States of Grace

by Mandy Miller

“Only one time?”

  “More. We went to the range a bunch of times. I liked shooting. Going to the range with Dad was fun.” She raises her arms out in a shooting stance, hands clasped. “Bang, bang. Like in those cop shows. We always went for pizza on the way home at Anthony’s.”

  “I love Anthony’s,” I say, in an effort to redirect her attention.

  “Me too. Pepperoni’s my favorite. But I like plain cheese too. What’s your favorite topping?”

  “Veggie.”

  “Yuck!”

  I smile. A normal kid talking about normal kid stuff. As it should be.

  “Did your mom go with you guys?”

  A dark shadow crosses her face like a rain cloud across the sky at the very moment you’re pitching your tent. “No, Mom doesn’t eat pizza.”

  “I mean did your mom go with you to the range?”

  “Hell no. Thank God.”

  I suppress the urge to laugh. “Why do you say that?”

  “It was our thing. Me and Dad. She won’t go anywhere where there’s no A/C.”

  “Did your mom learn to shoot?”

  “Dad got her private lessons for her birthday.”

  What a guy. If Manny had given me marksmanship lessons as a birthday gift, I might have left him. Or shot him.

  “Where’d your father keep the guns?”

  “In a safe in their bedroom. At least, I think so.”

  “Okay, this may be painful, but I have to ask. How were you feeling around the time Mr. Sinclair was killed? Your trip to Lauderdale West wasn’t the first time you’d been in bad shape, was it?”

  Her lower lip starts to tremble, and she bites down on it so hard she draws blood.

  “You know what I mean,” I say, pointing at the wound on her head, trying not to look down at the scars on her forearms, too many to count. Some scabbed over, others healed long ago. The medical report from Lauderdale West said the concussion happened when she fell off her desk chair and passed out, collateral damage from downing a bottle of Xanax, but slicing her wrists up hadn’t been accidental. Did she actually want to kill herself? To get attention? Or was she just damaged at her core?

  “I was taking meds, but nothing helped. My head hurt all the time. I couldn’t sleep, and then I’d fall asleep in class. Half the time I was trying not to explode, the other half I wanted to die. Sometimes it’s all too much, you know?”

  It’s a rhetorical question, but I find myself answering, “Yes, I do know.”

  She shoots me a quizzical look and opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “Why did you feel that way?”

  “Stuff. Everything,” she says, clenching and unclenching her fists. “But, like I told Dr. Michaels, I didn’t try to kill myself. I only took one Xanax, not the whole bottle, no matter what they say. I would never do that!”

  “Mr. Sinclair was your counselor. Did you speak to him about how you were feeling?”

  “Every Monday morning at eight.”

  “Did it help?

  “He listened, you know? I mean, really listened.”

  “And you didn’t see him the morning he died? Or talk to him, maybe on the phone?”

  “No. I said that already, didn’t I?”

  I run my finger down my list of questions to ensure I’m not missing anything. “About the pills you took after your folks left for the gala?”

  She flops back and sets about plucking hairs out of her head, one strand at a time.

  “Please answer my question.”

  “Can we not talk about that? Like I said, I didn’t take all those pills,” she says, her words slurring again.

  “Do you need to take a break?”

  “I’m okay. I don’t want to talk about any of this anymore.”

  “Just a few more questions.”

  She groans.

  “Did you talk to your mom about what was going on with you?”

  “I tried, but she doesn’t get it, you know?”

  “And your dad?”

  “God, no!”

  “What do you mean, ‘God, no’?”

  “If you haven’t noticed, he’s not exactly Mr. Touchy Feely.” She lets out a snorty laugh. “He tries, but he comes from what he calls the school of hard knocks.”

  “You don’t get along with your dad?”

  “No, I do. He’s old-fashioned. He’s doesn’t talk about feelings much.”

  “For some people, feeling too much isn’t good,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “Feeling too much isn’t part of being a surgeon. It’s not good to overthink things when you’re cutting into someone.”

