States of Grace

by Mandy Miller

  A chain gang of inmates shuffles in from the holding cells, the singular scent of fear wafting off their soiled jumpsuits.

  Oh, how I’ve missed the smell of crime in the morning.

  I drop my briefcase on the only empty seat behind the defense table around which State and defense lawyers are going at it hammer and tongs, horse-trading the futures of the accused. The clerk, chewing gum in a way that says, Been there, done that, nothing new under the sun, is 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 box is a long shot, but Zoe’s age and condition are the only things I have going for me. I’m rusty. Or maybe it’s that I have no idea what I’m doing over here on this side of the courtroom. After all, I am a rookie at this game. As a prosecutor, I had a script. Now I have to make everything up from whole cloth, and make the fabrication ring true.

  “Respectfully, may we approach the bench?” I ask, trying not to sound overly solicitous, a dead giveaway for weakness.

  “Judge, I don’t think—”

  “Mr. Hightower, you can tell me whatever is on your mind right up here in front of the bench. I don’t bite.”

  The judge’s remark elicits a nervous chuckle from the gallery, but his mordant stare shuts the hilarity down just as fast.

  Tight-lipped, we march up to the bench, and wait in silence until the court reporter has shimmied herself and her contraption over to record our sidebar. A few spectators crane their necks to watch the impending brouhaha. Others use the interruption in the proceedings to take a cat nap.

  “Ms. Locke, please proceed. We don’t have all day.”

  “Your Honor, my client was detained in a locked psychiatric ward on a Baker Act hold because she was found to be a danger to herself. And that’s what the State is asserting violates her bail.”

  “And others,” Hightower says.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Hightower?”

  “She’s a danger to others too, Your Honor.”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Hightower, you’ll have your turn.” Twietmeyer flips to me. “Ms. Locke?”

  “The very fact that Ms. Slim was Baker Acted is protected health information and, as such, is subject to the confidentiality protections of HIPAA, the Health Insurance—”

  Twietmeyer groans. “Yes, counsel, I know what HIPAA is. Please do us all the favor
of getting to the point, if you have one.”

  “Judge, I am objecting to any of this hearing being held in open court. My esteemed colleague here,” I say, staring daggers at Hightower before continuing. “My colleague, ASA Hightower, served me with a motion to revoke my client’s bail in the early hours of this morning. Or, his lackey did. A Mr. Stein-something. I’m sorry, the signature on the motion was illegible.”

  “Ms. Locke, I can do without the witty sarcasm. It’ll do your client no good in my courtroom. I find it disrespectful which, I assume, is not the tone you are going for, correct?”

  I attempt to look chastened. “I apologize, Your Honor. Anyway, had I been given the opportunity, I would have made a written motion to seal this hearing, but given the eleventh-hour tactics, that was not possible. Therefore, I am making my motion ore tenus,” I say, pleased with myself for remembering the Latin for “orally.”

  Twietmeyer stirs the air with his index finger to tell me to get a move on.

  “The fact that my client is hospitalized must be kept private, unless she agrees to its disclosure. And she does not. Furthermore, I have not made any motion that would place my client’s health or mental health at issue, so I submit to you that this court is obligated to close this proceeding to the public as a matter of law.”

  Twietmeyer purses his lips, processing what I just said which, I have to admit, was somewhat coherent, although I still feel like I’m way out of my depth.

  I’ve known since the moment I met her that I’d have to have Zoe evaluated both for competency to stand trial and, perhaps, for an insanity defense, but that would mean putting all the sorry details of her suicide attempt and entire psychological history at issue, meaning that all related proceedings would be heard in open court. Not good. At least not before I’m prepared to use it to my advantage. All I want now is a confidential evaluation from a private psychiatrist for leverage to keep her out of the death chamber. Thing is, she did go and try kill herself. So, here we are, with what I want to avoid happening right in front of me—a broadcast to the potential jury pool that Zoe is a danger not only herself, but to others, like Sinclair.

  “I cannot surmise what evidence the State might bring before the court today that wouldn’t breach my client’s privacy rights under Florida law. And not only Florida law, Judge, but Federal law,” I say, letting the word “Federal” ring in Twietmeyer’s state court ears.

  Twietmeyer tents an eyebrow. “Mr. Hightower, is that correct?”

  “Is what correct?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Mr. Hightower. What is the nature of the evidence that you intend to bring before the Court, and does it relate to Ms. Slim’s medical or psychiatric condition? From where I sit, Ms. Locke has not put her client’s mental state into issue.” He casts a doubtful look in Zoe’s direction. “Not yet, anyway.”

  Hightower rushes back to the lectern and pulls a stapled report from his file like a rabbit out of a hat.

  “Judge, I have a psychological evaluation confirming the defendant as mentally ill, and that she is a danger to herself.”

  “Again, objection. On the same grounds. Judge, all of this is a bold-faced attempt to prejudice the jury pool with information that is not only protected by Federal law, a body of law over which, with all due respect, this Court has no jurisdiction. His evidence,” I say, using my fingers to put the word “evidence” in air quotes, “is not only private and protected, but also hearsay, because the author of the report is not here in this courtroom to be cross-examined.”

  I’m way beyond winging it now. I have no earthly idea if the last statement is even true, but there’s no one in the courtroom who looks like a shrink, although some of the ones I’ve seen look as unhinged as their patients.

