A construction trailer sits to the side, bearing a sign that reads PLAQUEMINES PARISH PUBLIC WORKS. A rap on the door summons a red-faced man in a battered yellow hard hat.

He looks me up and down as if I’m from another planet. “Yup?”

“What happened to the courthouse?”

He fails to keep the smirk off his face. “Burned down.”

“When did that happen?”

“January twelve, two thousand three.”

“What a shame.” The sight of the fine old building in ruins depresses me. Where are the records now? Did they survive?

“Shame and a half is what it was,” Hardhat says. “Stood more’n one hundred years. Lasted through I don’t know how many hurricanes. Served its citizens well. Betsy came through here at a hundred forty miles an hour and that wind brought half the river with it when it got to this bank. Lots of folks rode out the storm in the courthouse, up top there. It was the high ground, you understand. A hundred years and then-” He snaps his fingers. “Gone.”

“Is there a new courthouse?”

But he’s not finished.

“Nature couldn’t destroy the place, but man could. And did.”

“You mean it was arson?”

“Right,” he says, with a knowing nod. “And that’s according to none other than the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. They found accelerant residue. Big-time.”

Arson. “But why?”

He wags his head. “They’s a hundred years of history in them files. Least there was. Some say that’s it, some old record somebody wanted permanently lost. Deed or some-ut.”

“But there must be electronic records.”

He laughs. “For the past few years, they is. But for the other ninety-five or whatever, nossir. Those records is solid gone.”

Maybe I can still find out the name of Vermillion’s lawyer. That case is recent enough to fall within the time frame of “the past few years.”

“Myself,” Hardhat says, “I’m partial to ’tother theory about the arson.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, they been tryin’ to move the courthouse for years, to some more convenient location. But the dang pop-u-lace keep votin’ the idea down.” A laugh. “I think it gon’ move now.”

“Move the courthouse? Why?”

“Your lawyers, judges, court reporters, and what all. Long time they been wantin’ it on the east bank, in Belle Chasse. Belle Chasse an easy drive from N’Awlins. Not like gettin’ down here where you got to hassle with the ferry and all. Rumor is, the lawyers got tired of haulin’ they ass way down here to conduct they bidness. How much money it take to get somebody throw some kerosene in there and toss a match? This is Louisiana.”

“They going to rebuild it?”

“Don’t think so.”

“So where do they conduct court business now?”

“Temporary courthouse,” he says. “Bunch of trailers.”

“Where are they?” I ask, looking around.

“Oh, that’s why I think they gon’ get their way. They didn’t even bother to put the temporary courthouse here. Those trailer – they over there in Belle Chasse,” he says with a chuckle. “It more convenient, you see, for the interim.”

I find the temporary courthouse in Belle Chasse – a half-dozen trailers in the parking lot of an abandoned shopping center. Each trailer bears an identifying sign: TRAFFIC COURT, JUVENILE COURT, and so on. When I find the right trailer, the one housing records, the clerk of court tells me I’m out of luck. All the files pertaining to the Port Sulfur Forensic Facility were destroyed in the fire.

“I was told there were computer records for the last few years. I’m just trying to get the name of a lawyer connected to a case.”

She’s a white-haired woman with bright brown eyes. She gives me an ironic smile. “Supposed to be electronic backup, but it never took. They got a new system now. Gentleman who installed the old system got hisself indicted.”

“I see.”

“We got four months of records and that’s about it. You might find something about your case in the newspaper, though. The Peninsula Gazette right here in Belle Chasse is the paper of record. I b’lieve they required to publish filings.”

I mull over the dates as I follow the courthouse clerk’s directions to the Gazette’s office. The Ramirez twins were abducted May 4, 2001, two weeks following Vermillion’s release from Port Sulfur. The petition for release would be earlier – and maybe a lot earlier.

I can start in late April and work my way backward. I’m not looking forward to it. Searching through newspaper morgues is about as tedious as it gets. But I’ve got three hours to kill before my appointment with Lester Flood, so I may as well make a run at it.

But not right now, it seems. As I approach the newspaper office, a young woman with dark spiky hair is locking the door. She’s wearing a halter top, cut-off jeans, and flip-flops. The halter top displays most of a large spider tattooed on one shoulder.

“Will you open again this afternoon?”

The girl cocks her head and sizes me up. “Why?” she asks, in such a way that the word has at least two syllables. “You want to place an ad?”

I explain that I want to look through the morgue.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean the old newspaper files.”

“Ohhhhh. Yeah, I knew that.” She taps her head. “I heard my daddy say that one time. He’s not here. He’s fishing. So what are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for notice of suit. The courthouse records were destroyed in the fire, so this is my only hope.”

“Huh. Your only hope. The Peninsula Gazette your only hope? I wish Daddy was here.” She smiles at me. A surprisingly sweet and shy smile. “I’m Jezebel,” she says. “Jezebel Henton.”

“Alex Callahan.”

She shakes the keys. “Well, Mr. Callahan – I could let you in. Of course, I’d have to stay there with you. How long is this going to take?”

I shrug. “It could take a while.”

“Hunh.” She looks at me.

“I have an appointment at four-thirty.”

She twists a ring on her pinky. “Well, since I have to sit there, I think it’s only fair if you pay for my time, don’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“So you pay me ten dollars an hour,” she says, “’cause otherwise, I could just go watch TV, right?”

“Right.”

“Plus,” Jezebel says, “I’ll help you look. I’m experienced – so that’s why I’m worth ten bucks an hour. I’ve done courthouse searches for Pinky Streiber.”

“Who’s Pinky Streiber?”

“He’s a private investigator,” she says. “You’ve never heard of him?”

“No.”

“He’s legendary,” she insists. “He really is. So-” She sticks out her hand. The fingernails are a shiny black, the polish half chipped away. “Deal?”

She takes me upstairs. I explain what I’m looking for. “What I really need is the name of Charley Vermillion’s lawyer. I’d like to talk to him… or her.”

“That should be on there with the published notice, although sometimes they just list whoever in the firm took it over to file it. And right away I can save you some time,” she says, selecting a key and opening an oak door. “The paper only publishes arrests and suits once a week. Wednesday.”

Jezebel finds it at 3:48. “Binnnnnnnn-go!” she shouts, and then continues in a revved-up voice. “Am I good or am I good? January ninth, 2000. Case number four-nine-six-eight-seven Division A: Charles Jimmie Vermillion vs. Port Sulfur Forensic Facility, et. al., filed by Francis-” She stops suddenly. “Oh, shit. Pardon my mouth.”

“What’s it say?”

“Filed by Francis Bergeron,” she says. “Frankie Bergeron. I hope you don’t need to talk to him real bad.”

“Why?”

“He’s dead – that’s why. Car crash. Over by Des Allemands. Single car accident. Went flying into the bayou. Frankie was a very aggressive driver, so you can take your pick: Some kind of road rage incident, or was he just going too fast and misjudged the curve? No witnesses ever came forward. Hey – what’s the matter?”