything about him. Age about fifty, expensive dark suit, chubby cheeks, puffy eyes, the cocky smirk of a street lawyer who knew how to hurt you. His firm wasn�t much; the usual collection of hustlers trying to portray an image of a blue-ribbon D.C. firm with plenty of connections.

There were so many baffling scenarios, but the one that was most disturbing was the fact that Jerry and Clyde had joined forces. When Simon had quizzed Eleanor about them, she had always given the impression that the stepsons lived in separate worlds and didn�t like each other. Now the two outlaws had teamed up with an aggressive lawyer to wreak havoc with Eleanor�s death.

Detective Barr left the courthouse and drove to the hospital. Along the way he took a call from Teddy Hammer, who told him everything that happened after he was kicked out of the courtroom.

At the hospital, Barr met Dr. Wilkes and followed her to a small conference room where the table was covered with various items collected from the hospital room occupied by Eleanor Barnett. Nurse Loretta Goodwin and an orderly had arranged the items in some order and prepared an inventory. Barr carefully photographed everything, then recorded it all with a video.

There was a disposable aluminum platter with eleven chocolate brownies and some crumbs. From the looks of it, Eleanor was not a fan of chocolate. There were three floral arrangements from the same local florist, all with cards from the law offices of Simon Latch. The flowers were wilted and needed to be tossed. There were four get-well cards from four different people. And there were two decorative boxes for carryout from the Vietnamese restaurant Tan Lu�s. Inside one box were two Saigon ginger cookies. The other identical box held nine of them. The restaurant�s name and logo were printed on two sides of each box.

Barr was careful not to touch any of the items. Loretta and the orderly were wearing nitrile exam gloves.

He said, �Okay, I�m going to play it safe and wait until I get a search warrant before I take these items. Until then, I ask you to box it all up and store it in a cool place. The food will only continue to deteriorate.�

�For how long?� asked Dr. Wilkes.

�Not long.�

In Virginia, fewer than 5 percent of corpses underwent autopsies. There were several reasons for performing one, with a potential homicide the most likely. In those cases, the local law enforcement officials contacted the state medical examiner and sent along the body. The suspected cause of death was placed on a tag and attached to the body.

For Eleanor Barnett, the tag read: Possible Poisoning.

With that warning, the state medical examiner, Dr. Dendra Brock, knew what to look for. She began her work at 9:31 on Monday morning, January 4. With no entry wounds, exit wounds, bullets, fragments, rope burns, or knife incisions to worry about, she concentrated on the organs. She was assisted by Dr. Henry Roster, a forensic toxicologist whose lab assistants were on standby. Among other procedures, they removed the liver, kidneys, heart, lungs, stomach, esophagus, pancreas, and sections of the large and small intestines. They weighed each organ, then dissected them to obtain tissue samples.

After working for two hours nonstop, they returned the organs to the cavity, stitched the corpse, and tidied up.

The cause of death was not pneumonia. It was a clear case of ingesting a highly toxic poison. Six hours later, Dr. Roster called Dr. Brock and reported that the poison was thallium. Odorless, tasteless, colorless, it had been around for decades and had been either used or suspected in dozens of murders around the world. Its production had been banned in the United States since 1984.

The following day, Dr. Brock met with Detective Barr and reviewed her findings. She had no control over what happened to the body but strongly urged the police to prevent cremation. Barr followed the hearse back to Braxton. Along the way, he called Teddy Hammer with the news that they were expecting. He called Judge Pointer, who agreed to stop the cremation. He did not call Simon Latch. He obtained a search warrant and took possession of the items Eleanor left behind in her hospital room. He also wanted to search her home and the judge signed a second warrant. On Wednesday morning, Barr returned to the state crime lab with the items and presented them to Dr. Henry Roster. Since he had a good idea as to what they were looking for, their job was much easier.

According to Nurse Loretta Goodwin, the brownies had been baked by Matilda, who delivered them herself. Eleanor didn�t like them and had tried to give them to the nurses and orderlies. Thankfully, they had refused. It was against the hospital�s policy to sample food brought to the patients. The brownies were at least a week old by then. The chemical analysis revealed no toxicity.

The Saigon ginger cookies were another story. There were eleven, two in one box, older and stale, and nine in another box. Both containers were clearly marked as being from Tan Lu�s. Significant levels of thallium were found in every cookie.

On Thursday morning, Detective Barr walked into Tan Lu�s with a search warrant and asked for their sales receipts. The Vietnamese were terrified and overly eager to comply. Within minutes, they found the receipts. The waitress identified a photo of Simon Latch, and even remembered his name.

Friday morning, Simon finally mustered the courage to place a phone call he should have made months earlier. If Eleanor had had it her way, Wally would have been notified a long time ago.

He answered the phone with a warm �Well, good morning, Simon.�

After two minutes of the obligatory small talk, Wally said, �I saw the injunction and was told you were in charge of the burial. What�s going on?�

�Well, Wally, it�s a long story and I�ll be brief. Last March, Eleanor came to my office and wanted a new will. She said she was not happy with the one you drafted and wanted to make some changes. I did what she wanted. Her new one was signed two months after the one you prepared. So, your will is revoked, null, and void.�

�Sounds like a lawsuit, Latch.�

�I was expecting something like that. If I were you I wouldn�t get too trigger-happy. Your will is worthless and should be tossed. No one knows about it, Wally, and no one knows about the little cash bonus payable to you that�s buried in the fine print. If you try and probate that will, of course there will be a big fight. However, your immediate problem is the gift to you. Outright, payable upon probate, a naked grab for cash by the estate lawyer. From a nice little old lady who trusted you. If you try to probate your will, or object to mine, then I�ll file a complaint with the state bar association and send them your will.�

�You son of a bitch.�

�Cuss all you want, Wally, it doesn�t bother me.�

He cussed some more, then settled down. �When will you probate your will?�

�Not sure. I�ll have to check with Judge Pointer, she seems to be in charge of things.�

�I heard about the autopsy. Why bother? She was eighty-five years old.�

Simon said, �Wasn�t my idea. Looks like Clyde and his brother Jerry hired a big-shot lawyer to gum up the works. You remember Clyde, don�t you?�

�Funny, Latch. I guess he beat up the wrong lawyer.�

�You�ll take him in the rematch.�

�Funny. Mind if I take a look at the will you drafted?�

�Not until it�s probated.�

�Who gets the money?�

�A bunch of nonprofits, nothing to family and friends.�

�Did you find the money?�

�Sort of. Did you?�

Wally waited a long time before saying, �Not really. I made some calls to people she mentioned but I didn�t dig too deep.�

Simon waited just as long, and before he could speak Wally said, �Pretty shitty deal on your part, Latch. You should�ve told me.�

�And what would that have accomplished? Probably nothing more than a knee-jerk lawsuit of some sort.�

�You should�ve told me,� he said again, rather sadly, as if he�d just heard the news that a big pile of money had vanished, a fortune he was counting on.

Before he could stop himself, Simon blurted, �Eleanor didn�t want me to.� It was a terrible lie, but then she was dead and Wally would never know the difference.

Long after he ended the call, Simon still couldn�t believe he had lied so easily and convincingly.

What do you wear to your arrest? It was one of those questions that one never thinks about, not even hardened criminals. Simon chose jeans, a sports coat, and a white shirt. Raymond said to pack some toiletries, so he filled a paper shopping bag with a few necessities, some clean underwear, and two paperbacks. He took one last look in the mirror and despised what he saw, then turned off the lights in his office with no idea when he might turn them on again.

In the reception area, he fell into a chair and looked at Tillie in absolute defeat.

�What�s wrong?� she asked, alarmed.

�About two hours ago the grand jury indicted me for the murder of Eleanor Barnett.� The words sounded as if they were spoken by an unseen voice from above. She was stunned and couldn�t speak.

�I�m on my way to the city jail where Raymond Lassiter is waiting. I�ll be processed like the other criminals and put in a cell. I don�t know when I�ll get out.�

�Murder!� she blurted.

He took a deep breath and said, �Evidently, someone poisoned Eleanor when she was in the hospital. Those damned ginger cookies I sent were laced with poison. All eyes are on me.�

She swallowed hard and kept her composure, then wiped her cheeks with tissues and managed to say, �This is ridiculous, Simon. You�re not capable of doing something like that.�

He nodded his agreement but said nothing. Another long moment passed as they ignored the buzzing of the landline on her desk. She asked, �What about Paula and the kids?�

�Pretty ugly. I told her last night after the kids were in bed. She was horrified, angry, frightened, the works. Our greatest concern is protecting our children, but there�s no way. They are about to be humiliated and I can�t stop it. I can�t protect them.� His voice cracked and he couldn�t go on. She wiped her eyes again and seemed determined to contain her emotions.

He said, �I�ll call from the jail as soon as I can. Lock up the office and stay away. I�m sure reporters will be banging on the door very soon, so lay low.�

�I can�t believe this, Simon.�

�I�m sleepwalking through a nightmare, Tillie, and no one has a clue how it will end. There are so many unknowns. The best scenario for next week is that I can make bond and get out. If so, we can try to keep this place afloat until trial.�

�A trial?�

�That�s what usually happens once you�re charged, unless, of course, you plead guilty. I�m not doing that.�

�When is the trial?�

�Who knows? Months.�

He stood and thought about giving her an awkward hug, but since they had never done that, he simply said, �Be strong,� and opened the door.

�You�ll need a coat.�

The temperature was in the twenties and the wind was howling. He walked down Main Street, past the shops and offices he knew so well, and tried not to guess what those people would think and say when they heard the gossip, the unbelievable news. He slowed in front of Ethel�s Diner, empty at 4 P.M. on a dreary Friday, but Bella, his favorite waitress, was at the counter drying tea glasses and gabbing at someone in the kitchen. Bella would never believe that Simon would do something so awful and would volunteer for jury service if possible.

He crossed the street and walked along Monroe until he came to the courthouse, a neoclassical masterpiece that Braxton was so proud of. A hundred years earlier, the city won a lawsuit against a railroad and wisely chose to put the money into a new monument to itself, with no expense spared. With its grand arches, vaulted ceilings, and marble columns, it was routinely voted the most beautiful courthouse in Virginia.

He thought of all the clerks, secretaries, janitors, bailiffs, lawyers, and judges who worked there, people he had known for almost twenty years, and tried to picture their faces when they heard the news. It was almost too painful to think about. On the second floor, the lights were on in the main courtroom where in a few short days he would be led in, not as a lawyer but as a criminal defendant and facing a judge for an arraignment, his first appearance of many.

He kept walking through the streets of downtown, his town, somewhat aimlessly but in the general direction of the jail.

Sleepwalking.

On his first morning of captivity, Simon learned several important things. First, the alarm sounded at five-thirty, according to his wristwatch, which seemed cruel for any day but especially harsh for a cold Saturday in January. Second, breakfast was served fifteen minutes later when a guard slid a tray through a narrow opening under the bars. Third, breakfast was a miserable effort at even the most basic food preparation. The white bread toast was cold and burnt around the edges. The powdered eggs were mush, just as cold, and served on top of three slices of fatty bacon that a dog would only sniff at. The small metal bowl of grits had the smell and texture of caulking compound. The green apple was bitter. The instant coffee was little more than hot water and thoroughly free of any flavor. Fourth, as lousy as it was, it was the best meal of the day, according to Loomis across the hall.

Simon had no idea how long he would be incarcerated but he couldn�t survive more than a week before starvation became a factor. Something didn�t add up. The food was barely edible but most of the inmates were as fat as the guards. There must be vending machines somewhere in the jail.

When the guard came to retrieve the tray about fifteen minutes later, Simon said, �Wow, thanks, that was delicious. What time is lunch?�

The guard, a thick simpleton who had never missed a meal, frowned and said, �Two thousand calories a day, bud, that�s all you get.�

Yeah, and you get that many with your morning doughnuts.

Simon reclined on his bunk and braced himself for a long day of boredom and humiliation. He was still hungry. There was one light in the center of the ceiling and it was on. He could not turn it off. He couldn�t sleep, couldn�t read, and had no desire to begin the day listening to Loomis over there chatter on about the cars he�d stolen.

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.

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.

As for his own mother, things were just as complicated. She had been married many years to Arn, her second husband. Unhappy years, in Simon�s opinion. Arn was a complicated person who had never tried to make her life easier. Simon did not like him and the feelings were mutual. He was a tough guy who�d once owned a successful roofing company and probably had some cash in the bank. They had a nice home downstate in the Roanoke area. The problem was that all of their assets were jointly owned. His mother had no bank account of her own. When Simon explained that he needed to borrow $20,000 to get out of jail, she became emotional and said she would do whatever she could to help. Arn was not sympathetic. When she put him on the phone, Simon asked for the money and promised to repay as soon as he sold his office building. He might as well have asked for twenty million. Arn handed the phone back to his wife and could be heard mumbling in the background. She promised to discuss it and call back the following day.

Knowing Arn, he was reading the newspaper accounts of Simon�s mess and figured the boy was going to prison. Thus, the money would never be repaid. The phone call home was a disaster and made a bad day even worse, if that was possible.

During his fourth night in jail, Simon was able to read half a novel. He tried to convince himself that he could survive incarceration now that the shock had worn off. He felt safe. Loomis explained that there was another wing where they kept the harder cases, but on their wing things were civilized. The chief ran a tight ship and violence, or the threat of it, was dealt with harshly. It was a clean jail without too many rules, and the guards were real people who tried to help. Simon also admitted to himself that, for the moment anyway, it was rather pleasant being away from the glare and gossip. The flashbacks of all those reporters and cameras were unsettling. He felt sorry for Paula and the kids and hoped to see them soon. He actually slept a few hours without interruption.

By nine the next morning, his mother had not called. He could not imagine the war between her and Arn and he felt lousy for causing trouble, but he had no choice. He was confident she would prevail and convince Arn to lend a hand. Dammit, her only son was in jail and that was an emergency.

