Sparring Partners

(1)

It took a federal lawsuit to get the shelving for Cody’s collection of paperbacks, almost two thousand of them. They covered three walls of his eight-by-ten cell and were arranged in near perfect order by the author’s last name. He had read and reread every one of them and could find any book in an instant. Almost all were fiction. He had little interest in science or history or religion, boring subjects, in his opinion. The fiction took him to other worlds, other places, and he spent most of his twenty-three hours a day in solitary with his nose stuck in a novel.

The books were everywhere — paperback only because the wise men who ran the prison had decreed long ago that a hardback could be used as a weapon, at least by inmates. United States crime data had yet to record a single incident of a victim being slaughtered by a hardback book, but such was life on the outside. On death row almost everything was deemed potentially dangerous. And besides, the well-used books were gifts from a lady who lived on a pension and certainly couldn’t afford to buy and ship heavier novels. Plus, there was always the question of shelf space. The collection was now twelve years old, and from all indications was about to come to an end. If Cody dodged the latest bullet, and it appeared as though he would not, his cell would soon be overrun with books. Transferring to a larger one was out of the question — they were all eight-by-ten.

In one corner there was a stainless-steel sink and toilet, and above it a small color television was mounted to the wall. Books were stacked next to the toilet and on top of the television. It was a Motorola, a gift from a charity in Belgium, and when it arrived almost ten years ago Cody burst into tears and cried for hours, overwhelmed at his good fortune. He and the other inmates lucky enough to have televisions were allowed to watch anything on the networks from 8:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m., an arbitrary schedule imposed by the wise men with no explanation.

His bed was a concrete slab with a foam-rubber mattress, and for the last fourteen years he had struggled to get comfortable enough to sleep. Above it, there was once a top bunk with a metal frame, back when each cell on The Row housed two men. Then the rules changed, the bunks were replaced by concrete, and Cody filled the wall above him with rows of books.

The spines of the paperbacks were a lively mix of all colors and brightened his sad little world. When he took a break from reading, he would often sit on his bunk and stare at the walls, covered from floor to ceiling, as high as he could reach, with a dizzying assemblage of stories that had taken him around the world and back many times. Most of the men on The Row were insane. Solitary confinement does that to any human. But Cody’s mind was hyper, active, sharp, and all because of his books.

On occasion he would loan one to a guy down The Row, but only to those he liked. A short list. Failure to return them promptly would cause a ruckus, with the guards intervening. Once a week a trustee would arrive pushing his cart from the main prison library and offer two titles, never more than two. As usual, they saved the worst for death row and the paperbacks were all well worn, dog-eared, smudged, and often missing covers and even pages. What kind of creep carefully removes a page or two just to screw with the next reader? Prison was full of them.

Though Cody had never seen the prison library, he suspected his was in far better shape and had more titles.

His fourth wall was nothing but thick bars, with a door in the center and a slit for food trays. Directly across the hall was Johnny Lane, a black guy who had killed his wife and two stepchildren in a drug-fueled rage. When he arrived nine years earlier he was basically illiterate. Cody had patiently taught him to read and shared many of his books. Then Johnny got religion and read only the Bible. Years ago he decided that God was calling him to preach and he delivered long sermons at full throttle up and down The Row until the complaints finally silenced him. When it became apparent that God was not going to rescue him, he withdrew even further into his cell and covered the bars with bedsheets and old cardboard so that his isolation was complete. He refused the twice-weekly showers and the one hour of daily exercise in the yard. He declined most of the food and had not shaved in years. Cody could not remember the last time he had seen or spoken to Johnny, who slept on a slab twenty feet away.

The prison had strict rules about what could be kept in a death row cell. Ten books was the max until Cody had filed suit. The warden at the time had been furious when he lost in federal court. In fourteen years, Cody had filed, on his own and with no lawyer, a total of five lawsuits. Books, television, food, exercise, and he’d won them all but air-conditioning and proper heat.

But his litigating days were over. Indeed, all of his days were over. He had three hours to live. His last meal had been ordered — pepperoni pizza and a strawberry milkshake.

(2)

The boss of death row was Marvin, a burly African American guard who had been keeping things in order for over a decade. He liked his turf because the men were isolated and caused little trouble. As a general rule, he treated them well and expected the same from the other guards, and most complied. Some, though, were hard-asses, a few could even be cruel. Marvin wasn’t there twenty-four hours a day and couldn’t watch everything.

A buzzer rattles at the far end of the hall and a heavy door opens with a thud. Marvin soon appears at the cell. He looks through the bars and asks, “How you doin’, Cody?”

The Row is quiet for a change, the only noise the muted sounds from a few televisions. The usual bantering between the bars isn’t there. It’s a big night, time for an execution, and the inmates are withdrawn into their own worlds, their own thoughts, and the reality that they are all sentenced to death and this moment is inevitable.

Cody is sitting on his bed, staring at the television. He nods at Marvin as he stands and points his remote at the screen. The voice of a news anchor grows louder:

“The execution of Cody Wallace is still on schedule. Despite the usual last-minute appeals by the lawyers, the execution should take place in about three hours, at ten p.m. to be exact. A petition for clemency is still pending in the governor’s office but there is no word.”

Cody takes a step closer to the television.

“It has been fourteen years since Wallace, now age twenty-nine, was convicted of killing Dorothy and Earl Baker in their rural home during a botched break-in and robbery.”

On the screen, the news anchor disappears and is replaced by the two faces of the victims.

“Wallace’s brother, Brian, died at the scene. Wallace was only fifteen when he was convicted of capital murder, and if things go as planned he will be the youngest man ever executed in this state. Experts are expecting no further delays in the execution.”

Cody presses a button, turns off the television, and takes a step toward the bars. “Well, there you have it, Marvin. If Channel 5 says it’s gonna happen, then I’m as good as dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Marvin says in a soft voice. Others might be trying to listen.

“Don’t be sorry, Marvin. We knew this day was coming. Let’s get it over with.”

“Anything I can do for you?”

“Not now. You could’ve helped me escape years ago. We missed our chance.”

“I guess it’s too late. Look, your lawyer is here to see you. Can I send him back?”

“Sure. And thanks, Marvin, for everything.”

Marvin backs away and disappears. The buzzer rattles again and Jack Garber appears, holding thick files. He has long hair pulled back in a ponytail, a rumpled suit, the perfect picture of a frantic death penalty lawyer about to lose another one.

“How you doing, man?” he asks, almost in a whisper.

“Great. Tell me something good.”

“The Supreme Court can’t make up its mind, got those clowns chasing their tails. And the governor won’t say yes or no but then he likes to wait until the courts have slammed all the doors so he can come out of his cave for a dramatic announcement.”

“Has he ever granted clemency at the last minute?”

“No, of course not.”

“And didn’t he campaign on the promise of more and quicker executions?”

“I believe so.”

“Then why are we wasting time with the governor?”

“You got a better idea? We’re running out of options here, Cody. Things are getting rather dicey.”

Cody laughs and says, “Dicey?” Then he catches himself, lowers his voice, and says, “I’m three hours away from getting my ass strapped to a gurney and a needle stuck in my arm, so, yes, Jack, I’d say things are pretty dicey. For some reason I do feel, should I say, rather vulnerable.”

Cody walks closer to the bars and looks at Garber. For a long moment they stare at each other. “It’s over, isn’t it?”

Jack shakes his head and in a low voice says, “No, but it’s almost over. I’m still tossing Hail Marys.”

“My odds?”

Jack shrugs and says, “I don’t know. One in a hundred. It’s getting late.”

Cody moves even closer and their noses are inches apart. “It’s over and I’m cool with that. I’m tired of the drama, tired of the waiting, tired of the food, tired of a lot of things, Jack. I’m ready to go.”

“Don’t say that. I never give up.”

“I’ve been here for fourteen years, Jack. I’m tired of this place.”

“The Supreme Court will one day declare that it is not right to put minors on trial for capital murder, but it won’t happen tonight, I’m afraid.”

“I was fifteen years old, in that courtroom, with a terrible lawyer. The jury hated me and hated him. I never had a chance, Jack. I wish you’d been my lawyer at the trial.”

“So do I.”

“Come to think of it, Jack, I’ve never had much of a chance anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, Cody.”

Cody takes a step back and manages a smile. “Sorry for the self-pity.”

“It’s okay. You’re entitled to it right now.”

“How many executions have you witnessed, Jack?”

“Three.”

“Is that enough?”

“More than.”

“Good, because I don’t want you to watch me die. No witnesses on my side of the room. Got that? Let the Baker family pray and cry and cheer when I stop breathing. I guess they deserve it. Maybe it’ll make ’em feel better. But I don’t want anybody crying for me.”

“Are you sure? I’ll be there if you need me.”

“Nope, I’ve made up my mind, Jack. You’ve fought like hell to keep me alive and you’re not going to watch me die.”

“As you wish. It’s your party.”

“It is indeed.”

