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“Thanks,” I said, taking off toward the wide, winding staircase.
I took the steps two at a time until reaching the second floor. I found the bailiff’s office, right next to the double wooden doors that had a brass plate indicating Courtroom No. 2.
The brass plate on the countertop in the bailiff’s office read: Evelyn Pridy, Bailiff. She was sitting behind the high oak counter, going over case dockets when I interrupted her.
“Excuse me, ma’am," I said, pulling my identification out for her to examine, “I need to see Judge Sinclair.”
She perused my badge, unimpressed.
“In reference to?” she asked, raising her eyes to mine.
“I need a warrant signed for a search of several properties in Cobb County.”
“Is this a federal warrant, Agent Matthews?”
Damn! How did I know she was going to ask that?
“No, ma’am,” I replied, “It was prepared according to Georgia State requirements.”
“So then the warrant isn’t serving any federal purpose?”
“That’s correct, ma’am.”
I was getting pissed at the third degree; she seemed to be getting pissed with each “ma’am” I laid on her.
“May I see the warrants, Agent Matthews?”
“Certainly,” I said, giving her a smile.
She took them from me, perusing them up and down as if she was looking for something, anything to in order to toss them back.
“Agent Matthews,” she said, now taking on a conciliatory tone, “there is nothing filled in here under “Probable Cause.”
“I’d like to discuss that with the judge, ma’am.”
“Agent Matthews,” she sighed, “perhaps the feds don’t understand, or are not used to having to abide my state statute on these things, but I am the door to the judge right now. If you don’t get by me, you don’t see the judge.”
The wrinkled old prune had just severed my last nerve.
“Listen, lady,” I said, my voice rising, “while this case may not be on the federal docket at this moment in time, there are certainly extenuating circumstances involved which relate to an on-going federal case involving two fugitives from justice.
"So, I am going to see that judge regardless as to who or what door I have to plow through in order to do it, got that?”
I noticed the color drain from her face around the same time a tall, dark haired man not much older than me opened the door behind her desk that led to his chambers. The hallowed chambers, I thought to myself, ready to rip into him if necessary.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said, motioning me to come around the oak counter towards the door to his chambers. “It’s alright, Evelyn. I’ll see the agent.”
She let out a huff that said clearly she was not pleased.
I went through the doorway, hearing the judge close the heavy, wooden door behind us.
He took a seat behind his desk. He didn’t have the robes going yet. He didn’t shrug that on until right before he left chambers for the courtroom. He motioned for me to take a seat opposite him, holding his hand out for the packet of papers I had requested Kim produce prior to leaving D.C.
He read through them quickly and looked up.
“Trace Matthews?” He had read my signature on the bottom where the line asked who the “requestor” was. He was eyeing me as if he somehow knew me.
“Are you related to the ‘Trace Matthews’ who owns the bottling plant and distillery near Sonoma, California?”
