Upside Down by John Ramsey Miller Page B

Saturday night, and no magic this lawyer could have performed could change it.
    Manseur couldn't help but smile inside at the thought of that little low-life weasel taking the needle in thirty-eight hours, but he wished the powers that be had grandfathered in a nice long ride on a lightning bolt straight to hell. He was staring into the eyes of a dead man when the sergeant interrupted.
    “Janitor said that there's a wall safe behind that corkboard. He says Porter had the combination changed when she moved in. And the crime scene unit is downstairs.”
    “Tell them to hold off for a few minutes.”
    Manseur used his pen to open the corkboard. Peering closely at the brass lever, he could see loops and swirls stamped there in dried blood. On the floor at the end of the table, someone had dumped out three textbooks and a composition notebook from Holy Cross School for Girls. “Sergeant, she attends Holy Cross uptown. Let's get this safe cracked open.”
    Manseur walked out and turned right. In the kitchen, a bored patrolman leaned against the counter watching over an ashen-faced and delicate-looking young man who sat slumped at a small table. He stared down at his clasped hands, the thin fingers of which were tipped by immaculate fingernails. Manseur sat down across from the young man, and when the kid looked up Manseur studied his eyes and knew the kid wasn't his killer.
    “How well did you know Ms. Porter, Napoleon?”
    “I've been helping her with two of her capital cases. I knew her sort of well. We weren't friends or anything like that.”
    “You weren't friends?”
    “She was sort of all business.”
    “Husband? Boyfriend?”
    “I only know they lived alone.”
    “What can you tell me about her daughter?”
    “Faith Ann? She's smart as a whip. Doesn't talk much. I've only been around her up here a few times. She's kind of quiet. Shy, I guess.”
    “She and her mother get along all right?”
    “They were super close. Kimberly always treated Faith Ann like an adult. She's way beyond kids her age in lots of ways. She can talk to you about most subjects.”
    “Did you know the other woman,” Manseur asked, “Amber Lee? Could she have been a client?”
    Napoleon shook his head. “Kimberly only does—did appeals on capital cases, so she wasn't a client. I guess she was either related to an inmate, or . . .”
    “Or?” Manseur saw something change in the boy's eyes.
    “She could have been the one who has been calling the office.”
    “Calling about?”
    “A woman has been calling to talk to Kimberly. Wouldn't give her name. Kimberly mentioned she claimed she had evidence that one of the inmates on The Row was innocent and that she had conclusive proof of who was guilty. Kimberly said she thought the woman wanted money for whatever she had. Nuts come out of the woodwork any time a case is in the news or an execution date is coming up. Far as I know, her last call was Wednesday. I left early yesterday, so she might have called back.”
    “I didn't see a computer in the office.” Manseur made a note to request a list of the dead lawyer's incoming and outgoing calls for the past thirty days.
    “Kimberly had a laptop. She carried it back and forth from home. There's a printer both places. She was sort of frugal-minded. Drove an old car, wore the same clothes. But she was the best. She saw things that are invisible to most lawyers. She could have made big bucks. But Kimberly believed in justice, not money. You know what I'm saying?”
    “Yes,” Manseur said, closing his murder book. “I am intimately familiar with the syndrome.”

8

 

    Marta Ruiz felt as if she was standing between heaven and hell as ten high-pressure nozzles—five each on opposing walls—assailed her. She stood naked in the center of the stone-tiled shower stall as cold water stung the front of her body and hot scorched her backside. Her mind was far away, her thoughts as unfocused as the eyes of a newborn. Unless she was in a