Raymond dropped by midmorning and they discussed the plan to sell the office building. They talked about various real estate agents in town, few of whom inspired confidence. Such a sale, if indeed anyone wanted to buy the building, would take days if not weeks. There would be an appraisal, then a listing, then showings, and so on. Simon could easily envision a drawn-out process.

For two hours each afternoon, the inmates were allowed into the Pit, a break room with a television, pool table, checker boards, and plenty of old magazines. Simon was making new friends right and left, most of them duly impressed because they�d never had a lawyer in their midst. A few wanted legal advice, but were disappointed when he claimed to know nothing but bankruptcy law. He was playing checkers with Loomis late Tuesday afternoon when a guard said he had a phone call. He was certain it was his mother with good news and hurried to the front. It was not his mother. A familiar voice said, �So, you�ve finally found your rightful place, huh Latch?�

�Hello, Spade. It�s almost good to hear your voice.�

�Got yourself in a jam, huh?�

�You could say that.�

�I just did. Look, is anyone listening to this call?�

In Spade�s world someone was always listening or wearing a wire. Simon thought the calls were secure but wasn�t sure. He said, �Of course not. It�s unconstitutional to listen to inmates� calls.�

�And you believe that? Listen, Chub called this morning. His joint is closed for renovations, but he�s around and is somewhat concerned. He�s seen the papers, called me, asked me to say hello.�

�I�m touched.�

�You should be. Look, Chub thinks it was you who got the Fibbies to back off. Don�t know if that�s true, but you gave him the heads-up and he left town. Now it looks like the investigation has lost steam, you know? He�s wondering if there�s any way to help.�

�Damned right. He could loan me twenty thousand bucks for my bail.�

�Twenty thousand. Wow.�

Twenty thousand was nothing to Chub. �Tell Chub I�ll pay it all back when I sell my office building. Every penny.�

�He likes you, for some reason. Thinks you�re a stand-up guy.�

�Well, I am, in spite of my current situation. Better yet, tell Chub I�ll sell him my building at a fair price, clear just enough to get me out of here. He likes real estate.�

�That he does. I�ll see what I can do.�

�Thanks Spade.�

�I�ll call back tomorrow.�

Neither Chub nor Spade would ever voluntarily go near a jail, so the details were left to the law offices of Raymond Lassiter, with assistance from Matilda. Chub was in an expansive mood and attacking the new year with enthusiasm, now that the FBI had lost interest. He had big plans to expand his clubs and holdings and rely less on bookmaking. Being investigated by the Feds was a sobering experience. He had collected far too many legitimate assets to worry about a lengthy prison sentence.

On Thursday, Chub agreed to buy Simon�s Main Street office building for $41,000 more than the mortgages. It was a straightforward deal without a lot of paperwork, but the banks took their time, as always. Chub also agreed to allow Simon to continue using the office for six months, at no charge. Simon was thrilled with the deal and also relieved not to be homeless.

The money changed hands Friday morning and Simon said goodbye to Loomis. A week after walking into the jail, Simon walked out a free man, for the moment anyway. The chief offered to drive him to his office, but Simon did not want to be seen in another police car. He hustled away on foot, avoiding the busier streets, and even took an alley. His car was where he had parked it, nothing disturbed. He sat at his desk for a long time, taking deep breaths and reminding himself that he had just survived seven nights in jail. He had toughed it out, made the best of it, even made some friends and had some laughs. Prison would present more of a challenge, but he would worry about that later. What he really wanted was a cheeseburger and some fries. Since he wouldn�t dare show his face in a caf�, he drove to a Wendy�s and used the drive-thru. He ate at his desk while his cell phone charged.

After lunch, he began calling people. His mother, Paula, Tillie, Raymond, Chub, and Spade. With reluctance, he opened his laptop, stayed away from the news and social media, and read emails. There were hundreds of them, most from friends, acquaintances, and clients, all wishing him well and offering encouragement, but there were also quite a few from idiots he�d never heard of, all wishing him a painful death. He counted twenty-seven emails from reporters. On the whole, it was a depressing exercise.

At 2 P.M., as scheduled, he drove to Raymond�s office and parked in the rear, something he would be doing from then on. As usual, Raymond was red-faced and puffy-eyed from another long night, but he was wide awake and bickering with his secretaries.

He growled at Simon, �You hungry? I need some lunch.�

The burger and fries had been tasty and filling, but after a week of starvation he could eat some more. �Sure.�

�I�ll send one of the girls for sandwiches. You should stay away from the downtown joints for a while.�

Simon wasn�t looking for advice but held his tongue. He handed Raymond an envelope.

�What�s this?�

�A promissory note for one hundred ninety thousand. And a check for the other ten.�

�I wasn�t expecting this.�

�You said your fee was two hundred thousand for a first-degree murder case. I�ll pay you when I can.�

Raymond smiled and put the envelope on his desk. �We have a lot of work to do.�

�I know.�

Raymond convinced Judge Pointer to skip a formal arraignment and allow Simon to enter a not-guilty plea on paper. It was a formality anyway, and given the throng that showed up for the simple bail hearing, Raymond preferred to avoid the attention. The not-guilty plea was recorded, and Commonwealth of Virginia v. Simon F. Latch entered the docket. Simon and Raymond agreed that there was no benefit in stalling and decided to request a speedy trial, the speedier the better. Cora Cook was not in a position to object. As the chief prosecutor, it was important for her to aggressively go after the criminals. She had, after all, ramrodded the indictment through the grand jury, then asked for a huge bond in an effort to keep Simon in jail. She could never show weakness, not that she was inclined to anyway. The voters expected nothing less. She agreed to fast-track the case, and joined the defense in a motion to place it on what was informally known as the �rocket docket.� Judge Pointer was happy to accommodate both sides and set a trial date of May 23.

The reality was that Simon�s was the only murder case in Braxton at the moment, and the town had never seen such attention. Journalists snooped around, digging for unique angles. Every lawyer in town was approached for a comment, though most declined. Two true-crime shows, allegedly from Hollywood but actually from Reno and St. Paul, excited the locals with their equipment trailers and bulky cameras. What they were filming was anybody�s guess. At least twice a day a reporter with a film crew stood on the edge of Main Street and shot footage of Simon�s office, with its permanently locked door. Tillie was just behind it, always jittery. She was monitoring the story in the press and online, and her scrapbook was filling up quickly. Simon had no desire to look at it.

�Simon sightings� were rare because he seldom left his building. He peeked through the shades upstairs and often saw reporters lurking in the alley. He was isolated, depressed, and frightened about the trial and his future. He seldom ate and Tillie fussed at him about his weight, as she continued to tone up.

He spent hours at his desk writing, by hand � nothing in the computer � and compiling his notes on Netty�s final days. He broke down each one, almost hour by hour, with as much detail as he could recall. Her movements, his movements, her auto accident, his trips to the hospital, who else was there, who were the doctors and nurses, and so on. She had been admitted on December 17, and died on Wednesday, December 30. He charted every day and asked Tillie to double-check her calendars and phone calls. She had made three trips to the hospital to check on Netty and take brownies. She took those damned ginger cookies that Simon had bought at Tan Lu�s. Who did she see at the hospital? Did she log in at the front desk, as required? Yes, the first time, but not for the second and third visits. The hospital was not strict about monitoring visitors.

The long dreary days of January gave way to more of the same in February. The phone simply wasn�t ringing, and for a street practice that depended on word of mouth, the traffic was far too slow. Word of mouth was out there somewhere, but it was not being kind to Simon Latch.

In the second week of February, Paula called with the news that she had found a promising job with a new retirement village in the town of Danville, four hours south on the North Carolina state line. Danville was roughly the size of Braxton, with good schools and even a small college, and about as far away as possible while still being in Virginia. She had found an apartment and they would be moving in a matter of days. Her parents were driving her crazy and the kids were climbing the walls. Yes, it was all quite unsettling, but finally they were making progress. He volunteered to help with the move-in and she invited him to join the party.

Landy�s reluctant efforts to find manufacturers, markets, and dealers for banned poisons was not going well. What she had found so far was something she already knew: there were thousands of banned and/or illegal chemicals, compounds, and drugs smuggled into America every year, for every reason, and from every entry point. Billions were spent trying to stop the flood of cocaine, heroin, and fentanyl. Poisons were not a priority and almost impossible to track.

Landy and her husband had filed their no-fault divorce and shook hands on the deal. As career FBI agents who moved frequently, they did not own a home. Their condo lease was up in a few months and she would remain in it until she found another apartment. Simon became a regular guest. He enjoyed being away from Braxton almost as much as he enjoyed the high-octane sex life they had jump-started. It was like a flashback twenty years to law school when they almost flunked out due to extracurricular activities.

But they were no longer twenty, and after a few weeks things cooled off as they slowly realized there was a good reason their old romance had not survived outside the bedroom. In late February, she surprised him with the news that she would be gone for a month on an assignment she could not discuss.

With Simon focused on his criminal problems, and with Judge Pointer steadfastly refusing to even discuss Eleanor Barnett�s complicated estate, Teddy Hammer quietly pursued his grand scheme. His plan was to attack the will prepared by Simon on the grounds of undue influence. If Simon was convicted of murder, he would go away for a long time and his will would be worthless. If he was acquitted, something no one really expected, then they would have a huge court fight over his actions in preparing the will. Teddy would also attack the will prepared by Wally Thackerman, also on the grounds of undue influence. He was confident he could use the threat of an ethics complaint to bully Wally into backing off.

Once Simon and Wally and their wills were out of the picture, Teddy could reveal his secret. Neither lawyer had discovered that there was a third will, one signed by Harry Korsak in 1988. According to Jerry Korsak, who had a copy of the old will, his father had agreed to leave everything to Eleanor, in trust. Upon her death, the assets would go to Jerry and Clyde in equal shares. Because Eleanor had such strong feelings against the boys, Harry had not told her about the will and she did not sign a similar one at that time.

Teddy at first doubted the story because he had learned to doubt almost everything Jerry told him. However, the old will was straightforward and attempted to protect Jerry and Clyde upon Eleanor�s death. The will had been prepared by a lawyer who died years earlier, and it was a near perfect example of legal malpractice. It virtually guaranteed years of litigation. For example, Harry kept his assets jointly owned with Eleanor while at the same time attempting to shield the assets in a poorly drafted trust. Why the old will was not probated at Harry�s death was not clear. Teddy surmised that Eleanor knew nothing about it and managed to avoid probate because the assets were jointly owned. He was also certain that neither Simon nor Wally knew about the old will. How could they? There were many unanswered questions, but the bottom line was that Clyde and Jerry were the only blood relatives still around. Eleanor�s niece and nephew didn�t even know she was dead.

The most pressing matter was the issue of the assets. What was in Eleanor�s estate? Jerry was convinced there was plenty. He knew his father owned stock in Coke and Wal-Mart, but some of his claims seemed rather grandiose. Before Teddy invested hundreds of hours of work, he needed to make sure there were significant assets. Otherwise, the case was not worth pursuing. To investigate, Teddy befriended the conservator, Clement Gelly, the conscientious young lawyer who had not asked to be involved. Judge Pointer trusted him and leaned on him for the favor.

Teddy convinced Clement to take a trip together. After getting Judge Pointer�s quiet approval, they flew together, at Teddy�s expense, to Atlanta and checked into a splendid hotel in the ritzy Buckhead neighborhood. Teddy had learned the identity of Buddy Brown, a principal in Rumke-Brown, Harry�s old brokerage house. However, his two attempts to get him on the phone had gone nowhere.

Buddy was fully aware of Eleanor�s death and the surrounding drama with her lawyer in Braxton, Virginia. In fact, he had a file with the press clippings and had followed the chatter online. He knew he would be involved at some point, so when the conservator, one Clement Gelly, called and asked for a meeting, Buddy really had no choice but to agree.

Teddy stayed at the hotel and kept busy while Clement took a cab a few blocks away to an office building filled with professionals and firms that seemed to want little attention. Rumke-Brown�s first-floor suite spoke of understated wealth. The walls and floors were decorated in a minimalist theme, with contemporary paintings and strange bronzes on the end tables. The mood was subdued and quiet with soft background music. There was no receptionist because the firm did not allow walk-ins or encourage visitors. An assistant met Clement and led him through the halls to a large corner office where Buddy Brown was waiting with a smile.

The firm�s website followed the minimalist theme of revealing almost nothing. There were a few partners and about a dozen associates, all much younger than Brown. Though his age was not given, he graduated from Emory in 1962, so he was in his mid-seventies. Fit, tanned, vigorous, ready for the next tennis match. No pickleball for him. The same assistant served them coffee and designer water on the conference table. Brown rolled up his sleeves, glanced at his watch, and was ready to donate one hour to the cause, whatever it was.

He said, �Looks like you got yourself a real mess up there.�

�Lots of drama,� Clement agreed. �I was minding my own business when the judge hooked me in as the conservator.�

�Yes, that�s what you said on the phone.� In other words, I�ve already heard this. �Where is the case procedurally?�

�Which one? The murder trial is set for May twenty-third. The estate mess is on hold until the criminal matters are resolved. Same judge with both cases and she�s very much in control.�

�So, what�s my involvement at this point?�

�Nothing officially. I�m just trying to verify Ms. Barnett�s assets.�

�Okay, I spent an hour with our attorney yesterday and this is my position. I have, or had, a fiduciary relationship with Harry Korsak and Eleanor Barnett, both now deceased. It was a confidential, privileged relationship, as with all our clients. However, upon their deaths, the confidentiality became somewhat less strict, shall we say. I will agree to give a deposition, with my attorney present, for the record. I will not agree to testify in any proceeding, unless, of course, I am subpoenaed, at which time I will comply. Fair enough?�

�I suppose.�

�But there are some things I can tell you now, off the record, and in confidence, that might help you inventory her assets. Are we off the record?�

Clement wasn�t sure what the record was, and he knew he would immediately debrief with Teddy Hammer over lunch. He wasn�t a journalist working on a story, and he had not traveled all the way to Atlanta to get stiff-armed. �Sure,� he said.