Jack looks somewhat relieved and glances at his watch. “I need to go, gotta call the court. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Go get ’em, tiger.”

Jack leaves and a door clangs somewhere down the hall. Cody sits on the edge of his bed, deep in thought. The buzzer sounds again and Marvin is back. Cody returns to the bars and says, “What now?”

“Say, look, Cody, the warden is here to go over the last-minute stuff.”

“I thought we did that yesterday.”

“Well, he wants to do it again.” Marvin leans in closer to the bars. “You see, Cody, he’s pretty nervous because this is his first execution.”

“Mine too.”

“Right, well he needs to go over some things, rules and procedures, stuff like that. Be nice to him because he’s my boss.”

“Why should I worry about being nice to the warden? I’ll be dead in three hours.”

“Come on, Cody. He’s got a doctor with him so don’t make trouble.”

“A doctor?”

“Right. One of the rules. They need to make sure you’re healthy enough to take the needle.”

Cody laughs and says, “You’re kidding, right?”

“Dead serious, Cody. Nobody’s kidding around tonight.”

Cody backs away and laughs hysterically. As he does, the warden and a doctor in a white coat appear at the door as Marvin eases into the background. The warden holds a legal pad with his checklist and is visibly nervous. Cody eventually steps back to the bars. The doctor cautiously keeps his distance.

The warden says, “Okay, Wallace, as I said yesterday, we have procedures to follow. If you don’t like them, don’t blame me. They were on the books before I got here. This is Dr. Paxton, the head physician here at the prison.”

“A real pleasure,” Cody says.

Paxton nods but only because he has to.

The warden says, “A physical exam is required before an execution, so that’s why Dr. Paxton is here.”

“Makes perfect sense to me, Warden. Same as all your other rules.”

“I didn’t make them, as I said.”

“This is your first execution, right. You seem a little nervous.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Just relax, Warden. We’ll get through this together.”

“Would you please step over here and cooperate?”

Cody steps to the bars and thrusts his right arm through them. Paxton quickly pulls on a pair of plastic gloves and wraps the blood pressure cuff around Cody’s right bicep. Using his stethoscope, he checks here and there, a cursory exam.

The warden holds his legal pad and says, “You still have no approved witnesses, right? No one?”

“Warden, I’ve been here for fourteen years, two months, twenty-four days, and I’ve not had a single visitor, other than my lawyer. I have no mother, father, siblings, cousins, no family whatsoever. No friends, neither here nor out there. So who in hell would I invite to my execution?”

“Okay, moving right along. What about your arrangements?”

“Arrangements? You mean my dead body? Burn it. Cremate it. Flush the ashes down the toilet because I don’t want a trace of me left on this earth. Got that?”

“Clear enough.”

Paxton lowers his stethoscope and removes the cuff. “Blood pressure is one-fifty over one hundred, a little elevated.”

Cody pulls back his arm and says, “Elevated? Gee I wonder why.”

“Pulse is ninety-five, above normal.”

“Normal? What’s normal when you’re three hours away from getting killed? Don’t I get a sedative or something to knock off the edge?”

Paxton says officially, “You’re entitled to two Valium.”

“Valium? That’s nothing. Hell, I’m about to be murdered. Why can’t I have some crack or at least a beer?”

The warden is quick to say, “Sorry, we have rules.”

“Yeah, yeah, and one of your rules is that I gotta be healthy enough to execute.”

“It’s right here in black and white.”

Cody laughs again and shakes his head in disbelief and disgust. They might be in a hurry but he is not. “Ten years ago, long before you guys got here, there was a bad dude named Hacksaw Henderson. Everybody called him Hack, for short. He killed a bunch of people and let’s just say a hacksaw was involved. Anyway, Hack finally got his date with the needle, and the day before the big event he overdosed on a bunch of painkillers and Valium he’d been stockpiling. They found him on the floor of his cell, out of it. I’m sure there’s a rule, probably right there in black and white, says you can’t kill yourself on death row, and certainly not right before all the fun and excitement of a big execution, so they freaked out, rushed Hack to the hospital, pumped his stomach, barely saved his life, then raced him back over here in the nick of time for his execution.”

The warden says, “That’s nice. Are you finished?”

“Frankly, I couldn’t stand the son of a bitch and I was happy when he was gone.”

“Are you finished?”

“Almost, got about two hours and forty minutes.”

Dr. Paxton clears his throat and says, “If we could wrap things up here.”

Cody glares at him and asks, “Are you the same doctor who’ll pronounce me dead?”

“I am. It’s part of my job.”

“Job? Is this the kind of job you were thinking about when you went to med school?”

“Come on, Wallace,” the warden says.

“You must’ve finished dead last in your class to end up with a dipshit job like this.”

“Knock it off, Wallace.”

“How many men have you pronounced dead after a lethal injection?”

“Three.”

“And does that bother you?”

“Not really.”

Cody suddenly grabs the bars in front of Paxton and says, “I hereby declare myself healthy enough to be murdered by the state. This little exam is over. Now, get out of here.”

Paxton offers a small plastic tube and says, “You got it, pal. Here’s your Valium.” He disappears quickly and the door clangs in the distance.

The warden studies his legal pad and says, “Moving right along. Your last meal will be served at nine p.m. Do you really want a frozen pizza?”

“That’s what I said. Got a problem with it?”

“No, but you could do much better. I mean, how about a big thick steak with fries and chocolate cake. Something like that?”

“Is everything going to be difficult tonight? Why do you care what I eat?”

“Okay, okay. What about the chaplain? Would you like to see him?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe have a chat.”

“What would we talk about?”

“I don’t know, but he’s been through this a few times and I’m sure he’ll think of something.”

“I doubt we have much in common. Never been to church in my life, Warden, at least not to worship. Me and Brian robbed a few out in the country when we were hungry. Some really crappy food. Peanut butter, cheap cookies, stuff like that. The food was so bad we stopped robbing churches and went back to doing houses.”

“I see. Most people, when they come this far and the end is near, want to make sure things are right with God, maybe confess their sins, things like that.”

“Why would I confess my sins? Hell, I can’t even remember them.”

“So, no to the chaplain?”

“Oh, I don’t care. If it makes him feel like he’s doing his job, run him through. Anybody else on your checklist there? Reporters, politicians, anybody else want a piece of me before I go under?”

The warden ignores the question and checks off something on his legal pad. “What about your estate?”

“My what?”

“Your estate. Your assets. Your things.”

Cody laughs and waves his arms. “This is it, boss. Look around. Eight-by-ten, my world for the past fourteen years. All I own is right here.”

“What about all the books?”

“What about ’em?” Cody steps to the center of his cell and admires his collection. “My library. One thousand, nine hundred and forty books. All sent to me by a sweet little lady in North Platte, Nebraska. They’re worth everything to me and nothing to anyone else. I’d say ship ’em back to her but I can’t afford the freight.”

“We’re not paying for the shipping.”

“I didn’t ask you to. Give ’em to the prison library. Hell, I got more books than they do.”

“The library can’t accept books from inmates.”

“Another brilliant rule! Please give me the rationale behind that one.”

“I really don’t know.”

“There is none, same as most of your rules. Burn the damned things. Throw them in the fire with me and we’ll have the first literary cremation in the history of this wonderful state.”

“And your clothing, court files, television, letters, radio, fan?”

“Burn, burn, burn. I don’t care.”

The warden scribbles on his list, lowers his pad, clears his voice, but keeps it low. “Now, Wallace, have you given any thought to your last statement, your final words?”

“Yes, but I haven’t decided. I’ll think of something.”

“Some guys go down swinging, claiming they’re not guilty to the bitter end. Others ask for forgiveness. Some cry, some curse, some quote Scripture.”

“I thought this was your first execution.”

“It is, but I’ve done my homework. I’ve listened to some of the last statements. They’re recorded, you know? And kept on file.”

“And why do you record them?”

“I have no idea. Just one of our little procedures.”

“Of course. How long can I talk when I give my last words?”

“There’s no limit.”

“So, under your rules, I could do one of those filibuster things and talk for days while you guys wait, right?”

“Technically, yes, I suppose, but I’d probably get bored and eventually give the executioner the high sign.”

“But that’s against the rules.”

“What are you going to do, sue me?”

“I’d love to, believe me I would. I’m four out of five, you know? But I never got the chance to pop you for one.”

“Too late now.”

“And who’s the executioner?”

“His identity is always protected.”

“Is it true that he sits in his little dark room not far from my gurney and looks out through one-way glass and waits for you to give him the thumbs? Is that the way it happens, Warden?”

“That’s close enough.”

“He sneaks in, sneaks out, gets paid a thousand bucks in cash, and no one knows his name?”

“No one but me.”

“I have a question for you, Warden. Why all this secrecy? If Americans love the death penalty so much, why not do the killings in public? They used to, you know. I’ve read about plenty of executions in the old days. Folks loved them, would come from miles around for an official hanging or a firing squad. Great entertainment. Justice was done. Everybody rode their wagons home and felt good about themselves. An eye for an eye. Why don’t we do that now, Warden?”

