Records Room (Ch1 pt1)

Four Sheriff's Deputies turn and stare at me as I enter the building.  I lay my olive green paratrooper bag flat onto the conveyor belt, patches up. The patches are from units I've served with - 9th Infantry, USAFS Sinop, San Jose State ROTC - and my name badge and airborne wings all sewn on the flap. It's my favorite bag, but the real reason I brought it today was to try and establish a bond with the Deputies, as if to say, "I could be one of you."

From behind the Plexiglas, under the close observation of the first Deputy, I remove my belt and watch.  Carefully I reach into my pockets and pull out all the loose change, my cell phone and car keys.  All of these go into a plastic basket that waits for me on the counter.  With his pen, the Deputy prods around the contents of the basket looking for weapons, and I quickly give myself a pat-down to make sure I haven't missed anything.

A second deputy motions for me to step through the metal detector.  Nothing beeps or flashes as I pass under the arch and the officers watching visibly relax a little.   A conditioned response, I think, and not because I look threatening.  One of the Deputies at the back of the counter nonchalantly glances at the contents of my basket before sliding it to me.  His conversation with the forth Deputy carries on uninterrupted as he does this.

I feed the belt through the loops and slip on my watch, then drop my keys and change back into my pockets.  I ask, “Records Office?”

The other Deputy in the conversation, the only one who hasn't actively searched through my stuff, turns slightly and jerks his thumb to the right, “Around the corner.”  I grab my bag, check the basket one more time, and then walk to where the officer pointed. 

Around the corner, a brass-framed sign juts out away from the wall and in stark government fashion has the word RECORDS in small white print on a wood-grain background.  I stop outside the entryway and suddenly my pulse races and I find it hard to breath.  I’m afraid of what I might find; what it might say; and what that might reveal about me, my life, and my childhood.  I’m also afraid I won’t find any of the records I'm looking for and I’ll be right back where I was, not “knowing” anything but what I’ve been told and the brief scraps that I think I remember.  I’m not sure which of these fears is more paralyzing but I’ve come looking for answers - for proof - and I push my fears down and step into the room.

The Records room is a large space that I can tell stretches the whole length of the building on this side.  The plain wall on my right is the wall opposite of the x-ray machine I just passed through.  In front of me is a small lobby area.  Four small cubicles with half-doors topped in glass line the left side.   Behind the cubicles, the Records employees sit at various desks surrounded by file cabinets which are scattered about like sentries.  The wall on the right and the cubicles on the left form a path to a counter, also topped with glass which I assume is bullet proof.

A young blonde woman gets up from her desk and walks to the counter.  I surprise myself by noticing how attractive she is.  But this isn’t the place to flirt, nor the time. The blonde looks at me but doesn’t say anything.  The look on her face is a mixture of impatience and boredom as only a government employee can do.

“I’m looking for court records from 1974 or 1975.”

She turns slightly and grabs a sheet of paper from a stack, “Fill this in.”

I glance at the form, a request for records search, and begin to write.  The impatience in her must win out as she starts to ask questions before I’ve even written in my name.

“Name of the defendant?”
            “Metternich.”  She looks at me funny and I spell it for her as she begins to type on the computer.

“M-e-t…” she starts.  I spell it again only a little slower

“First name?”        

“James.”

“Date of birth?”         

“I don’t know.”

“What year did you say?”

“1974 or ‘75 was the trial.”

“Do you know if he’s still alive?”  She asks.
            “I hope he’s dead.”