  “Gross,” she says, wrinkling her nose, which makes me laugh. “And how would you know?”

  I push back from the table and unveil Oscar.

  Her eyes go from droopy to wide. “What happened?”

  I drop my pant leg. “Story for another day. Let’s just say I know a thing or two about surgeons.”

  “I guess,” she says, in a way that implies, “Duh!”

  “Getting back to it, I understand you were adopted. From Russia.”

  She swallows hard. “If it weren’t for Mom and Dad, I’d probably be some sex slave.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because that’s what happens to girls like me. Girls who don’t matter.”

  Her matter-of-fact assessment stuns me into silence.

  “I was six when they got me. Most people want newborns. But they chose me anyway. Without them I’d be God-only-knows where.”

  “Do you remember much about it? The orphanage, I mean?”

  “You know what I remember? I remember getting a new winter coat the day Mom and Dad came to get me to look nice when they arrived. At least nice enough for them not to change their minds and ask for a refund. It was the only new thing I’d ever owned. Only the chosen kids got a new coat. The rest? The ones who stay behind? They just keep wearing worn out hand-me-downs that don’t keep out the cold.”

  She walks to the window and runs her hands across the bars, and I wonder if she’s trying to divert my attention. “Dad was poor when he was a kid, too.”

  “Let’s get back to your case, okay?” I say, conscious of the possibility, she’s playing on my emotions. “There were some texts the cops got off your and Serena’s phones.”

  She stiffens.

  “You and Serena are best friends?”

  “Were,” she says.

  “What do you mean, ‘were’?”

  She crosses her arms and sits. “Story for another day.”

  I look her in the eye. “I hate to ask this, but I have to. I’ve seen Serena’s texts. She knew you had a crush on Mr. Sinclair, didn’t she?”

  Her face flushes bright red. “No, I didn’t! He tried to help me. Nobody else cared.”

  “Did Mr. Sinclair ever touch you?”

  In a flash, she lunges at me, grabbing me by my jacket lapels. “No! He never did anything like that to me!”

  I flip into tactical mode. I plant my feet, crook my elbow, twist my body around, and put her in a choke hold. After a few seconds, her body turns limp and I guide her down onto the chair.

  “You’re strong,” she says, half crying, half smiling.

  “I think that’s enough for today. You need to get some rest.”

  Tentative, I hold out my hands to pull her out of the chair. She takes my hands and lets me pull her up.

  “And you’re strong, too. I bet you’re stronger than you think.” I wipe a giant tear from her face. “Things might not look so good, I understand. But hang in there. I’ll do everything I can to get you out of this mess.”

  She glances down at her disheveled clothes. “I’m a mess. Mom would freak. Not a beauty-queen moment.”

  “We can never lose our sense of humor, can we?” I say, pressing the button to call the nurse. “It gets us through when nothing else does.”

  She gives me a crooked, sniffly smile. “Thanks, Ms. Locke.”

  “It’s Grace, remember
?”

  At the door, I turn. “Hey, they have you registered in here under the name Zoya. What’s with that?”

  “That’s my real name. It was my name when I was adopted from the orphanage in Solnyshko. Zoe’s my nickname.”

  “Zoya’s a beautiful name.”

  “Zoya means ‘sun’ in Russian.”

  “Even better. From now on you’re Zoya The Warrior Princess to me. And warriors do matter. They matter a lot.”

  Chapter 20

  “Dinner tonight? Red’s at seven,” Marcus says, but before I can reply “Roger that,” he’s already hung up. Marcus calls, I come. And vice versa. No questions asked.

  Beyond being a man of few words, Marcus Jackson is my closest friend and everything you wouldn’t expect in a brainiac prosecutor appointed by the Republican Florida Attorney General to head up the South Florida Office of the Statewide Prosecutor. Marcus is black, from the ghetto, and gay, facts well-disguised by his Brooks Brothers suits and spit-and-polish wingtips. He is not, however, “out,” other than to a few close friends. A former foster kid schooled in the ways of the street at Miami’s Northwestern High School, Marcus survived his youth by hiding his superior intellect under two hundred and fifty pounds of defensive back muscle. He got a scholarship to play football at the University of Miami and transformed himself into the warrior philosopher. Two national championship rings, an English and Philosophy double major, and a 4.0 GPA got him a free ride at the University of Miami School of Law and a job as a professional ass kicker with the Florida Attorney General upon graduation.