“I don’t make the laws.”

“Is it because we’re ashamed of what we’re doing?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you ashamed, Warden?”

“No, I don’t feel shame, but I don’t like this part of my job.”

“That’s hard to believe, Warden. I think you like this. You chose a career in corrections because you believe in punishment. And this is the ultimate, the big moment. Your first execution and you are the man. How many reporters have you talked to today, Warden? How many interviews?”

“I need to go check on your pizza.” The warden backs away, his checklist complete.

“Thank you. And it’s pepperoni, not sausage.”

When the warden and Marvin are gone and the door bangs shut, Cody looks around his cell and mumbles, “My estate.” He sits on the edge of his bunk and shakes out two tablets from the small plastic pill bottle Paxton gave him.

He tosses them through the bars.

(3)

The minutes drag by as The Row grows even quieter. Cody tries to read a paperback but has trouble concentrating. He sits on the floor, breathes heavy and slow, and tries to meditate.

The buzzer sounds again and he wonders who’s next.

Like a ghost, and without the slightest noise or footfalls, Padre appears from nowhere and stands at the bars. As always, he wears pointed-toe boots that add an inch or two to his slight frame, and old jeans so faded that college kids wouldn’t wear them. But from the waist up he’s all business, with a black shirt, white collar. It’s June, the first day of summer, but the air is cool so he’s wearing a crisp black blazer.

Padre is a retired priest who’s been counseling the convicts for a decade. His rounds bring him to The Row and he stands outside the cells and whispers through the bars to the few who wish to talk to him. Most do not. Most condemned men have lost faith in everything, with God getting more than his share of blame.

The rules allow the chaplain to sit with the condemned man in the final hour before he’s strapped down, so, in theory, he’s the last confidant available. About half the men choose to confess and ask forgiveness at the last moment. Others just want someone to talk to. A few avoid the ritual.

“How are you, Cody?” he asks softly.

Cody stands and smiles and walks to the door. “Hello, Padre. Thanks for stopping by.”

Father, Pastor, Reverend, Preacher — all the usual names had been used, but Padre stuck when Freddie Gomez was around. He was a devout Catholic, his murders notwithstanding, and he wanted the priest at his cell at every opportunity for a quiet little Mass. He and Padre became extremely close. Everybody loved Freddie and his execution hit The Row hard.

“How are you, my friend?”

“I’m all right, under the circumstances. My lawyer just left and says we’ve run out of bullets.”

“I’m so sorry, Cody. No one deserves this.”

“I’m at peace, Padre. I really am. If given the choice of living in this hole for another forty years or taking the needle, then I’d happily check out. I guess somebody else chose for me.”

“I understand, Cody. Would you like me to sit with you in the holding room?”

“Not really, Padre. I’d rather be alone.”

“As you wish.”

Both men study the floor for a moment. Cody says, “Just curious, Padre. How many men want you to pray with them at the last minute?”

“Most have given up on prayer.”

“Any dramatic last-minute come-to-Jesus conversions?”

“No, never. Men on death row have plenty of time to either grow with the faith or reject it altogether. By the time they get to the end, they are well grounded and secure in whatever they believe. So, no. No last-minute conversions, at least not on my watch.”

“Not going to happen tonight.”

“As you wish, Cody. We once talked all the time, remember those days?”

“I do. We had some pretty serious conversations about God and all his mysteries, and we didn’t agree on much, as I recall.”

“That’s my recollection. You stuck to a rather strong opinion that God does not exist.”

“Yes, I did, and I don’t really want to go back there, Padre. I haven’t changed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Cody. Are you still reading the Bible?”

“Not really. I mean, I’ve read it cover to cover, from Genesis to Revelation, at least three times, and I always enjoy it, especially the Old Testament. But I don’t rely on it for inspiration, if that’s what you mean.”

“You know it better than most ministers.”

“I doubt that.”

“What do you think will happen to you, Cody, after you die?”

“They’ll burn me, along with my estate here, and take the ashes and flush everything down the toilet. Those are my wishes. I don’t want a trace of me left on this earth.”

“No afterlife, no heaven or hell or anyplace in between for your spirit to rest?”

“No. We’re animals, Padre, live-born mammals, and when we die that’s the end of us. All that nonsense about spirits rising from our dead bodies and floating up to glory or plunging into fire is a load of crap. When we die we’re dead. Nothing about us keeps living.”

“You aren’t planning to see Brian?”

“Brian died fifteen years ago. I was there. It was awful. There was no funeral, just a pauper’s burial on the back side of the city cemetery. I’ve never been allowed to go there, to see his grave. Probably doesn’t even have a tombstone or a marker. I doubt a single person has ever stood above his grave and wiped a tear. We were outcasts, Padre, orphans, pathetic kids who were not supposed to be born. And when we die, we’re dead, buried or cremated or whatever, and that’s the end. No, I won’t see Brian or anyone else for that matter, and that doesn’t bother me at all.”

Padre smiles and nods as he accepts this with love and compassion. There was nothing Cody or anyone else could say that would fluster or provoke him. He’d heard it all and had an endless repertoire of responses, all well grounded in Holy Scripture, but timing was everything. And this wasn’t the time to argue faith or theology with Cody.

“I see you haven’t changed your beliefs.”

“No sir. You once said God doesn’t make mistakes. That’s not true, Padre. I’m the perfect example of one. My mother got paid for sex. My father left behind a little cash and some semen. He never knew I was born and my mother couldn’t wait to get rid of me. I’m a mistake.”

“God still loves you, Cody.”

“Well, he sure has a strange way of proving it. What did I do to deserve this?”

“He works in mysterious ways and we’ll never have all the answers.”

“Why does it have to be so damned complicated and mysterious? You know why, Padre? Because he’s not there. He was created by man for man’s own benefit. What the hell are we doing? Arguing again?”

“I’m sorry, Cody. I just stopped by to say hello and goodbye and see if you needed me.”

Cody takes a deep breath and calms himself. “Thanks, Padre. You were always one of the good guys.”

“I’ll miss you, Cody. I’m praying for you.”

“If it makes you feel better, then keep praying.”

(4)

At eight o’clock, Cody turns on the television, checks the three networks, sees nothing of interest, and turns it off. He stretches out on his foam mattress and tries to close his eyes.

He once threatened to sue the prison because it didn’t allow access to cable channels, but a similar lawsuit had been thrown out in another state, according to Jack.

Back in the day, he and Brian had stolen several small TVs, but found that they were generally more trouble than they were worth. The fences hated to fool with them because the cops checked the pawn shops frequently and looked for serial numbers. Storage was another problem. After hitting a house, he and Brian always waited days, even weeks, before fencing their loot. Let things cool off, Brian always said. Let the cops make their rounds. Give the homeowners time to file their insurance claims and buy new guns, televisions, radios, stereos, jewelry. Even toasters, mixers, hell, they’d steal anything if they could get a buck from the fences.

As they waited patiently in the woods, they hid their inventories in old barns and abandoned houses and constantly moved them at night to other sites. Televisions were the most difficult to haul around and hide.

Guns made the market and were instant cash. When they got lucky and cleaned out a gun cabinet, they forgot about anything else and laughed all the way to their hideout deep in the woods. The Beretta 686 Silver Pigeon over-and-under was their finest hour. The homeowner had a dozen shotguns in his cabinet, which, for some reason, was unlocked in the den. Not that a locked door would have slowed them down. There were Brownings and Remingtons, but when Brian saw the Beretta he let out a whistle. They grabbed four shotguns and rifles each, plus two Smith & Wesson revolvers, and made a quick exit. They watched the house for the next three days and saw no movement. No one was checking on it as the newspapers piled up in the driveway. The house had no alarm system. People could be so careless.

Since their break-in had yet to be discovered, they went back and stole the rest of the guns. The homeowners were obviously away on a long trip. It was July, vacation time. Brian decided they should move quickly before anyone returned home. They rode their (stolen) bikes into the city and stopped at a favorite pawn shop. They knew the owner well and considered him trustworthy, or as honorable as one might be in the shady business of stolen merchandise. His front-room pawn shop was always crowded with customers, its shelves stocked with everything from saxophones to vacuum cleaners. His back room was where he made his money dealing in hot weapons. He gave them $50 each for the revolvers. When Brian asked if he had any interest in a Beretta 686 Silver Pigeon, he was floored.

“Holy crap, man!” he’d gushed. “Where in hell?” But then he’d caught himself and stopped talking. Never ask a thief where he found his inventory.

Brian laughed and assured him they indeed had one in stock, and it was in mint condition.

“I’ll check around,” the dealer had said, obviously excited.

A week later they returned with the shotgun and left the pawn shop with $200 in cash, a record for them. They went to an old motel on the edge of town and paid $30 a night. They showered, washed their clothes, ate cheeseburgers at a joint across the street, and for two days lived like kings.

