States of Grace

by Mandy Miller

  “Organized crime. Drugs. Crooked politicians.” I ball up my napkin and throw it on the table.

  “Look, all I’m saying is try to see outside the little box of your case. Look into the wild blue yonder and see what’s out there in the blue sea of death that might help you find your defense.”

  “And by ‘blue,’ can I assume you’re referring to OxyContin?” I say, referring to the street name for the pain killer?”

  Marcus shrugs.

  I give an exaggerated wink. “Don’t be coy with me, my friend.”

  “And don’t put me in a bad spot. I take the confidentiality obligations very seriously. There’s only so much I can say about certain things. Same as you. I mean, if I asked, did she do it, even if she’d told you she had, you wouldn’t tell me, would you?”

  I look at my hands. “No, I would not.”

  The waiter places Marcus’s steak in front of him with a flourish and flings my burger in the general direction of my place mat.

  “Angry queen,” I say, sticking my tongue out the moment the waiter’s back is turned.

  Marcus chokes on his water. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

  I stick my tongue out at him too and he raises his hands in surrender.

  “Let’s do Trial Prep 101. What do you do when you get a witness list from the State?”

  “Okay, I’ll play along, but this riddle better have a solution. First, I check out the witnesses’ backgrounds, see if they’ve ever been arrested, convicted, whatever. Where they live, work…I don’t know.”

  “Go on,” he says, making a churning motion with his right hand. “Look, take off those myopic prosecutor glasses that see the defendant as Satan and the victim as a saint.”

  “Pretty please. Give me a hint. Just an itty-bitty one. Nothing that would compromise you, but, maybe a crumb for old times’ sake?”

  Marcus puffs out his cheeks and expels the air in a rush. “Okay. Let me make it simple, and this is the last I’m going to say on the topic. Someone is never on the witness list in a murder case.”

  I shrug, palms up.

  Marcus throws his arms in the air. “I give up. Give it some thought. I have faith in you. But in the meantime, let’s enjoy our dinner like the old friends we are.”

  “Who you calling old?” I point an accusatory finger and he points one right back. “We made a great team, Grace. And don’t you ever forget it. You may be playing for the other team now, but you will always be the same person in my book.”

  “Thanks.”

  Cheering erupts from the bar.

  “The Dolphins must be winning,” I say.

  “The ’Fins are a lost cause. They may be cheering now, but they’ll be crying later,” he says with a shake of his head.

  “Yeah, tell me about lost causes.”

  ***

  After leaving Marcus at the bar making small talk with a male hair stylist from Coral Springs, I retrieve Miranda from Vinnie’s place, where he’s teaching her to fetch beer from the fridge, one trick I hope she fails to perfect.

  Now, she’s sprawled on the floor, getting the sleep I desperately need.

  Page by page, I review the discovery.

  Nothing.

  “What am I missing? I already aware I’m missing an alibi witness because, as my luck would have it, Zoe doesn’t have one because she slept late and was alone while doing it.”

  Miranda raises her head.

  “But what else?”

  Miranda hops up and rests her shiny snout on my stump, eyes fixed on the laptop screen.

  “How can I find something that isn’t here? What did Marcus mean with his cryptic comments?”

  On the verge of abandoning the search, I freeze, mouse hovering over the file labeled, Autopsy Photographs. Victim, Brandon Sinclair, DOB 4/23/1974.

  “The victim! The murder victim’s name is never on the witness list.”

  Miranda’s opens one eye.

  “Why you might ask? Because, my furry friend, the victim is dead. And dead men can’t tell tales.” I close the laptop. “But nosy defense lawyers can.”

  Chapter 21

  The doors don’t open until 7:30 a.m., but I’m first in line, shifting from foot to foot, like a racehorse in the starting gate. Actually, I’m the only person in line outside the courthouse, but I’m on a mission. The answer to Marcus’s riddle lies in Sinclair’s past. He might be six feet under, but whatever official records exist on him may have a story to tell.

  I pop a stick of gum into my mouth to keep from grinding my teeth. I wanted to bring Miranda along as a calming influence, but an enormous wolf dog, no matter how tame, is not exactly the way to fly under the radar. This mission is one which requires stealth, not to mention luck. Any inkling I may be onto something to help Zoe, and the State will find a way to turn the screws even more. That’s how the system works. The strong get stronger and the weak perish under the government’s heel.

  Two people fall in line behind me. A mother and son. First timers for juvenile court is my guess. I give mom a quick study. Jaw clenched, eyes boring holes into her boy who is squirming inside navy-blue polyester. It may be a new suit, but his is an old story. Next time, and there will be a next time, mom won’t be able to convince him to wear a suit, and he’ll be looking her straight in the eye, his contempt the only defense he’ll have.

  Deputy Brian unbolts the Attorney’s door at 7:30 a.m. sharp. At least I remembered this one’s name.

  “The early worm better watch out for Ms. Locke. She looks to be on a quest for justice,” he says, placing my briefcase into the scanner.

  He points at my leg. “Best if you come around this way,” he says, guiding me around the side of the metal detector. “Too early to get the natives all twitchy with alarms and such.”

  “Thanks, Deputy Brian. Much appreciated. But how’d you know?” I ask, pointing down at Oscar.

  “Word gets around here fast as clap on a…You know what I mean.”

  “Roger that.”

  He hands back my briefcase. “Now, you have a great day, Ms. Locke.”