Buddy started at the beginning.

A month before the trial, Judge Pointer scheduled a closed hearing to address a number of issues, the most important of which was venue.

Raymond had been adamant from day one that the trial must take place far away from Braxton. He really didn�t care where, but preferably out of the reach of the Washington and Richmond press. His client had been pilloried and savaged from the day of his indictment and the damage was irreversible. The only remaining question in the press was: Where was the firing squad? Raymond had been a prominent criminal defense lawyer for forty years and had never represented a defendant so thoroughly condemned by his neighbors and townsfolk. His own secretary, a compassionate soul, had quietly said to him several times, �Better get a plea bargain.�

Simon had been reluctant at first. For a while he argued that by the terms of the will he drafted for Eleanor, virtually everyone in Braxton would benefit from her generosity. The trust he so cleverly created spread her money to every church, civic club, food bank, scout troop, garden club, and so on. And, more important, the will did not give Simon Latch a dime of her money. He had to earn it! He would be paid $500 an hour and his fees would be impressive, but an hour away in Washington the going rate for the big firm guys was double that. Under oath and on cross-examination he was confident he could justify his billings.

Raymond countered with the argument that the terms of the will might never be heard by the jury. The will was not the issue. Murder was. Oddly enough, motive was not always a factor and did not have to be proven. Simon believed the will would be the Commonwealth�s first exhibit, dramatically waved in front of the jury by Cora Cook as proof that the defendant was dreaming of huge fees and profiting from the death of Eleanor Barnett.

He and Raymond argued for several weeks, usually late at night over cigars and bourbon. But Raymond would not budge and even threatened to withdraw, a ploy he used occasionally. The defense filed a motion seeking a change of venue.

During their discussions and arguments, they were joined by Casey Noland, the newest member of Raymond�s firm. He was thirty years old and had spent the past three years as a federal public defender. His unabashed goal in life was to become a high-octane, radical, colorful criminal defense lawyer, similar to Raymond Lassiter. While his law school buddies dreamed of the big corporate firms and million-dollar salaries, Casey wanted to be in the courtroom defending clients accused of horrible crimes. He wanted to protect the rights of the worst killers. He wanted to face skeptical juries. He wanted the spotlight.

Casey was also single and worked strange hours. To impress Raymond enough to get a job, he was developing a taste for bourbon and cigars.

For the hearing, Judge Pointer put two bailiffs at the door of Courtroom B and banned all spectators. She was tired of reporters hanging around the courthouse and bothering her secretary. She had called the police on several occasions to get rid of people digging for dirt about the case.

Cora Cook opposed the motion because she was supposed to, but she, too, knew a fair trial was impossible in Braxton. Around her office, the sentiment always leaned toward guilt, but that was to be expected among the staff of a prosecutor. No one was willing to give Simon Latch the benefit of the doubt. Forget about the presumption of innocence. Out of respect, her friends never commented on or gossiped about a case, but she knew they thought Simon poisoned Eleanor. Her current boyfriend thought a conviction was a slam dunk.

As always, the hearing was on the record, but Judge Pointer, as she often did, treated it as informally as possible. The attorneys kept their seats as they bantered back and forth, respectfully. Judge Pointer interrupted when necessary. Simon sat between Raymond and Casey Noland, and passed notes to both, once again thankful that he had not pursued a career as a criminal lawyer. He was still trying to warm up to Casey.

Virginia, like most states, allowed either side, defense or prosecution, to request a change of venue. However, neither side could suggest a preferred alternate. That was within the sole discretion of the judge.

After an hour of discussion, and little argument, it was apparent that Judge Pointer had made up her mind. She said, �I�ll grant the motion to change venue and I�ll decide on the jurisdiction later. I�m looking at various parts of the state and I tend to agree with the defense that the trial should be moved far away.�

The attorneys scribbled notes. No one was surprised. Simon didn�t relish the idea of spending a week or two in a cheap motel in a strange town, but the longer he stayed in Braxton, the more he was convinced that he needed to leave.

They then quibbled over discovery matters, with Her Honor lecturing both sides on the rules that required full disclosure. Cora Cook had a stellar reputation as an ethical prosecutor and withheld nothing. Raymond�s reputation did not quite match hers but he had nothing to hide.

At noon, Judge Pointer surprised them when she recessed until 2�P.M. There was nothing left on the agenda, not in Commonwealth of Virginia�v. Simon F. Latch, and the lawyers left the courtroom scratching their heads. What was the unfinished business?

Simon tried diligently to avoid being seen in public anywhere in Braxton, especially downtown where the lawyers and courthouse gang had their lunches. Casey drove them to an old country store where they had sandwiches at a table in a corner. It was one of the few restaurants Simon and Eleanor had not tried.

At 2 P.M. they reconvened and waited fifteen minutes for Judge Pointer to assume the bench. She was religiously punctual and the slight delay was unusual. When she took her place she dismissed the court reporter and settled in for a casual chat with Raymond, Casey, Cora, and Simon.

She began, �My husband is from the Tidewater area and I know it well. From here, it�s four hours by car. It�s also another world, very different from the Blue Ridge Mountains that we know and love. There are two million people in the area, big towns like Hampton, Chesapeake, Norfolk, Newport News, Portsmouth. Virginia Beach is the largest, with twice the population of Richmond. The Tidewater Times has the largest circulation and it hardly covered this story. I found only two reports, while the state�s other newspapers were trying to out-scream each other. As you probably know, the area has a strong military influence. The largest naval base in the world is in Norfolk. The population is very diverse and transient. I have no doubt that it will be easier to find impartial jurors. So, I�ve notified the supreme court that I�m moving the case to Virginia Beach. This will not affect the trial date of May twenty-three.�

She took a sip of water and cleared her throat. �I have also informed the supreme court that I am recusing myself from this case. My reasons are as follows. There are two cases, one criminal, one probate. Under our system, the circuit court has jurisdiction of both, and since I�m the senior circuit judge in Braxton, they�re on my desk. The facts of one case bleed into another. I could learn something from one case that could affect my judgment in the other. It�s best if I turn loose of one. The other reason is that I am facing some medical issues that will require a lighter load for a few months.�

The lawyers frowned appropriately. Judge Pointer certainly looked as healthy as ever. There were suddenly plenty of questions, but none were asked.

�My prognosis is good but it may take some time.� Another sip of water. �And there�s something else, something that may or may not be relevant in the criminal case. I had a talk with Clement Gelly last week and he informed me, sort of off the record, that he has learned something important. He went to Atlanta and met with the investment advisor for Eleanor Barnett. It looks as though she rather outrageously inflated the value of her estate. Her late husband lost his fortune, some fifteen million, in bad investments. Then they moved here and he promptly died. Clement values her home at two hundred and fifty thousand, about the same for her stocks and cash.�

Simon wanted to puke again, but he managed a poker face and nodded as if he�d known this all along, no big deal. It had been a year since he met her. A year since she had uttered, almost in a whisper, the words that wrecked his life: Ten million in Coke stock, six million in Wal-Mart stock, about four million in cash.

How could a pleasant old widow who appeared perfectly normal and acted like the other eighty-five-year-olds be afflicted with some weird strain of insanity? Nothing else in her life, or at least nothing Simon had noticed, gave any indication of mental illness. The word �sucker� rattled around his brain.

Judge Pointer kept talking, something about the will contest, but Simon heard nothing.

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.

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.

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.

Over coffee that morning, Raymond had told Casey and Simon that he was prepared to make one of three opening statements, depending on Cora�s tactics. She had a lot of ground to cover and he suspected she might ramble a bit. All in all, though, he gave her high marks for her presentation. The jury stayed with her as she told a compelling story and piled plenty of suspicion upon Simon.

Raymond�s approach would be that the defense had nothing to prove and would need only to poke holes in the prosecution�s case. Once the jurors had settled into their chairs after the recess, he walked to the podium, with no notes, and offered a charming smile.

�Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to remind you that nothing you just heard from Ms. Cook has been proven, none of it is evidence, all of it just her speculation, her hopes and dreams maybe, of what the Commonwealth might try to prove against Simon Latch. She tells a nice story. She�s an experienced prosecutor. The problem is that she has promised too much. She can�t deliver all that she promised, nearly two hours� worth, because she doesn�t have the proof.�

He stepped away from the podium and stuck both hands deep into his pants pockets. �There are so many important facts that she conveniently left out. For example, she said that Ms. Barnett was in the hospital being treated for injuries received in a car wreck. What she failed to include was that Ms. Barnett was driving too fast late at night, ran a red light, and T-boned another car, seriously injuring its occupants. At the time of the crash, she was driving and she was, well, let�s just say she was intoxicated. Point zero-nine, over the limit. It seems that she had been out partying with the girls, they had some type of �poker� club they called it, and it was their annual Christmas party. She got hammered, got behind the wheel, and as her friend Doris rode shotgun they took off down the streets of Braxton at ten-thirty at night. She damned near killed Doris.�

He managed to make killing Doris sound almost humorous. Simon was impressed with his oratorical skills. For years he had heard stories about Raymond�s courtroom antics and abilities, but he had never seen him in action. With a packed house, an attentive jury, and everything on the line, Raymond was in the center of the ring and completely at home.

�Greed!� he snarled loudly. Then he managed a belly laugh that startled everyone. �Greed. For the simple will, Simon Latch charged Eleanor Barnett the greedy sum of two hundred and fifty dollars. And she never paid him! And for the retainer that she insisted on, he got really greedy and charged her one thousand dollars. And she never paid that bill either! For almost nine months of legal work, and not counting the long lunches she insisted on, nor the coffees, nor the late-night phone calls, nor the hospital visits, not counting anything but the hours spent at his desk tending to her legal matters, over sixty hours of billable time, the defendant, Simon Latch, received a total sum of...zero! Nothing, not a dime. Why are we talking about greed?�

Raymond wandered away from the podium, shaking his head at such foolishness.

�Something else Ms. Cook neglected. Mr. Simon Latch, a well-respected member of the bar with no ethics complaints or malpractice suits filed against him throughout his entire career in Braxton, was immediately suspicious of Ms. Barnett�s assertions of being rich. How often does a client walk into a law office to meet an attorney for the first time and claim to have twenty million or so in assets? In Braxton, Virginia? It never happens, I can assure you of that. Simon Latch was no fool. He saw the signs of modest affluence � the absence of debt, a nice pension inherited from her husband, a lovely home free and clear � but those things were not unusual. He immediately suspected she wasn�t being truthful. He repeatedly asked her for proof, as in periodic brokerage statements or bank records. When she resisted, he became even more suspicious.�

And here the fiction began. Only Simon could tell the jury what went on between himself and Eleanor. Only he could re-invent what his thoughts were at the beginning. There was an element of truth in what Raymond was telling the jury, but the fiction was taking over.

�He wasn�t driven by greed. The poor woman had no one else. No husband, no children, no siblings, no close relatives. She needed a friend, a counselor, a lawyer to help her through the legal maze. She was eighty-five, single and lonely, and she claimed to have a lot of assets. Perhaps she really believed the money was still there. Perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Eleanor Barnett was already a bit off her rocker, as we sometimes say.�

Simon had never really believed Netty was unbalanced or losing her mental acuity, but something was wrong. A screw was loose somewhere. To build an elaborate charade and pursue it with such detail was still difficult to comprehend.

�Ms. Cook makes hay from this cremation issue. Again, her facts are wrong. Years ago Simon and his wife signed new wills and advance directives providing for their own cremations and interments in a mausoleum. Nothing new. They were convinced it was a cheaper, more sustainable way to go. Cremation is rapidly gaining popularity across the country, with a thirty percent increase every year for the past ten. Simon recommended cremation to many of his clients. Eleanor Barnett was one. He wasn�t trying to destroy evidence by having her cremated. Nonsense.�

Raymond spat out �nonsense� as if only a fool could believe such stupidity.

�And the bit about pulling the plug. Oh, that�s rich, that�s juicy. But, alas, it�s not true either. Again, Ms. Cook leaves out some very important facts. You�ll hear from Dr. Connor Wilkes, the hospital�s CEO, and she will tell you that Simon wanted no part of the decision to take Ms. Barnett off the ventilator. He flat-out told her and the doctors that it was a medical decision to be made by them, and not him.�

Suddenly, he was sad and frustrated. He spoke softly, as if confiding in the jurors. �The truth is, we don�t know who poisoned Eleanor Barnett. And the Commonwealth of Virginia is going to waste this entire week trying to pin a murder on an innocent man, while the killer laughs at us. The killer could be in this courtroom at this very moment.� Raymond allowed those words to settle upon the crowd, then he, a bit too dramatically, paused and gazed at the audience, as if searching for the murderer. As if he knew the person was watching and listening.

He returned to the jurors and said, �At the rate we�re going, her murder will never be solved. The police picked the wrong suspect, arrested him, then stopped their investigation. The prosecutor ran to the grand jury, got an indictment, and never considered other suspects. Now we�re here, in this courtroom, watching and listening as the Commonwealth of Virginia tries in vain to pin the murder on Simon Latch. He didn�t do it, ladies and gentlemen. No one saw him buy the poison. There are no records of him doing so. No one saw him tamper with the ginger cookies, because he didn�t. No one saw him feed them to Ms. Barnett, because he didn�t. There is simply no proof.�

Simon scribbled, �Brilliant, but a good time to quit.�

Raymond knew it too. With a look of total frustration, he wrapped it up with �When all the witnesses are finished, and the proof is in, and you deliberate and realize that Simon Latch is not guilty, then you will march back into this courtroom, take your seats, declare his innocence, and go home having done your civic duty, and the real killer will still be out there. Laughing. No doubt, laughing.�

The more �important� witnesses testified Tuesday morning. They were all doctors with busy schedules that prevented them from having to hang around the hallway outside the courtroom and waste time, like the other witnesses. They were given firm dates on which to testify, with approximate hours.

