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

hanging pages of court files to dry on clothes lines after a summer squall inundated the file room.

The space is split in two by a wall of glass partitions, behind which sit minimum-wage file clerks charged with retrieving documents, and if requested, making copies for twenty cents a pop, cash only. Since I have no idea what I’m looking for, their services will do me little good today. My business is with the Clerk’s database, which contains information about every matter under the jurisdiction of the Seventeenth Judicial District: criminal, civil, municipal, and traffic; the names of plaintiffs and defendants; court filings, and hearing dates; and all manner of progress notes.

Given the early hour, I have my choice of terminals and select the newest and, therefore, fastest—fast being a relative term when talking about government resources.

I type in Brandon Sinclair. Nothing. Then Sinclair Brandon. Still nothing. His date of birth, 4/23/1974. No records. Not even a traffic ticket.

I stuff another piece of gum in my mouth and run the searches again with various misspellings of his name, a common occurrence in court records.

Still nothing.

If Sinclair had any involvement in a case at some point, as a party or a witness, his name would have come up. It hasn’t. Dead end.

Maybe Marcus wasn’t referring to the victim at all. Maybe he meant some other person not on the witness list.

I survey the airless space. In front of windows labeled Attorneys, Law Enforcement and Probation Officers, and Public, long lines of people are fidgeting, checking phones, reading the newspaper. One guy is picking his nose with a sharpened pencil, a risky habit if ever there was one. Everyone’s dressed the part, no need to look at the signs to know who’s who. Attorneys—suits. Cops—guns and swagger. Public—anything from saggy pants to hundred-dollar manicures. A woman, her front teeth but a distant memory, keeps yelling at the clerk, “That case was dropped. Why’s it still on my record?”

I focus on the empty screen. Marcus as much as told me to look into Sinclair. But why would Marcus send me down that rabbit hole if there’s no record of him? Statewides file their cases in the Seventeenth, just like the State’s Attorney for Broward County. If there’s a Statewide case involving Sinclair in any capacity, witness or defendant, it should show up in a search.

I pound on the keys, searching for my own name.

And there I am. My name, Grace Kelly Locke. My knees weaken. Some said I got lucky, that is, if you can call six months in jail lucky. But there it is, in black and white. Reilly skated, but my whole sorry mess will be with me forever, for the whole world to see, an indelible, shameful reminder of what I became. DUIs are like tattoos. They’re with you forever. They cannot be expunged, sealed, or erased from your record no matter how many mea culpas you say.

“That’s it!” I bang my fist on the counter, causing a shaggy man in the Public line to shout “Bingo.” Several heads turn to stare, my level of animation a rare sight in this place where endless waiting causes hope to die, if it hasn’t done so before you walk through the door.

Cases disappear when they are made to disappear. Sealed or expunged. And there’s only one way that happens—by court order. One stroke of a judge’s pen and the case is gone, like magic.

I log off and scoop up my belongings. No need to wait in line today. What I need won’t be found buried in the back in some old file box, but I have an idea of where I might be able to find out if there was a case involving Sinclair. One that was sealed or expunged—one Sinclair needed to keep off the radar to keep his job at a fancy private school.

***

The light for the sixth floor blinks on with a pinging sound.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” I say, muscling my way from the back of the elevator through the crowd, extruding myself into the reception area of the State Attorney’s Office like meat from a grinder.

As if trapped in amber, Maddy, the receptionist, is still at her post. Just as she has been since decades before I was a newbie prosecutor, fueled by the belief that truth and justice go hand in hand and that I would serve justice up to those who deserved it like I’d done in the Army.

“Well, I’ll be, Ms. Grace. Is that you?” Maddy says, her melodic twang announcing, “I’m from the real South.”

Maddy always knew who was doing what or whom at the office, and where the political bodies were buried, but her demeanor never deviated from that of a grandmother who wanted nothing more than to make you feel welcome by serving you some sweet tea out on the porch.

“How are you, Maddy?” I say, blood pounding in my ears.

“I’m fine,” she says, the kindness creases around her eyes crinkling. “But how are you doing, honey?”

A warmth spreads through me, followed by a sharp shot of regret. “I can’t complain. Even if I did, I’d only have myself to blame.”

“While it is wonderful to see your pretty face, you didn’t come ’round here to jaw with me, so, tell me, what can I do for you? And why don’t we get you going to where you need to be getting to? Maybe not best to stand around here for too long.”

I look right then left, but no one in sight. “Too true, Maddy. Can you check and see if Rita’s in?”

“Sure thing.” She picks up the phone and pecks a few digits into the phone with the eraser end of a pencil.

“Rita, honey, guess who’s standing here? Your former partner in crime.”

Long pause.

“Yep, she sure is. Right here in front of me.”

Another pause.

“Sure will.” Maddy hangs up. “Follow me, young lady. Let’s go in the back way.”

She guides me to the end of the hallway and through a door she unlocks using