Michael Baden - Skeleton justice

A sudden cavalcade of horn blowing interrupted her reverie. Manny leaned on her horn, too. What the hell-it didn't change the pileup of cars, but it felt good.

When the horns subsided, a chirping sound remained. Manny cocked her ear, then pawed through her purse for her Black-Berry. It was chirping to remind her of an appointment. She didn't remember scheduling anything for today-certainly no court dates. Her hand closed around the gadget and she scrolled to the calendar function. "Mycroft to vet 3:00" flashed before her eyes.

Oh shit! Because Kenneth was filing papers in court, she was supposed to take Mycroft in to Dr. Costello for a follow-up to make sure the bite he'd received from Kimo was healing properly. Even if she turned around-even if she could turn around-she'd never make it to collect the dog and get to Dr. Costello's office by three o'clock. Better just to call and reschedule.

Manny expected to get the receptionist, but the voice coming over the line was male and familiar. "Dr. Costello? It's Manny Manfreda."

"Ah, hello, Ms. Manfreda. How are you? And how is Mycroft?"

"At the moment, I'm not so good. I'm stuck in traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge, pointed away from your office, so I'm afraid I have to reschedule Mycroft's appointment. I'm sorry it's at the last minute, but could we come in tomorrow?"

"I don't have the appointment book-it's on my wife's computer. Let me go and check."

Manny could hear rustling and shuffling over the line, but Dr. Costello kept talking as he worked. "I see we have a celebrity in our midst. TV news in the taxi on the way in kept repeating you were representing some kids in that case out of New Jersey. It sounds like it is an interesting matter."

"Well, the government's case is shaky." Manny figured she might as well practice projecting the cocky air of confidence all prominent defense attorneys had mastered, even if she was just talking to her dog's vet.

"Good. It's up to lawyers like you to keep the government from overstepping its boundaries."

Manny smiled. Not only was her new vet very attentive to Mycroft but he also shared her own libertarian views. It wasn't essential to be in political harmony with your pet's doctor, but it was a nice bonus. "It's refreshing to hear you say so, Dr. Costello. I think there are a lot of people who think the Preppy Terrorists deserve to be locked up."

The doctor made heavy breathing sounds, which came over the line along with the pinging of a computer program being launched. "Ah, finally I come to tomorrow's schedule. It seems we can fit you in at two or at three-thirty."

"I'll take three-thirty."

Dr. Costello sighed. "It doesn't seem fair."

"Oh, really, I appreciate your squeezing me in. Three-thirty is just fine."

Dr. Costello laughed. "Can I have your autograph tomorrow?"

Manny accelerated and drew two car lengths closer to the end of the bridge. She repeated now what her professors had pounded into her in her fist year of law school. "Justice is never perfect. As long as I'm allowed to be heard, the system is working."

"I hope you're right."

For no discernible reason, the cars ahead of Manny began to move. She pulled onto the BQE, thrilled with the sensation of traveling at fifty miles per hour. She now understood why in California they called a high-speed chase anything approaching double digits. "I know I am."

Manny pulled up beside the last parking spot on Rosamond Street. A man walking by shook his head, doubtful she could squeeze the Porsche into such a tight space. But with a few deft pulls of the steering wheel, Manny had her car snugly aligned with the curb. Success in parallel parking, as so much in life and the law, all hinged on your approach.

She relaxed as she sized up her surroundings. Rosamond Street was a nice middle-class block, lined with nondescript low-rise redbrick apartment buildings. Not fancy, not funky, not scary-the kind of place where schoolteachers and firefighters and mail carriers raised families, avoiding the drama of the highest and lowest ends of New York society.

She found number 329 and stood on the stoop for a moment, considering her approach. If she buzzed apartment 4E and announced herself, would Travis let her in? Her problem solved itself when a man exited the building and obligingly held the door open for her.

Trusting soul, Manny thought. Guess I don't look too threatening. Inside the building's small lobby, Manny hesitated: ancient claustrophobic elevator or dark, steep stairs? Figuring she wouldn't come across as masterful if she arrived at Travis's hideout gasping for breath, Manny reluctantly stepped into the tiny elevator.

Several lurching, grinding minutes later, she stepped out on the fourth floor. As she looked down the L-shaped hall to get her bearings, a slim figure in a baseball cap and denim jacket appeared from around the corner and slipped quickly down the stairs.

"Travis!" Manny shouted, and raced toward the stairs. She got to the railing and peered down at the person on the landing one floor below. She saw a ponytail protruding from under the baseball cap and heaved a sigh of relief. Not Travis after all.

Continuing down the hall, Manny saw the third door on the left was ajar: 4E. The gyro special gave an unhappy lurch in her stomach. New Yorkers, even ones who lived in safe middle-class neighborhoods, did not leave their apartment doors hanging open.

Manny hugged the left wall of the hallway and cautiously approached the door. It was dark inside, too dark to tell if someone was standing there watching her. When Manny got within a foot of the door, she reached out, quickly shoved the door open, and flattened herself back against the wall.

Nothing happened.

"Travis?" she called. "Travis, it's Manny Manfreda, your lawyer. I'm here to help you. Can you hear me?"

No sound. No movement.

Now what? Call 911? And tell them what? "Hi, my client is an escaped federal prisoner and he was supposed to be in this apartment, but he's not, and the door's wide open, so can you send someone right over?" She'd get help all right-two attendants from the psych ward at Kings County Hospital and a syringeful of sedative.

Could she just walk in there and check out the apartment? No, it seemed too much like those teen slasher movies where the girl hears a sound in the basement and goes down alone to investigate even though she knows there's a crazed killer on the loose. TSTL: too stupid to live.

Manny suddenly heard loud voices through the wall, but they weren't raised in anger. She listened. A woman's voice: "You wanna soup?" A man: "Not now. Maybe later." "Oh, later. You letta me know, prince."

She inhaled. The smell took her back to her parents' kitchen in Red Bank. Pasta fagioli, definitely. She could make friends with the people in 4D.

She knocked on the door and heard approaching footsteps.

"Who that gonna be?" the woman inside muttered.

Manny stood in front of the peephole for inspection, smiling and waving like Queen Elizabeth. The door opened a crack on the chain and one dark eye peered out.

"Hi! I wonder if you could help me? I'm looking for your neighbors here."

"Maria and the kids? They move-a last month. Buy a house in Jersey."

"No, not Maria. The people who live there now."

"No one live there now. Landlord gonna fix nice, jack up the rent."

Manny relaxed a bit after the woman introduced herself as Lena Castigliore. Mrs. Castigliore spoke with the same broken-English accent of Manny's beloved grandmother Adeline. Maybe that's why the door was open-workmen coming and going. "Oh, I was just worried because the door is open."

Now the woman in 4D opened her door and shuffled into the hall in her blue quilted slippers, unable to resist investigating this impropriety in her building. "That no good. I call-a da super."