Pick-Up

by Charles Willeford

  “What delicatessen?”

  “Mr. Watson’s. Mrs. Watson sold me the gin, though. I still owe her forty-three cents.”

  “All right. We’ll check the time with her. The police arrested you at ten minutes after eight. If you actually intended to commit suicide, why did you leave your transom open?”

  “I don’t know. I must have forgot about it, I guess.”

  “Did you drink the pint of gin?”

  “It was a cold night, and I needed something to warm me up.”

  “I see. Where did you teach art last? You said you were an—”

  “Lately I’ve been working around town as a counterman or fry cook.”

  “Do you have a particular lawyer in mind? I can get in touch with one for you.”

  “No. I don’t need a lawyer. I’m guilty and that’s the way I plead. I don’t like to go through all this red tape. I expected to be dead by now and all these questions are inconvenient. The sooner I get it over with in the gas chamber the happier I’ll be.”

  “Are you willing to sign a confession to that effect?”

  “Certainly. I’ll sign anything that’ll speed things up.”

  “How did you and Mrs. Meredith get together in the first place?”

  I thought the question over and decided it was none of his business.

  Timmy’s head stopped bobbing up and down and wagged back and forth from side to side for a change. “He doesn’t have to answer questions like that, Mr. Seely,” he said in his weak whining voice. The two men stared at each other distastefully and Timmy won the battle of the eyes.

  “Have you got enough for a confession, Timmy?” Mr. Seely asked the old man, at last.

  “Plenty.” Timmy nodded his white head up and down.

  “That’s all I have then, Jordan,” Mr. Seely said. “No. One more question. Do you want to complain you were mentally unstable at the time? Or do you think you’re mentally ill now?”

  “Of course not. I’m perfectly sane and I knew what I was doing at the time. I’d planned it for several weeks.”

  “You’d better put that in the confession, Timmy.” Mr. Seely left the desk and opened the door. The detective was waiting in the hall. “You can return Jordan to his cell now,” Mr. Seely told the detective.

  I was handcuffed and taken back to the special block and turned over to Mr. Benson. Back in my cell I changed back to my jail clothes and Mr. Benson took my own clothes away on a wire coat hanger. I was alone in my quiet cell.

  My mind was much more at ease than it had been before. Thinking back over the interview I felt quite satisfied that the initial step was taken and the ball rolling. Blind justice would filter in and get me sooner or later. It was pleasant to look forward to the gas chamber. What a nice, easy way to die! So painless. Silent and practically odorless and clean! I would sit, in a chair, wearing a pair of new black trunks, and stare back at a few rows of spectators staring at me. I would hear nothing and smell nothing. Then I would be dead. When I writhed on the floor and went into convulsions I wouldn’t even know about it. Actually, it would be a much more horrible experience for the witnesses than it would be for me. This knowledge gave me a feeling of morbid satisfaction. I had to laugh.

  Soon it was time for lunch. Mr. Benson brought a tray to my cell containing boiled cabbage, white meat, bread and margarine, raspberry jello and black coffee. I attacked the food with relish. Food had never tasted better. My mind was relieved now that things were underway and I wasn’t eating in a greasy cafe and I hadn’t had to cook the food myself. I suppose that is why it all tasted so good. After wiping up the cabbage pot-licker with the last of my bread I rolled and smoked a cigarette. Mr. Benson took the tray away and was back in a few minutes with Old Timmy.

  “I’ve got your confession ready, boy,” the old man said.

  Timmy signed for me and we left the block for the elevator. After Timmy pushed the button for the third floor, he turned and smiled at me, bobbing his head up and down.

  “You aren’t sensitive, are you, Jordan?”

  “How do you mean,” I asked, puzzled.

  “Well, it isn’t really necessary for me to take you downstairs to sign your confession, and when you aren’t in the block you’re supposed to wear regular clothes instead of these . . .” He plucked at my blue jail shirt. “And I’m supposed to have a police officer along too.” He laughed thinly. “But some of the girls in the office wanted to get a look at you. Funny, the way these young girls go for the crime passionell. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  We walked down the carpeted hallway of the third floor and entered a large office that held five desks, each with telephone and typewriter. Old Timmy winked at me as I nervously looked at the nine women who had crowded into the office. They were all ages, but were still considered girls by Old Timmy.

