Ted filled out the request form with name, address, and the case file number, and they shuffled along together as lawyers, litigants, and investigators of all stripes took the blue-covered files from the clerks and retired to the long tables to examine them. The records of every civil case in the borough were held in this room. If you were suing, being sued, divorcing, or representing a party involved in any of the above, you could find all the pertinent details here. A cross section of the demographics of Queens was present, some people with hope, some with desperation, and many with boredom.

When these dogged searchers found, or despaired of finding, the nuggets of information hidden in these court reports, they dropped the files into a wire box at the end of the counter where another clerk returned them to the stacks. No files left the room unless a judge requested them. Two guards sat on stools at the door checking briefcases as people exited. The process was neither efficient nor satisfying. It had not been designed to be either. The stacks were a cemetery for hopes, dreams, disputes, mistakes, and failures. A museum of unhappy events that, more often than not, had left some poor soul in tears.

Finally, Lester and Ted were first at the counter.

“Edward Molloy. Do I know you?” the bearded man asked, reading the top line on the request form, beginning the foot-dragging dance of the practiced bureaucrat.

“Everybody knows me,” Ted said, handing over his driver’s license. “I used to date Paris Hilton.”

Lester leaned in and whispered conspiratorially: “Ask him about the tattoo.”

The bearded face scrunched up in distaste. “That’s okay,” the clerk said. “I’ll pass. Wait here.” He made a note of Ted’s driver’s license number and lumbered off to retrieve the file.

“Tattoo?” Ted asked.

“First thing that came into my head,” Lester said with a shrug.

“Well, it got him moving.”

“All part of the service.”

The clerk was back in two minutes.

“File’s out,” he said, handing back the form.

“Really?” Ted was surprised. “Can you see if it’s signed out to a judge?” If a judge had requested the file, it could mean that someone else was already working the surplus-money angle. He needed to see the file to be sure, but there would be no urgency. Judges and their clerks could sit on files for months—or years—with no repercussions.

“We’re a little busy, my friend,” the clerk said.

“If it’s out to someone here in the room, we’ll wait for it.”

The man blew out an aggrieved sigh, causing his whiskers to flutter in sympathy. “Give me a minute to look it up.”