Free The Execution of Noa P. Singleton by Elizabeth L. Silver

us. Meanwhile, Nancy Rae’s ring of keys jingled off her belt like a corporate janitress. Metal clanking echoed into my booth as she searched for the proper key.
    “Look, I knew my father only briefly before the trial, and honestly, that is the real reason that Sarah died, okay?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Forget it, Ollie. You’ll never get in touch with that man again. Trust me.”
    “What do you mean, that’s the real reason that Sarah died?”
    “Hands,” Nancy Rae requested, rather timely, as soon as she found her key. She opened the four-by-ten-inch window on the door. It was the size of a mail slot. I stood, backed up to the door, and like awounded bird, poked my bony fingers through the opening from behind, and the metal cuffs once again adorned my wrists. Oliver stared at me during the whole spectacle without budging.
    “Noa, please answer me.”
    “There’s no need. Clearly you already know everything you need to know.”

Chapter 5
    I T WAS AN ANOMALOUS T UESDAY NIGHT IN 2002 WHEN THE phone calls started. For over a week (at precisely 6 p.m. on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights), my apartment became a torrent of moral decay. His moans lubricated the phone lines like a sexually transmitted disease. Whirls of tornadic subjugation seeped through the little holes of the telephone receiver, which, within seconds, was marred by a rapid dial tone. I would answer, and before having a moment to ask who it was—(Paramedic One? Andy Hoskins? the Rigas? my baby brother joking around?)—was hung up on as soon as I spoke.
    I didn’t think much of it after the first call. Or even the second, really. It was only after the third that I started to get a little concerned. I believed, even after everything that preceded my incarceration, in honor and in trust, two virtues that belie my current rank. Whoever was calling me was looking for someone and didn’t realize he or she had the wrong number. He’ll stop when he’s ready to stop, I thought. She must have a reason for this. It’s not exactly stalking per se; he’s just looking for someone, and I’ve got that someone’s phone number. His ex-wife might be terrorizing him, and this is his way of getting even. It’s a wrong number. She’s an angry student who got a B on her last biology test. And so on. But Bobby McManahan, the police officer trainee with whom I was sleeping at the time, did nothave the same patience. So after five calls, I figured I’d ask him for some vaguely professional advice.
    At 6:05 p.m. on that Thursday in February, Bobby was waiting with me for the call before heading back to his night shift. He was working the general street patrol on South Street that month, watching street bums attempt to chat with overstimulated, overprivileged college kids just moments after they pierced their gonads or some other brilliant idea of the like. (The resulting interactions were always humorous for at least one party—and I won’t say which one.) Meanwhile, the phone call was five minutes late.
    “See,” I said to Bobby, smiling at the clock. “No need to tell the police.”
    His face dropped. “I
am
the police.”
    “Oh, Bobby.” I grinned, cupping his face with my palms. His cheeks were pocked with what appeared to be year-old acne that had since cleared in part, and his dusty blond hair was parted down the side a little too carefully for my taste. But he was fairly benign and easy enough to manipulate, which didn’t exactly bode well for his professional ambitions, which wasn’t my problem, but that’s irrelevant at the moment. “You’re far too gullible to carry a gun.”
    He bit his lip. “It’s just a taser.”
    “Well, then, I stand corrected.”
    I looked over at the clock and again at the phone. He was late. It was after six o’clock. There was nothing to cause concern at that point. He was never five minutes late. He was never two minutes late.
    “Go,” I insisted, looking back to Bobby. He wore his nerves like stage