  “This is the steno pool,” Timmy said as we crossed to his desk.

  “I see it is,” I replied.

  “I been in charge of this office for thirty-one years.” He had seven neatly typed copies of my confession on his desk and I signed them all with a ball point pen. He called two of the girls over to sign on the witness lines and they came forward timidly and signed where he held his talon-like finger. I had the feeling if I said boo the girls would jump through the window. After they signed their names they rejoined the other women, and the silent group stared at me boldly as we left the office. As Timmy shut the door behind us I heard the foolish giggling begin and so did the old man.

  “I hope it didn’t bother you, boy,” he said. “They’re just women.”

  “Yes, I know,” I replied meaninglessly.

  We entered the elevator again and Timmy pushed the button and looked at me friendlily.

  “What do you think of our brilliant Assistant District Attorney, the eminent Mr. Seely?” There were sharp overtones of sarcasm in his thin, whining voice.

  “I don’t think anything of him,” I said. “That is, one way or the other,” I amended.

  “He’s an ass!” Timmy said convincingly. “I’d like to assign him a case.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference to me,” I said.

  “You should have read your confession, boy. It’s iron-tight, you can bet on that. It’s a good habit to get into, reading what you sign.”

  “I’m not making any more habits, good or bad,” I said.

  Timmy chuckled deep in his throat. “You’re right about that!”

  We reached the special block and I returned to the custody of Mr. Benson. He opened the heavy end door and Old Timmy shook hands with me before he left, bobbed his head up and down.

  He turned away, head bobbing, hands jerking, and tottered down the corridor, his feet silent on the concrete floor.

  I settled down in my cell to wait. I would be tried as a matter of course, convicted, and go to wait some more in the death row at San Quentin. There, after a prescribed period and on a specified date, I would be executed. And that was that.

  I wondered how long it all would take.

  SIXTEEN

  Sanity Test

  I DON’T know how long I waited in my quiet cell before I was taken out of it again. It might have been three days, four days or five days. There was no outside light, just the refulgent electric bulbs in my cell and in the corridor, and if it hadn’t been for the meals, I wouldn’t have known the time of day. I didn’t worry about the time; I let it slip by unnoticed. I was fed and I was allowed to take a shower every day. And the forty slim cigarettes that can be rolled from a sack of Bull Durham were just enough to last me one full day. Mr. Benson let me have matches when I ran out, and I got by very well. After breakfast one morning, Mr. Benson brought my clothes down to my cell.

  “Get dressed, Jordan,” he told me, “you’re going on a little trip.”

  “Where to?”

  “Get dressed, I said.”

  My white shirt, stiffly starched, was back from the laundry. I tore off the cellophane wrapping, put it on, my slacks, tied my neck
tie. The jailer gave me my belt and shoelaces and I put the laces in my shoes, the belt through the trouser loops, slipped into my sports jacket.

  “Don’t you know where I’m going?” I asked.

  “Of course I know. Hospital. Observation.”

  I hesitated at the door of my cell. “Hell, I’m all right. I don’t want to go to any hospital for observation. I signed a confession; what more do they want?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Benson reassured me. “It’s routine. They always send murder suspects to the hospital nowadays. It’s one of the rules.”

  “It isn’t just me then?”

  “No. It’s routine. Come on, I ain’t got all day.”

  I followed him down the corridor, but my mind didn’t accept his glib explanation. I didn’t believe my stay in the hospital would be very long, but I didn’t want them to get any ideas that I was insane. That would certainly delay my case and I wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. Right then, I made up my mind to cooperate with the psychiatrist, no matter what it cost me in embarrassment. It wouldn’t do at all to be found criminally insane and to spend the rest of my life in an institution.

