SEVEN

HARLAN

As Quinn turned onto Harlan’s Main Street, Ellie was relieved to see the dark blue van no longer followed them.

Moments later, she recognized two elderly ladies chatting outside the Cumberland Jewelry Store. Last time she was in town, they were chatting in the same exact spot.

That’s what she liked about her hometown. Stuff stayed put. Stores remained pretty much where you left them.

Like the old Bank & Trust Building Quinn was driving past. It had stood on Central Street since 1872. She’d once proudly deposited two dollars a week from her allowance in the bank. Ellie saw the Margie Grand Theater building where she and her best friend, Carrie, had worked as ushers on weekends. The building now held a loan office and day-care center. Many women needed the former to pay for the latter. When the coalmines closed, husbands lost jobs and many wives had to find work.

Ahead, she saw the Harlan County Courthouse where she hoped to find some record of her adoption.

They parked, got out and walked toward the entrance. She noticed the big statue of the World War I Soldier that reminded her of Gary Cooper in Sergeant York. Her neighbor lady had said, “Ellie, you look just like Gary Cooper’s beautiful co-star, Joan Leslie.” Ellie thanked her, but then learned the neighbor was legally blind.

They walked past the Coal Miners’ Wall built in the 1920s.

“Why does the wall have two water fountains?” he asked.

“One for Coloreds, one for Whites.”

“Ah yes, the old South. But times change. President Obama may now drink at either fountain.”

Inside the courthouse, they walked up to a reception counter. Ellie recognized the sixtyish, gray-haired woman wearing a red plaid dress. Around her neck hung gold-rimmed glasses. Her hazel eyes were locked on her computer screen.

“Hi, Mrs. Browne.”

Agnes Browne turned and smiled. “Well, I declare, Ellie Stuart, if you aren’t getting prettier by the day!”

Ellie felt herself blush. “Thank you, ma’am. “This is Quinn Parker.”

Quinn and Mrs. Browne shook hands.

“How you liking Louisville, Ellie?”

“Just fine, ma’am.”

“Good. How can I help you, hon?”

“Well, as you know, I was adopted by Harold and Joyce Stuart.”

Agnes nodded. “Joyce told me a few years back.”

“I wondered if you keep records here of county adoptions from twenty-one years ago?”

“We used to, Ellie, but since 1962 all adoption records are filed up at the Department for Community Services at the capital in Frankfort.”

Just like Quinn said they were.

“But hang on,” Agnes said. “We keep some old backup files in the storage room. Your record should be back there.”

Ellie’s hope rose.

“Y’all have a seat while I look.” Agnes gestured toward some wooden chairs, then walked into a room filled with wall-to-wall filing cabinets.

Ellie and Quinn sat and waited. She looked around and recognized three other middle-aged women working at computers, but not the young man with a silver earring who was sorting mail into wall slots.

Is he the same guy I talked to on the phone a couple of days ago when the line mysteriously disconnected?

Agnes Browne walked back toward them, looking puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” Ellie asked.

“Well, I found the backup files for the year you were born and adopted. But for some dang reason, your file was missing!”

Ellie slumped against the counter.

“Do you have a copy of your birth certificate, Ellie?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ellie took a file from her satchel, pulled out her certificate and handed it to Agnes.

As Agnes scanned the document, she frowned at something in the corner.

“What’s wrong?” Ellie asked.

“This state seal, hon, is … too small.”

Agnes reached into a drawer and pulled out another birth certificate. “This here’s the genuine seal. The state’s began using this larger seal about eleven years before you were born.”

Ellie saw the genuine state seal was at least fifty percent larger.

“I’ve seen some of these small-seal certificates over the years. Turned out they were all … ah … well, not genuine, you know, fakes.”

Quinn leaned forward. “So whoever set up Ellie’s adoption, gave Joyce and Harold this fake birth certificate.”

“Seems to be the case,” Agnes said.

“What about the judge who oversaw adoptions back then?” Quinn asked.

“Judge Warren Nesbitt. He handled adoptions in these parts then.”

“Where is he now?”

Agnes pointed out the window. “Judge Warren’s over at the Sunshine Senior Center on Cumberland Street.”

“Can we visit him?” Ellie asked.

“Sure. But … well … I hear Warren’s memory is kinda dotty. You know good days, bad days.”

“Maybe he’s having a good day,” Quinn said.

“Damn sure worth a try,” Agnes said. “If y’all go, tell old Warren that Agnes Browne said hi.”

“Will do. And thank you, Mrs. Browne.”

“You’re welcome, hon. And good luck!”

As Ellie and Quinn walked from the courthouse, she hoped Judge Nesbitt was having a good memory day.

But the way her luck was running, he probably couldn’t remember what he ate for breakfast.

As he sorted the courthouse mail, Barrett Sinkhorn watched Ellie Stuart and the big guy named Quinn leave the building. Sink-horn tugged his silver earring, knowing what he had to do. He’d gone on full alert when he’d heard the name Ellie Stuart – the name he’d been paid to listen for over the past six years.

And for six years, he’d heard nothing. Then a few days ago, Ellie Stuart herself phoned him and asked about her adoption records. He’d put her on hold, and seconds later, disconnected the line.

Then today, she shows up here, snooping around.

Sinkhorn had to report the news immediately.

“Agnes?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m fixin’ to go out for a smoke,” he said, heading toward the door.

Agnes frowned, but nodded.

Outside, he walked behind the trash bin area, lit up a cigarette, made sure no one was listening, then took out his cell phone and dialed.

A man answered.

“Ellie Stuart was just here.”

Long pause. “And …?”

“Well, she was asking about her adoption papers.”

Longer pause.

“Agnes went to the storage room to check for Ellie’s old backup file.”

“But you destroyed that file, right?”

“Yes, sir, I sure did.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, Ellie’s fixin’ to go see Judge Warren. See what he remembers.”

“He won’t remember jack-shit. His brain’s mush!”

“You want me to do anything.”

Long pause. “We’ll handle her from now on.”