“Yes, I have a subpoena for records.” I’d never done this before, but I did my best to project an air of confidence.
She stared. I stared back. Was I supposed to say more?
“For what records?” She tapped her impossibly long nails on her desk.
“Oh, um, for records about a woman who was brought here a couple of months ago.” I stuffed the subpoena under the glass partition.
She unfolded the papers and read the entire sheet. It took an inordinate amount of time, and when she was done, she looked up at me and blinked slowly.
“So, can I get the records?” I put a hand on my hip.
Turning to her computer, she began to type much, much faster than she read. Before long she reached up to her screen and tapped on it with a blood red nail. “She gave her name as Ginger Smith when she was admitted.” She rolled her eyes. “A fake, I’m sure. She’d been beaten pretty badly and was released the next day. No contact information.” She hit a button, and a printer whirred to life behind her.
Ginger Smith. A name—even if it was a fake—was something I could work with. The printer kicked out a few more pages, and she collected them, banging them on her desk to get them straight before stapling the thin sheaf together with an efficient click.
“Twenty-five pages, twenty-five dollars. Cash or credit only. No checks.”
“Oh.” I pulled out my wallet and paid. She handed me the records.
I felt like I’d hit gold. I hurried back to my car and scanned through the papers, trying to find any particular detail that could help the case. Ginger reported pain in her face, neck, and stomach—all places where she’d been hit—and further requested a bevy of narcotics. I flipped to the next page, which consisted of nurses’ notes. Vital signs, medicines given, food ordered, and a mass of other unimportant details filled the pages. The last two sheets were covered with handwritten notes.
I skimmed until I found the needle in the haystack. A nurse with a curlicue style of writing seemed to have gotten more information from the reluctant Ginger Smith. “Lives on Alix St. off and on, worked part-time at the spool plant before laid off, no living family, refer to social services upon release.”
I checked my phone for directions to Alix Street. Only a few minutes from the hospital, the neighborhood was ramshackle and spotty. Burned-out houses and vacant lots overpowered the few dilapidated homes that remained standing.
Edging down the street, I ignored the curious looks from people sitting on curbs and standing in the shadow of front porches. The sun was high and bright, but it didn’t seem to warm the landscape, only made the flaws and cracks bigger, more insurmountable.
The street was thankfully short, and only a few homes were in livable condition. I steeled myself and grabbed my purse and a legal pad. Knocking on doors in broad daylight with plenty of witnesses around seemed safe enough, though my hand shook a little as I gripped the door handle and pulled. I stepped out and looped my bag over my shoulder.
My legal pad slipped from my hand, and I bent down to retrieve it, eliciting whistles from a couple of men standing on the corner about a block away. Great. I smoothed down my black skirt and picked my way across the high grass in front of the first house. It was a faded pink, the paint cracking and peeling in the humid New Orleans weather. I cleared my throat and knocked. Silence. I knocked again, louder this time. The stagnant air remained still, and no movement sounded from inside.
I turned and cut through the yard to the next house. Climbing the steps, I noticed two men from the street corner break off and head slowly in my direction. My heart sped up, but I swallowed the lump in my throat and knocked on the door. A dog barked from the other side, so loud and close that I yelped and backed up. Still barking violently, it clawed at the wooden door, shaking it on its hinges.
I retreated down the steps and back toward my car. The two men from the corner stood there waiting for me. One leaned against the passenger door; the other one was circling the car and peeking in the windows.
“Hey!” I stomped up, trying to hide my fear under a tough-gal mask. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Just looking, baby. That’s all.” He finished his inspection and came to stand next to his friend. “What are you looking for out here, anyway?” He dropped his gaze to my heels, then ran it up my bare legs to my skirt and then finally back to my eyes.
My thighs clenched together all on their own. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Me?”
I shook my head and clutched my legal pad tightly to my chest. “A woman. Ginger Smith.”
He smiled, a golden tooth glinting in the sunlight. “I don’t know no Ginger living on this street. What she look like?”