  The detective was the same one who had taken me downstairs for my interview with Mr. Seely. He still had his hat on, and after he signed for me, and we were riding down in the elevator, I took a closer look at him. He was big and tough looking, with the inscrutable look that old time criminals and old time policemen have in common. To be friendly, I tried to start a little conversation with the man.

  “Those other two guys, the ones in the special block with me; what are they in for?” I asked him.

  “What do you want to know for?”

  “Just curious, I suppose.”

  “You prisoners are all alike. You get in trouble and you want to hear about others in the same fix. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll tell you this: they’re in a lot worse shape than you are.”

  We got out of the elevator in the basement and climbed into the back of a white ambulance that was waiting at the loading ramp. The window in back was covered with drawn gray curtains and I couldn’t see anything on the way to the hospital. But on the way, the detective told me about the other two prisoners, and like he said, they were in worse shape than I was in. The blond young man had killed his mother with an ax in an argument over the car keys, and the middle-aged man had killed his wife and three children with a shotgun and then had lost his nerve and failed to kill himself. It made me ill to hear about the two men and I was sorry I had asked about them.

  A white-jacketed orderly met us at the hospital’s receiving entrance and signed the slip the detective gave him. He was a husky, young man in his early thirties and there was a broad smile on his face. His reddish hair was closely cropped in a fresh crew-cut and there was a humorous expression in his blue eyes. The detective uncuffed me, put the slip of paper in his pocket and winked at the orderly.

  “He’s your baby, Hank,” he said.

  “We’ll take good care of him, don’t worry,” the orderly said good-naturedly and I followed him inside the hospital. We entered the elevator and rode it up to the sixth floor. Hank had to unlock the elevator door with a key before we could leave the elevator. As soon as we were in the hallway he locked the elevator door again and we left the hallway for a long narrow corridor with locked cells on both sides of it. He unlocked the door marked Number 3, and motioned for me to enter. It was a small windowless room and the walls were of unpainted wood instead of gray plaster. There were no bunks, just a mattress on the floor without sheets, and a white, neatly folded blanket at the foot. The door was made of thick, heavy wood, several layers thick, with a small spy-hole at eye-level, about the size of a silver dollar. Hank started to close the door on me and I was terrified, irrationally so.

  “Don’t!” I said quickly. “Don’t shut me up, please! Leave it open, I won’t try to run away.”

  He nodded, smiling. “All right, I’ll leave it open a crack. I’m going to get you some pajamas and I’ll be back in a few minutes. You start undressing.” He closed the door partially and walked away.

  I removed my jacket, shirt and pants, and standing naked except for my shoes I waited apprehensively for Hank’s return. It wasn’t exactly a padded cell, but it was the next thing to it. I was really frightened. For the first time I knew actual terror. There is a great difference between being locked in a jail cell and being locked in a madman’s cell. At the jail I was still an ordinary human being, a murderer, yes, but a normal man locked up in jail with other normal men. Here, in addition to being a murderer, I was under serious suspicion, like a dangerous lunatic, under observation from a tiny spy-hole, not to be trusted. Mr. Benson must have lied to me. Evidently, they thought I was crazy. Why would they lock me away in such a room if they didn’t think so? I wanted a cigarette to calm my fears, but I didn’t dare call out for one or rap on the door. I was even afraid to look out the open door, afraid they would think I was trying to escape, and then I would be put Into a padded cell for sure. From now on I would have to watch out for everything I did, everything I said. Full cooperation. That is what they would get from me. From now on.

  The orderly returned with a pair of blue broadcloth pajamas, a thin white cotton robe and a pair of skivvy slippers.

  “Shoes too, Harry,” he said.

  I sat down on the mattress, removed my shoes and socks and slid my feet into the skivvy slippers. He dropped my clothes into a blue sack and pulled the cords tight at the top. He had a kind face and he winked at me.

  “Just take it easy, Harry,” he said, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  It was a little better having something to cover my nakedness. Still, there is a psychological effect to hospital pajamas. Wearing them, a man is automatically a patient, and a patient is a sick man or he wouldn’t be in a hospital. That was the way I saw it, the only way I could see it. Hank returned with a syringe and needle and took a blood sample from my right arm. When he turned to leave I asked him timidly for a cigarette.

