States of Grace by Mandy Miller (great novels of all time .TXT) 📗

tell you, but you might find it interesting, helpful, whatever.”

I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Let’s hear it.”

He flips open a folder with the tip of a pen. “We found a gun at the school. A Glock 19, silencer attached. Covered in your client’s prints.”

“Old news. Saw it on TV. What else you got?”

“The Glock was found in your client’s locker. It had been fired recently.”

I resist the urge to flinch.

“The ballistics on the slugs taken from the victim’s body match the weapon.”

I bite my upper lip.

“And the serial number on the weapon came back. The Glock is licensed to one Anton Slim.”

Guilt is one thing, but no plausible defense is another. “Shit.”

He laces his hands behind his head. “That’s it. That’s all I got for now.”

He’s right, even if he is trying to pressure me. This loser’s going to plead out early and I’ll walk away with nothing. No big payday, no media exposure.

“Yep. Your client’s in deep shit. Didn’t want you going out on a limb your first big case back without the actual facts.”

“Your facts,” I say, but with a grin.

“Shoe on the other foot now? How’s it feel?” Sonny says, matching my grin with one of his own.

“Why is it everyone thinks it’s so hard for me to do my job?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I say, pulling up my pant leg. “And a bad choice of metaphor, by the way.”

His jaw drops. “I know we talked about it, but—”

“My only regret is that I didn’t do it a long time ago. Before I took the first damn pain pill. The war didn’t kill me, but that junk would have.”

“And how is it?”

“What? Learning to walk again? Or not being whole?”

He presses his lips together, eyes full of pity, a common reaction and one I’m retraining my mind to interpret as an admission of an inability to comprehend the horror.

“It’s coming along. Doc cleared me to run, if you can believe that. It’s only been a few months.”

“You always were one tough mother, Grace.”

Another bad metaphor. This time he should know better, but I let it pass.

He slaps the file shut. “I’m sure you’ll get the rest in discovery from the ASA soon enough.”

“That means there’s more bad news?”

“One man’s bad news, is—”

“Is another’s ticket to walk a teenager to death row. Lucky me.”

“I don’t remember you as such a bleeding heart, Ms. Locke.”

“You’ll forgive me if I think you’re dribbling out the key evidence, before I have the chance to see the whole picture, to get me to fold my tent and go home. Open and shut case. Nice and easy for you.”

He clasps his hands in front of him. “Do whatever you want with the information. Ignore it, file it away, forget it, but whatever you do or think, this case is not going away. The chief’s holding a press conference with the state attorney today. They are going to announce the State will be seeking the death penalty.”

I blurt out the words, “She’s a kid!”

“A kid who killed an innocent man.”

I stifle a groan.

“One last thing, but you didn’t hear it from me. You might want to ask your client about the text messages.”

I resist the urge to curse. “What text messages? There was no mention of texts in the arrest report.”

Digital nails in Zoe’s coffin. Text messages and social media. No two things simplify cops’ lives more.

“What you’re saying without saying it is, I’m screwed.”

“See you in court, Counselor.”

“Yes, you will.”

“And by the way, that leg looks good on you,” he adds with a wide smile. “You’ll be back out there running hard in no time.”

At the bus stop, I shade my eyes, the squalor of the ghetto all around me incandescent in the bright-white light of morning. I reach into my purse for my sunglasses, but they’re gone. They must still be on the floor of the waiting area. Or maybe Pink Slippers is wearing them, or maybe even Wife Beater.

Chapter 8

Bail hearings always were a circus, and nothing has changed. It’s been more than a year, but as I look around the cramped, dank room buried in the bowels of the courthouse, it’s evident life has gone on without me. I’m not sure why it wouldn’t have. That the judge’s robe would be anything other than black, and that the smell emanating from the jury box full of inmates anything other than putrid. It makes no logical sense, but the sameness, despite my absence, strikes a hard blow.

Maybe it’s just that I used to believe I was indispensable to the mission of putting bad men and often worse women behind bars. ASA Grace Kelly Locke, rabid crime fighter, a top cog in the machinery of justice. All illusions. The legal juggernaut has lumbered along just fine, and I feel small, brought to heel not only by my own mistakes, but also because, as it turns out, mere mortals are inherently flawed custodians of justice. The best that we can do is pretend otherwise for as long as we can.

The moment I push through the gate separating the gallery and the well of the courtroom, a manic pen restricted to attorneys and staff, the stench hits me, forcing my breakfast egg sandwich and black coffee back up my gullet. Clearly, my nostalgia for all that I pissed away has overshadowed my memory of the aroma of the arena, which is as hideous as ever.

I survey the malodorous in-custody inmates, the majority of whom sport orange jumpsuits emblazoned with the acronym BCJ—Broward County Jail. The rest wear the rumpled street clothes in which they were arrested, a sleepless night curled up on the concrete floor of an overcrowded holding cell having taken its toll on whatever cleanliness they once had.

But I have to admit, I have missed all of this. The grit. The in-your-face harsh reality. As distasteful as the criminal law may be to many lawyers—especially ones like me from fancy law schools who tend to prefer clean