States of Grace

by Mandy Miller

  “Evening, Counselor,” he says, as my possessions pass through the magnetometer without a second look. “On the late side, isn’t it?”

  “Crime never sleeps.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Before proceeding through the arch, I point at Oscar and he nods. “Come on through.”

  Given the late hour, I’m processed and locked into one of the attorney’s rooms within fifteen minutes of my arrival, so quickly it takes another ten for Zoe to be brought from the holding cell where she’ll be kept until she’s booked on her second capital murder charge tomorrow morning.

  She’s still in street clothes, jeans and an oversized St. Paul’s hoodie emblazoned with a football. “I told you someone’s out to get me!” she screams at the top of her lungs as the guard locks her manacled feet to the bail on the floor. “You have to believe me, I—”

  I put a finger over my lips to silence her and leave it there until the guard steps out.

  “I didn’t do it! I didn’t kill Serena! I didn’t!” she yells, the gold flecks in her eyes incandescent, her face contorted into a mask of abject terror. “You have to believe me. I, I didn’t kill anyone, I—”

  I reach across the table and grab her cuffed hands, aware my eyes are bugging out of my head. “Take a deep breath and let’s starts at the beginning.”

  She closes her eyes, her breaths shallow and choppy.

  “Where were you tonight?”

  “At…At home. But listen, there’s something I need to tell you,” she says, her speech pressured. “I didn’t sleep late the day Mr. Sinclair was killed, like I told you before. I was with Joe.”

  The speed with which the words come tumbling out leaves me gasping for air, too. “What?”

  “I was with Joe. At school. Well, outside. In the parking lot.”

  I reel back, taking all of her in—the crazed eyes and disheveled clothing, the utter panicked sincerity of her emotions.

  “You were at school when Sinclair was killed? In the parking lot?”

  A definitive nod.

  “And who is this Joe?”

  “Joe Harper. My boyfriend. Well he was. Until—”

  “Until what?”

  “Until Serena took him. I mean, I know she’s the prettiest girl in school. And Joe’s the school’s star quarterback, so I guess it’s no surprise. But I thought he was a nice guy.” She drops her head to her chest. “And I thought she was my best friend. I’m an idiot.”

  “I thought you had a falling out with Serena because she,” I pause, searching for a more sensitive way to say a teacher was molesting a student, if such a thing exists. “Because she was involved with Mr. Sinclair.”

  “I never said that!”

  I pull back and rerun our meeting at the Everglades State Hospital through my mind.

  I look away, chastened by my cynical assumption. “You know what Zoe, you’re right. You didn’t say that.”

  I should have asked why their friendship ended, but I was way too busy assuming she was guilty. I had already made up my mind.

  Her eyes harden and I can’t help but look away “It’s not fair. But girls like Serena always get what they want.”

  I feel lightheaded, like you do when you’ve jumped out of a plane but have yet to open your parachute. I was prepared for murder defense number two, not an alibi defense for murder number one. I take a moment to reframe my thoughts, reconstitute them into a scenario in which Zoe might not be the killer.

  “Help me out here. Joe Harper was your boyfriend, and then he hooked up with Serena. But, if that’s the case, why were you with Joe in the parking lot the morning of the murder?”

  Silence.

  “Zoe, answer the question—why were you with Joe?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Because the answer to that question might save your life. And like it or not, as soon as I leave here, I’m going to inform the ASA that you have an alibi, but he will ask who Joe is and why and where you were with him.” I slam my fist down on the table. “Tell me dammit! Why were you with Joe?”

  She pulls her head down into the neck of the hoodie, as if hiding her face will protect her from the impact of whatever else she has to tell me.

  I will myself to wait, let her answer in her own good time, although I’m tempted to lunge across the table and shake it out of her.

  “Joe has a younger brother, Sam,” she says, her voice muffled. “And last year he hurt his knee playing lacrosse and had to have surgery. The doctor gave him pain pills. And then—”

  “And he got hooked,” I say, causing Zoe to extract her head from the hoodie.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Just a good guess. Go on, what about Sam?”

