by Mandy Miller
“No. The victim’s office was in a small out-building away from the main building so, fortunately, no one else entered the crime scene.”
“What did you do next?”
“At that point, Detective Sorenson arrived. He had been here, at the courthouse. At a hearing on another case.”
“Go on.”
“The scene was secured, and the school was locked down until it could be swept by SWAT and the bomb squad. They found nothing. Next, we got a warrant to search the premises.”
The warrant must have been Sonny’s doing. Reilly wouldn’t recognize the Fourth Amendment if it slapped him in the face.
“So, you did get a warrant?”
“Actually, my partner, Detective Sorenson was the one to get the warrant. He left the crime scene and got Judge Rodriguez to sign the warrant.”
Of course, he did.
“Why did you need a warrant, Detective?”
I stifle a yawn. Courtroom drama may play well on TV, but in the real world it can be mind-numbingly boring. A litany of procedural details parroted by trained witnesses who know exactly what they’re supposed to say to get what they want—a win for their side.
“We had the school locked down and had verified that we were not dealing with an active shooter situation. Also, the bomb squad came through with sniffer dogs, just in case. We wanted to get a warrant to make sure, if we found any evidence related to the crime, that it would be admissible in court. We needed to search each individual student’s locker, and we weren’t sure who or what we were dealing with.”
Hearing Reilly kissing up to the Court, making out that he’s by the book, makes me sick.
“And what, if anything, did you find?”
“Detective Sorenson found a handgun, a Glock 19 with a silencer attached, hidden in a gym bag in a locker.”
“And in whose locker did you locate the weapon?”
“It was in the defendant’s locker. And it had been fired recently.”
A few onlookers gasp, causing Garrison to bang the gavel again. “Order!”
“Please go on.”
“We located Ms. Slim in her English class, and we put her under arrest.”
“Did you run ballistics on the weapon you found?”
“Yes. The bullets taken from Mr. Sinclair’s body by the medical examiner matched the gun we found in Ms. Slim’s locker. The murder weapon was registered to an Anton Slim, the defendant’s father.”
All eyes are locked on Reilly, as if the litany of damning evidence is totally unrelated to the kid sitting in the box, as if her conviction is a fait accompli. As if she’s not even in the room—at least, until Zoe starts banging her head against the back of the chair in front of hers, slamming her handcuffed wrists on her thighs, screaming, “No, that’s not true! It’s all lies!”
Garrison levels his gavel at Zoe. “Ms. Slim, restrain yourself. You would be well advised to say nothing at this point.”
“But I want to tell you—”
Out of options, I resort to shouting over her words to avoid whatever she’s saying from being captured on the record by the court reporter. “Zoe, please don’t say anything. Please, do not say another word,” I repeat again and again until she wilts like a dying plant, doubled over on herself, rocking back and forth in her seat, hands gripping her head as if it’s about to explode.
“Proceed, Detective,” Garrison says.
Reilly leans into the microphone. “As I said, we found the murder weapon in Ms. Slim’s locker.”
“Did Ms. Slim make any statements to you or Detective Sorenson about Mr. Sinclair’s murder?”
I throw my hands in the air. “Objection, Your Honor. Objection. This may not be a trial, but my client does still have a few constitutional rights.”
Garrison smirks. Perhaps he’s amused by my voicing the argument I used to dismiss as the last-ditch protestation of the guilty—the Constitution. Valid objection or not, I have to stop this runaway train. And there’s no doubt in my mind Reilly would lie about what Zoe did or didn’t say. She told me she said nothing, but who knows?
Garrison points at me. “Grounds?”
I freeze, my mind running down the list of possible grounds for my objection. Relevance? Leading? Assumes facts not in evidence?
“Statement against penal interest,” I say, conscious that it sounds a little too reminiscent of the graphic groin photograph.
McNeil’s eyes bulge like a frog’s. “No way! A statement against penal interest—”
“Mr. McNeil, please restrain yourself and allow the Court to rule on Ms. Locke’s objection.” Garrison sniffs. “And rest assured, I am well aware what a statement against penal interest is. I won’t be needing your help on that one. I too, went to law school.”
McNeil’s shoulders sag. My objection may be a Hail Mary, but it is amusing to see McNeil shoved off his self-righteous perch.
“Objection overruled. Ms. Locke, I think you know better than that.”
I look away, chastened by Garrison’s statement of the obvious and praying that Zoe told me the truth about not saying a word.
“Answer the State’s question, Detective. Did Ms. Slim make any statements to the police?” Garrison says.
My unblinking stare at Reilly screams, Go on, I dare you.
“Detective, did she?”
Reilly’s mustache twitches. “No, she did not. She was quite uncooperative.”
I exhale.
“I have no more questions for Detective Reilly.”
“Ms. Locke, do you have any questions for Detective Reilly?” Garrison asks, his tone more solicitous than before, which I take as evidence of his pity for my loser of a case.
Zoe is sniffling behind me.
“Please answer the question, Ms. Locke. Would you like to cross examine Detective Reilly?”
Reilly’s eyes narrow into dark slashes. We both know that any misstep I make will send Zoe back to jail to wait and wait, until either justice is done, or…or what?
McNeil expels an exaggerated sigh, as if I’m taking up his precious time. I know the sound, having made it myself when I was holding all aces. Prosecution poker. The defense has zilch. No need to show your hand early.
But I’m not about to take the bait, as satisfying as it might be to rake Reilly over the coals. “No, Your Honor, I don’t. Defense rests.”
Before Garrison has a chance to say another word, McNeil pulls what I recognize as an NCIC from his inside jacket pocket. “If I may. One last thing before you rule, Judge,” he says, waving the background check from the National Crime Information Center, a resource available only to criminal justice agencies.