  “Why, shore,” he said and reached into his jacket pocket. He handed me a fresh package of king-sized Chesterfields and I opened it quickly, stuck a cigarette in my mouth. He flipped his lighter for me and said: “Keep the pack.” I was pleased to note that my hands had stopped shaking. “I can’t give you any matches,” Hank continued, “but anytime you want a light or want to go to the can, just holler. My name is Hank, and I’m at the end of the hall.”

  “Thanks, Hank,” I said appreciatively. “It’s nice to smoke tailor-mades again. I’ve been rolling them at the jail.”

  “They don’t cost me nothing. And when you run out let me know. I can get all I want from the Red Cross.” He started to leave with the blood sample, turned and smiled. “Don’t worry about the door. I know it’s a little rough at first, but I’m right down the hall and if you holler I can hear you. I’ll shut the door, but I won’t latch it. Knowing you aren’t locked in is sometimes as good as an open door.”

  “Will you do that for me?” I asked eagerly.

  “Why shore. This maximum security business is a lotta crap anyway. The elevator’s locked, there’s no stairs, and the windows are all barred, and the door to the roof’s locked. No reason to lock your cell.” He closed the door behind him, and he didn’t lock it.

  I sat down on the mattress, my back to the pine wall and chain-smoked three cigarettes. It gave me something to do. If the rest of the staff was as nice to me as Hank I would be able to survive the ordeal and I knew it would be an ordeal. My short stay at Saint Paul’s had given me a sample, but now I would be put through the real thing. At noon, Hank brought me my lunch on a tray. There was no knife or fork and I had to eat the lunch with a spoon. The food was better than the jail food, pork chops, french fries and ice cream, but it almost gagged me to eat it. I forced myself to clean the tray and saved the milk for the last. I gulped the milk down with one long swallow, hoping it would clear away the food that felt caught in my throat. When
Hank returned for the tray he gave me a light for my smoke. He was pleased when he saw the empty tray.

  “That’s the way, Harry,” he nodded and smiled good-naturedly. “Eat all you can. A man feels better with a full gut. The doctor’ll be back after a while and he’ll talk to you then. Don’t let him worry you. He’s a weirdie. All these psychiatrists are a little nuts themselves.”

  “I’ll try not to let it bother me,” I said. “How long are they going to keep me here, anyway?”

  “I don’t know.” He grinned. “That all depends.”

  “You mean it all depends on me?”

  “That’s right. And the doctor.” He left with the tray, closing the door.

  About one-thirty or two Hank returned for me and we left the cell and corridor and entered a small office off the main hallway. The office wasn’t much larger than my cell, but it contained a barred window that let in a little sunlight. Through the window I could observe the blue sky and the bright green plot of grass in the park outside the hospital. The doctor was seated behind his desk and he pointed to the chair across from it.

  “Sit down, Jordan,” he said. “Hank, you can wait outside.”

  There was a trace of accent in his voice. German, maybe Austrian. It was cultivated, but definitely foreign. That is the way it is in the United States. A native born American can’t make a decent living and here was a foreigner all set to tell me what was wrong with me. He had a swarthy sunlamp tan and his black beard was so dark it looked dyed. It was an Imperial beard and it made him resemble the early photographs of Lenin.

  “Your beard makes you look like Lenin,” I said.

  “Why thank you, thank you!” He took it as a compliment. I distrusted the man. There is something about a man with a beard I cannot stand. No particular reason for it. Prejudice, I suppose. I feel the same way about cats.

  “I’m Doctor Fischbach,” the doctor said unsmilingly. “You’re to be here under my observation for a few days.” He studied a sheaf of papers, clipped together with large-sized paper clips, for a full five minutes while I sat there under pressure feeling the perspiration rolling freely down my back and under my arms to the elbows. He wagged his bearded chin from side to side, clucked sympathetically.