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

perched next to the empty bench. The court reporter is seated on a stool below the bench, fingers poised over the spindly three-legged device into which she will type every word uttered today in an alien language that looks more like chicken scratches than words. That chicken scratch will be used to condemn or exonerate.

I spot Zoe, slumped over, the lone inmate in the back row of the jury box, and the lone female. Disheveled, swamped by a jumpsuit for someone twice her size. Two burly sheriff’s deputies, one on each side, stand guard as if she’s some kind of serial killer. If she’s got enough life left in her to kill a fly, I’d be surprised, given how doped up she looks. They’re likely the pair who dragged her here from Lauderdale East like a rag doll under the dubious auspices of the violation of bail warrant attached to the motion to revoke bond. True, Garrison was explicit. Bail was granted conditional upon Zoe being confined to her home. But then she had to go and try to kill herself, giving the State the technicality it needed to throw her back in jail until her trial and, if they get their way, forever.

“All rise. The Honorable John J. Twietmeyer presiding,” the bailiff announces at the exact same moment the doors at the back of the courtroom part, and Gretchen and Anton Slim enter like the guests of honor at a state dinner. Heads on swivels, everyone turns to face the fashionably late couple whose designer clothes and confident bearing set them apart from the little people.

The bailiff hustles over and manufactures space for them to sit where none had been before, by ordering an old man in a yarmulke and a small boy wearing a Sponge Bob T-shirt to squeeze up nearer to the others in their row.

Judge Twietmeyer, a middle-aged, portly man with Harry Potter glasses and a dubious comb-over, stays standing for a second, observing the Slims, before sinking into his black leather throne. I’ve appeared in front of Twietmeyer many times. He’s fiercer than his appearance suggests. A former prosecutor, Twietmeyer’s sympathies tend to lie with the State, cold comfort to me now.

“Good morning all, and it is a fine one, isn’t it?” he asks rhetorically.

A few mumbles of “Yes” and “Uh-huh” from the group.

I stay silent. I dislike obsequious judicial pleasantries. A simple “Good morning” would reflect better on the black robe worn by every judge to convey impartiality. But some judges can’t help themselves from reveling in their authority only to wind up sounding like imperious asses.

“I shall be calling the docket this morning in random order. Please do not get up and wander off if you have an interest in any case in particular. And especially if you are an out-of-custody defendant. Be warned, your absence will necessitate my issuing a bench warrant for your arrest, which would be unpleasant, indeed. For you, that is.”

Preliminaries complete, Twietmeyer gets to work, calling case after case. Some are pleas of not guilty, others of guilty or no contest. Motion hearings and trial dates get set. Finally, he gets to “State versus Zoya AKA “Zoe” Slim.”

The ASA stays seated until I’m at the lectern, affecting the nonchalance of one accustomed to high-profile cases. With a prefatory sigh, he announces his appearance for the record in a tone flatter than the topography of his employer. “Assistant State Attorney Robert Hightower for the great State of Florida.”

I can’t help but smile at the addition of “great” to the state’s name, a direct lift from Florida’s official seal, a grandiose flourish I wasn’t above using when I was in his shoes.

Hightower is tall and reed thin, but he’s not Stein what’s-his-name, the signatory on the wee-hours ambush motion. Likely he had one of his more junior minions burning the midnight oil.

“Grace Locke, counsel for Ms. Slim, who is seated in the back of the box, Your Honor.” I point at Zoe. Head bandaged. Wearing a red-and-black striped jumpsuit—not an orange one like the other inmates—with Maximum Security Risk stamped on the back.

When I turn to check the clock above the door, conscious of the short time the judge will give me to be heard, I spot Reilly propped up against the back wall, file folder clutched in his right hand, no doubt filled with evidence to convince the judge to lock Zoe up again.

It’s odd. The State rarely goes to the trouble of dragging lead detectives in to testify about the details of an investigation for hearings to revoke bail. The affidavit of arrest usually suffices. Hearsay for sure, but the hearsay rule is for trials and, even then, is as shot through with holes as Swiss cheese. “Save your arguments for the jury,” is what Twietmeyer will say if I make a hearsay objection.

Judge Twietmeyer removes his glasses. “Ah, you’re Zoe Slim?” he says, his tone more question than statement. Perhaps his confusion is a product of her obvious youth, but chances are it’s the jumpsuit, the uniform reserved for the worst of the worst which is at odds with the fact that she looks incapable of hurting a flea.

Head buried in her chest, Zoe doesn’t answer.

“Judge, if I may,” I say.

“Counsel, what is it? As you can see, we are busy here today.”

I give a quick nod in concession. “Yes, but before we begin, may I ask why my client is dressed in that jumpsuit?” I’m asking, not because I am concerned about the hellacious conditions in maximum security, but to bait Hightower into overreacting.

And it works.

“Your Honor, Ms. Slim is a dangerous felon. Not only did she savagely kill—”

“Objection. Objection!”

Twietmeyer raises both hands to forestall either of us from saying another word. “Ms. Locke, would you like to be heard on why you think what the Assistant State’s Attorney is saying is objectionable?”

My mind’s racing from one thought to the next. Painting the ASA as a hothead to generate sympathy for the sad creature in the