  “His parents did everything they could, sent him to rehab a few times, but nothing worked. When school started back after summer, Joe suspected Sam was using again. He said Sam would disappear after school let out, when Joe was supposed to give him a ride home—Sam had lost his license when he got busted the last time for pot. Anyway, one day Joe followed him. And…” her voice cracks.

  “And what?”

  She shakes her head. “Grace, I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can, Zoe. You are stronger than you think. I am not letting you take the fall for something you didn’t do.” I take a second to catch my breath. “And you didn’t do it, did you? You didn’t kill Mr. Sinclair,” I say without any hint of a questioning tone.

  “No, I did not.”

  Her words wash over me like a soothing wave, the knot in my gut unclenching for the first time since we met. “Tell me what happened. The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  Whispering as if she’s telling me a secret, she continues. “Joe followed Sam to a pill mill. You know, one of those places addicts go to buy drugs. They’re always on the news.”

  “Do you know which pill mill?”

  She swallows hard. “Florida Center for Pain, on Sunrise.”

  The fear in her eyes conveys only one thing, the one thing she feared the most—nothing will ever be the same. But she has no choice. The secret she must now share will change her life, her family, forever.

  She wipes her eyes on her sleeve. “Joe saw my dad there. And Mr. Sinclair.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “He said they came out the back together.”

  “What else?”

  “He said there was another guy there too. A big dude loading a bunch of bags into the trunk of my dad’s car and—”

  “Did he say what kind of bags?”

  She sits back, eyes half closed, trying to recreate the conversation with Joe in her mind.

  “Red garbage bags. Joe said the big dude dropped one of the bags and it burst and a whole bunch of cash fell out. That Dad slapped the guy and made him and Mr. Sinclair pick it all up.”

  “And did they?”

  “Yes.” Her face turns ashen. “And Dad drove away with all the money.”

  “They only accept cash at pill mills.”

  She lowers her head onto the table and starts to cry. “I thought my dad was a plastic surgeon.”

  I stroke her hair. “Did Joe say why he wanted to tell you about that?”

  “Wouldn’t you want to know your dad has been lying to you?” I hesitate long enough for her to add, “That he’s a drug dealer? That the house we live in, the cars we drive, the vacations we take, they’re all paid for with money from selling drugs that kill people?”

  She raises her head, a deluge of tears raging down her cheeks, spattering onto the hoodie. “Sam’s drug problem’s tearing his family apart. Maybe Joe wants to tear mine apart. Maybe that’s why he told me.” She lets out a sob so gut-wrenching it shakes me to the core.

  “Oh, Zoe, I doubt that. He was your friend,” I say, but she might be on the mark. Addiction can turn those closest to us from decent folks into avenging angels when they run out of options to save their loved ones from themselves. “He probably was at the end of his rope
, didn’t know what to do to save Sam.”

  “Maybe. He said he wanted me to know what my dad was doing, that he didn’t want me anywhere near that shit. That’s what he said, but he might have been lying just like everyone else.”

  “I understand this is all incredibly upsetting, but why didn’t you tell me before? Your life is on the line.”

  “I did. I told you I wasn’t there when Mr. Sinclair was killed.”

  “But you didn’t tell me the whole truth. You have an alibi. As far as I know, no one knew to talk to Joe. He didn’t give a statement. Not yet, anyway. I need to let the State Attorney know immediately.”

  “This is going to sound stupid. Now things have gotten even worse, but I didn’t want my dad to get in trouble. I just thought things would work out in the end.”

  “Oh, Zoe,” I say, the sad irony of her protective impulse a punch to the gut. “You should have told me.”

  “I didn’t kill Mr. Sinclair, and I thought Joe would say I was with him and it would all be over with and no one would have to know about Dad.”

  “In my experience, no matter how much we might want to keep secrets, the truth comes out sooner or later.”

  “I guess,” she says, her tone resigned, yet freighted with regret.

