Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, is as old as the United States—seriously, the town was founded in 1776. It has a current population of 755 people. And its claim to fame is its namesake natural hot springs that allegedly have mystical healing powers. Or so Wikipedia informed me this morning.
Given those details, you might expect the courthouse to be a two-hundred-year-old white-columned affair with, like, the ghosts of hanged Confederate soldiers banging around at night. And maybe the old one was like that. But the building that I pull up to just before three o’clock is a hulking beige thing with an asphalt parking lot. Turns out the original burned down.
I got here much later than I’d wanted to. There were a couple of Zoom meetings this morning that I couldn’t get out of, so I was basically held hostage in the apartment while the secret to my life’s happiness was just languishing out here, waiting for me to come find it. Pushing the Prius over eighty for any significant stretch is dicier than counting on Ian to distinguish the cilantro from the parsley at Whole Foods, but thank God the cranky old bitch made it. Somehow, I still have an hour and a half before the court closes for the weekend, which should be plenty of time to pull a single case file.
I find the clerk’s office on the first floor, not far beyond the metal detectors at the entrance. A guy with a buzz cut, about my age, sits behind a plexiglass window, focused on a computer screen. We’re the only two here.
“Hi there,” I say warmly. (Reporter 101: always be nice to the court clerk.) “Sorry to bug you so late on a Friday, but I’m hoping you can help me access a misdemeanor traffic case from 2020.”
He stops pecking at his keyboard and looks up. “You have a case number?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. But I do have a full name and the date of the violation.”
He stares at me for a beat, as if either of us wants this interaction to last any longer than it has to. “Go on then,” he says finally.
“Oh, okay. Uh, it’s Dorothy Lilian Ross. Lilian with one L.” I quickly glance at the note I made in my phone. “She was cited for driving with an expired license on August 6, 2020.”
The man nods and punches the information into his computer.
“Not much of a case here,” he says, his tone a little friendlier. “Looks like she paid a fine and went on her way. Which isn’t unusual for a misdemeanor back when the courts were closed during the pandemic.”
“Thanks, I’ll still take a look at whatever you have.”
“All right. You can wait there while I pull the file.” He gestures to a row of government-gray chairs.
I install myself in one and scroll through Slack and my work email. It took over two hours to drive here from DC, so I have a backlog of messages to sift through. I told Jordana I had an appointment with my gyno, so she wouldn’t wonder why I wasn’t responding right away. The most important email is a calendar invite for the kickoff planning meeting with Mythos Group. Now that The Bexley is up and running and they’ve signed the monthly retainer, we need to strategize a longer-term media plan. It’s on Thursday next week—the same day the dream house is scheduled to hit themarket. But if this little West Virginia adventure goes the way it’s supposed to, I’ll have everything locked up well before then. I RSVP yes, wondering what my life will feel like by next Thursday, just as the clerk taps on the plexiglass and waves me back over.
“Here ya go,” he says, sliding a thin brown folder through the gap beneath the window. “Like I said, not a whole lot in there.”
The folder holds only two pages—a charging document and a filing that confirms payment of a fine. But even among such sparse contents, I see the single, shining prize that will make this entire field trip worthwhile: an address for the offender.
Although on a closer look, I’m worried it might be bogus.
“Thanks,” I say. “Can I have a copy of the charging document, please?”
“It’s fifty cents a page.”
“I think I can swing that.”
He smirks.
Back in the Prius, I open Google Maps and plug in the address listed for Dottie. It’s in a place called Hidden City, West Virginia, which sounds made up. But I’m relieved to find that it is, in fact, a real destination, and according to the app, I can be there in under two hours.
Unlike the thriving, 755-person metropolis of Berkeley Springs, however, Hidden City appears to be a dot on a lonely highway, on the verge of disappearing into the dense national forest that surrounds it. I went into this not knowing exactly where I’d end up tonight, but Berkeley Springs at least has a couple of hotels to choose from. Hidden City, on the other hand, appears to be a hot destination for getting eaten by a bear, or murdered by a human after turning onto the wrong backroad.
I search it on Airbnb, my only hope, and feel some relief as a smattering of options appear—a few don’t look half bad. Must be weekend places owned by DC people. I select an A-frame cabin that rents for $150 a night and send a message to the host to confirm Ican stay there on such short notice. I check Slack and my work email once more—at four o’clock on a beautiful spring Friday, I’m not surprised that things seem to be quieting down. Then I pull out of the courthouse lot and direct Google Maps to Dottie’s last known address.
The drive is desolate, all pastures and woods. DeepDeliveranceterritory.
Eventually, I wind through a small town with a half-shuttered main street that’s over within a couple choruses of the Taylor Swift song pumping through the Prius’s speakers. Then I take a ramp onto a vast, empty highway that careens over a jagged canyon before spitting me out onto another isolated country road.
A couple more turns and I’m carving through a valley lined with farms and rundown churches. Steep cliffs climb up from both sides—the foothills of the Appalachians. The weekend homes must be tucked away somewhere up there, presumably with views impressive enough to make this whole haunted-hayride vibe worth it. But according to my GPS, Dottie’s address is down here, on this road.
The map says I’m nearly there, but as far as I can see, there are no houses on this stretch. Maybe she lives on one of these farms? Or the house is up a hidden driveway or something? I creep along, barely breaking ten miles an hour, so I won’t miss it.
Around the next bend, there’s a tattered-looking building, painted faded red, its front porch cluttered with old furniture. A sign nailed to the side that faces a small parking area reads “Hidden City Antiques.” I turn in. Mine is the only car here.
Gravel crunches beneath my sneakers on the way to the entrance. The wooden address numbers over the porch confirm I’m in the right place. But the door is locked. A small sign in the window informs me, “Thurs–Sun 10–4.” I look at my phone. Already almost six. Fuck.