At 9 A.M. sharp, just after Judge Shyam welcomed everyone back and quizzed the jurors about their general health and happiness, Dr. Samuel Lilly was sworn in and took the stand. Cora Cook led him through the preliminaries and established that he was well educated, suitably experienced, and had been the chief of staff at Blue Ridge Memorial Hospital for the past four years. He had also been the attending physician for Eleanor Barnett and described the injuries that brought her to the hospital.

In non-medical terms, she was banged up with cuts and bruises and two broken ribs, but her condition was not life-threatening. However, because of her age, a lengthy convalescence was expected. Referring to his notes, he told the jury that after four days she began to show signs of something else, which he and the nurses thought was pneumonia. Fever, fatigue, nausea, even more aches and pains. But she was stable and there was no sense of urgency.

Dr. Lilly met the defendant the day after Eleanor was admitted and spoke with him almost every day until she died. Dr. Lilly was present when the defendant presented a power of attorney and advance directive to the patient as she sat propped up in her bed. Others were present, including Dr. Connor Wilkes. Dr. Lilly viewed the situation as unusual, but the defendant did a thorough job of explaining the necessity of the documents and, more important, making sure Eleanor understood what she was doing. At no time did Dr. Lilly feel as though Eleanor was being unduly pressured or taken advantage of. However, given the situation, it was obvious she was being advised by her attorney, the defendant.

Earlier, in a private conversation in the hallway, the defendant had admitted to Dr. Lilly that he felt uncomfortable having control over the patient�s medical directives, but there was simply no one else to do so. No family, no friends.

As her condition deteriorated, the defendant was close by and appeared deeply concerned with what was happening. The patient was placed on a ventilator, as she could not breathe on her own. During her last twenty-four hours, Dr. Lilly, Dr. Wilkes, and two other doctors, along with the defendant, met to discuss their options. Mr. Latch was adamant that he would not make the decision to terminate care. He said it was a medical decision. Once they were unable to detect activity in the brain, Dr.�Lilly decided to remove the ventilator. The defendant agreed, but once again said it was a medical decision. The patient died ninety minutes later. Dr. Lilly and his staff were of the unanimous opinion that she had died of acute viral pneumonia. At no time did they suspect the patient had been poisoned.

During a lengthy and methodical cross-examination, Raymond slowly walked the doctor through the last two days of Eleanor�s treatment, and repeatedly drove home the point that Simon Latch had been reluctant to take part in the conversations about her care. He was obviously troubled by what was happening and felt out of place.

When Dr. Lilly was excused and walked out of the courtroom, Simon and Raymond knew his testimony could not have been better.

A friendly bailiff led Simon to a side exit and he was out of the building before Raymond greeted the reporters on the front steps with his usual banter and no-comments. They had learned by then that he was not about to say anything remotely relevant to the case, but they followed him anyway, in a pack down the sidewalk, taking photos and videos that would look exactly the same as the ones they had taken on Monday. He answered all their banal questions without saying anything. Simon, meanwhile, wearing a green John Deere cap, jumped into the front passenger seat of a black Chevy Impala, obviously government-issued, and sped away with Landy behind the wheel. When the courthouse was out of sight and no one chasing, he sat up and asked, �So how do you think it went?�

�Pretty boring morning, actually. Raymond is smart to agree with the doctors. His steady refrain of �Yep, she was poisoned but not by my guy� resonates. The prosecutor is not that exciting.�

�Few of them are.�

�You weren�t turned on by her leopard-spotted slingbacks?�

�No. They look ridiculous.�

Landy rolled her eyes. �The boys on the jury sure like them.�

�Where are we going?�

�There�s a seafood joint near the beach. Dark and quiet.�

�You do much work around here?�

�A couple of cases a year. Right now we�re talking to witnesses in a bid-rigging case. Extremely monotonous. The life of an FBI agent is not always gunfights and car chases.�

�Are you here tonight?�

�Is that an invitation?�

�Standing,� he said.

�I�ll see if I can work you in. Delano doesn�t like your jury.�

�Tell me about Delano.�

�My partner on this job. He watched the first two hours this morning and he knows his stuff. Spent four years in the federal defender�s office and did a lot of trial work. Says your jury is not on your side. The first impression was damaging � greedy lawyer sees the opportunity to take advantage of a vulnerable client with no family.�

�Do you agree?�

�I saw only the first half this morning, and Delano and I can�t hang around this afternoon. Work beckons. But we�re in and out tomorrow. Just trying to help, Simon.�

�Thanks, but you didn�t answer my question. Do you think the jury is against me?�

�They�re hard to read, as always. And all the proof�s not in. I�d say it�s half and half.�

Simon took a deep breath and let it sink in. After a moment, he said, �I didn�t take advantage of my client. I�ve earned nothing from all of this. In fact, I�ve lost everything.�

�I know. I�m on your side. But your client is dead and you bought the cookies.�

After four days of sobriety, Raymond needed a drink. The lawyers retired to one of Marshall Graff�s favorite watering holes and ordered cocktails and oysters. They huddled in a corner with their backs to the world and began replaying the day�s testimony.

Raymond thought Matilda�s performance was a wash. It raised suspicions and portrayed Simon as a sneaky type up to something, but what exactly? Preparing a perfectly legitimate last will and testament for a client? Where was the crime in that? He was on trial for murder, not lying to his secretary. Nothing Matilda said on the stand proved he had poisoned Eleanor Barnett. Sure, he bought the damned cookies, but they were harmless when delivered to the hospital. And he was dreaming of getting paid a bigger hourly fee for his work, not exactly a crime either. If that was illegal, every lawyer in the country would be indicted. Casey usually disagreed with Raymond out of habit, and he thought her testimony was damaging because she seemed sincerely betrayed by her boss. Two of the female jurors appeared to be very sympathetic.

Simon was pleased that Tillie had not done more damage. She knew plenty of secrets, including the countless times he had stuffed cash fees in his pockets with nothing on the books. Of course, he almost always shared the unreported loot with her. But it was tax evasion on a small scale. �Every lawyer does it,� he liked to say. Tillie could have portrayed the law office for what it really was � a heavily mortgaged assembly line for cheap bankruptcies and other mundane legal matters, a practice that was barely afloat. She could have portrayed her ex-boss as a man who lived beyond his means and really needed some bigger fees.

After an hour of rehash and two martinis, with a dozen oysters, Simon left them and made his way back to his dark and lonely hotel suite. Landy had texted and said she could not drop by for something more pleasant. Maybe tomorrow night. She was probably working out with Delano, whoever he might be.

At 8 P.M., Simon called Paula and said hello to the family. He had an image of her, Buck, Danny, and Janie sitting around the kitchen table, after dinner, perhaps in the middle of homework, having their nightly chat into the speakerphone with their indicted father. He went through the order of witnesses for that day and gave his opinions on how they performed. The lawyers were upbeat. The jurors were engaged. The judge was impartial and fair. The courtroom was still crowded with spectators. The trial should be over by Friday. No, he would not predict the outcome.

Simon managed to sound confident, or least to fake it, but it was not easy. He could not control the terrible thoughts of his children hearing their father had been convicted of murder. They had done nothing to deserve such pain.

Neither had he.

When Clement Gelly agreed to serve as the conservator of Eleanor Barnett�s estate back in January, he was practically guaranteed by Judge Pointer that he would not get tangled up in any criminal proceedings. He certainly did not want to testify against Simon Latch, a lawyer he liked and respected. Now that he was entangled and even subpoenaed, he tried to avoid taking the stand by filing a motion with the court. Said motion was denied. He pleaded with Judge Pointer to remove him as conservator, but she refused. She apologized for the mess he was in, but had no choice because no other lawyer in Braxton would get near the case.

He swore to tell the truth and sat in the witness chair with the firm intention of saying as little as necessary. If at all possible, he would say nothing to harm Simon�s defense.

Using real estate tax records, bank statements, and quarterly notices from Rumke-Brown, he quickly laid out the value of Ms. Barnett�s estate. The house was unencumbered by debt and appraised last year for $292,000. A checking account at Security Bank in Braxton had a balance of $3,300. There were two certificates of deposit held by the East Federal bank in Atlanta, one for $21,000 and one for $13,000. A money market account at the same bank had a balance of $28,400. The estate owned 6,775 shares of common stock in the Coca-Cola corporation, market value the day before of $271,000. Add another $5,000 for furniture and assorted personal items, and the total value was slightly more than $630,000. No state or federal estate taxes were anticipated.

As Simon scribbled the numbers down and tallied them up, he had to admit that most of the wills he had prepared in his career involved estates with far fewer assets. It was an impressive estate for Braxton, Virginia, but a far, lonely, and pathetic cry from what he once dreamed of. He could not help but remember the first time he tallied up the value of her estate. It had been more than a year earlier, in his conference room, as Netty softly dabbed her eyes with a tissue and lied through those natural yellow teeth. What a smooth and convincing liar she had been. What a gullible and greedy fool he had been.

Relying on brokerage statements provided by Buddy Brown, Clement gave a succinct summary of Harry Korsak�s investment history and the accumulation of wealth. Because he could not verify the story, he skipped the best part, the volcano that blew Montrouge out of the Caribbean and off the map, and said that Harry had lost most of his money through bad investments. It was a colorful subplot but thoroughly irrelevant.

Clement showed the jury the mysterious notebook Ms. Barnett kept partially hidden in a check binder, but refused to speculate on why she did so. The jury would have to speculate too. Apparently, the old gal lost her marbles not long after she lost her money, and still pretended she was loaded. In great detail, she had lied to two lawyers and kept her fiction straight.

Simon thought of the hours lost with her, primarily eating in ethnic restaurants and discussing strange food. And all on his beleaguered credit card.

She never offered to pay for the first meal.

The estate was liquid and would provide a nice windfall for someone, probably Jerry and Clyde Korsak. There was enough money to keep a bigshot like Teddy Hammer sticking around. He was back in the courtroom for the third day, second row from the rear, left side, a regular vulture. Praying for a conviction to keep Simon on the sideline for years to come.

The Commonwealth wanted to use Clement to further its theory that Simon became convinced his client was wealthy; thus, the motive to use her estate as a vehicle to collect some fat fees. In Simon�s opinion, that motive had already been established.

The next witness piled on. Dirk Wheeler had been subpoenaed by the prosecutor and reluctantly took the stand. Cora established that he was a lawyer in D.C. and had gone to law school with the defendant. They were old friends who kept in touch.

�Mr. Wheeler, on March the tenth of last year, you received a call on your office phone from the defendant, correct?�

�Simon Latch called me, yes.�

�According to your phone records, the call lasted for almost fifteen minutes.�

�Is that a question?�

�Let�s say it is.�

�You have my phone records, Ms. Cook, and Simon�s as well. You know exactly how long the call lasted.�

�What did you talk about?�

�The weather, college basketball, life in general, a law school friend who has some medical issues.�

�What prompted the call?�

�Simon placed the call. You�ll have to ask him.�

�What did he want?�

�Well, among other things, he said he had a client with a substantial net worth and wanted some off-the-cuff tax advice.�

�And you�re a tax lawyer, correct?�

�Yes, estate and tax.�

�What kind of off-the-cuff tax advice?�

�Rates, primarily.�

�Can you explain this to the jury?�

�Yes, I can.�

After an awkward pause during which Cora glared at the witness and the witness never blinked, she said, �Then please do so.�

�We never got into the current rate structure for estate taxes because there were no estate taxes for last year. It was a loophole Congress overlooked. I explained this to Simon.�

�He didn�t know it?�

�If he had known it, he wouldn�t have called and asked me.�

�Wasn�t this rather basic knowledge at the time?�

Dirk snickered as if she was an idiot and said, �Absolutely not. Very few lawyers were aware of the loophole last year. It�s a tax issue, and most lawyers stay away from tax work. It�s all I do.�

�How often does the defendant call you for advice?�

�I don�t log my personal phone calls, Ms. Cook. Simon and I talk all the time. Last year I had a bankruptcy question so I called him. Back and forth. That�s what lawyers do. There was nothing at all unusual about the call you�re referring to.�

Dirk was believable and Cora was on her heels, six-inch ones. Actually, lawyers, or at least the ones Simon knew, rarely relied on one another for legal advice. To do so would be to admit ignorance. But Dirk was scoring points for the defense and the Commonwealth was losing interest.

On cross-examination, Raymond asked, �Mr. Wheeler, what�s the going hourly rate for estate tax lawyers these days in Washington, D.C.?�

�Oh, they vary, same as most legal fees. The big firms with the big clients are charging fifteen hundred an hour. Smaller tax firms are trying to catch up.�

�May I ask how much you charge per hour?�

�Sure. It�s no secret. We post all of our fees for any new client. Right now my rate is nine hundred an hour.�

�That sounds like a lot of money?�

�It is indeed, but we deal with wealthy clients with many assets, often in different countries. They owe a lot in taxes and prefer to avoid them as much as possible. These are complicated situations that require a high level of skill.�

�Do you think five hundred an hour is a fair rate for the legal work involved in Ms. Barnett�s estate?�

�More than fair.�

Simon glanced at the jury box and made eye contact with Number Eleven, Mindy Rutledge, a thirty-four-year-old mother of three whose husband had just been kicked out of the Navy. The disgusted look she gave Simon meant only one thing: How dare you expect me to believe that anybody is worth five hundred dollars an hour?

For a moment, he thought he was being followed by a blue Impala, but it soon disappeared into traffic south of Norfolk. He zigzagged at random to be safe, and finally relaxed on a county road near Suffolk. For three hours he drove at a leisurely pace through the peanut farms and tobacco fields of southern Virginia. It was a perfect spring day and life would have been something quite pleasant, but for the horror of tomorrow when his future would be handed to twelve ordinary people, a jury of his peers.