I wait for the bomb to detonate.
“It appears that my esteemed colleague has been misled. The Court should be aware that Ms. Locke’s client, the defendant, does have a criminal history. She was arrested and charged with grand theft last year. Right here in Broward County. I’d say she’s proven that she poses a public safety risk.”
I snatch the report from his hand.
“Manners, Ms. Locke, manners. This is not a playground,” Garrison says, wagging a finger at me.
McNeil clasps his hands behind his back and rocks back on his heels.
I scan the NCIC.
Grand theft. And two juvenile misdemeanor arrests for possession of marijuana. At least McNeil let those slide.
“Ms. Locke, do you have anything else to add?” Garrison says.
Before I can reconstitute my thoughts, pull whatever last ditch argument I can out of thin air, Garrison rules. “Bail is set in the amount of one million dollars. Cash or bond.”
“But Judge, she’s only—” I say too close to the microphone, causing a screeching sound.
Garrison puts his hands over his ears. “Please step away from the microphone, Ms. Locke.”
“But Judge,” McNeil says, “she killed the victim in cold blood.”
“Perfect,” Garrison says, waggling his fingers in the air like a magician. “Since y
ou are both outraged, I must be doing something right. And yes, Ms. Locke, I am aware of Ms. Slim’s youth, which is why I’m giving her this opportunity to go home until her trial. And, Mr. McNeil, my advice to you is to make better use of the word ‘accused’ when referring to a defendant charged, but not convicted, of a crime.”
I follow Garrison’s gaze to the back of the courtroom, to Gretchen. A tripod-mounted TV camera buzzes to life to capture Gretchen dabbing at her eyes with a pink handkerchief.
“Thank you for paying us a visit, Mrs. Slim. We infrequently get such infamous visitors at these get-togethers,” Garrison says, before slipping out.
“I’ll come to see you at home when you get out,” I whisper in Zoe’s ear, as she is shuffled out of the courtroom in a conga line of shackled inmates, behind a haggard peroxide blonde with a missing front tooth, whose case was decided before Zoe’s. No bail for the blonde.
***
I drag Gretchen by the handle of her Louis Vuitton purse, away from the swarm of reporters and into the women’s bathroom.
I check the stalls to make sure we are alone.
“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 circle the bottle under my nose, indulging in the syrupy aroma, the same scent that used to permeate my father’s study in Greenwich.
I pour the contents into the sink, wash the empty bottle out with dish soap, and toss it into a plastic shopping bag bearing the name XYZ Fine Wines and Spirits.
I walk two blocks from The Hurricane to St. Anthony’s Catholic Church. A lapsed Presbyterian, I was drawn to St. Anthony’s not by doctrine, but by obligation. While couples dine downtown in trendy bistros, and suburbanites help their kids with homework every night, I am on my way to announce, for the umpteenth time, “My name is Grace, and I am alcoholic and an addict.”
St. Anthony’s opens the doors of its fellowship hall every night to those in need of support to kick habits borne of biology or circumstance. Some come because they have to by court order, others to repair tattered lives, relationships, or simply because they have nowhere else to go. Maybe I fall into every category. Or none, perhaps. I’ve nev
er been certain. Except for the IED crushing my leg, who knows? Maybe I would never have taken a pain pill. And the booze? Well, I drank before the war, but the real drinking only started after I came home as empty as a spent shell but plagued with memories like live grenades.
The actual truth as to what I am has become irrelevant. An alcoholic? Addict? Both? Neither? No matter. The meetings control the unknown, control my fear of what could have been last year. How I could have killed someone driving two times over the legal limit. And this weekly booze test? This is my insurance that I’m on the right track, that I’ll never want a drink so badly again that I’ll be willing to risk my life and others’. One of many variables. A waitress on her way home from work. A father driving his kid home from soccer practice. Myself. “But for the grace of God” was what I would think if I believed in God. But I don’t. At least not anymore.
I do find humor, however, in the fact that the so-called Bar mandates I attend a meeting of Alcoholics or Narcotics Anonymous twice a week until a committee of lawyers, a morality star chamber of sorts, says I can stop. That the Florida Bar has undertaken to keep me out of bars so I can rejoin the Bar, might be the only amusing thing about my situation.
When I appeared in front of the buttoned-up Department of Lawyer Regulation over a year ago, they suspended my law license and issued a public reprimand via an announcement in the Florida Bar Journal saying I’d been a bad girl. As if that could have been any more humiliating than my mugshot on the front of the Sun Sentinel the morning after my arrest. When I made my mea culpa to save whatever might remain of my career, I wondered how many of the earnest panel, each one a blue-suited carbon copy of the next, would end the day with a stiff drink.
At first, I resisted going to meetings, secure in my belief that it all comes down to willpower and I’ve got plenty of that. I told Vinnie I wasn’t “like those people,” that I didn’t need the goddamned meetings, or the Twelve Steps, or whatever other hocus pocus The Program has to offer. Vinnie held his tongue. Instead, he took me by the hand and led me down the street to my first meeting at St. Anthony’s. After a while, coming became a habit, one I’m now afraid to give up.
Tonight, the place is packed. Father O’Donnell would never admit as much, but St. Anthony’s is better attended by NA members than parishioners, although the zeal of the former group for showing up may be somewhat less enthusiastic. While the end game of religious faith is to attain eternal life, the goal of NA and AA is to prolong our earthly existence, those of us for whom drugs or alcohol, or in my case, both plus a daily meeting, have become religion. Apparently, in my universe, anything worth doing is worth doing to excess.