  The year before I got myself fired from the State Attorney’s Office, Marcus and I worked on several Statewide projects together. The last one was a task force to shut down organized crime, the task force that netted Vinnie. We became fast friends, developing an ease and mutual respect in our interactions that stood in stark relief to my relationship with Manny, one characterized by unpredictable cycles of intense desire and abject hate. I admired Marcus’s tenacity for ferreting out the bad actors, and Marcus said he envied my outspoken nature and foul mouth.

  I arrive ten minutes early. Red’s is already a beehive of activity. An iconic watering hole located in the heart of Wilton Manors, a small and predominantly gay city adjacent to Fort Lauderdale, Red’s serves as a social hub for all sorts, regardless of sexual orientation or political persuasion. On any given night, aspiring politicos and judges can be seen rubbing shoulders with patrons dressed in body paint, while business types discuss the relative merits of Pinot Noir and Cabernet with sports stars.

  I take a seat at a quiet table on the patio to decompress. In a park across the street, a father and son are playing catch. The boy can’t be more than four, all soft-limbed and uncoordinated, like a newborn deer.

  At seven o’clock on the dot, I detect the rumble of Marcus’s motorcycle.

  “You look like Lord Vader in that helmet,” I say, as he pulls me in for a bear hug.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, my lovely. But look who’s talking about having gone to the dark side.”

  He slings his black leather motorcycle jacket on the back of the chair. He’s wearing indigo designer jeans, creases knife-edge sharp, and a starched blue-and-white-striped dress shirt, open at the neck.

  “You look great, as always. A little bad boy in that jacket, but all buttoned up underneath. Too bad you play for the other team.”

  The well-worn joke makes us both smile. Manny had been jealous of the countless hours we’d spent working together on the task force. At least until he found out Marcus is gay, a fact I’d kept in my back pocket just to rankle Manny.

  “Your gorgeous mug in the papers a lot these days. How is it sitting on the other bench?”

  “It’s work.”

  “Everyone deserves a defense, right?” he says, smoothing the napkin on his lap. “Tell me, how’s it looking for your girl’s defense?”

  “Now that would be telling tales out of school, wouldn’t it?”

  He leans in. “Come on, you can tell little ole me.”

  I hold out my hand and count down the reasons Zoe’s case sucks. “First, my client is a rich kid, who is as bratty as she is batty, for whom I have no defense, at least not one that isn’t made up out of thin air. Second, she says she didn’t do it, that she was somewhere else when it all went down, but don’t they all say that? And, third—surprise, surprise! There’s no alibi witness in the discovery. Oh, and how can I forget? I got the case through my ex who may or may not be still sleeping with my client’s mother.”

  He flings himself back in his chair. “Now why don’t you tell me what you really think?”

  “It’s a loser. I know it.”

  A waiter wearing a red satin bow tie appears. “What can I get for you?” he asks, with the emphasis on the “you” and looking only at Marcus.

  “We need a minute,” I say. The waiter doesn’t budge. “We need a minute here, okay?”

  The waiter flares his nostrils at me, smiles at Marcus, bowing in retreat.

  “The bow tie is a bit over the top,” Marcus says.

  “Ya think?”

  “Okay, so it’s not a slam-dunk winner.”

  “Who would have thought I would end up defending the types of scum we used to lock up?”

  He reaches for my hands across the table. “Don’t let it get to you. It’s just work, remember?”

  I fix Marcus with a stare. “I need to talk to someone about this, or I’m going to explode. But you are sworn to secrecy.”

  Marcus draws his thumb across his lips. “Do go on.”

