Chapter 7
Daniel Mercer waited until my father finished speaking with the records-office employee before he came near us.
The courthouse parking lot was still wet from the morning rain. Water gathered along the painted lines, reflecting the gray sky and the square windows above us. My father held the folder against his chest. I kept one hand on the strap of my backpack and watched Daniel’s canvas bag.
“You said you found a lawful way to request the records,” I said.
“I did.”
“Did you look at anything you weren't supposed to?”
Daniel stopped several feet away. “No.”
“Did you take pictures?”
“No.”
“Did you ask anyone about my name?”
“Only the clerk who explained the request procedure. I didn't ask for personal information.”
He didn't sound offended. That mattered. The adults around us usually treated questions like accusations. Daniel treated them like doors that could be opened or left shut.
My father looked at him. “You could have gone through the boy's things.”
“I could have,” Daniel said. “I didn't.”
The parking lot hummed with passing tires. Somewhere near the courthouse entrance, a security guard laughed at something a delivery driver said. The ordinary sound made the folder feel heavier.
Daniel reached into his bag and took out a folded form.
“This authorizes a records request,” he said. “It covers the courthouse file, the scheduling log, and any written communication connected to the appeal. Nothing outside that.”
I looked at the paper but didn't take it.
“And if I don't sign?”
“Then I don't file it.”
My father started to say my name, but I raised my hand. He stopped.
“What happens if the records show something bad about you?” I asked Daniel.
“Then you get to decide whether you still want me involved.”
The answer was plain enough that I believed it more than I wanted to.
I took the form. The paper was cool and slightly damp at one corner from the air. Daniel pointed to the lines without touching my hand. I read them twice, then gave the form back.
“I'll sign it,” I said. “But you don't get the tape.”
“I know.”
“And you don't get Mara Vale's name.”
“I know.”
“And no one talks to Lena Ortiz unless she says it's okay.”
Daniel glanced at my father, then returned his attention to me. “Agreed.”
I signed.
The pen scratched loudly in the quiet space between us. When I finished, Daniel folded the authorization and put it inside his bag.
“That boundary stays in place,” he said.
I watched him close the zipper. “You keep saying that like it costs you something.”
“It costs everyone something.”
My father placed a hand on my shoulder. This time I didn't pull away.
We walked toward the courthouse side entrance. Daniel stayed behind us instead of leading.
At the records office, the clerk recognized me. She looked down at the counter before I reached it.
Daniel handed her the authorization. She examined the signature, then entered something into the computer.
“The request may take several days,” she said.
“Will the scheduling log be included?” Daniel asked.
“If it's retained.”
“And correspondence?”
“Some correspondence.”
The clerk's fingers paused above the keyboard. “There are invoices attached to one of the outreach accounts.”
Daniel looked at her. “Invoices for what?”
“Media services. I don't know if they belong to the same matter.”
“Can they be requested?”
“They can be requested if they're part of the file.”
The clerk printed a receipt and slid it across the counter.
My father signed where she indicated. I watched her eyes move toward the initials on the tape box inside my backpack. She couldn't see it, but I imagined she could.
When we left, Daniel didn't speak until we reached the far end of the sidewalk.
“There may be more than a courtroom record,” he said.
“Money?”
“Maybe. Don't decide what it means yet.”
The phrase stayed with me.
That afternoon, we ate in a diner across from the courthouse. My father ordered coffee he didn't drink. I pushed fries around a plate while Daniel spread copies of the request across the table.
A red pickup stopped outside. The same black sedan rolled past the windows, slower than traffic required.
My father saw it too.
Daniel folded the papers. “We should leave separately.”
“No,” I said.
He looked at me.
“If we leave separately, they can tell us what to do one at a time.”
My father’s jaw tightened. Daniel considered the street, then nodded.
We waited until the sedan passed again. When we walked to the parking lot, Daniel went first, my father beside me. Nothing happened. No door opened. No one called my name.
But the car remained at the corner until we drove away.
That night, Daniel called our apartment. He spoke to my father first, then asked if I wanted to hear what the clerk had told him.
“The records request has been accepted,” he said. “And there's a name attached to the media invoices.”
“Whose?”
“Lena Ortiz.”
I sat up on the couch.
“What does she do?”
“According to the scheduling record, she handled witness and recording logistics for the hearing.”
The room seemed to narrow around the phone.
“She was there,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't she tell anyone?”
Daniel was quiet for a moment. “That's what we need to find out.”
He didn't say we would make her talk.
May you like
He said we needed to find out.
It was the first time the word we felt safe.