When it was time, they retreated to the woods and moved their campsite miles away. They had hit enough homes in the area and the police were patrolling more.

(5)

It’s eight thirty and Cody walks back and forth, pacing zombie-like with his eyes closed, touching a bookshelf, then touching the bars. Back and forth. He is anxious and wishes he hadn’t thrown away those pills. He suspects his lawyer will soon return for the last time and deliver the news that everyone expects.

There was usually a flurry of last-minute pleas and appeals, with lawyers running frantically from one court to another, but not always. A year earlier, Lemoyne Rubley went all the way with little fanfare. He was two doors down and he and Cody were friendly. They chatted for hours as the clock ticked away, though they couldn’t see one another. The day before the execution, the courts pulled all the plugs and his lawyers gave up. It was the most peaceful execution Cody had lived through in his fourteen years on The Row.

Frankly, now that it’s his turn, he’s thankful he has someone out there still firing away, though with very little ammo. He’s not looking forward to his last visit with Jack Garber.

He’s paid the guy nothing. For the past ten years Jack has represented him with a loyalty that has been amazing. On several occasions, Jack came within one vote of convincing an appellate court that Cody should get a new trial. He once asked Jack why he had chosen to be a death penalty lawyer. The answer was vague and brief and touched on some lofty ideas about capital punishment. He asked Jack who was paying him, and he explained that he worked for a nonprofit foundation that represents people like Cody, death row inmates.

The buzzer rattles again in the distance and Cody jolts back to reality. He walks to the bars, waits, and Marvin appears again. He smiles and says, “Cody, I have some good news.”

“I doubt that. Right now the only good news can come from my lawyer.”

“No, not that kind of good news. It’s something else. You have a visitor. It ain’t your lawyer or the chaplain or some reporter. It’s a real visitor.”

“I’ve never had a real visitor.”

“I know.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s a nice little lady from Nebraska.”

“Miss Iris?”

“Miss Iris Vanderkamp.”

“No way!”

“I swear.”

“But she’s eighty years old and in a wheelchair.”

“Well, she made it. Warden says you can see her for fifteen minutes.”

“What a great guy. I don’t believe this, Marvin. Miss Iris finally made it.”

“She’s right here.” Marvin disappears for a second, then returns pushing Miss Iris in a wheelchair. He parks her at Cody’s door and fades into the darkness of the hallway.

Cody is awestruck, speechless. He inches closer to the bars and studies her smiling face. “I can’t believe this,” he finally says softly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, how about something like, ‘Hello and nice to meet you after all these years’? That work?”

“Hello and nice to meet you after all these years.”

“Same on this end. I got here as fast as I could. Sorry it took me twelve years.”

“I’m so glad you’re here, Miss Iris. I can’t believe this.”

Cody slowly eases his right hand through the bars. She takes it with both of hers and gives a good squeeze. “I can’t believe it either, Cody. Is this really happening?”

He nods as he slowly pulls his hand back and looks at her. She’s in a wheelchair because, as she explained in one of her many letters, she suffers from bouts of severe bursitis in her knees and other joints. Her lower legs and feet are covered with a thin blanket. Above that she wears a pretty green floral dress and plenty of jewelry — long necklaces and bulky bracelets. Cody notices the jewelry because he certainly stole enough of it in his heyday. She has a round face with a big smile, a long nose with red-framed glasses perched on the tip, and sparkling blue eyes. Her white hair is thick and wavy and has not thinned at all.

She sees a skinny boy with bushy hair who could convince no one that he is twenty-nine years old.

In their twelve-year correspondence they have divulged most of their secrets.

“Yes, Miss Iris, this is really happening. My lawyer, Jack, says we’re down to the lick log, as they say. Got that from one of those cliché books you sent.”

“You use too many of those clichés and metaphors.”

“I know, I know. So you say. But I love a good cliché, one that isn’t used too often.”

“Well, you need to avoid them, most of the time.”

“I don’t believe this. Here I am at the end and you’re still grading my papers.”

“I am not, Cody. I’m here because I care about you.”

This hits him hard and his knees almost buckle. He’s never heard this before. He walks to the bars, grabs two of them and sticks his face between them, as close as he can get. He whispers, “I care about you too, Miss Iris. I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Well, I am, and evidently I don’t have much time.”

“Neither do I.”

“So, what can we talk about?”

“How’d you get here?”

“I convinced Charles to drive me. He’s my new boyfriend.”

“What happened to Frank?”

“He died. I thought I told you that.”

“I don’t think so, but in all honesty, it’s not easy keeping up with all of your romances. You were quite fond of Frank, as I recall.”

“Oh, I’m fond of all of them, at least at the beginning.”

“There have been quite a few.”

“I suppose. To be honest, Cody, I was kind of tired of Frank. So far I’d say that Charles has far more potential. You know what they say. If you really want to know someone, just take a trip with them. Well, we’re in the middle of this trip, and so far so good.”

“Thank you, Miss Iris. I can’t believe you’ve come here. It’s a thousand miles, right?”

“Nine hundred and twenty-seven, according to Charles, who has this odd habit of counting everything. It’s sort of annoying but I haven’t said anything yet.”

“When did you leave Nebraska?”

“Around noon yesterday. Stayed in a motel last night, separate rooms of course, then drove all day today. I’ve done it before, if you’ll recall.”

“How could I forget? Eight, ten years ago. You showed up here and they wouldn’t let you in.”

“It was awful. My son Bobby drove me all the way down, our last road trip together I can promise you that, and they made us wait in this small, smelly room with no air-conditioning, it was August if I remember correctly, and then they told us to leave, rather abruptly. Said you had done something wrong and got put on probation and couldn’t have visitors. It was just awful.”

“And it was a lie. I’ve never been on probation. They didn’t like me because I kept suing them in federal court and kicking their butts. We had a terrible warden back then and he hated every one of us on death row. He somehow managed to make our miserable lives even worse.”

She takes a deep breath and looks around, trying to absorb the place. “So this is death row?”

“Smack in the middle of it. Twenty cells on this wing, twenty on the other, no vacancies anywhere. No room at the inn. Around the corner, behind the East Wing, known here affectionately by the guards as the ‘Beast Wing’ because that’s where they tend to put the nastier boys, there’s a small square addition known as the Gas House. That’s where they do the dirty work of killing us in private so the good Christian folks who love the death penalty don’t have to actually see it in action. I’ll be going there in less than two hours.”

As she listens she keeps looking around. “Well, I must say, first impressions are not very good.”

Cody takes a step back, releases the bars, and enjoys a good laugh. “It’s designed to be an awful place, Miss Iris.”

“And how long have you been here in this cell?”

“Fourteen years. I was fifteen when I was convicted, fourteen when I was arrested. Dead at twenty-nine, the youngest to be executed in this country since the Wild West days when they would string up anybody.”

“It’s a pretty depressing place. Could you ask to be moved?”

“Why? Where would I go? All the cells are the same. Eight feet by ten. Same rules, same food, same guards, same unbearable heat in the summer, same freezing cold in the winter. We’re just a bunch of rats trying to survive in the sewer and dying slowly every day.”

“You were just a baby.”

“No, I wasn’t a baby. I was a tough kid who’d been living in the woods for four years. I had no other place to live, except for the orphanage or another foster home. Brian found me and we escaped and lived the way we wanted for a few years. I wasn’t a baby, Miss Iris, but I was too young for this.”

“Do you feel safe here?”

“Sure. Death row is a very safe place, even though it’s full of murderers. We’re all locked down in solitary so there’s no one to fight, no one to hurt.”

“You said that in one of your letters.”

“What have I not said in my letters, Miss Iris? I’ve told you everything. And you’ve been pretty honest with me.”

“I have, yes.”

“So, if we assume we’ve already talked about everything, in our letters, what can we talk about now? We only have a few more minutes.”

“Did you save my letters?”

“Of course.” Cody quickly falls to his knees, reaches under his bunk, and pulls out a long, flat cardboard box filled with colorful envelopes. “Every one of them, Miss Iris, and I’ve read them all a dozen times. One letter each week for the past twelve years, plus cards for my birthday, Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving. All in all, six hundred and seventy-four letters and cards. You’re pretty amazing, Miss Iris. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“All the time.”

Cody carefully chooses an envelope and removes the letter. “The very first. April twenty-second, 1978. ‘Dear Cody. My name is Iris Vanderkamp and I live in North Platte, Nebraska. I am a member of St. Timothy’s Lutheran Church, and our ladies’ Bible class is starting a new project. We are reaching out to young men on death row. We are opposed to the death penalty and want to see it abolished. This may sound a bit odd — but is there anything I can do for you? Please write back and let me know. Sincerely, Iris.’ ”

“I remember it like it was yesterday. We were having a Bible study at my house one night and Geraldine Fisher said she’d read a story about a lady in Omaha who’d been pen pals with a death row inmate for over twenty years, some poor man down south. They were about to put him in the gas chamber. That’s how it all got started. We searched for some names. Yours jumped out because you were only seventeen at the time, so young. So I wrote that letter, and I waited and waited.”