  “There’s a mountain of texts between my client, Zoe, and her former best friend. Seems Zoe had a crush on the victim.”

  “Not good.”

  “It gets worse.”

  “The BFF stole Zoe’s boyfriend, and, while Zoe didn’t say it, I get the feeling the BFF may have been sleeping with the victim, and the BFF was the one who found the body.”

  “Very soap opera.”

  “What does all of that say to you?”

  “It says your girl had some pretty strong motives for murder.”

  “First big case back, and this is what I’ve got.” I make a zero with my hands.

  He raises an eyebrow. “You know most defendants are guilty. At least you used to know that,” he adds with a wink.

  “Stop making fun of me. I’m serious. I’m going to lose, which is bad enough. It’s not that I need Zoe to be innocent. It would be nice to have a theory, any theory, that doesn’t involve her being the only possible killer. I’d like one shaky leg to stand on so I have something to say in court that doesn’t sound like freakin’ fantasy land. I need a plan B, Marcus.”

  “You used to love raking attorneys over the coals for their outlandish defenses.”

  “Asshat.” I kick him under the table. “Thing is—the victim was the only person who listened to her. Why would she want to kill him?”

  “Jealousy knows no bounds, my friend.”

  I stare out at the parade of cars. Regular people with regular lives. Why is it that looking from the outside in has a way of smoothing the rough edges of life? In all likelihood, some of them are in the middle of ugly divorces, or nursing ailing parents. But from the outside, their lives are bathed in a warm, comforting glow of routine. I’d settle for a little of that illusion at this point.

  The waiter reappears.

  “Burger for her, hold the bun. New York strip for me, rare,” Marcus says, shooing the waiter away with the menus.

  “To make matters worse, she’s a total loon.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning she has a history of hurting herself and fighting.”

  “More not good.”

  “And pot. And who knows what else.”

  Marcus covers a sly grin.

  “But, guess what? She may be a psychological train wreck, but wait for it…She’s competent. At least that’s what Michaels told me today.”

  Marcus stuffs his fist in
his mouth to stop himself from laughing. “I guess you do get what you pay for.”

  “Zoe was adopted. From Russia. And by Gretchen. You remember her, don’t you? What a start in life.”

  “I watched a program about the problems the kids adopted from orphanages overseas can have. Maybe that’s got something to do with her behavior.”

  “Thanks, Oprah. What? You thinking about adopting?”

  He gives me an exaggerated eye roll. “‘No’ and ‘Hell no’ would be the long and the short answers. Heck, I haven’t even had a date in months. Working too hard.”

  A taught silence descends between us. The real reason Marcus called is about to surface, an intuition confirmed by the change in his tone from jocular to serious as a hanging judge.

  “I want nothing more than to see you succeed. I was quite concerned about you when you fell off the edge last year. I wasn’t sure I’d get you back.”

  “And?”

  “I have certain obligations not to talk about cases I’m working on, just like you.”

  I look away, guilt bubbling in my gut for having said too much about Zoe’s case.

  “And?”

  “And if I said maybe I saw something that rang a bell, you would believe me, right?” He leans his bulk across the table. “Maybe you should go back and look again at everyone involved in the case with fresh eyes.”

  “Why? What am I missing?”

  “Exactly! You’re missing something, but I can’t tell you what. I wish I could. You’ve spent a career thinking accused equals guilty. But sometimes that’s not the case, even though it can seem that way at first blush.”

  I scoot my chair in close. “What are you saying, exactly? Do you or do you not you have anything to help me? I sure would like to see it if you do. As it stands, I got zippo, nothing, nada. And I’m running out of time.”

  “Think about the types of cases we work on at Statewide. We investigate and prosecute crimes that impact more than a single jurisdiction and—”

  “Thanks for the lecture, so how’s about telling me something I don’t know?”

  He hangs his head. “I can’t do that.”

  I stifle a sigh of frustration and stare over his shoulder at the bar crowd, drinks and voices raised, without a care.

  “Stop for a second and think about what kind of crimes those are? What kind of task forces did we work on together?”