I fire off my final version, but in the end I know it doesn’t make it. Showgirls? Magic? Calling into question a double murder that was solved to everyone’s satisfaction? The little folded rabbit doesn’t seem strong enough to support the weight of all that.
In the car, I take a look at the map. Plaquemines Parish is a peninsula divided by the Mississippi River. The courthouse in Pointe a La Hache is on the west bank. I plan to go there first, looking for the petition for release that freed Charley Vermillion. I’ve done courthouse document searches before. It’s time-consuming work, and tedious. It can take days. But I should be able to get a few hours in before it’s time for my appointment with the lawyer.
My guidebook confirms what the kid in the Port Sulfur library told me: Ferryboats run back and forth across the river. I head for the one that crosses from Belle Chasse to Dalcour.
My guidebook also noted that the courthouse in Pointe a la Hache is more than a hundred years old, having survived any number of hurricanes. Old as the courthouse is, I just hope the place has air-conditioning.
It takes me less than an hour to get to Belle Chasse, and I’m lucky, catching the ferry five minutes before it leaves. Every other vehicle on board is a pickup truck. The river is wide, the water a turbulent roil of chop and current. The ferryboat’s powerful engines point the craft upstream against the drag as it muscles its way toward the far shore.
The houses on this bank seem older and more refined, but otherwise the drive is much like yesterday’s. Small towns remarkable mainly because the speed limit plummets for a mile or so. A levee concealing the river. Citrus groves. And not much else.
In twenty-four minutes, I arrive in Pointe a la Hache. It ’s not hard to find the courthouse – which is by far the largest structure I’ve seen in Plaquemines. But it’s a burned-out shell, surrounded by yellow crime-scene tape, much of which is lying around on the ground tangled in the weeds. A grove of skeletonized live oaks hulk above the ruined building like so many demons, their ropy trunks and gnarled branches charred black.
A construction trailer sits to the side, bearing a sign that reads PLAQUEMINES PARISH PUBLIC WORKS. A rap on the door summons a red-faced man in a battered yellow hard hat.
He looks me up and down as if I’m from another planet. “Yup?”
“What happened to the courthouse?”
He fails to keep the smirk off his face. “Burned down.”
“When did that happen?”
“January twelve, two thousand three.”
“What a shame.” The sight of the fine old building in ruins depresses me. Where are the records now? Did they survive?
“Shame and a half is what it was,” Hardhat says. “Stood more’n one hundred years. Lasted through I don’t know how many hurricanes. Served its citizens well. Betsy came through here at a hundred forty miles an hour and that wind brought half the river with it when it got to this bank. Lots of folks rode out the storm in the courthouse, up top there. It was the high ground, you understand. A hundred years and then-” He snaps his fingers. “Gone.”
“Is there a new courthouse?”
But he’s not finished.
“Nature couldn’t destroy the place, but man could. And did.”
“You mean it was arson?”
“Right,” he says, with a knowing nod. “And that’s according to none other than the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. They found accelerant residue. Big-time.”
Arson. “But why?”
He wags his head. “They’s a hundred years of history in them files. Least there was. Some say that’s it, some old record somebody wanted permanently lost. Deed or some-ut.”
“But there must be electronic records.”
He laughs. “For the past few years, they is. But for the other ninety-five or whatever, nossir. Those records is solid gone.”
Maybe I can still find out the name of Vermillion’s lawyer. That case is recent enough to fall within the time frame of “the past few years.”
“Myself,” Hardhat says, “I’m partial to ’tother theory about the arson.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, they been tryin’ to move the courthouse for years, to some more convenient location. But the dang pop-u-lace keep votin’ the idea down.” A laugh. “I think it gon’ move now.”
“Move the courthouse? Why?”
“Your lawyers, judges, court reporters, and what all. Long time they been wantin’ it on the east bank, in Belle Chasse. Belle Chasse an easy drive from N’Awlins. Not like gettin’ down here where you got to hassle with the ferry and all. Rumor is, the lawyers got tired of haulin’ they ass way down here to conduct they bidness. How much money it take to get somebody throw some kerosene in there and toss a match? This is Louisiana.”
“They going to rebuild it?”
“Don’t think so.”
“So where do they conduct court business now?”
“Temporary courthouse,” he says. “Bunch of trailers.”
“Where are they?” I ask, looking around.
“Oh, that’s why I think they gon’ get their way. They didn’t even bother to put the temporary courthouse here. Those trailer – they over there in Belle Chasse,” he says with a chuckle. “It more convenient, you see, for the interim.”
CHAPTER 30
I find the temporary courthouse in Belle Chasse – a half-dozen trailers in the parking lot of an abandoned shopping center. Each trailer bears an identifying sign: TRAFFIC COURT, JUVENILE COURT, and so on. When I find the right trailer, the one housing records, the clerk of court tells me I’m out of luck. All the files pertaining to the Port Sulfur Forensic Facility were destroyed in the fire.
“I was told there were computer records for the last few years. I’m just trying to get the name of a lawyer connected to a case.”
She’s a white-haired woman with bright brown eyes. She gives me an ironic smile. “Supposed to be electronic backup, but it never took. They got a new system now. Gentleman who installed the old system got hisself indicted.”
“I see.”
“We got four months of records and that’s about it. You might find something about your case in the newspaper, though. The Peninsula Gazette right here in Belle Chasse is the paper of record. I b’lieve they required to publish filings.”
I mull over the dates as I follow the courthouse clerk’s directions to the Gazette’s office. The Ramirez twins were abducted May 4, 2001, two weeks following Vermillion’s release from Port Sulfur. The petition for release would be earlier – and maybe a lot earlier.
I can start in late April and work my way backward. I’m not looking forward to it. Searching through newspaper morgues is about as tedious as it gets. But I’ve got three hours to kill before my appointment with Lester Flood, so I may as well make a run at it.
But not right now, it seems. As I approach the newspaper office, a young woman with dark spiky hair is locking the door. She’s wearing a halter top, cut-off jeans, and flip-flops. The halter top displays most of a large spider tattooed on one shoulder.
“Will you open again this afternoon?”
The girl cocks her head and sizes me up. “Why?” she asks, in such a way that the word has at least two syllables. “You want to place an ad?”
I explain that I want to look through the morgue.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean the old newspaper files.”
“Ohhhhh. Yeah, I knew that.” She taps her head. “I heard my daddy say that one time. He’s not here. He’s fishing. So what are you looking for?”
“I’m looking for notice of suit. The courthouse records were destroyed in the fire, so this is my only hope.”
“Huh. Your only hope. The Peninsula Gazette your only hope? I wish Daddy was here.” She smiles at me. A surprisingly sweet and shy smile. “I’m Jezebel,” she says. “Jezebel Henton.”