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

Chapter 25

I spend the next morning hammering out a plea bargain for a court-appointed client. The fee for indigent cases sucks, but it’s better than zippo, and it’s fast money when you can meet them and plead them all on the same day.

The client of the day is Willy Grass, charged with—what else—marijuana possession. Just another moment to add to my notebook of You Can’t Make this Sh…Up observations.

Deal done, I consider my options. I could do some work organizing my very own new office courtesy of Manny. Then again, a day at the beach might be good for my state of mind and my ghostly white skin which makes me look like I just got sprung from the slammer. It has been a while since I’ve played tourist—so the beach it is. I head for the bus stop.

To spite me, my phone vibrates. Gretchen. So much for getting sand between my five toes.

She’s panting, gulping out the words. “Doctors say Zoe’s ready to come home. Doing better. New meds.”

More panting.

“Where are you?”

“On the treadmill.”

“You run?”

Maybe she’s not so bad after all.

“Yeah, but I hate it. Best way to keep the pounds off.”

No, she’s worse.

“If it’s okay, I’ll pick her up this afternoon from ESH.”

“Fine. I’ll call the bondsman to reinstate the bond like the judge ordered.”

Treadmill belt winding down. “I talked to her a few minutes ago.”

Gulping something. Likely some designer alkaline-infused-ionized water or some such ridiculousness marketed to rich people as the a newly improved version of something they can already have for free.

“She sounded nervous.”

“A few days at home and she’ll be fine. But remember, she’s only allowed out of the house for school, church, and medical appointments.”

“I understand. We’ve decided to get a tutor for Zoe instead of sending her back to St. Paul’s, so that’s not an issue.”

“Wise choice.”

“As for church—we don’t go. And doctors? I think she’s had her fill of those for a while.” After a painful pause, she adds, “I’m grateful for what you’re doing, Grace.”

I force myself to say, “You’re welcome,” although being the source of Gretchen’s gratitude is a bitter pill.

“Call soon. Bye.”

When my bus arrives, I wave the driver off. The walk to the office will do me and Oscar good.

***

A few steps north of Broward Boulevard, the glass-and-steel skyscrapers give way to low-slung concrete-block buildings that once housed thriving businesses, now abandoned, their paint faded by decades of neglect, their purpose forgotten to time. Next, Florida pine cottages, once home to children who played outside without fear of death and parents who believed in Sunday best for church and hope for the future, are now crack dens tagged with gang graffiti. Lot for Sale signs dot the landscape in the shadow of dilapidated billboards touting the Community Redevelopment Association, an organization that failed despite millions in government funding. I count five churches in less than a mile, all denominated by some variation of the words Prophet, God, and Ascension, not one of which applies to the surrounding blight. Two young men, bodies propped up in the doorway of a liquor store, flick cigarette butts at a stand of dead palms, trees planted for “curb appeal.” The decay of the neighborhood is suffocating.

Turning left onto Sistrunk Boulevard, I hear steps behind me and pick up my pace. After a couple of blocks, I turn around. Only a tree branch blowing in the wind.

And there it is—#1301 Sistrunk, wedged between Booker’s Bail Bonds and Ivory’s Soul Kitchen, a run-down two-story building as much in need of a face-lift as I am a tan. Manny bought the place as an investment at the height of the excitement about revitalization which, in the end, was nothing but another unfulfilled dream.

I uncurl my hand and stare at the key. I’ve been it gripping so hard it’s made an impression on my palm.

“Surprise!” Jake and Vinnie, Miranda in tow, jump out from the doorway.

I double over, trying to recover the breath they scared out of me. “Sweet Jesus!”

Smiling like kids on Christmas morning, they point up at a banner over the door: The Law Offices of Grace K. Locke, Esq.

I pull them into a group hug. “You two about gave me a freakin’ coronary.”

Vinnie holds up a toolbox. “We thought you might need some help getting this place ship shape.”

I stare at the banner and choke back tears.

“Why are we all standing out here like dopes? Let’s check this place out.” Jake sweeps his arm wide for me to enter. “Welcome, Attorney Grace K. Locke 2.0.”

I slide the key into the rusty lock and turn, but the door doesn’t open.

Vinnie stiffens. “That piece of…” he mumbles under his breath, his aborted statement a reflection of my paranoia.

I give it another go, this time pulling up on the handle. The door creaks open. I hold my breath and fumble around for the light switch, anxious my credit card payment to Florida Power & Light was declined, but the light comes on, revealing three pieces of furniture—a steel desk and two chairs, one of which is missing a leg.

“Now look at that,” Vinnie says. “A chair to match you and your dog.”

Miranda’s perks up at the word “dog.”

“Don’t say that about her. You’ll give her a complex. She thinks she’s perfectly normal.”

“She must have inherited that delusion from you,” Jake says.

“Everyone’s a comedian.” I drop my briefcase on the desk and pan around the room. “It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

“Nothing a little TLC can’t fix,” Jake says, dragging in a box of cleaning supplies.

“You guys, you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” Vinnie says with a finality I wouldn’t dare question. “This and a whole lot more. Without you, I’d be swabbing the decks at Starke, waiting to die. Not here helping you clean this rat trap.” Tears start to wet the old man’s eyes. “Let’s quit jawin’ and get to work.”

“First, let’s take a tour.” I slot my arm through Vinnie’s