  Twietmeyer presses both palms down in front of him as if he’s trying to keep the bench from flying away. “Mr. Hightower, this is, indeed, a highly unusual situation. Most motions to revoke a defendant’s bail do not involve such sensitive information. But Ms. Locke is, in fact, correct. The nature of the information you wish to present is protected from unauthorized publication by Federal law. And the last time I checked, I’m a state court judge. Decisions that could potentially violate such lofty dictates are not what”—he pauses for a nanosecond—“the great State of Florida pays me to do.”

  I lower my head to hide the fact that I’m smiling.

  “Accordingly, I am going to order this hearing sealed. When the courtroom has been vacated by the public and all other non-concerned parties, you two can have at each other with whatever evidence you have. I will give such evidence whatever weight I deem appropriate in deciding if Ms. Slim stays in custody.”

  Twietmeyer claps his hands. “Counsel, stand back. And Bailiff, please clear the public and the other defendants from the courtroom. The only people remaining should be Ms. Slim, her parents, and whatever witnesses either side wishes to testify. And of course, the attorneys can stay. We couldn’t do without them now, could we?”

  Chapter 15

  Here comes Hightower. Smug grin, report flapping.

  I sneak a peek at the report.

  Dr. Kesey’s evaluation from Lauderdale East. How’d he get that?

  The Slims would rather drink box wine in public than have it known their only child is anything less than the perfect specimen of orphandom, the poor soul rescued from a life of gruel and hard labor in Russia by the most magnanimous couple on the planet.

  Fine, it’s not them. But who gave Hightower the damn report?

  Hightower leans in and dangles the report in front of my face. “I think you might want to take a look at this, Counsel.”

  I snatch the report out of his hand.

  “It’s not exactly much of a mystery is it, Ms. Locke? From what I hear, you used to work for the good guys. Surely you know all the tricks? Or maybe you’ve forgotten how things work around here.”

  I’d like nothing better than to put him in his place, but his galling remark flips a switch in my head.

  Under a weird quirk of the Baker Act, a civil statute, the State Attorney represents the psychiatric facility where the patient is taken by the cops, meaning Hightower got Kesey’s report from the ASA that was at Zoe’s initial hearing at Lauderdale West when she was admitted.

  I skim the ten-page, single-spaced evaluation—Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, rule out Bipolar Disorder. To make things worse, the report details Zoe’s history of drug and alcohol abuse, as well as her aggressive behavior at school. A prior suicide attempt. Her self-mutilation. The last line reads “Zoe’s condition can be managed with medication and appropriate therapies.”

  I resist the urge to bang my fist on the table. Twietmeyer can’t set eyes on this thing. He’ll say Zoe can get treatment in jail and, if he ends up sentencing her in the future, it’ll color his view of her as violent and volatile, no matter how impartial he’s supposed to be.

  I turn around, burst through the gate, and corner Reilly in the back row of the gallery.

  “What are you here for, Detective?”

  Reilly holds up his hands. “Back off, Counselor. The ASA subpoenaed me.”

  “It’s the gun, right? You figured there’s no time like the present to make a good first impression on His Honor? An indelible, incriminating one?”

  Reilly stretches his arms along the back of the bench. “Calm down, why don’t you, Grace? Your pal Sonny told you about all of this, didn’t he?”

  I clench my fists at my sides. “It’s Ms. Locke to you, Detective.”

  “Oh, dear. I think you haven’t quite got used to losing yet, but you’d better do so and quick. And I’d advise you not to be like every other defense hack in this building and stop yourself from going down the road of actually feeling sorry for your clients. It’s not a good look. Especially not on a former hard-ass such as yourself, Ms. Used-to-be-ASA Locke.”

  “Speaking of asses, I’ve got your number. What I did tell your partner was that if you even dare to t
ry screwing with me on this case, I’ll make sure you go down for good this time.” Reilly’s whiskers twitch.

  I take a step closer. “And, by the way, you’re the last ass I’d ever ask for advice. You wouldn’t know the law if it smacked you in the ass.”

  I stride over to the jury box and drop into a seat beside Zoe, who is rocking back and forth, eyes closed. “Okay, here’s the plan.”

  No response. More rocking.

  I bump her arm with my elbow. “Earth to Zoe. I need you here and now. Zoe, pay attention.”

  Her eyes spring open, wild and searching, like an animal in a leg trap deciding whether to chew off the limb or wait to die.

  “See that guy over there?”

  “The asswipe who arrested me?”

  “On that we can agree. Well, that asswipe is going to tell the judge that the gun that killed Sinclair was found in your locker, had your fingerprints on it, and belonged to your dad.”

  “That’s all old news,” she says, in the bratty way teenagers have of implying anything uttered by anyone over twenty is crap.

  “When the ASA says it had your fingerprints on it, I need you to freak out.”

  She scrunches up her face.

  “You know how to freak out, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Come on, I know you know how. Dr. Kesey’s report confirms you’ve freaked out a time or two.”

  Zoe wets her lips.

  “We need to buy time, Zoe. You don’t want to go back to jail, do you?”

  A slight nod of the head.

  “You know what crazy looks like, don’t you?”

  A more decisive nod this time.