He replayed every witness and every word of testimony he could remember. At times the past three days were a blur. A moment later, he could recall the attire of every witness and hear their voices. The Commonwealth�s case was heavy on suspicion and motive, but severely lacking on direct proof. Sure, he bought the damned cookies, and gave them to Tillie who took them to Eleanor, who ate them and died. But the crucial part about the poisoning had been botched by the prosecutor and her team. They simply had no proof, primarily because there was no proof. Simon had nothing to do with her death, and the fact that he was even suspected of it still made him burn. The possibility of being convicted of it was overwhelming.

Paula had moved the kids into a three-bedroom apartment in a new complex on the eastern edge of Danville. A crowd of young singles lounged around the pool, sipping beer and listening to music. On a playground nearby, toddlers swung and seesawed as their mothers chatted.

Not a bad place and very far from Braxton.

Buck answered the door and gave his dad a hug, one he meant, and he was soon joined by Danny and Janie. Simon was determined not to get emotional and tried to keep things light. Paula was at the stove cooking pasta. For a few hours, they felt like a family again, eating slowly and talking about life � school, the new town, new friends, and old ones from Braxton. Janie asked if they were ever going back there, even referred to it as �home.�

With one week left in the school term, homework was not a priority. After the dinner table was cleared, they sat for a long time and talked about the trial. Simon went through each witness and gave honest assessments. He explained that his defense would begin first thing in the morning and would not take long. He didn�t have to prove anything. He was presumed to be innocent, and was in fact innocent. The burden was on the prosecution, and his lawyers thought the Commonwealth had not done an effective job.

The kids believed every word he said. Paula had repeatedly assured them that their father would never commit such a crime.

Simon asked about the media coverage and said he had ignored most of it. Buck said there was still plenty of it in the Washington and Richmond press, but nothing much in Danville. After all, it was a small town. Danny said the online stuff was terrible so stay away. Simon had no plans to take a look.

The conversation drifted to the end of school and summer plans. The year before, the family had gone camping and canoeing in the Smoky Mountains, and, in spite of the friction between the mother and the father, they had enjoyed themselves. Simon hoped they could do it again, though sharing a tent with Paula was not going to happen.

His heart ached for his children. They had done nothing to deserve the unfairness of being forced to flee their home and listen to the crap about their father. And if he was convicted, they would be scarred for life.

They talked and talked and couldn�t get enough of their time together. They were starved for his attention. At 10:45, Paula finally said, �Fifteen more minutes, then lights out.�

When they were finally in bed, he said, �We need to talk.�

�Okay. There�s no booze.�

�I don�t need it.�

�Do I?�

�You�re okay. How about coffee?�

�Decaf?�

�Even better.�

When they were sure the kids were asleep, Simon said, �I think Tillie may have been involved in Eleanor�s death.�

Her mouth dropped open but she didn�t speak.

�It�s a long story.�

�I�m listening.�

The person who acquired the thallium and added it to the ginger cookies did so either in private or in Eleanor�s room when the hospital was quiet. Matilda was the only possible suspect who could have doctored the cookies either at the law office or at her apartment. But she was gone and no longer involved in the trial. There was not a speck of proof against her, only speculation. There was no procedural gimmick that would allow the defense to haul her back to court for more questions. And if there had been, why bother? She would simply take the stand again and deny every hint of culpability.

Simon still found it difficult to believe Tillie was involved, but was wavering. Her little romance with Jerry Korsak added plenty of suspicion.

What intrigued him were the comings and goings at the hospital. There was virtually no security or surveillance. Most of the doors to the patients� rooms were partially open all the time and never locked.

At his suggestion, the first witness for the defense was Loretta Goodwin, the charge nurse who supervised the east wing of the third floor of the hospital. Raymond had plenty of time and much ground to cover. He liked to roam his side of the courtroom, asking questions and listening as he gave various looks to the jurors.

Loretta had been a registered nurse at the hospital for eight years and a floor supervisor for the past three. One of her duties was to coordinate care for her patients, including Eleanor Barnett. She met with Simon Latch on several occasions and was impressed with his willingness to help his client. She got the impression he did not want to be in the middle of Eleanor�s problems, but there was no one else. Loretta was in the room when Eleanor signed the advance directive and power of attorney, and, while it was an unusual event, she believed Simon was acting in the best interest of his client.

Raymond belabored this to the point of overdoing it. Simon scribbled, �Okay, move on,� and Raymond must have read his mind.

Raymond talked about the security at the hospital, the visitation procedures, the flow of traffic between the floors and down the halls. As in many hospitals, there was a constant stream of health care workers in and out of the rooms.

How many? To prove that dozens of people had unlimited access to Eleanor�s room, Raymond went to the big screen. He began with a large color photo of Dr. Connor Wilkes, the CEO, a witness the jury had already met. Then Dr. Samuel Lilly, the attending physician. Then Dr. Joe Huber, the chief resident. With each, Raymond asked the same questions, which were becoming monotonous. Loretta patiently explained that the doctors had unlimited access to Eleanor�s room, as did the nurses, beginning with Loretta herself. She was amused to see her smiling face on such a large screen and quipped, �A bad hair day.� The jury thought it was funny. Two registered nurses followed. They were followed by four licensed practical nurses and four certified nursing assistants. Raymond asked what role each nurse played in Eleanor�s care, and Loretta patiently explained things to the jury. Blue Ridge Memorial had two NPs � nurse practitioners � who ranked above Loretta and periodically checked on Eleanor. Their faces went up on the screen.

By ten-thirty, it felt like the entire hospital staff had been introduced to the jury. Finally, Ms. Cook had had enough and said, �Your Honor, this is all quite fascinating but I�m losing any sense of relevance here.�

Judge Shyam said, �So am I. Mr. Lassiter?�

Raymond anticipated the interruption and pounced. �Your Honor, we have the right to prove that as many as thirty hospital employees had unfettered access to Ms. Barnett�s room twenty-four hours a day with little or no surveillance, registration, or observation. We cannot prove, nor has the Commonwealth, who actually poisoned the deceased, but we can prove that her door was open at all times.�

�That�s enough, Mr. Lassiter. I didn�t ask for a closing summation. Let�s take a break and we�ll continue in twenty minutes.�

It took two hours, and all of lunch, to hammer out jury instructions and settle the lingering objections that Judge Shyam had taken under advisement. When the loose ends were wrapped up, the jurors were brought in once more and the courtroom grew quiet. Cora Cook approached the jury box. It was almost 3 P.M.

She once again thanked the jurors for their service, a needless gesture that meant nothing. By then they were weary of their service and tired of each other and no amount of false praise could impress them.

She switched gears immediately and got their attention. �According to FBI statistics, there are twenty thousand murders each year in this country. Almost forty percent are never solved. Those are troubling numbers, but let�s set them aside. Of the murders that are solved, almost half, fifty percent, involve circumstantial evidence. No one saw the fateful deed. No one saw the murderer pull the trigger, or cut with the knife, or beat with the club. There were no eyewitnesses. And, since the murderer did not confess to the crime, the detectives studied the crime scene and found clues. Every murderer leaves behind evidence. Bullets and shells for ballistics tests. Blood, semen, saliva, sweat, skin, for DNA testing. Fingerprints, hair follicles, boot prints, for forensic analysis. And poison for toxicologists to examine and study.�

Cora stayed behind the small podium and only occasionally glanced at her notes. She spoke directly to the jurors, looking them in the eye, an orator who was well prepared and knew her stuff.

�Eleanor Barnett was murdered in a very devious manner. She ingested a poison that has for decades been known as the poisoner�s choice. Thallium has no taste, odor, or appearance. It�s invisible. It can be ingested in small quantities over several days or weeks without yielding clues, often, as in this case, confounding the doctors, who so rarely confront it. Neither the doctors nor the nurses had any reason to suspect that this lovely and respectable lady, laid up in the hospital after an awful car wreck, would secretly be fed, in small doses, a poison added to one of her favorite treats, ginger cookies purchased by the defendant and delivered by his longtime and loyal secretary.

�Now, the defense evidently wants you to believe that someone other than the defendant acquired a poison that can be found only on the black market and only by someone with evil intent, and this other person sneaked into Ms. Barnett�s hospital room and laced her cookies with thallium. How convenient. How original. Someone else did it. I�m sure you�ve never heard that one before.

�But why would someone else murder Eleanor Barnett? Ladies and gentlemen, it�s a question of motive. And the motive was greed. Who could profit from her death? Oh, I suppose the funeral home could make a buck. But it�s hard to imagine Mr. Douglas Gregg, the mortician you met here on the stand, sneaking into her hospital room and killing her so he could then cremate her. Are we supposed to believe that? Ludicrous. About as ludicrous as the other good and innocent people the defense has dragged into this courtroom to smear their names. The doctors, nurses, orderlies, assistants, even janitors, all those good folks just doing their jobs, trying to save her life, and now the defendant wants you to suspect them all. Pretty outrageous.�

One glance at the jurors and Simon knew better than to glance again. If Raymond thought they had eight friends in the box, Simon would love to know where the first one was sitting.

�Who has the motive? Who wanted Eleanor dead?� Cora�s voice was loud, incredulous, and echoed around the courtroom. She stepped away from her notes and hit her stride with a tirade of facts that could not be contested. The secrecy of the preparation and execution of the will. The obvious belief that there was big money on the table; otherwise, why would the defendant go to such great lengths to set up a trust designed to make donations to 120 charities? Why would the will leave $100,000 each to Clyde and Jerry Korsak if doing so would leave so little for the trust? Why would the defendant call his pal Dirk Wheeler, a bona fide tax and estate lawyer, and seek advice for a client with a substantial net worth? Why would the defendant insert himself as the attorney for the estate and also the attorney for the trust, with no other trustees to provide oversight? Why would the defendant award himself fees of $500 an hour, an obscene amount for a small-town lawyer with no experience in complicated estate matters? According to his own secretary, he had never been paid such exorbitant fees.

Cora stopped, looked at the jurors in complete amazement, and asked, �Who in the world is worth five hundred dollars an hour?�

Then she lowered the large white screen opposite the jurors and methodically went through the timeline, carefully listing the important dates and times: Eleanor�s car wreck and hospitalization, the purchase of the first box of ginger cookies from Tan Lu�s, the aggressive actions by the defendant to get his client to execute a power of attorney and living will, from her hospital bed; the purchase of the second box of cookies; the deterioration of her condition; the ventilator; her death; then, of course, the forty-seven-minute gap between her official passing and the defendant�s phone call to the funeral home with the request to �come and get her.�

Cora finished an hour after she began. Her final words to the jury were: �A clear-cut case of first-degree murder.�

Simon tried to sit tall, take meaningless notes, and present a confident look for everyone.

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.

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.

My poor children, Simon thought, and tried mightily to keep them out of his mind.

Half an hour passed. He sat slumped in his chair, motionless, staring at something on the floor. Two Virginia Beach police officers loitered near the bench, as if waiting to pounce.

Raymond finally sat down beside him, leaned in, and said, �Look, Simon, time to go. They�re taking you to the city jail where you�ll spend the night. I�ll be there. In the morning, some boys from Braxton will fetch you here for the drive home.�

�I didn�t kill anyone.�

�I know you didn�t. I�ve believed you from the beginning and am even more convinced now. But, juries sometimes do strange things and I guess this is one of them. I can�t explain it.�

�What�s next? Prison?�

�No.�

�For the rest of my life?�

�No.�

�I can�t do that, Raymond. I swear I can�t do that.�

�Not so fast. The next step is post-trial motions, then sentencing. Nobody gets in a hurry. I�ll talk to the judge first thing Monday morning and ask her to allow you to remain out on bond until sentencing. That�s rarely permitted, but it does happen. We�ll get to the bottom of it, Simon, I swear we will.�

�I can�t go to prison.�

Raymond looked at Casey as the two police officers walked over. One removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt. Raymond said, �These two guys will take you to the city jail.�

Simon looked at them in horror and said, �Handcuffs? And I gotta ride in the back seat?�

�Afraid so,� Raymond said.

Teddy Hammer moved quickly. The following morning, he filed a petition to open the estate of Eleanor Barnett, who, he alleged, died without a valid will. Hammer sought to have Jerry Korsak appointed administrator of the estate.

The petition was the first shot in a legal battle that would probably drag on for years, like most probate matters. Hammer believed, as did Clement Gelly, that the estate could be liquidated and yield at least half a million in cash. Teddy wanted his share.

At the same time, he filed, on behalf of the Korsak boys, two impressive wrongful death lawsuits. The first, for ten million dollars, was against Simon Latch, who had just been adjudicated as the killer. The second, for twenty million, was against the hospital for negligent care, for allowing the patient to be poisoned. Teddy was kind enough to email copies of the lawsuits to Simon, who was not surprised and enjoyed reading them. At the moment, his net worth was about $5,000 at best, most of it tied up in used office furniture and a six-year-old leased Audi that had exceeded its permitted mileage. He had almost no prospects of future income. Sue all you want!

Cautiously, he opened his laptop and began reading dozens of emails, from friends, acquaintances, old clients, and current ones who were worried about their files. He fought the urge to check social media or scan the news. Why ruin another miserable day?

He busied himself with work that had to be done. He prepared a form letter to his clients and explained that he was no longer in business and they would need to find another lawyer. Since he was not about to unlock the front door, he promised to mail or ship their files to them. He sent emails to opposing lawyers, clerks, magistrates, and judges, and apologized for the inconvenience. He struggled through a short chat with Paula. The kids were a mess and she did not want him to visit anytime soon. He loved them more than anything, but he really didn�t want to face them.

A hard knock on the front door startled him. He let it pass.

Long after dark, he ventured out on foot and stealthily made his way to Raymond�s office. Casey was visiting his current girlfriend and trying to make up for lost time. Raymond�s wife preferred that he work at all hours and stay out of the house. He was finishing a sandwich when Simon found him in the conference room, a layer of smoke from the first cigar already hanging above the long table. They poured themselves a bourbon.