“I read your letter and I couldn’t believe it. Somebody out there knew my name, knew that I was on death row, and wanted to do something nice for me. Keep in mind, Miss Iris, and I know I’ve told you this a hundred times, but I have no family anywhere. And no friends. Not a single friend until you came along. Jack’s my friend, I guess, but he doesn’t really count because he’s my lawyer.”

“And you wrote me back.”

“I was so intimidated. I had never written a letter before and I’d never received one, other than stuff from the courts. But I was determined. I borrowed a dictionary from the library and studied every word. I wrote in block letters, like they tried to teach me in the first grade, I guess.”

“It was a beautiful letter. Not a single word was misspelled. I got the impression it took a long time to write it.”

“Hours and hours, but, hey, I have plenty of time. It kept me busy, gave me a purpose. I wanted to impress you.”

“You made me cry, and not for the last time.”

“You know, Miss Iris, when I came here as a boy I couldn’t read much. I dropped out of school when I was ten. I had bounced around so many schools, had so many teachers, that I didn’t care about learning. Brian escaped from a juvenile home and found me in foster care, again, and we ran away. That was the end of my schooling. I could read a little, but not very well. When I got this letter, I knew I had to answer it. I borrowed some paper and a pencil, got the dictionary, and I wanted every word to be perfect.”

“It was amazing to watch your handwriting improve over the years, Cody. At first you printed like a child.”

“I was a child.”

“But before long you were switching to cursive.”

“You asked me to, remember? Or I should say that you strongly suggested that I learn cursive and write like an adult.”

“I did. And I sent you a book on penmanship.”

Cody tosses the letter on the bunk, studies a wall of books for a second, then removes one from the shelf. “Here it is — Abbott’s Art of Cursive Penmanship. I spent hours with this book, Miss Iris. You sent me some money and I bought paper and pencils and practiced for hours and hours.”

Cody puts the book back and pulls out another one. He shows it to her and says, “And here’s the first dictionary, Miss Iris. Random House Webster’s College Dictionary. Paperback, of course, so we can’t be murdering one another with dictionaries. I’ve read the whole thing, Miss Iris, cover to cover, and more than once.”

“I know, I know. If you’ll recall, I’ve had to caution you about using big words. At times, you like to show off.”

Cody laughs and tosses the dictionary on the bunk. “Of course I’m showing off, but there’s no one else in the audience. What was the word that really ticked you off?”

“There have been so many, but ‘obstreperous’ comes to mind.”

“That’s it. Love that word. Noisy or unruly. There were other adjectives that you cautioned me about. Obsequious, lugubrious, pernicious, ubiquitous.”

“That’s enough. My point was that big words do not always convey big emotions, and a fancy vocabulary can get in the way of good writing.”

“I fell in love with words, the bigger the better.” Cody stares at the walls of books.

Miss Iris says, “You know, Cody, this place gives me the creeps, but all those books do add a bit of color to your little room.”

“These books saved my life, until now. You sent every one of them, Miss Iris, and you have no idea what they mean to me.”

“What was the first one?”

Cody smiles, points, then removes a paperback. “Mustang Man, by Louis L’Amour,” he says proudly as he opens the book. “The first time I read it, or I should say finished it, was June the tenth, 1978. It took me two months, Miss Iris, because I didn’t know so many of the words. When I saw a word I didn’t know, I would stop and write it down, then get the dictionary and look it up. When I finished a paragraph and knew every word, then I would stand up and pace back and forth and read it all the way through. It took forever, hours and hours, but I loved every minute of it. I loved the words, loved learning them, the long ones, the short ones. I kept a list of words I knew but wasn’t sure how to pronounce, so I would save it for Jack or the chaplain, or maybe even Marvin. I practiced and practiced until I knew all of them, Miss Iris. The entire dictionary.”

“I know, I know. I had to use a dictionary just to read some of your letters.”

“I loved the words, but I craved the stories. They took me away from here, took me all over the world, in this century, last century, the next century. They set my imagination on fire and I realized I was not going crazy, like everybody else around here.”

He puts the book back in its place, then turns slowly and admires his collection. “And you kept sending them, Miss Iris. Every week another book, sometimes two or three, and I read them all. Read them over and over. I usually read ten to twelve hours a day, and all because of you.”

“Who’s your favorite writer?”

Cody laughs at the question and shakes his head. “Too many favorites, I guess. But if I had to name one it would be Louis L’Amour.” He points at the shelf and continues, “I’ve read forty-one of his books. I love Mickey Spillane, Ed McBain, Elmore Leonard, Raymond Chandler, John D. MacDonald.”

“You always said you loved mysteries and crime.”

“Hey, I’m a criminal. Got papers to prove it.”

“You’re not a criminal.”

“Oh really? Then why am I in here?”

“That’s a very good question, Cody. I wish someone could give me a good answer.”

Cody stares at the books, mesmerized. He finally asks, “Where did you get all these books, Miss Iris?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ve told you before in a letter.”

“Well humor me, dammit. I’m running out of time.”

“Don’t swear.”

“I’m sorry. Should’ve taken the Valium.”

“The what?”

“Never mind.”

“I got ’em here and there. Garage sales, flea markets, library fundraisers, used-book shops. Never paid more than a dollar for one.”

“And you read all of them before you sent them to me?”

“Well, almost all of them. I really don’t like the dirty stuff, writers like Harold Robbins, you know? Pure filth. But I sent them to you anyway.”

“And I’m so grateful you did, Miss Iris. I love the dirty ones too.”

“Pure filth.”

“Are you sure you didn’t read a few chapters here and there?”

“Well, maybe a little. I had to take a look to see what was there.”

“How about Valley of the Dolls? I’ve read it five times and it still gets me excited.”

“Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

“What? You don’t want to talk about sex?”

“Not really.”

“Miss Iris, I’ve never had sex. Can you believe that? They threw me in jail when I was fourteen and I came here when I was fifteen. Brian always said he had sex when he was thirteen in an orphanage, but he was four years older than me and he lied a lot too. Me, I never got the chance. That’s why dirty books are so much fun.”

“Please, can we talk about something else?”

“No, Miss Iris. I have less than two hours to live so I’ll talk about anything I want.”

“Name your favorite three books.”

This knocks him off his stride and for a moment he doesn’t respond. He stares at the shelves, rubs his hands together in deep thought, and finally pulls out a book. He shows her the cover and says, “The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck. The story of the Joads and the Okies and their desperate trip to California during the Dust Bowl. Heartbreaking but also uplifting.” He opens it and looks at the inside cover. “You sent it to me in November of 1984, and I’ve read it seven times.”

He carefully replaces the book on the shelf and finds another. “In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote. A true crime masterpiece.” He shows her the cover. “Have you read it, Miss Iris?”

“Of course. I remember when the Clutter family was murdered in 1959. All four of them. It happened down in Kansas, the western part, not too far from where I live.”

“They hung those boys, Dick Hickock and Perry Smith. And you know what, Miss Iris? I was glad when they hung them. Weren’t you?”

“Well, I really wasn’t that sad about it.”

“How weird is that, Miss Iris? Here I am sitting on death row reading a true story about a home invasion where innocent people were sound asleep and some bad guys broke in and killed them. Sound familiar? And I’m actually happy they got caught and put to death.”

“Yes, that’s pretty weird.”

“That’s the strange thing about the death penalty, Miss Iris. Sometimes you hate it because it’s so unfair, and sometimes you catch yourself secretly applauding it because the son of a bitch deserved to die. I mean, I’ve been here for fourteen years and eight men have gone down. Four in the gas chamber, four by the needle. One was probably innocent. The other seven, guilty as hell. I felt sorry for six of them, but the other two got what they deserved.”

“I’m opposed to capital punishment in all cases.”

“Well, you should meet some of my colleagues here on The Row. You’d change your mind.”

“Are these guys going to feel sorry for you?”

“Who knows? I don’t care. I can’t worry about their feelings.”

He puts the book back in its place and admires his collection.

“And your third favorite book?”

He takes his time and finally pulls out another one. “I guess this is the last book I’ll ever read. Finished it yesterday, for the fifth time. It’s all about death and dying young.”

“Sophie’s Choice?”

“How’d you know?”

“You’ve mentioned it more than once in your letters.”

“I’ve gone through hell here, Miss Iris, but it’s nothing compared to what those people went through. Everything is relative, isn’t it? Even suffering.”

“I suppose.”

“Plus it’s full of sex.”

“I couldn’t finish it.”

“It’s brilliant. Such a powerful story, and it’s a novel, a great work of fiction, but so realistic. Styron won the Pulitzer for it, you know?”

“No, he won the National Book Award. His Pulitzer was for The Confessions of Nat Turner.”

“That’s right. You know all these books, don’t you? A high school English teacher for over forty years.”