  She slams the cuffs into her forehead. “I was so stupid to ever think I could have a real family!”

  I grab her cuffed hands. “You’re not stupid, Zoe. You deserve a family. We all deserve people, our people, people who love us no matter what,” I say, the force of words so strong, I’m out of breath.

  She opens her mouth to say something but stops herself.

  “What is it, Zoe?”

  I stand. “I’m going to track Joe down and get him to talk.”

  She turtles her head into the neck of the hoodie, muffling her voice. “Grace, do you think me telling you about the pill mill was the right thing? I mean, my mom and dad, I mean they—”

  I rest a hand on her shoulder. “One thing I learned in the Army is sometimes doing what’s right hurts.”

  Her eyes pop open. “You were in the Army?”

  I stand at attention and salute. “Yes, ma’am, Specialist Grace Locke reporting for duty.”

  “Wow! So that’s where…” she points at Oscar.

  “Yep, that’s where.”

  I signal the guard to unlock the door. “Want to know the other thing I learned in the Army?”

  She nods, unblinking eyes still trained on Oscar.

  “That things aren’t always what they seem.”

  “I think I’m learning that, too.” Her gaze loses focus. “So, who do you think killed Mr. Sinclair?”

  “I have no idea. And finding out is not my job. My job is making sure the wrong person doesn’t go down for something she didn’t do.”

  The tension in her shoulders slackens under my grip.

  “And do you know why I want to do that?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you matter, Zoya. You matter a whole lot.”

  Chapter 29

  “Kinda tight, don’t you think?”

  Vinnie rolls his eyes and squeezes the Crown Vic in between a Porsche Carrera and a Maserati Quattroporte.

  “You live in the city long enough, you learn to park by Braille. A little bump here, a little shimmy there, never hurt no one.”

  “Nice work, Vin. I wasn’t sure this tank would fit.”

  “We were gonna fit, sweetheart. Or I was gonna make us fit.”

  He twists the rearview mirror to face him and rakes his downy crown of white hair with a black pocket comb like the one my father always carried in his pocket.

  I step out and shield my eyes from the sun. It’s a bluebird day, not one cloud in sight, a day more suited to a beach chair and a trashy novel than a funeral. Here I am, back in church for the first time since Iraq, the hellhole which robbed me of all faith and almost my life.

  “You don’t have to come in with me.”

  “You kiddin’ me? I don’t ever get to dress up these days,” he says, jumping out. “But, now that you mention it, what is it you think you’ll learn from this bunch of stiffs?” He claps his hand over his mouth. “Sorry, bad choice of words.”

  I stifle a laugh. “I need to speak to a kid called Joe Harper. I figured, since he was Serena’s boyfriend, he’d be here at her funeral.”

  “Who’s Joe whatshisname?”

  “Zoe said she was with him when Sinclair died.”

  “Holy Mother of God. Like maybe she didn’t do it?”

  “Seems that way.” I straighten my pant leg so Oscar’s hidden.

  Vinnie straightens his tie. I’m warmed by the openness in his face, a look of peaceful acceptance that comes only with forgiveness. I can’t say I’d feel the same in his shoes. I’d probably still be raging at the years stolen from me. But all I can do now is keep the promise I made to myself back then, that no matter how guilty a person looks, I’ll never stop asking questions until I find the truth. Or at least until I’m sure no one’s lying. It’s the least I can do to make my amends.

  We slip in the side door of First Presbyterian Church and into a rear pew, one of the few that’s unoccupied. I’ve never seen him in a suit before. Head held high, he’s debonair, an international man of mystery.

  The sanctuary is packed with black-clad mourners of all ages. Teenagers sit book-ended by their parents, pulling on starched collars or pantyhose, the mourning attire a far cry from their usual rock band T-shirts and skinny jeans. A pimple-faced boy waves at a girl, only to have his hand swatted down by his father.

  It’s been a long time since I darkened the door of a church, but I’m no stranger to Presbyterian décor, and First Pres, as the locals call it, is no different from the New England churches of my youth. Not spartan, but not fancy either, restrained enough to make the well-heeled congregation believe their generous offerings are going to worthy causes, and not into gilded pulpits.