After a long pull, Simon said, �If we�ve learned anything, it�s that we cannot assume anything. I was assumed to be the killer, and convicted because of it. We know it�s not true. Now, we�re assuming Matilda Clark was involved, with Jerry Korsak, and it might be a mistake to make this assumption.�

�I�ll play along. You got a better suspect?�

�Plenty. Let�s walk through this. I bought the cookies and Matilda delivered them to the hospital. The killer had access to Eleanor�s room and saw the cookies. I can�t believe that the killer had the nerve or the time to remove the twenty-four cookies from the two cartons and apply the thallium while in the room. It makes more sense for the killer to notice the two cartons, go to Tan Lu�s and purchase identical ones, for cash of course, then take them home or wherever and add the thallium. Then, at the right time, probably after midnight when the place is practically deserted, return to the room, and swap the cartons.�

Raymond frowned as he listened and struck a match. �Seems as if I remember a similar conversation a month ago.�

�Yes, but a month ago neither you nor I thought it was possible that twelve jurors would vote to convict me. And we were wrong. Also, a month ago we didn�t have the time or money to investigate other suspects. Now, Raymond, things are radically different. We have to find the killer.�

�I thought you were convinced it was Matilda and Jerry Korsak.�

�They are the prime suspects, but what if we�re wrong? We investigate them, not sure how, but we�ll figure out something. At the same time, we widen the net.�

�How wide?�

�You showed the jury the faces of thirty doctors, nurses, and hospital employees who had access to Eleanor�s room. I thought it was a brilliant move and proved its point.�

�I guess the jury wasn�t impressed.�

�Guess not. I�ve combed the records again, every page, every word, and I�ve found three more names. Total of thirty-three. I think we can safely eliminate the three hospital administrators and two secretaries. Down to twenty-eight. A total of seven doctors either treated Eleanor or stopped by to take a look, pinging Medicare as they came and went. Let�s cut the seven. Down to twenty-one. She was a patient for two weeks and at least eight nurses are on record as having had something to do with her care. For the sake of time, let�s take the eight off the list. I�ve found a dozen cases over the past fifty years where hospital nurses got rid of their patients, for all sorts of crazy reasons, but let�s not go there now. Down to thirteen. There were three janitors on duty at various times, though they were not required to file reports. They�re listed on the floor summaries. I don�t want to assume too much, but let�s assume these guys were not sophisticated enough to procure some black-market thallium. Now we�re down to ten. Technicians and orderlies. These folks know a lot about medicine and drugs, and, same as in every hospital, they had virtually complete access to Eleanor�s room. Are you with me?�

Raymond blew a cloud of smoke with his eyes closed. �I think so. Keep going.�

�So, let�s start with our top ten. Unfortunately, we know very little about them because we can�t access all of their employment records and history. We need to hack the hospital�s files.�

�Come on, Simon.�

�You don�t have to be involved. I�ll do it. Hell, what�s there to lose? Convicted of murder on Friday and sued for wrongful death today. A trifling hacking charge won�t faze me.�

�You�re on your own, pal. My firm will do whatever we can to help investigate any possible suspect, but we�re not risking anything. Are you asking for money?�

�No. I�m just thinking out loud, Raymond. The person who murdered Eleanor was in her hospital room. And it was someone who was supposed to be there, someone who was unnoticed, someone who didn�t care about security cameras, of which there are very few, I might add.�

�What about motive? It was argued that you had motive. Perhaps Matilda and Jerry had a motive. Why would a hospital employee want to poison an old woman who�s banged up anyway?�

�There�s no answer to that question. Nurses who kill their patients. Serial rapists who assault random women? Active gunmen killing schoolchildren? There are no motives. Some people are just plain sick.�

�Damned right about that, Simon. Look, we�ll do what we can. This loss stings, you know? You bear the brunt, but it�s a kick in my balls too. It�s a screwball verdict that should not have happened. I�m sorry, Simon.�

�Please don�t say that again, Raymond. I owe you a lot, remember. You did a marvelous job and we should�ve won.�

�Right. We should�ve won.�

He met Landy at an interstate hotel near Staunton, Virginia, two hours south of Braxton. She was in the area working a case and had a few hours she could waste without raising questions. While eager to help, she had become increasingly worried about moonlighting on Simon�s case. Her supervisor was pushing for arrests in some white-collar investigations and she felt the pressure. In addition to her professional problems, her divorce was now final and, while relieved with the split, she was going through the usual letdown. Simon�s conviction didn�t help. She had even mentioned changing careers, but starting a new one as a forty-three-year-old rookie associate at a less than prestigious law firm was not that appealing. With an endless supply of young talent, few law firms were in the market for someone like Landy.

Simon bought coffees in the lobby and took them to her room. It was not yet 4 P.M., too early to think about drinks and dinner. Not that they were in the mood. Both of their lives were upside down.

She said, �I hope you�re ignoring social media.�

�I am. I�m avoiding it, along with the television, newspapers, and magazines. I assume the story has legs.�

�To put it mildly. It�s the rage. The tabloids are out of control. The stories border on fiction. The posts are as idiotic as anything I�ve ever seen. It�s outrageous.�

�Spare me, Landy. Things are bad enough. Paula informed me today that the kids have been outed at school. The name Latch is not that common.�

�I�m sorry. And I�m sorry I brought it up. Just thought you should know.�

�Thanks. I know you�re concerned.�

Without stepping out of bounds and violating agency rules, she had gathered some information on Matilda Clark and her boyfriend. In February, Jerry Korsak had signed a six-month lease for a one-bedroom apartment in Fredericksburg. Matilda left Simon�s employment in March, said she was going to Florida, but instead moved in with Jerry. She was now working as a secretary in a car rental agency near Reagan National Airport, about an hour from her apartment. The job appeared to be full-time.

If Jerry had a job, it was not evident. He was not registered with the Virginia Employment Commission, so there was no paycheck from which to withhold taxes. He was fifty-one years old and his work history was sketchy at best. Now that he was trying to get appointed as administrator of Eleanor�s estate, he would be easier to monitor. Court appearances would be required; petitions had to be filed. Judge Pointer had not yet approved his request to be appointed, but at the moment he was the only person asking for the position.

If Matilda and Jerry were legitimate suspects in Eleanor�s death, there were several rather formidable problems with investigating them. The most obvious was that Detective Roger Barr had all but closed his file. He had arrested the right suspect, got him indicted, helped get him convicted, and as far as Barr was concerned the case was over. The convicted murderer could not ask the cops to keep digging into an effort to get his conviction overturned. Another problem was the lack of evidence. There was none. If Matilda and Jerry did the deed, where were the witnesses? Not a single employee at the hospital had seen them there after hours. Where was the poison? Any not consumed by the victim had been flushed months ago. Where was the proof that they had procured it? Finding a dealer in the black market would be impossible.

And where, exactly, was the black market? As Landy suspected, not even the FBI was too concerned about the illegal trafficking of a poison that had virtually no demand. The agency, along with dozens of others, was far too busy trying to stop the flow of substances much more popular.

She said, �It�s a dead end, Simon. The FBI has no jurisdiction and the local boys have done their job. They got their man.�

Simon nodded in muted agreement. Possessing thallium was not a crime. Producing it was. And it probably came from the third world.

He pulled some papers out of his briefcase and put them on the table. �Next project. Here are the names of some hospital employees. Were you in the courtroom when Raymond flashed a bunch of faces on the screen?�

�Yes, last Thursday, wasn�t it?�

�That�s right. There were at least thirty-three doctors, nurses, and other employees with access to the room. I�ve eliminated all but these ten. Can you dig for dirt and give me their backgrounds? Without setting off alarms?�

She flipped through the pages. Each name had a color headshot next to it and a short paragraph about the employee. Raymond had obtained the information during discovery.

Landy looked at the list and said, �Two pharmacists, two technicians, dietitian, two nurse�s assistants, three orderlies. You really think the dietitian would poison a patient?�

�No. But neither would her lawyer.�

�And the pharmacists don�t make the rounds, do they?�

�I�m desperate here, Landy, okay? Indulge me.�

�All right, all right.�

�How much information do you have?�

�Tons. The agency�s database is enormous. Property ownership, utility services, credit card activity, marital history, education, religion, lawsuits, credit reports, rap sheets, employment history, and on and on.�

�On every American?�

�Virtually every adult. But almost all of the data comes from other sources, many of them public. The agency just sort of collects and indexes everything.�

�And you have access to this data?�

She kicked it for a second, shrugged, and said, �Sure, within reason. I�ll see what I can find.�

They finally got around to drinks and dinner. Simon did not want to drive home and shuddered at the thought of another night in The Closet. So, they slept together in her hotel bed, with thoughts of intimacy somewhere far away.

As usual, Simon was refusing all calls from unknown numbers. If they deemed themselves important, the callers left voicemails. Occasionally, he was interested enough to return one. A voice said: �Simon, Spade told me to call.� Female, slow, precise, with a slightly husky tone.

He immediately called back and said, �This is Simon Latch.�

�Hello Simon. I�m Zander. A pleasure.�

A woman of few words. �So you know Spade?� he asked.

�Oh yes. We were once close. A long story. He wants me to meet you and get some background.�

Since she was a complete stranger, and since she existed somewhere in Spade�s orbit, Simon told himself to be careful on the phone. Someone was probably listening. Then again, what the hell? What could the authorities possibly do to him that they had not already done?

�Where would you like to meet?� he asked.

�I assume you�re keeping a low profile these days.�

�Yes, as a matter of fact.�

�There�s a tea shop near the college on Kitt Street. Meet there in an hour?�

�See ya.�

Herbal teas were not the rage in rural Virginia. The shop was tiny, only six small round tables, and there were no other customers at ten-thirty in the morning. Zander was seated in a corner and gave him a half-hearted wave, as if she was being forced to indulge him. But for the bright-teal spiked hair, collection of facial piercings, and rampant mascara, she might have been attractive. Indeterminate age, probably between eighteen and thirty-five. Simon�s first thought was: I�m trusting my fate to a flake like this?

He sat down without shaking hands, not that she offered one. He nodded and said, �Nice to meet you, Zander.�

�And nice to meet you as well.� He wasn�t wrong about the slow, sultry voice. It almost made up for her initial appearance.

�How do you know Spade?�

She smiled. Beautiful teeth. No metal stud through her tongue.

�My mother is one of his ex-wives and we lived in the same house for a short period of time, back when I was sixteen or so.� She made it sound like a long time ago. �Then they split and we moved out. But I�ve always liked Spade. He inspired me to find nontraditional work.�

Simon was not about to open that door.

She asked, �Would you like some tea?�

Her cup was almost empty. �Do they have coffee?� he asked, looking for a menu on a wall.

�Sure. Anything special?�

�No, just black.�

She said loudly, �Lois, a black coffee and another mint tea.�

From somewhere on the other side of a curtain behind the counter, Lois either grunted or passed gas. Either way, the order was acknowledged.

�So, you know something about the darker side of the web.�

She smiled again and said, �How much has Spade told you?�

�Nothing.�

�Sounds like him. I�ve read about your case, still reading actually. There�s quite a lot of stuff buzzing around. Do you keep up with it?�

�Oh no. I�ve sworn off social media and all that crap for the time being. Too depressing.�

�I live online. Twenty-four seven. It�s all I do. My boyfriend and I made some serious dough a few years back, shut down the entire department of transportation of a certain Midwestern state. They paid the ransom.�

�You�re still in business?�

�Sort of. Laying low. We got caught doing the next job. He took the fall and he�s serving time. Gets out in four months and I guess we have some decisions to make.�

Lois appeared through the curtain, put two cups on the table without saying a word, and vanished.

Simon ignored his and said, �I�m trying to find the killer. Maybe it�s someone who works for the local hospital. I need personnel records, everything in their files. Of course it�s confidential.�

�Everything�s confidential, Simon. Unless you know how to penetrate confidential files.�

�And you can find it?�

�Sure. This is easy. Hospitals only think they�re secure. Patients� rights and all that crap. The problem with hospitals is that too many people have access. And now you have all this see-a-doc online, Zoom consultations, teletherapy. They make it easy for pros to wiggle in and have a look.�

�I�m interested in ten people who work there.�

�No problem, but I�m not sure what you expect to find. I mean, look, if someone, say an orderly, likes to poison people, there probably won�t be anything about it in his or her personnel file.�

�Got it.�

�I mean, like, it�s just common sense, you know.�

�Maybe so, but I have to start somewhere. I have a list of the ten names.�

�Hard copy, nothing online, nothing in your computer. Everything leaves a trail, Simon, and I can find it.�

Simon handed her a folded sheet of paper with the ten names. She took it, laid it on the table, then ignored it.

�How long will this take?� he asked.

�Are you in a hurry or something?�

�Damned right I�m in a hurry.�

�Same time tomorrow?�

�Sure. That easy, huh?�

She dismissed him with a look that said, Don�t doubt me.

He wondered if the metal in her eyebrows somehow kept her from blinking. Her gaze was not altogether unpleasant, but he was finding it unsettling. Whatever pill she was taking to remain so calm and unconcerned was the one he wanted.

From one criminal to another, he asked, �Do you worry about getting caught?�

�Not really. It happens, but rarely. We�re light-years ahead of the cops. And if you get caught, like Cooley, my boyfriend, then you go to a nice federal camp and keep working in prison.�

There was so much he didn�t know, and even more he didn�t want to know.

Simon felt no loyalty to Eleanor Barnett. Her deceit had caused more problems than she could possibly have foreseen. However, the last will and testament he prepared for her was properly executed and legally valid, unless, of course, it could be proven that she was not mentally sound. That fight now belonged to someone else. But he would not sit idly by and allow Teddy Hammer and his bogus clients to plunder what was left of her diminished estate. Plus, he was about to be disbarred and sent away, so what the hell? He decided to thoroughly muddy the water and go out in a blaze of glory.