“And I loved every minute of it.”

He puts the book back on the shelf and touches the spines of other books. “My favorites. Lonesome Dove, A Confederacy of Dunces, Catcher in the Rye, Catch-22. And here, one of my true favorites, the Travis McGee series by John D. MacDonald. I couldn’t get enough of ole Travis.”

“I know, I know. You went on and on.”

“Twenty-one books in the series, and you, Miss Iris, found every one of them. You’re pretty awesome, you know that.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Truth is, Miss Iris, I’ve enjoyed every one of them. Just look at them. How beautiful. Look at all the colors. Look at how they’ve brightened up this awful place. I have the prettiest cell on death row.”

“What will happen to them?”

Cody shakes his head, then freezes, smiles, and says, “Wait a minute. I have a great idea. I want you to have them. I want you to inherit my complete estate — my library, my letters and cards and legal files. All of my assets, Miss Iris. They’re all yours.”

“Oh no. I’m not sure what I would do—”

“You have to, Miss Iris. If you don’t they’ll just burn all this stuff. There’s no one else to take it.”

“They can’t do that.”

“Oh hell yeah they can, and they will. They’ll throw this stuff in the fire with me and have a good laugh. They gotta clear out this place for the next guy.”

“But I can’t take it with me.”

“No, of course not. Look, I have seventeen dollars in my account, money you’ve sent me for paper and stamps and stuff. Take it, and maybe add a little to it, and then maybe you can afford to ship it all to Nebraska. Please, Miss Iris. It would mean so much to me for you to keep my library and papers. All these beautiful books, plus the cards and letters and files. You gotta do it, Miss Iris.”

“Well, I suppose—”

“Sure you can, Miss Iris. These clowns would love for you to take all my stuff so they won’t have to fool with it. Please.”

“Well, okay, I guess.”

“Great, Miss Iris. This is wonderful.”

“I’ll make it happen, Cody. I promise.”

“Thank you, Miss Iris. And you’ll put all of our letters together, right?”

“Of course. I’m thinking, and I know just the right spot. There’s a wall in my study that I can clear out, and I’ll keep your books there forever, Cody. What a lovely idea.”

“This is incredible, Miss Iris. I was planning to check out of here and leave nothing behind, but now I love the idea of leaving something behind, something to remember me.”

“I’ll always remember you, Cody.”

He walks to the bars and sticks an arm through again. She clutches his hand and they share a quiet moment.

Marvin emerges from the darkness and says softly, “Warden says time is up. I’m sorry.”

Cody doesn’t acknowledge him. He looks at her face and says, “Thank you, Miss Iris. Thank you for coming here and saying goodbye.”

With one hand she wipes tears from her face. “This is so awful, Cody, and so wrong. You shouldn’t even be here.”

“Thank you for coming, and for caring all these years, and for being my friend, and for all the books and cards and money, money that you couldn’t really afford to send.”

“I consider it an honor, Cody. I just wish I could’ve done more.”

“You did more than anybody else.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Please remember me.”

She reaches up and touches his face. “I can never forget you, Cody. Never.”

Marvin gently takes the handles of her wheelchair and pulls her away and they leave. Cody strains to watch her as she disappears down the darkened hall. He tries to pull himself together. When the door clangs in the distance, he walks to his bunk, takes a seat, and buries his face in his hands.

(6)

8:50 p.m. The buzzer sounds in the distance and Cody stands to see who’s coming. It’s Jack Garber, moving slowly, hands stuck in pants pockets, absent his usual stack of files and papers. He stops at the bars and Cody walks over.

In a low, dispirited voice, Jack says, “The Supreme Court said no. The governor’s office just called with more bad news.”

“No more Hail Marys?” Try as he might, Cody can’t quite keep his shoulders up. They sag and his chin drops.

“Nothing, Cody. I got nothing left. I’ve unloaded everything, tried every trick in the book.”

“So it’s over?”

“I’m sorry, Cody. I should’ve done something different.”

“Come on, Jack. You can’t beat yourself up. You’ve been fighting for me for ten years. Fighting like hell.”

“Yeah, fighting and losing. You should have won, Cody. You don’t deserve to die. You were just a kid who didn’t kill anyone, never pulled a trigger. I let you down, Cody.”

“You did not. You’re a warrior until the bitter end.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Let it go, Jack. I’m at peace and I’m ready to go.”

“You’ve always been brave, Cody. I’ve never had a client so brave.”

“I’ll be all right, Jack. And if there happens to be something in the next act, then I’ll see you on the other side.”

Cody steps closer, reaches through the bars, and puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder. The two men embrace as best they can with the bars between them. They have a long hug and then let go. Finally, Jack steps back and wipes his face. He turns and walks away, and Cody watches him disappear.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then walks over to the television, picks up the remote and turns it on. The governor has the screen. Outside an elaborate office, and with a wall of grim-faced flunkies behind him, he steps to a bank of microphones and, as solemnly as possible, says, “I have just been informed that the Supreme Court has refused to hear the final appeal of Cody Wallace. I have carefully reviewed his request for clemency. The issue of his age is indeed troubling. However, I am much more sympathetic to the victims of this horrible crime, the Baker family, and their great loss. They need our prayers at this hour. They are opposed to clemency. The people of this state have repeatedly said they believe in capital punishment, and it is my solemn duty to uphold the law. Therefore, I am denying the request for clemency. The execution will proceed as scheduled, at ten p.m. this evening.”

He bows his head as if he might start praying himself as he backs away. Reporters instantly start yelling questions, but he is much too burdened to deal with them.

Cody mutes the television and stares at it. Suddenly the screen changes and there’s Jack again, standing somewhere on the prison grounds with a guard on each side. Cody quickly hits the volume.

Jack says to the camera, “Cody was fourteen years old, a child, an orphan, a homeless kid living in the woods, a kid no one wanted. He never pulled a trigger and he didn’t kill anyone. It’s barbaric for this state to treat him like an adult, and it’s immoral to execute him. The system failed Cody at every turn, and now the system will kill him. Congratulations to the God-fearing, gun-loving, law and order die-hards of this miserable state.”

When the news anchor appears, Cody hits the remote and the screen goes blank.

(7)

Marvin pushes a food cart down the darkened hallway. Dinner is usually served at five p.m., lunch at eleven, breakfast at five in the morning. The courts had long ago declared that every man in prison is entitled to 2,200 calories a day, 1,800 for women. It might have been edible in other camps around the prison, but on death row it was an unbearably dreadful menu of powdered food and old vegetables and canned slop served long after the shelf life. The meals often included five or six slices of stale white bread to run the tally up to the magical 2,200 calories and stave off another lawsuit. Cody’s had slightly improved things ten years earlier. Some of the men ignored the food and ate only enough to remain alive. Others got fat off extra white bread tossed up and down the hall. A handful were lucky enough to receive a little cash from home to buy tastier items from the canteen.

“Your last meal, Cody,” Marvin says as he slides a medium-sized frozen pepperoni pizza through the food slot in the door. Cody steps over and takes it. Marvin hands him a tall paper cup with a straw and says, “Your strawberry milkshake.”

Cody smiles and sits on his bunk. He removes a wedge of pizza and takes a bite. “It’s over, Marvin. It’s really gonna happen, isn’t it?”

“Sure looks that way, Cody. I’m real sorry.”

He takes another bite, then a pull on the straw. He looks at Marvin and says, “This is a pretty lousy frozen pizza.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. I’ve had much better.”

“You specifically ordered a frozen pizza. Ain’t never seen that before for no last meal.”

“I guess it really doesn’t matter, you know? I don’t have much of an appetite. You want some pizza?”

“No thanks.”

Cody hits the straw again, then starts laughing. “You remember when they killed Skunk Miller, what, two years ago?”

“Sure. I remember it well. I liked Skunk.”

“And what was his last meal?”

Marvin chuckles at the memory. “Oh, that was something. Skunk wanted everything, a sirloin steak, fries, two cheeseburgers, a dozen raw oysters, baked potato, eggs and bacon, chocolate cake. And he ate every bite of it.”

“And you served it to him, right?”

“Yeah, and watched him eat it. He kept trying to offer me some of his last meal, but it just didn’t seem right.”

“And he ordered a bottle of wine, too.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t get it. No alcohol, of course.”

Cody takes a small bite but it’s obvious he’s losing interest. “You know that a few minutes after you die your bowels and bladder relax and release everything, a real mess. I guess Skunk got the last laugh.”

“I don’t think he was laughing.”

“Do you get the cleanup duty?”

“Nope. That’s somebody else’s job, thank goodness.”

“What happens to me after they cut off my clothes and hose me down?”

“I don’t know, Cody. I ain’t never been that curious.”

“You ever watch an execution, Marvin?”

“Nope. This is as close as I want to get.”

“I wish you’d eat some of this pizza. It’s not that good but it’s sort of filling.”

“No thanks.”

“Let me guess. You don’t like frozen pizza?”

