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

“Pay the bail as soon as you get out of the building.”

“What the hell happened in there? A million bucks?”

“Get her out, today. Her type doesn’t last long in jail.”

“Her type?” Gretchen asks, furrowing her wrinkle-less brow.

“The kid type. The mentally-disturbed type. The kid-in-an-adult-jail type. Get her out and get her some help.”

“Help?”

“Yeah, help. You know, a shrink? Your kid’s got some problems, and I don’t need them being used against her down the line.”

She looks away for an instant, long enough to tell me Zoe’s no stranger to psychiatric care.

“Post cash or find a bondsman and pay him ten percent if you want your baby, as you called Zoe, home.”

“But I don’t have a million bucks.”

“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. But I sure as hell know you know someone who has. And where is your soon to be ex-husband, by the way?”

She tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s in surgery this morning.” She admires her well-manicured nails. “And for your information, we’re staying together.” She lifts her chin. “For now. For the sake of appearances.”

“Who’s staying together? You and your husband? Or you and my husband?”

She grabs my arm. “You don’t understand.”

I yank my arm back. “Oh, I do.”

She’s fidgeting unconsciously with a tissue, ripping it to shreds. She must believe my bluff, that I’d actually expose her and Manny.

“It was hard enough to persuade my husband to hire you, of all people,” she says, a quaver in her voice.

“So Anton does know about you and my husband. And that’s why he wasn’t in court.”

She opens her eyes wide to stem the tears.

“Taking out your indiscretions on his kid. What a guy.” I cross my arms across my chest. “I’m sure you can find a way to make him see the light on this. I think you’re well aware what’s at stake for everyone involved.”

She leans into the mirror to fix a smudge of mascara. “For what we’re paying you, you could have at least asked that cop Reilly a few questions.” Her lips curls into a contemptuous smile. “Truth is, you seemed a little scared when he was up on the stand. But you have a history with Detective Reilly, don’t you?”

I resist the urge to run, to leave Reilly and Gretchen where they belong—in the past.

Instead, I square my shoulders and take a step forward. “Thanks, by the way.”

In an apparent effort to convey confusion, her Botoxed frozen visage ends up looking like she’s stuck a finger in a live socket. “Thanks? For what?”

I take another step. “For the heads-up about Zoe’s criminal record. Grand theft and pot? Didn’t you think I might have wanted to know? Nice job hanging me out to dry in there.”

She pulls herself up to her full height, at least a couple of inches taller than my five foot nine, her face full of the righteous entitlement of privilege, a look I’ve seen on my mother’s face more than a few times when confronted with bureaucratic trifles. “For God’s sake, it was just a pair of sunglasses. They charged her with grand theft because Gucci isn’t cheap.” She shakes her head. “It’s all kid stuff. And pot? Who cares about pot? Anyway, it was in juvy court and juvy stuff doesn’t count.”

“That’s where you’ve got it wrong. ‘Juvy stuff,’ as you call it, which in Zoe’s case includes a felony, matters. It matters a lot. I’m not sure where you got your law degree, but in my universe, every last thing, juvy or not, counts once you’re facing a first-degree murder charge.”

“But she’s just—” her voice falters.

“A kid? Yes, she is just a kid. So, find a way to get her out. Jail’s no place for kids. Especially not one like Zoe. It could take up to three years to get a trial.”

“What? Can’t you make it go faster? Doesn’t she have a right to a speedy trial, or something like that?”

“Lady, you’ve been watching too many episodes of Law & Order. In the real world, the one Zoe’s in now, nothing happens fast. And we don’t want it to. Delay is your daughter’s new best friend.”

“Why? We need to get this over with. I mean our family—we need to get on with the rest of our lives.”

“We? Who’s we? There’s no ‘we’ here. Zoe’s the one facing the death penalty. Not you. Not your husband.”

She knuckles a tear away from the corner of her eye.

“Look, delays mean witnesses forget. Even die sometimes. Cases get old and the State loses interest once the media storm dies down. Time is all we have on our side.”

“But I thought the sooner the better for a trial.”

“You’re assuming she’s innocent.”

“And you’re not?”

“All I’m saying is get her out of jail,” I say, before I pull open the door to a frenzy of camera flashes. “And keep your head down. Don’t say a word to the press. Not one goddamned word.”

I link my arm through hers and ferry her through the mob of paparazzi and into the elevator, feeling very much the ugly duckling I believed I was in high school, when I would gladly have traded my brains for a skinny body and pencil-straight blonde hair.

As we descend in silence, Gretchen wipes a tear from her cheek, the unconscious motion causing the sleeve of her silk blouse to shift, revealing a bracelet of angry bruises on her rose-colored skin.

Chapter 10

The bottle’s cool to the touch, the divots in the glass as familiar as my own skin. I rub my thumbs over the raised script on the neck. Jack Daniel’s.

I peel away the crinkly, black cellophane top and let it flutter to the floor. I unscrew the cap. Notes of honey and spice laced with an acerbic edge. A sense of well-being rises up inside me. The movement of the liquid is hypnotic, the details of this shabby efficiency, myself and my life recede and the room is bathed in its golden hue. I