  A minister clad in a simple black cassock and purple tippet stands in front of a carved marble altar, arms wide, and proclaims, “Welcome, family and friends. Welcome one and all to celebrate the life of Serena Price.” His tone is one employed by all preachers in times of grief, one intended to reassure the faithful that the sad event is but another inevitability in the circle of life. A tone intended to console, but also to celebrate the life of the deceased, whatever that means for the eighteen year old lying in the white casket up front, for a life cut short before there was much at all to celebrate.

  I wonder what the rows and rows of mourners are thinking. What trite condolences they will offer Serena’s family in the receiving line after the service, when the only thought on their minds will be, “This could have been my child.” Are they hankering for Zoe’s head, as if such a thing could ever set things right? Still, an eye for an eye does bring with it a certain reassurance that justice does exist.

  In the five days since the discovery of her body, Serena Price has become a national obsession. Even the national morning shows sent reporters to recount how Serena, a beautiful young woman and star student, who played the violin and led St. Paul’s soccer team to a state championship, was murdered in cold blood. How she was shot by a friend, a classmate at a fancy private school. How the bullet had been fired from same type of gun Zoe is accused of using to kill Brandon Sinclair. How Zoe threatened Serena by text. It goes without saying, they sidestepped the issue of the OxyContin found in Serena’s system, a fact that would have been front and center had Serena been a black kid from the projects, not a white one from Rio Vista. But they didn’t skip the part about Zoe being mentally disturbed, not to mention about to be tried on another murder committed with the same modus operandi.

  Still nagging at me like a hangnail is what, if any, connections were there between Sinclair and Serena? Were they, in fact, involved, or is Zoe imaging it? And Gretchen. Is it a coincidence she owns the clinic where Sinclair was arrested, and is also the mother of one of his counseling clients?

 
I stand and sit and pray with the congregation, on automatic pilot from years of forced practice at boarding school, but my mind’s zig-zagging all over the place like a lab rat on speed.

  Reilly summed up his theory in a glib sound bite on NBC6 News. Asked why Zoe would have killed Sinclair, he said, “We don’t have to prove motive. No matter what they say on TV, it’s not an element of the crime of murder. After almost thirty years on the job, I’ve learned that murder always comes down to one of three things—money, jealousy, or just plain evil. In this case, I’m going with jealousy.” A nice sound bite for sure, but something about what Reilly said strikes me as too convenient. He has a penchant for the CliffsNotes version of crimes. The easy answer, facts be damned. If he said the world is flat, I would double check. But, then again, like Sonny said, Reilly and I have a history, and I’ll never trust a word he says.

  Could she have been that jealous? Angry, for sure, but angry enough to kill? Why not get rid of the gun that killed Sinclair like the one used to kill Serena, if she killed Serena?

  “Everyone, please stand for the final reading, the twenty-third psalm.”

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…” chants the crowd, an onyx wave of sorrow, sniffling, and muffled sobbing all around.

  Amens said, the Price family files out of the front pew, led by the minister. Serena’s mother, a slender woman in a black dress and pearls, propped up by her husband who’s blinking back tears. Mrs. Price couldn’t be much older than I am, but the loss of her daughter is aging her in front of all of our eyes. A silent throng follows, row by row, heads bowed.

  Outside, Serena’s parents are receiving condolences from a long line of mourners. I choose a spot under the thick canopy of a gumbo limbo tree, its tangled, leafy limbs offering cover from which to observe the crowd milling around on the sidewalk. Hugs are exchanged, tissues dug from pockets. A group of younger children flies across the street to play in a park beside the New River, their bright, open faces untouched by the day.

  “I remember when my Joey died,” Vinnie says, his voice shaky. “I couldn’t understand why life, why everything, just kept going on around me as if nothing had happened. The world should have stopped. He was a boy, my boy. That should’ve counted for something.”