“You got that right.”

Cody chuckles and hits the straw. “That’s hard to believe, Marvin. When me and Brian broke in a house, we’d always go for the guns first, guns and jewelry, valuable stuff that’s easy to carry and even easier to fence. After we looked around real fast, it was my job to go to the refrigerator and freezer and find some food. We were usually hungry by the time we broke in a place. If we got lucky, there’d be frozen pizza in the freezer. We had this little charcoal grill that we’d stolen, hell, everything we had was stolen down to the shoes on our feet, and, anyway, we’d grill a frozen pizza at midnight and watch the stars.” He stands and faces Marvin and closes his eyes for a long pause. Then he smiles and says, “Those were happy days, Marvin. Me and Brian, free as birds, living off the land, so to speak, sleeping in pup tents, always moving around so no one could find us. Think about that, Marvin. Nobody in the world knew where we were and no one cared. And we damned sure didn’t care about anybody else. Total freedom out there, hiding in the woods. Those were the best days, and I was just a kid.”

Marvin has nothing to say. A long minute passes as Cody seems to be in a trance. Down the hall, the door clangs again, but no one joins them. Finally, Marvin says, “Look, Cody, I’m not being a hard-ass here, but you need to finish eating. We gotta move you to the holding room in a few minutes.”

“Why can’t I just stay here until the big moment?”

“I don’t know. I don’t make the rules.”

“I know, I know.”

“Sorry.”

“Say, Marvin, I was kinda hard on the Padre earlier. Is he still around?”

“Yeah, he’s up front with the warden.”

“Could you ask him to sit with me in the holding room?”

“Sure. He’d like that.”

“You wanna watch my execution? I got plenty of tickets.”

“No thanks.”

Cody breaks into a big smile and starts chuckling. “Say, Marvin, how about a favor?”

This is funny and Marvin laughs. “A favor on death row?”

“Sure. You can do it. A simple favor and it would mean a lot.”

“What is it?”

Cody walks to the bars and lowers his voice. “Marvin, I haven’t seen the moon in fourteen years, and I would love to see it just one more time.”

“Come on, Cody.”

“No, you come on, Marvin. I’ll be dead in less than an hour, so who gives a damn if I sneak outside for a bit of fresh air. What’s the harm?”

“It’s against the rules.”

“You make most of the rules around here, Marvin. Nobody will question you. Hell, nobody will ever know. We ease down the hall, take the side door to the yard, and there it is. A big moon, nice and full, the first summer moon. Right up there in the eastern sky.”

“It’s too risky.”

Cody laughs and says, “Oh, get real. What am I gonna do, Marvin? Beat you over the head, jump half a dozen fences, dodge a thousand bullets, outrun the bloodhounds, and then, exactly where would I go, Marvin? Hell, they got half the state police out there just waiting to celebrate because we damned sure love our executions. Come on, Marvin, do something nice. I’m so dead here, okay?”

Marvin glances around, uncertain. “I’ll go ask the warden.”

“No! Don’t waste your time with that fool. You know he’ll say no. Just ease me out the side here and nobody will see us. Just five minutes, Marvin. Please.”

“Can’t do it.”

“Sure you can. Who are you afraid of?”

“No way. I’ll get fired.”

“No you won’t. Nobody’ll know.”

“Sorry, Cody.”

“Just five minutes.”

“Two minutes. Then right back in here.”

(8)

The yard is a small outdoor space, with a picnic table on a slab of concrete surrounded by a few sprigs of grass. Twenty-four feet by twenty, to be exact, and the death row inmates know its precise dimensions because they walk the fence lines daily. Dirt paths had been worn between the concrete and the chain-link and below the shiny razor wire. They were allowed one hour each day, alone and unsupervised, to inhale the fresh air, to gaze into the distance and dream, and to shuffle along the paths. Seven or eight long steps, then a ninety-degree turn and more of the same. In the old days, the yard was much larger and had a set of old weights and a basketball hoop. Four men were allowed at each break, and rowdy games of two-on-two were the norm. Then there was a fight and one was bludgeoned by a dumbbell.

There are no lights around the yard. It’s never used after dark. The squat, flat-roof building that is death row is attached to it and runs forty yards east and west. At the far end is the Gas House, another tumor-like appendage added on decades earlier.

The thick metal door opens and Cody walks out, without cuffs and chains. Marvin, unarmed, follows and watches him closely. In the distance, searchlights sweep the sky and a helicopter is heard somewhere. It’s time for a killing and the air is filled with excitement.

Cody stands in the center of the yard and stares at the full moon, so large it’s almost within reach. “Well, it hasn’t changed, has it? Same old moon.”

Marvin leans on the picnic table, says, “You were expecting something different?”

“It seems closer, don’t you think?”

“I doubt it. How’d you know it was a full moon?”

“Because it’s June twenty-second, the first day of summer. That’s called a strawberry moon.”

“Never heard of that.”

“Come on, Marvin. You serious?”

“Never heard of it. Why’s it called a strawberry moon?”

“Because in late spring and early summer the strawberries and other fruits finally ripen. The Indians gave it the name of strawberry moon.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the full moon looks closer for a few days.”

“How do you know that?”

“Oh, I used to know all the stars and constellations, Marvin. Me and Brian lived in the wild, slept during the day, roamed at night. You wanna hear a story, one of my favorites?”

“Sure, but you’d better talk fast. If the warden catches us out here there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I’m not worried about the warden.”

“Well, I am. I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Me and Brian broke in a house one time and we couldn’t find any guns or jewelry or anything we could sell. Hell, they didn’t even have any frozen pizza. But the dude who owned the house had this really nice telescope set up in his den, in front of a big window so he could watch the stars. We were pissed off at him so we took his telescope, figured we might be able to fence it for a few bucks. That night we set it up in a field and started playing around with it. I’ll never forget the thrill of looking at the surface of the moon, the craters and ridges and valleys. ‘Magnificent desolation,’ as one astronaut described it. We looked at it for hours, completely mesmerized. A week or so later we broke into another house and it was a gold mine. Guns, jewelry, radios, a small television. Quite a haul. Even pizza. We fenced the stuff and had a pocketful of cash. We found a cheap motel, paid for a room, took showers, slept under the air-conditioning. Lived the big life. We did this from time to time when we had the money. Not far away was a library, a branch of the main one downtown. We went there — my first time in a library, I can promise you that — and we were surprised to learn that anybody could walk in off the street, for free, and read newspapers and magazines. We browsed around, and upstairs we found this beautiful picture book on the solar system and constellations, the various phases of the moon. So we stole it and took it back to our campsite. We studied it from cover to cover, I couldn’t read that well but Brian had finished the eighth grade, and we learned all about the stars. We spent hours every clear night with the telescope. We could look at the moon, without the telescope, and tell what day of the month it was. When there was no moon and the sky was thick with stars, we could spot, with the naked eye, all the constellations. Orion, Scorpius, Gemini, the Northern Cross, Taurus the bull, Ursa Major, more commonly known as the Big Dipper. And with the telescope we found stars and solar systems that they never teach you in school. We got in a big fight one time because Brian swore he found Pluto. Can you believe that?”

“I’m not sure what to believe.”

“We kept that telescope, never fenced it, not even when we were hungry.”

“That’s a nice story, except for the part about breaking and entering and stealing.”

“What were we supposed to do, Marvin? Starve to death?”

“That don’t make it right.”

“Whatever.” Cody points to the moon. “Brian liked the dark nights, the Milky Way, thousands of stars, but me, I loved the moon. And when it was full, like tonight, it was almost impossible to see the constellations. Didn’t bother me. I spent hours exploring its surface, convinced there was somebody living up there. You see that dark area just to the right of dead center? That’s the Sea of Tranquility, where Apollo 11 landed in July of 1969. Remember that, Marvin?”

“Everybody remembers that. You were just a kid.”

“I was eight years old, living with a foster family, the Conways. One of many, back then. They were okay, I guess, but one of the bad things about being a foster kid is that you always know that you really don’t belong. Anyway, it was a Sunday night and Mr. Conway made us all gather in front of the TV and watch the moon landing. It didn’t mean much to me. You?”

“I don’t know, Cody. It was a long time ago. Back then little black boys didn’t dream of growing up to be astronauts.”

“Well, I was a little white boy and I damned sure didn’t dream of being one either. All I remember dreaming about was having a mother and a father and living in a nice little house.”

Cody backs away and leans on the picnic table next to Marvin. They watch the searchlights sweep the sky in the distance.

“What were your dreams, Marvin?”

“I don’t know. Playing baseball. I had good parents, still do, with lots of brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, one big family, happy most of the time. In that respect, I’m a lucky man.”

“You sure are.”

“Willie Mays was my hero and I dreamed of playing in the big leagues. My dad was a player, did three years in the minors, but that was before Jackie Robinson. He couldn’t make any money so he quit and came home. He taught me the game and I loved it.”

“How far did you go?”

