Page 42 of Old Money
“Well, it’s not how we usually do things, but...” Jessie taps at her computer. “But if I can find your file and if you’re done with it by nine?”
I nod. Fine. Sure. Whatever’s in that file, it won’t take three hours. It’s probably just a piece of paper that says, “Made ya look!”
“Great!” says Jessie, game as ever. “Just give me a minute to print and— Oh golly.”
“What?” I ask, trying to see the screen.
“Nothing, it’s just a bit larger than most. I might need more than a minute.”
Jessie’s eyes narrow on the screen as she scrolls—and scrolls and scrolls. She nods at the visitor’s bench, still looking at the screen.
“Why don’t you grab some coffee and just hang loose a second.”
I wait a beat and then I do as she says. There’s an old percolator on the table beside the bench. I pour myself a scalding cupof coffee, watching as she clicks around. Somewhere in the back of the station, the printer hums to life.
It’s nearly forty minutes before Jessie calls me back. Sun is streaming through the front window, painting bright, golden stripes across the floor.
“This way.”
Jessie smiles, stepping down from her desk and swinging open the little half door of the barrier, nodding me toward the back. I check my watch, wondering if I’ve made a mistake.
“Maybe I should come back,” I say. “If there’s really that much, I don’t know if I’ll finish by—”
“No worries, I’ll show you the way,” Jessie says, waving for me to follow.
Cautiously, I do. Jessie leads me down the same narrow hall I walked the night that Caitlin died. It doesn’t unsettle me this time. I’m getting used to things being eerily familiar.
“Voilà,” says Jessie, opening the door to a windowless room.
There’s nothing inside but a table, and two tidy stacks of files.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, turning on her heel. “I’ll be up front when you’re done. Don’t rush!”
I watch her go, puzzled.
Later, I remind myself.No time for that.
I settle at the table, looking at the files, each of them nearly a quarter-inch thick. I slide one off the top of the nearest stack, take a breath and open it.
The first sheet is labeled “Scene Report: Death,” and includes a date and time stamp at the top. The rest of the page though, is filled with a series of black rectangles where paragraphs should be. Confused, I turn the document over, then flip through the sheets beneath it—all similarly covered in blocks of black ink. A tiny line of text at the bottom catches my eye:
This record has been partially redacted by authorized parties, in accordance with the law.
I could almost laugh. It’s printed on every page of every record—nearly all of which have been so thoroughly redacted that they’re rendered virtually meaningless. The death-scene report includes Caitlin’s name, the phrase “found unresponsive” in the middle of the page, and “declared dead” floating in the middle of a black blob toward the bottom. The rest of the page is all blob.
I go through the other files, and eventually do start laughing. I’vetechnicallybeen given access to everything I asked for—the autopsy report, lab results, the interviews—albeit with some “partial” redactions. My fingertips are stained with ink by the time I close the last file, lightheaded from laughter. I’ll be pissed later, I know. Right now, I’m just relieved to have found the catch.
“Well, jeez, sorry I used all your toner,” I say to Jessie, stepping back into the lobby. “Do you have any wipes, by the way?”
I lift my hands, twiddling my blackened fingers. Officer Grumpy looks up from the file drawer. Jessie blinks, frowning.
“Oh!” she says after a moment. “Makeup wipes! I’ve got some in my bag.”
She reaches for a backpack beneath the desk, unzipping and searching compartments. My loopy mood begins to fade, watching her dig around—the one person in here trying to help.
“Never mind, it’s fine.” I shake my head, turning for the door. “I was just—”
“No, no, it’s in here somewhere.”