  “There are things in our control and things that are not, Deputy. But I’ll give it a try.”

  I head for the offices of the Clerk of the Court on the first floor, a rat trap of a place prone to flooding in the most timid of storms. Last year, the Sun Sentinel ran a picture of clerks in rain boots 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 ri
sky 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 a keypad. I note that the code is still the same and enjoy a private moment of humor about the false sense of security complacency begets.

  Maddy ushers me into the first office on the left with the nameplate ASA Margarita Morales on the door.

  “Sweetheart, now you take care of yourself,” Maddy says, easing the door closed.

  I pan around the cramped space. “I can’t believe we shared this coffin.”

  I lean in to give Rita a hug, but she retreats behind the desk.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, eyes downcast. “It’s been a while.”

  “Don’t apologize. I know how this place is. No fraternizing with the enemy. Even if the enemy is, well, was, a friend.”

  I remain standing, briefcase clutched between both hands like a fig leaf. “And, for the record, you’re not the one who has something to apologize for.”

  She points at one of the two guest chairs. “Sit down, for heaven’s sake. You’re standing there like you’ve been called to the principal’s office.”

  I perch on the edge of one of the chairs. “I stayed away. I didn’t want to call. Didn’t want my crap to spill all over you.”

  She holds her nose. “I see you haven’t lost your powers of description. And I surely don’t want to be covered in yours. Mine’s about all I can handle.”

  “I’ve missed you, Rita.”

  “I’ve missed you too, but I do keep seeing you in the news. You’ve gone big time on me.”

  “If being the captain of the Titanic is big time, then I guess I’m big time, but the ship’s still sinking.” I clear my throat. “Which brings me to why I’m here. I’m hoping you can help me.”

  She sighs. “I knew it. You drop out of sight and then reappear asking favors.”

  I raise my hands, palms out. “Hear me out, please.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “I’m trying to check a name to see if he’s been a party to any case in Broward.”

  She pushes back from the desk and crosses her legs. “The Clerk’s office is on the first floor.”

  “And I see you haven’t lost your penchant for sarcasm.”

  “Touché,” she says, with a tight smile.

  “I already ran the name through the Clerk’s database, but nothing came up. And the thing is—”

  Rita holds up a hand. “And your point?”

  “I scoot the chair in close to the desk and lean in. “When a case is expunged by court order, the Clerk and all law enforcement agencies, even your office, have to destroy all of its records, paper and digital, for the case, right?”

  “Again, and your point would be?”

  “But sealed records still exist—they just go into hiding and can only be seen by certain agencies.”

  Rita raises a finger as if to test wind direction. “That’s what you want. You want me to do a search of our private records.”

  I look away.

  “For you,” she continues. “You, the one who was fired from this very office. By my very boss. The one who signs my paychecks.”

  I bite my lip.

  “You sure you’re still the same person I knew? The one who thought everything in life divided neatly in two categories—right or wrong? And you know this is wrong, don’t you? Woman, you’re not exactly in friendly territory here.”

  “And how is Mr. Britt by the way? I saw him just the other day.”

  “Still the same jackass he always was.”

  She stares at the door as if Britt will materialize at any second. “He’s one vindictive sonofabitch. He still thinks your embarrassing episode was what almost cost him the last election.”

  I grunt. “If only. That would have made getting arrested worthwhile.”

  “Back to why you’re here. You want me to run a name for you, don’t you?”

  In my mind’s eye, I envision Rita grabbing for my car keys outside the Ragin’ Cajun, insisting I should call a cab.


  I stand to leave. “Forget it.”

  Rita’s eyes widen. “It’s really not the same you, is it? The Grace Locke I knew would never give up so fast.”

  “People change, Rita.”

  “Apparently. So, sit your ass back down, why don’t you. Name?”

  “Brandon Sinclair. Try Sinclair Brandon too. The cops just love to mess up people’s names on police reports.”

  “And you think this Sinclair’s case was sealed?”

  I nod.

  She stops typing. “Wait a minute. Is Sinclair the guy who got killed? The one your client murdered?

  “Allegedly.”

  She bangs hard on the keyboard. “Sure. Now I know you’ve changed.”

  After a few keystrokes, she shakes her head.

  “Damn.”

  She chews on her thumb for a couple of seconds. “But like you said, that may just mean his case was expunged, and we were ordered to destroy the file.”

  “And it’s gone forever, and I’ll never know if Sinclair had a criminal history.” I flop back.

  “Think, woman! Just because a case evaporates from the official records, doesn’t mean one never existed. If there was a case and it was sealed, we’d still have a file. We don’t. Therefore, no sealing. If it was expunged, we wouldn’t have anything because we got a court order to destroy everything. But let’s go back to the basics. If someone is arrested in Broward, what happens?”

  “He or she appears before a magistrate within twenty-four hours for a hearing to make sure there was probable cause for the arrest.”

  “And who represents almost every defendant at that point, because almost nobody, except for the richest of the rich, has a private criminal defense lawyer on standby?”

  “The public defender?”

  “And who isn’t ordered to destroy its records in an expungement order?” Head bobbing, coaxing the answer, obvious to her, out of me.

  I palm my forehead. “The PD. The PD may have a file for Sinclair even if it was expunged and, if they don’t, chances are there never was a case for Sinclair and my source is wrong.”

  I rocket out of the chair and squeeze behind the desk for a hug. “Thanks, chica, I owe you one.”