Marvin finds this amusing. “Not far. In 1965 the White Sox drafted me in the forty-fifth round, which happened to be the last round, and they offered me two hundred dollars to sign.”

“Did you?”

“No. My dad said don’t do it. He knew I couldn’t make it in the bigs, too slow, and he didn’t want me to waste the next five years bouncing around the minors. He wanted me to go to college, but we couldn’t quite swing it.”

“He must have been a smart man.”

“Still is. I listen to him, off and on, and he still likes to give advice.”

“And your mom?”

“Oh, she’s still around. They’ve been married for fifty-something years. She likes to give advice too.”

Cody is too nervous to stay in one place. He walks to the fence and stares at the moon. “One time, I guess I was about twelve, me and Brian were in the woods and we were hungry, cold, it was wintertime, and we were scoping out houses to break into. It was night, just after dark, and we sneaked up behind this house at the edge of the woods, a new subdivision. We shinnied up a tree for a better look. We were like cats in the night, moved so quick. We looked down into the house. There was a big window near the kitchen, and there was this perfect little family all gathered around the table having dinner. Father, mother, three kids, one boy about my age. Eating, talking, laughing, behind them was a fire in the fireplace. I thought— What happened to me? Why am I up here in a tree, hungry and cold, and that kid has the perfect life? What went wrong, Marvin?”

“I don’t have an answer.”

“I know you don’t, Marvin, so just humor me, okay? My biological clock is ticking. I mean, really ticking.”

“We better get back inside. You got thirty-three minutes. The warden might catch us out here.”

“What’s he gonna do? Give me some demerits? Put me on probation?”

“Don’t know, but he can stick me over there in the general population with the riffraff.”

Cody laughs at this. “I guess life’s better here on death row.”

“I prefer it.”

“Thank you, Marvin, for this.” He waves at the moon. “Thank you for being nice to me. Some of those other guards are assholes.”

“I’ve always liked you, Cody, and I never felt like you deserved to be here.”

“Well, thank you, Marvin, that’s nice to hear now that we’re down to the wire.”

Vehicles approach on the road that leads to the central prison. It’s a caravan of sorts, with a police car in full blue-light mode leading three identical white vans. Another police car follows. They turn in to the parking lot near the front of death row and stop. In the distance, and too far away to hear what’s being said, the vans empty and the guards escort the people inside.

Cody and Marvin watch this, and when the people are out of view, Cody says, “Well, I guess the witnesses have arrived. The hour is drawing near.”

“You got that right.”

“Have you seen the witness list, Marvin?”

“I have.”

“So, who’s on it?”

“I can’t say.”

“Come on, Marvin. I think I’m entitled to know who’ll watch me die. For Pete’s sake.”

“Some of the family. The Bakers had three children.”

“Murray, Adam, and Estelle. Thank God they were not at home that night. I remember them from my trial. I even wrote letters to them but they never wrote back. Can’t really blame them.”

“Well, they’re here, along with a couple of the prosecutors, some cops, I think. I don’t know everybody on the list.”

“And no one on my side of the room.”

“That’s what you want, right?”

“I guess. You want to watch me die, Marvin?”

“The answer is still no.”

“Didn’t think so. Just wondering, Marvin, how will they feel when it’s over? Will they be relieved? Sad, maybe? Downright happy that I’m gone? I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Don’t know. They surely want to see you die, else they wouldn’t be here.”

“Well, I’ll give ’em their money’s worth, me and the warden.” Cody paces a few steps and keeps looking toward the Gas House. “You know, Marvin, I do feel sorry for them. They lost their parents and they were good people and all that, but I swear I didn’t kill anybody.”

“I know.”

“I even told Brian to put the gun away.”

“One time, years ago, I was talking to your lawyer, Jack. I like that guy. He told me about your case, said you didn’t kill those people, said it was your brother who did all the shooting.”

“True, but I was there, as an accomplice, and under the laws of this great state I’m just as guilty as my brother.”

“Still don’t seem right.”

“It was my fault, Marvin. All my fault.”

(9)

The house was in a development of sorts, two-acre lots out in the country, on a paved road, with county water and sewer, neighbors too far away to meddle but close enough to help, 3,000 square feet heated with plenty of room for a pool, gardens, dogs. The neighborhood was a perfect target for unsophisticated smash-and-run thieves who could slither in from the woods and strike night or day. So far, it was virgin territory for the little Wallace gang. There were fourteen houses on the road, all built within the past twenty years, modern enough to have security systems and alarms. Along most of the driveways there were little tin signs advertising alert, the most popular security company in the area.

Brian and Cody watched the road for weeks. It was summer, time for vacations, always a busy period for thieves. At sunset, they raced through the neighborhood on their bikes to see which houses were dark. During the late afternoons, they climbed trees and used binoculars to check on the houses; which campers were gone, which driveways were collecting newspapers, where were the kids and dogs missing, where were the curtains pulled tight? It was easy to spot an empty house.

After a few days it became obvious that the Bakers were away. They lived on the north side of the road, Cody’s responsibility. Brian was monitoring the houses on the south side.

They waited until after two in the morning, the best time to go in. With alert sensors on all windows and doors, the call to central monitoring would take place at about one minute, then the sirens or buzzers or whatever the Bakers had chosen would erupt inside the house. One never knew if the system included exterior alarms that would wake the neighbors. If things went as expected, at least twenty minutes would pass before any blue lights appeared.

Two minutes was more than enough time. Each carried a small flashlight because they worked in the dark. Again, those bothersome neighbors might include insomniacs. With a glass-cutting tool, Brian quickly removed a pane in the patio door, reached inside, unlocked the dead bolt, and eased the door open. He had done it so many times he could actually open a locked door as fast as anyone with a key.

Seconds later, the alarm began beeping throughout the house, but it wasn’t loud. The boys had learned to remain calm amid the racket and go about their business. They had never hit a place with people inside. There was no one to hear the alarm.

However, on that fateful night everything went wrong. They were in the den when someone flipped a light switch at the end of the hallway. A man yelled, “Who’s there?”

“Dammit!” Brian hissed, almost under his breath but loud enough to be heard because a woman yelled, “Someone’s in there, Carl. I heard him.”

For fifteen years, Cody had replayed those awful seconds and could never explain to himself why Brian had made a sound. They had reminded each other a hundred times that if anything went wrong, they were to scramble back to the door they entered and disappear like rabbits into the night. Don’t make a sound, just run. They were dressed in black, even down to their sneakers, and wore black face paint and black rubber gloves. They were kids but theirs was an adult game and they took it seriously. They were proud of their successes.

And the gun? Why the gun? They had stolen a hundred of them and they had wasted a mountain of ammo target-shooting deep in the woods. Cody became a decent shot, but Brian could hit anything. They had argued over whether to pack a gun for these break-ins.

Another light in the rear of the house came on. Cody retreated and crawled into the kitchen where he knocked over a barstool.

“I gotta gun!” the man yelled.

Brian ducked behind a recliner in the den.

The shootout lasted only seconds, but Cody, the only survivor, could replay it for hours. The deafening boom of a 12-gauge and rapid shots from a 9-millimeter. The woman screamed and her husband fired again.

At Cody’s trial, the ballistics expert would explain to the jury that Brian managed to get off five shots before getting hit by the 12-gauge. One shot hit Mrs. Baker just under her left eye, killing her instantly. Two shots hit Mr. Baker in the chest, but he still managed to take out Brian with his second shot.

When the shooting stopped, Cody found a light switch and gawked in horror at the carnage. Mr. Baker was on the floor, groaning, trying to get to his feet. Mrs. Baker was slumped against the bookcase, bleeding. And Brian was on the floor near the television, with half his head blown off. Cody screamed and reached for him.

When the police arrived, they found Cody sitting on the floor, holding his brother’s mangled head, covered with blood, and weeping.

Mr. Baker died the next day. Cody, uninjured, at least physically, was locked away for the rest of his life. The crime scene photos were shown to the jurors, and they did not deliberate long before returning with a death verdict.

(10)

“It was all my fault, Marvin. I thought the house was empty, that the Bakers were still gone. One mistake by me and everything changed. It was just so awful.”

Cody returns to the picnic table and leans on it, next to Marvin. Both stare at the moon. Seconds pass and it’s time to go.

“There was so much blood. I was covered and I couldn’t run. The cops threw me in the back seat and cussed me all the way to the jail, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop crying. Brian was dead. He was the only person I ever loved, Marvin, and the only person who ever loved me. And he’s been dead for fifteen years.”

“I’m sorry, Cody.”

Another guard peeks around the door and says, “Warden’s coming.”

Marvin snaps to attention and moves toward the door. He opens it and waits but Cody is frozen in place. Slowly, he wipes tears from his face as he stares at the moon.

“Gotta go, Cody.”

“Go where? Where am I going, Marvin?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“You think Brian might be there?”

“Got no idea.”

Cody slowly stands, wipes his face again, and takes one long last look at the moon.