He filed a petition to probate Eleanor�s will, along with the affidavits signed by the Larsons, plus one signed by him in which he attested to the �sound and disposing mind and memory� of the late Eleanor Barnett. Since there was no way Judge Pointer would appoint him as the executor, Simon asked the court to appoint Clement Gelly, who was still acting as the conservator. In a phone call, Judge Pointer was pleased to hear from Simon, even claimed to be concerned about him, and welcomed him, and Eleanor�s will, into the fray. She scheduled the initial probate hearing for June 17 and notices were sent. As expected, it drew a crowd of reporters and other courthouse regulars.

Simon knew his days in the courtroom were numbered. He would be forced to appear before Judge Shyam on August 22 for his sentencing, and he assumed that would be his last time in court. For the initial hearing in the probate matter, in his home courtroom, he was determined to look sharp and act as if life was swell. He had told Paula and the kids that his chances on appeal were excellent and his conviction would be set aside soon enough. He had refused to say a word to any reporter. He avoided them and entered the courthouse through a side door, then hurried upstairs to the main courtroom.

Judge Pointer called things to order, welcomed the large crowd, and thanked everyone for their attendance and their interest in making sure the judicial system worked properly. Of course, the crowd had no such interest. They were there to have a look at the lawyer who poisoned his wealthy widow client and got convicted of her murder. Everyone was working on a story. Simon knew all eyes were on him. The locals � lawyers, clerks, courtroom regulars � were, as a group, dumbfounded that Simon Latch, one of their own, had managed to get himself in such hot water. They found it difficult to believe that he was headed for prison. The others � reporters, journalists, true-crime hucksters � were there because they smelled blood and wanted a fresh angle.

Wally Thackerman sat low in the back row, curious as hell but still unwilling to step forward with his version of Eleanor�s will, primarily because he had no idea what would happen if he did so. The chances of him cashing in on his scheme seemed remote. The chances of getting embarrassed seemed rather high.

As the petitioner, Simon was allowed to speak first. Without referring to his problems, he explained to Judge Pointer that on March 27 of the previous year, the decedent, Eleanor Barnett, signed a last will and testament that he had prepared himself. It met all of the statutory requirements. He offered it as Exhibit A and she accepted it into evidence. In quick order, Simon called Tony Larson to the stand and quizzed him about his involvement in meeting Eleanor Barnett and witnessing her signing the will. His wife, Mary Beth Larson, was next, and explained that their good friend Mr. Latch, the lawyer next door, often asked them to step over and witness wills. She was quite impressed with Eleanor Barnett and had no doubt that she was in her right mind and knew exactly what she was doing. They even walked around the corner and had a nice lunch together afterward.

Once the will was admitted for probate, the question became: Who would serve as the executor or the administrator? The will named Simon as the executor, but that did not seem feasible. An administrator was needed, and Simon argued that Clement Gelly should be appointed. Clement took the stand and agreed to continue with the estate.

Teddy Hammer wanted Jerry Korsak to have the job and to control the estate�s affairs. However, he was afraid to put him on the stand. At that point, Simon would be allowed to grill him, and the results would likely be disastrous.

Teddy said, �Your Honor, we have confidence in Mr. Gelly and will agree to his appointment as administrator. The much larger issue is the validity of this will. We plan to file an objection to it and demand a trial.�

�On what grounds?� Judge Pointer asked.

�On the grounds of undue influence. Ms. Barnett was under the complete control of Mr. Latch when she signed her will. At trial we plan to prove that at the time it was drafted, Mr. Latch was laboring under the false assumption that his client was quite wealthy. The language of the will gives him extraordinary power, along with the opportunity to earn substantial fees for representing not only her estate, but also the trust it created. He was after her money, Your Honor, plain and simple.�

The last thing Simon wanted at that point in his life was to sit through another trial, especially one where he was the sole target. And he would not sit through the will contest. He really didn�t care who got the money or how much was actually out there.

He managed to mute Teddy Hammer and tune out everyone else. For a moment he was pleased to be making his exit, albeit a rather unexpected one, from the legal profession. The lawyers � they do go on and on.

Let the vultures fight over Eleanor�s remains.

The airtight conviction of Simon Latch began to crack late one summer night in Raymond�s office. Cigar smoke boiled from the open windows. His staff was long gone. Soft bluegrass echoed through the speakers. It was almost 10�P.M. and Raymond was reading the latest decisions from the state supreme court, a boring habit he had not broken in almost fifty years. He still loved the law and kept abreast of its changes.

He heard a knock at the front door. Normally, he would have ignored it and waited for the person to go away, but for some reason he was curious. Something told him to check it out. With a cigar in his mouth and a drink in his hand, he waddled to the front and opened the door. Standing there was a young lady he recognized from somewhere but couldn�t immediately place.

�Good evening, ma�am,� he said, always the gentleman, especially around women.

�I�m Loretta Goodwin, a nurse at the hospital. We met at the trial last month.�

His plans to shoo away the visitor changed quickly. �Of course, of course. Please come in.�

Hit with the aromas of smoke and bourbon, Loretta stood her ground. �No, I�ll just be a minute. I�m trying to get in touch with Simon Latch, but he won�t answer his phone and I have no idea where he is.�

Raymond knew immediately that something was up. �Well, I�m sure I can find him. Is this about his trial?�

She glanced around, hesitated, and answered the question with her eyes. �I need to talk to him.�

�Okay. I�m happy to make contact, but he�ll want to know what�s up. For a lot of reasons, he stays buried in his office these days. Talks to very few people.�

She was nervous and uncertain. Raymond said, �Look, if it�s about his case, we don�t have time to play games. If it�s not about his case, he has no interest.�

�It�s about Ms. Barnett.�

�Come in and have a seat. I�ll call Simon.�

Fifteen minutes later, Simon appeared. His shirt was damp with sweat and he said he�d been out for a long walk. Always after dark.

Loretta was uncomfortable, but also resolved. She began by saying to Simon, �When we met in the hospital last December, I already knew who you were. Several years ago my uncle had a boundary dispute with a neighbor. We live out in Beeno, a whole slew of Goodwins out there. Kind of a clannish bunch. Anyway, my uncle hired you to represent him and you got things settled in a proper way without charging a lot of money. He had good things to say about you. It�s not easy hiring a lawyer when you don�t know much about the law and don�t know how much it�ll cost. So, anyway, I knew who you were when you came to take care of Ms. Barnett. We, the staff, were suspicious when you got her to sign those papers while she was in bad shape, but we were surprised when they accused you of the poisoning. We figured the police knew what they were doing.�

�Who is �we�?� Simon asked.

�The staff, everyone around the patient. As you know, a lot of people come and go at all hours.�

�I tried to sleep there one night. Impossible.�

�By the time the trial was over, we assumed the police and prosecutor got things right. We talked about how sad it all was, nice lady, our patient, being killed like that, and you, a nice lawyer, guilty of it. But I always had a nagging doubt. Something told me it was somebody else.�

A long pause. Finally, Raymond asked, �Was it somebody else?�

�I don�t know. But there�s a guy.�

Time for more tea with Zander. Her wondrous hacking skills had yet to produce anything useful, not that Simon was ungrateful. Since she had already found her way into the hospital�s system, running down another name was no problem. She opened her laptop on the little breakfast table and pecked away. �Got him.�

She turned the screen to Simon who was suddenly staring at the face of Oscar Kofie, one he vaguely remembered from last December. Early thirties, chubby cheeks, clean-shaven, drugstore eyeglasses, receding hairline. Nothing noticeable or distinguishable about the face. Nor the bio � associate�s degree from a community college in Dayton; certified X-ray tech in Ohio, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Virginia; eleven years of experience in various hospitals, public and private.

�What makes him a suspect?� Zander asked casually, as if she didn�t care. Simon had learned that she really, truly didn�t care about anything, except perhaps her incarcerated boyfriend and the problems he might cause them after he was paroled.

�Just some new gossip. How deep can you dig into this guy?�

�Deep as you want.�

�How about prior places of employment?�

�Give me a day or two.�

Evidently, Cooley had plenty of free time in prison. He was actually finishing his time in a federal �camp,� a fenceless low-security joint where violence was not tolerated. Simon tracked him down online and learned that he had been convicted in Maryland three years earlier and would be released on parole in early September. It was his first offense, a federal violation, something complicated to do with internet theft. Further sleuthing revealed virtually nothing about his girlfriend, Zander.

Simon�s curiosity about them paled in comparison to their interest in him. According to Zander, Cooley had easily trespassed into Simon�s virtual world, and not only thumbed through his office files, a mind-numbing waste of time, but also accessed his longtime personal email account at Google. Simon was momentarily irritated by this, but then figured what the hell. For years he had assumed that someone somewhere was seeing every email, shopping order, calendar entry, and personal note, so he had always been careful. He was floored, though, when Zander informed him Cooley had hacked into the secret email account Simon had opened over a year earlier, primarily to hide his gambling.

�Why�d you stop gambling?� she asked over a drink in a student bar, two doors down from the tea shop.

�I made too much money.�

�Doesn�t appear so.�

�Look, the FBI had me on its radar and I got a tip from an old friend. It was time to quit.�

�Just curious.�

�Okay, I have something important for you. Can you guys take a look into the virtual world of Oscar Kofie, the X-ray tech I mentioned last time?�

She giggled, a little teenage snicker, and said, �Cooley�s already on the trail. It�s not going to be easy, though. Kofie really likes his privacy and he knows his way around the digital world.�

�Not sure I follow.� When it came to technology, Simon was often on thin ice, and usually felt like a moron when talking to Zander. She could roll her eyes like a know-it-all kid or she could flash a warm, reassuring smile that exuded patience.

She smiled and said, �He�s obviously paranoid and protects himself with some pretty impressive firewalls and gates. But Cooley loves a challenge. He�ll get in soon enough.�

Simon was once again amused at the idea of a federal inmate with his own contraband laptop, holed up in the prison library wreaking havoc in the virtual world. It was also sobering to know that somewhere out there in the vast universe of the web there were people who could find and watch everything. Why couldn�t those people work just for the intelligence agencies and leave the common folk alone? If he could do it, and he knew it was impossible, he would toss his computers and retreat to the Stone Age where people wrote letters with pen and paper and had long chats on old-fashioned telephones.

She said, �Cooley�s working on something for you.�

�I can�t wait.�

�Are you being a smart-ass?�

�Yes.�

�He has developed his own home-brew software that cannot be hacked or penetrated. Calls it Teflon.�

�Original.�

�Smart-ass again. I have it on my computer. He�s customizing a program for you that�ll keep your systems thoroughly secure. That way, he and I, and anyone else for that matter, can send you stuff without leaving a trace.�

�And what are we afraid of? I�ve already been convicted, Zander. I�m going to prison.�

�Congratulations, gold star for you. I, however, am not a felon, not yet anyway, and I prefer to keep it that way. I�ll install the software for you at no charge and you�ll never know it�s there.�

�Whatever. I wonder if Kofie likes girls. He�s thirty-six, single, never married. Maybe he cruises through the dating sites looking for love.�

�I couldn�t care less. But if he does, Cooley will know soon enough.�

Meticulously researched, beautifully written, and thoroughly persuasive, the Defendant�s Motion to Vacate the Guilty Verdict and Grant a New Trial was filed by Raymond Lassiter on time. It was a 38-page masterpiece, at least in the opinion of its author, the defendant himself. Raymond and Casey read it carefully and did not suggest a single change, not even an extra comma.

With that chore out of the way, Simon returned to the monotonous task of tracking murder-by-poison cases over the past forty years. Landy received clearance from her supervisor � crime data was not exactly classified material � and was passing along links to more crime statistics than any one person could read and filter. The previous year there had been twenty-two cases, or at least twenty-two people had been indicted for such murders. Four had pled guilty. The others were still awaiting justice. The troublesome trend in the past decade was that about a third of the persons accused walked free with not-guilty verdicts. Murder by poison was hard to prove. This, obviously, was not comforting to Simon. He had been nailed by a screwball jury, and the more he dwelt on his verdict, the more he was convinced he had been convicted because of the greedy-lawyer theme the prosecution had used so effectively.

Three days later, on July 18, Simon drove four hours nonstop to Scranton, Pennsylvania, and found Mulrooney�s law firm in a nineteenth-century warehouse overlooking a river. The massive redbrick building was as long as a football field and had once been a foundry before being abandoned for decades. Now it was bustling with shops, offices, and condos. The firm�s expansive suite occupied one corner of the second floor and was beautifully decorated with subtle paint colors, Persian rugs, local art, and hidden lights. The old, worn floors had been refurbished. The steel ceiling beams were exposed. The place reeked of money, of big verdicts and even more lucrative settlements. Its opulence reminded Simon of Marshall Graff�s spread in Virginia Beach, and that reminded him of his trial, a nightmare he tried to avoid. It also reminded him that he had practiced law in another world, one far away in his quaint little office at the corner of Main and Maple, downtown Braxton. Former office.

Victor Mulrooney was old-school and still wearing dark suits and silk ties, even around the office. His associate, Hilary, wore jeans and sneakers. They met Simon in a small conference room with three walls of glass and impressive views. They sipped coffee for a moment, but only as a formality. Hilary, a senior associate, was allowed to speak whenever she wanted to.

