Poetic Justice. Andrea J. Johnson
I pulled out the laminated pass I kept clipped to the waistband of my pants and showed it to him. “Every employee has one, but we don’t all have the same level of access. The card only provides entry to the spaces where you’re authorized to work.”
I returned the keycard to my waistband. “Court reporters have access to the judges’ hallway so we can follow the judges from courtroom to courtroom throughout the day—but, we don’t have access to chambers, and we don’t have access to the private entrance the judges use to get in and out of the courthouse. Our cards aren’t programmed for those doors.”
“Who programs the cards?”
“The chief bailiff, Grace Tisdale. She’s head of security.”
“Who else has access to the judges’ hallway?”
“All the bailiffs and the judges’ secretaries. They all have the same level of access as the judges. They can go everywhere. But folks try not to use the hallway…out of respect.”
“Do the attorneys or clerks have access to that back hallway?”
“Clerks don’t have access, and attorneys don’t get issued keycards, not even the state-appointed ones.”
“Can you access the kitchen from the judges’ hallway?”
“I can’t, but it is possible.” I held up my hands and pointed in opposite directions. “One end of the judges’ hallway leads to their private entrance. The opposite end has two doors, one is an exit-only door that connects to the antechamber of the employee entrance, and the other leads into the kitchen. Only a person with an all-access keycard can open the door between the judges’ hallway and the kitchen.”
“Does Judge Wannamaker have an all-access keycard?”
“Of course.”
“We didn’t find one on her. Would she be able to move through the courthouse without it?”
“No.” A bit of worry seeped into my bones. “We’re supposed to keep them on us at all times.”
Detective Daniels grunted and circled something on his legal pad. What was he thinking?
“All right. Let’s talk kitchen access.” He reached for his twenty-four ounces of Royal Farms coffee and the hazelnut smell filled the confines of the narrow deliberation room. “Who has it? Who doesn’t?”
“Well, everyone who has a keycard has access to the kitchen because it’s located in the middle of a hallway that leads to a bunch of personnel offices: the civil unit, the court administrator’s office, the court reporters’ office, the non-public portions of the jury services office, and the Prothonotary’s Office.”
“Prothonotary’s Office?” He asked before draining his to-go cup.
“The formal name for the criminal clerks’ office.”
“Have civilians ever slipped into any of those offices you mentioned?”
“We’ve had occasions when a member of the public hanging around the lobby follows an employee through the personnel doors thinking it’s the restroom. But everyone knows everyone here, so folks don’t get very far.”
“Do you need a keycard to get around once you’re in the personnel area?”
“Just for the court reporters’ office. Otherwise, once you’ve swiped into the personnel area, you’re good to go to the kitchen or any office.”
“What about the evidence closet?”
His non-sequitur sobered me, and I stared blankly at him from across the conference table. “What about it?”
“Do you need a keycard to access the evidence closet?”
“Not really,” I wiped my eyes. They itched as my tears dried. “The evidence closet is in the criminal clerks’ office, and it has its own electronic lock activated by a keypad. Only the clerks have the code, but anyone requiring access to the closet can ask to have it opened. They keep a log sheet inside to record what goes in and out.”
“Have you ever asked for entry?”
“Sure. The transcripts court reporters provide are the official record. Part of our job is to review the evidence and make sure we’ve properly identified all the marked exhibits.”
“Okay. But if you’re the official record, why does the court reporters’ office have its own keycard access? Aren’t trial transcripts part of the public record?”
“Yes, but we’re not a lending library.” I gripped the sides of my chair and searched for the best way to explain without getting defensive. People never grasped a court reporter’s dual role and often challenged the idea. “Even though we’re state employees tasked to capture court proceedings and guard the record, transcripts aren’t created unless requested. Producing one is a separate billing process.”
“Let me get this straight.” He massaged his temples. “If someone wants a copy of the trial transcript, they have to pay for it?”
“Right. We’re independent contractors in that respect. The materials used to create each transcript—steno machines, laptops, printing supplies—come out of our pockets. Transcript fees defray those costs. Basically, our door is locked to protect our investments.”
“Fine.” He sighed and reached for his blazer, pulled out a business card, and slapped it on the table. “Put me down for a copy of the Mulligan trial.”
By the time I finished with the detective and gathered my equipment from the courtroom, it was five, a solid hour past closing time. Dimmed lights and empty halls triumphed over the day’s chaos. Finally, I was alone and grateful for the silence. As I walked toward the court reporters’ office, misery pressed against my heart and zapped all of my energy. What little pep I had left went to juggling the tiny steno machine and laptop, which I almost dropped as I stumbled through the office door.
The shared space had only one window that bathed the room in the sepia haze of the setting sun. The waning light made our three workstations look like an abandoned maze. The sharp right angles of each L-shaped desk cast long shadows across the floor. I switched on the overhead fluorescents to spoil the illusion and carried my equipment to the far-left corner where I stored them away.
The papers on my desk beckoned to me, but I ignored the call of responsibility and headed for the door with my leather jacket, my messenger bag slung across my back. As I locked the door, I checked the mailbox mounted outside our office and noticed a letter with my name on it.
I grabbed the envelope, pressed my back against the door, and ripped the letter open on the spot. After all, it could have been a check. What I found, though, was much more valuable than money—a recommendation letter from Ms. Freddie for law school.
Ma had spent most of my adulthood trying to persuade me to apply to law school. Over the summer, due to a do-it-or-move-out-of-my-house ultimatum from my mom, Ms. Freddie helped me start the arduous process of studying for the LSAT. I was reluctant because I didn’t think my reserved nature was suitable for work as an attorney, but both women insisted my aptitude for analysis and logical thinking was too impressive to ignore. Ms. Freddie promised if I didn’t score well on the test, she’d convince Ma to let her dream go.
To no one’s surprise but mine, my score was nearly perfect, 179. Ms. Freddie had recommended a ton of law schools and insisted I use her as a reference. I had no idea she’d already written a letter.
I slid to the floor with the folded piece of fine linen paper clutched in my hand. Tears streamed down my face and fell onto the page, leaving translucent splotches on the final words to me from my fallen friend.
CHAPTER 6
“Ma, I’m home!”
I stood in the doorway of our two-story colonial and waited for an answer. We lived a mile and a half west of the courthouse off