�We�ve gone through your file, Mr. Latch,� she said. �Quite a lot of press.�

�It�s Simon. You�ve probably seen more news reports than I have. I�ve been dodging reporters and their outlets for many months. I know it�s all bad.�

�I had a nice conversation with Raymond Lassiter. He says the defense was surprised by the verdict.�

�Still stunned. I didn�t testify because we were confident the Commonwealth did not prove its case. That was a miscalculation. I�d rather not talk about the trial. You know why I�m here.�

Mulrooney said, �Yes. Raymond and I discussed it. He seems quite the character.�

Simon nodded politely but had no interest in talking about Raymond, regardless of how colorful he might seem. �Can you answer a few basic questions?�

�We�ll see. You understand our situation, Mr. Latch.�

�Yes, and you understand mine. In a month I go before the trial judge to be sentenced to prison for something I didn�t do.�

�I believe you�re innocent, Mr. Latch.�

�Then help me.�

�It�s not that easy. We have an agreement with the defendant��

�Fendamar Health.�

�Yes, and we cannot discuss the matter. There are some rather harsh penalties for violating the nondisclosure agreement.�

�Got that. Did your client have a claim that involved an X-ray technician by the name of Oscar Kofie?�

Mulrooney looked at Hilary. The answer was obvious. He said, �Yes.�

�Was your client either Mr. Herbert Grasskie or Ms. Ruth Abercrombie? Both died here in Fendamar Hospital under mysterious circumstances. We have their medical records and we know that Kofie was at the hospital when they died.�

�You have their records?� Hilary asked.

�Yes. Enough piles of paper to cover this desk.�

�But how?�

�I have secrets too. But the answer is easy. Just hire the right people and turn �em loose. Illegal as hell but for some reason I really don�t care right now. If I have to break a few more laws, what�s the downside? I�m looking for the truth.�

Mulrooney�s facial expressions were almost noncommittal, but he absorbed this with a hint of admiration, even satisfaction. He said, �We represented both families.�

�Were they poisoned?�

�Here�s the way we�ll handle this, Mr. Latch. I�m not willing to run the risk of violating the nondisclosure agreement. Wouldn�t be fair to me, this firm, or our clients. But there might be a way around it, a way to give you what you�re looking for while keeping us safe. The hospital has some very tough lawyers and will not hesitate to seek damages from a breach. But, sir, you are indeed on the right track.�

�I�m listening.�

Hilary cleared her throat, flashed a conspiratorial look at Mulrooney, and said, �There is a person who might talk. His name is Alan Teel, and he was a junior partner in this firm until he left three years ago. He burned out, to put it mildly. If you need to know more about that, ask him. Alan was our colleague and a truly gifted trial lawyer, very hard worker, very committed, some would say overly zealous. When he crashed and burned he quit the law. Resigned from the firm, surrendered his license, the works. It was a fairly dramatic exit from the legal profession.�

Mulrooney said, �We tried to help him, paid for therapists and doctors and such. And he got better, but he was completely fed up with litigation and the law.�

Simon asked, �Was he a member of the firm when it settled the cases and signed the nondisclosure agreements?�

Mulrooney said, �No. He knows everything, but the NDA is not binding on him. That�s why he might talk.�

�Where is he?�

�A small town about an hour from here.�

�Do you mind calling him?�

�He knows you�re coming,� Hilary said.

Alan did not inquire about his overnight plans, and Simon didn�t offer because he had none. He found a room at a motel that appeared to have been constructed in the past thirty years, and would have felt better if the rate for one night had been more than $45, but he was in no position to be selective. The other two motels along the highway were far older, cheaper, and had yet to pave their parking lots. He had corn chips and beer for dinner, and at 9 P.M. called Raymond, who, of course, was at the office. Simon could almost smell the cigar smoke.

Raymond�s customary crankiness vanished after Simon�s opening. The old windbag was speechless and allowed Simon to deliver his narrative for at least twenty minutes before uttering a sound. It was, �Hang on. I need another shot.�

He loathed the prospect of returning to his dark, empty office and The Closet with nothing to do but dig through more research. Hadn�t he just solved the mystery, or had it been solved for him? Had he not found the killer? His phone buzzed as he pulled into the alley behind his office. Landy said, �There�s an FBI office in Charlottesville. Can you be there at nine in the morning?�

�I have nothing else to do. What�s up?�

�The FBI and the U.S. Attorney.�

�Is that all? Sure I�ll be there.�

�Bring your research. Bring everything.�

�I have at least three boxes of files. And umpteen gigabytes on my laptop.�

�Zip me that stuff tonight and bring the boxes.�

�So you and your pals are interested?�

�The investigation is now open. Congratulations.�

He didn�t feel like celebrating, nor did he feel like working. He fell asleep on the sofa, napped for an hour, then jogged for another one. He talked to Paula and the kids for a long time and got the latest scoop on their back-to-school adventures. Buck was entering his senior year. With some luck, Simon would not miss it.

When the sun faded, he changed into jeans and slinked through the alleys and back streets, and entered Chub�s a few minutes after nine. Valerie brought him a drink, then a cheeseburger. Chub was not around and that was okay. Simon didn�t feel like discussing his problems. He played video poker for two hours, won thirty-one dollars before finally quitting, and left a twenty-dollar bill on the bar for Valerie.

Judge Shyam made the wise decision to hear the defendant�s motion several days before she was to sentence him on August�22. That day was on the record, well known and publicized, and thus on the calendar for the reporters, journalists, news crews, and other tabloid junkies. Justice would be better served if those people were not watching. She personally called the lawyers and arranged a closed hearing a week earlier, on August 16, in Virginia Beach. She cautioned them to keep it confidential and wanted no leaks. She even drove home the point by threatening sanctions.

Before the hearing, she put three deputies at the main door to check the guest list she had screened. Only a handful of people were allowed inside. When they were seated, she entered the courtroom and greeted her invitees. She began with �Mr. Lassiter, it�s your motion to vacate. Please get things started. Feel free to keep your seat.�

There was no way Raymond could speak properly to a judge while seated. He stood, fiddled with his silk tie, thanked her properly, and said, �Your Honor, my client, Simon Latch, was found guilty in this courtroom on May the twenty-seventh. I was shocked at the verdict, as was Mr. Latch and many others. Since then, we have worked desperately to solve the mystery of who poisoned Eleanor Barnett, and through the rather heroic efforts of Mr. Latch himself, we now know. Our first witness will testify under a pseudonym. His identity must be protected. After he testifies, I will tender to the court an affidavit with his real identification along with an explanation of need for secrecy. This affidavit should not go into the record.�

�Very well, Mr. Lassiter. You have briefed me and the Commonwealth�s attorney on this. You may call your first witness.�

�John Doe the Third.�

�How original,� Simon whispered to Casey.

Alan Teel took the witness stand with all the confidence of a seasoned trial lawyer who�d had a brilliant career in courtrooms. After being sworn, and after a slight prompt from Raymond, he was off and running. He began his story eight years earlier when a secretary in his unnamed firm got a tip from a nurse about an unusual death at a local hospital, also unnamed. This happened in Pennsylvania. The tip led to more information, then to an investigation by the law firm.

Cora Cook stood and said, �Your Honor, I hate to interrupt, but are we ignoring all rules of procedure and evidence here? Are we allowing the witness to use hearsay and irrelevant facts and anything else he wants?�

Judge Shyam said, �Yes we are, Ms. Cook. I want the entire story and I�m the sole decider at this point. There is no jury in the box. I�ll filter the testimony and decide what�s relevant. Thank you.�

The prosecutor shrugged in defeat and sat down.

Alan hardly missed a beat and continued with a narrative that he obviously enjoyed sharing with the sparse crowd. He was a wonderful raconteur, like most trial lawyers, and his audience was rapt.

Simon sipped coffee at the defense table and casually looked around the courtroom. Landy and her boss, Shelia Wycoff, were in the front row. On the far side of the courtroom, Detective Roger Barr sat alone, listening and not taking notes. Then, the usual cast: court reporter, two clerks, one bailiff, the judge.

After Teel had rambled for an hour, Raymond thought Judge Shyam might be getting bored. So, he decided to liven things up with a video. Casey tapped keys on his laptop and an image appeared on a screen in front of the jury box.

Teel said, �This is a video of the search inside Oscar Kofie�s apartment. The date is May third, 2009. There are the two metal toolboxes, locked. Our technicians took them to a makeshift lab.� The video continued with footage of the metal boxes being opened, the bottles removed, the samples taken. An unseen voice narrated the action. The video stopped after seventeen minutes.

Teel described some of the toxins and substances found in the boxes. Then he returned to the lawsuits, the negotiations with the hospital, and so on. He whitewashed his departure from his firm as simply a misunderstanding and did not disparage his former partners in any way. He never mentioned their names. When he finished, some two hours after he started, his small audience was still hanging on his words.

Judge Shyam said, �Ms. Cook, any cross-examination?�

Cora appeared flustered, even shell-shocked, as if she was beginning to understand that her conviction was in serious jeopardy and that perhaps she had prosecuted the wrong man. She stood, fumbled with a legal pad, and said, �So, Mr. Doe, your law firm did not prosecute Oscar Kofie when it knew the truth, is that right?�

�That�s correct. My ex � law firm. I quit by the time the settlement was complete. But yes, they took the money and remained silent.�

�And that�s why you left the firm?�

�The main reason, yes. They allowed the killer to walk away without a word to the police. They were hoping that maybe Kofie had learned his lesson and would change his ways, but the problem was that Kofie never knew he�d been caught. It was buried from everyone. His job got cut with several others and he left town, none the wiser. It was a cowardly move by the law firm. And they were praying that he would not kill again. Well, they were wrong. The man is a sociopath, like most serial killers. He works in health care, a place where homicidal poisonings are prevalent. He enjoys watching his victims die, it gives him a perverted sense of control. He eventually showed up in Braxton, Virginia, and here we are.�

Cora�s questions were getting more answers than she cared to hear, so she sat down. Raymond rose and said, �Your Honor, the defense calls FBI special agent in charge Ms. Shelia Wycoff.�

Simon glanced at Landy in the front row and gave her a grin. She crossed her legs and smiled in return. It was odd how much better a pretty woman looked in an empty, stale, dusty old courtroom.

Wycoff testifed that the FBI received information regarding a possible murder, or murders, ten days earlier, and opened an investigation into one Oscar Kofie. He had worked in the hospital for three years, and left under the cloud just described by John Doe the Third. From there he went to a hospital in Baltimore for two years, then to Braxton. At each hospital, there were mysterious deaths that could have been caused by poisoning, and the FBI was investigating.

At the moment, the FBI was concentrating on the suspect, Oscar Kofie. In fact, the day before, the FBI had obtained a warrant to raid his apartment in Braxton. The raid was successful and yielded a number of poisons, including thallium.

Simon enjoyed a long look over at Cora Cook, whose face was ashen in disbelief. Her world would only get worse.

Luckily, the suspect had just received a package containing 25�grams of thallium. It came by U.S. mail from a bogus address in Durban, South Africa. There was a video of the search if the court wanted to view it.

�Maybe later,� Shyam said, leaving little doubt she had seen enough and had little curiosity left.

Then the bomb landed, and Simon could almost feel himself sprinting from the courtroom, a free man.

Wycoff said, �Yesterday at approximately seven-twenty P.M., the suspect was taken into custody as he left the hospital, and he is now locked away in an undisclosed location. He will be charged with one count of first-degree murder. His case will be presented to a federal grand jury next Tuesday.�

It was the perfect stopping point. There was really nothing left to say. Raymond read it nicely and said, �We tender the witness.� As if Cora could possibly undo any of the damage with a brilliant cross-examination. Instead, she shook her head in defeat.

�You may be excused, Ms. Wycoff. Your next witness, Mr. Lassiter.�

�I believe the court has heard enough, Your Honor. The real killer has been arrested by the FBI and will be indicted next week. The Commonwealth made a grave mistake in prosecuting Simon Latch, an innocent man. You should vacate that conviction and set him free.�

�Ms. Cook.�

She stood slowly, searching for words. �Perhaps not so fast, Judge. A jury of twelve informed citizens heard the proof and returned a unanimous verdict of guilty. We can�t just ignore that and sweep it aside. The defendant got a fair trial in this courtroom and, at least in my opinion, there was no reversible error. A clean, fair trial.�

Judge Shyam leaned forward and held some notes. �Ms. Cook, are you familiar with the case of Commonwealth of Virginia versus Herman Dungee?�

It came from left field and Cora was at a loss. �Maybe. Sounds somewhat familiar.�

�Mr. Dungee spent thirty-one years in a prison for a rape and murder committed by someone else. Three years ago he was cleared by DNA testing and exonerated. His trial in 1985 was in this very courtroom. The jury returned a unanimous verdict of guilty. The jury got it wrong. Are you familiar with the case of Commonwealth versus Boyd Keenan?�

�I don�t think so.�

�A case out of Norfolk, just down the road. Mr. Keenan spent eighteen years in prison for a bank robbery that did not go as planned. Two bank tellers were killed. When the crime occurred, Mr. Keenan was working in South Carolina. Nevertheless, the jury convicted him. The jury got it wrong.

�Are you familiar with the case of Commonwealth versus Harlan Miller, another local screwup?�

�No.� Cora sat down.

�Mr. Miller served twenty-eight years on death row and came within six hours of being executed. DNA cleared him. The jury, again in this courtroom, found him guilty and recommended death.�

She laid down her notes and glared at the prosecutor. �I could go on. In the past thirty years, at least forty-one people in this Commonwealth have been convicted by well-meaning juries, only to be exonerated years later. Across the country, over three thousand innocent people have been cleared, and virtually all of them were convicted by unanimous juries.�

If Cora had had a white flag, she would have waved it.

Judge Shyam said, �Would the defendant please rise?�

Simon was startled, but nonetheless managed to get to his feet. Raymond stood beside him, suppressing a grin.

�Mr. Latch, on behalf of the Commonwealth of Virginia I apologize for this miscarriage of justice. I was surprised when the jury found you guilty. Fortunately, our rules of criminal procedure allow me to correct a wrong decision. I hereby grant your motion to vacate the verdict of guilty and dismiss the charges against you, with prejudice. I will instruct the Commonwealth�s attorney to close this file and disavow any notion of a re-indictment. You are free to go.�

Simon�s knees went soft and he fell back into his chair. He covered his eyes with his palms and began to cry.