Death Sentence td-80

by Warren Murphy

  Remo dipped the mop into the open bowl, slopped it into the bucket, and carried both over to the mess. He swabbed the floor until it was clean, emptied the bucket into the bowl, and then brought bucket and mop back to the cell door.

  "Wring it out first," the guard insisted.

  "With what?" Remo demanded.

  "You got hands."

  "I don't shower again until tomorrow."

  "I don't make the rules," the guard said. "I just enforce them. Maybe next time you feel like puking, you'll try harder to hold it down."

  Scowling, Remo wrung out the mop with his bare hands and emptied the bucket into the toilet bowl. The guard took the mop and bucket and locked the door. He called down the line, "Rack Number One." He stepped up to the next cell, beyond Remo's sight. "Okay, Popcorn, time to hose down your poor black ass."

  "You just saying that 'cause you love me," Popcorn told the guard.

  The door buzzed open, and Remo, holding his dripping hands in front of him, looked up with sudden interest.

  He got a shock. The man who sauntered by, flashing him an easy Ipana smile, was short and reedy, wearing a high-top fade haircut that made his head look like a well-used pencil eraser. He was not much more than eighteen.

  "How ya doing, Jim?" he said, and just as quickly was gone.

  "Damn," Remo muttered. "Just a kid. He's just a kid. "

  After the ten-o'clock check, Remo was told it was his day to exercise in the yard. Popcorn had long since returned to his cell.

  The cell door buzzed open and Remo stepped out. There beside him was Mohammed, alias Popcorn. "Looks like we go together," the little con remarked.

  "Looks like," Remo said.

  "No talking in line," the guard snapped. It was a different guard than the man who had forced Remo to wring his acid-and-milk breakfast from the mop. By this time Remo's hands had dried to a milky tightness. He had gotten so sick of the smell that he had, after flushing the toilet six or seven times consecutively, washed his hands in the bowl. It was degrading, but no more so than any of the other indignities that had happened to him over the last two decades.

  They walked down death row, where the apricot T-shirted inmates regarded them with unblinking serpentlike eyes to C Block. One long-haired blond man sat on the bottom of his bunk-they had bunk beds in C Block-his eyes blank, his head swiveling from side to side like a human radar dish.

  "That be Radar Dish," Popcorn whispered to Remo. "They say he ate his mother. He be one fucked-up dude."

  High up on the second tier of cells that made up C Block, a gravelly voice sang out. "In the yard," it warned.

  "And you know who that be," Popcorn said. "Delbert himself. AKA the Crusher." Popcorn pronounced the nickname with evident relish, extending the last syllable as if tasting it.

  "McGurk carry a shank?" Remo asked. The C.O. grumbled at them, but didn't interfere with the conversation.

  "Some days," Popcorn supplied. "But Delbert, he don't need no shank, you see. Heard it said of him he once cornered a man he like in the machine shop and pinned him to the wall. Planted a big wet one on the dude's mouth. Man fight back, as is natural with a man. Delbert, he don't like that. He want a piece of you, he figure that be his right. So he pry open that man's jaw with his thumbs and take hold of the dude's tongue with his teeth. Bit down hard, did my man Delbert. Took half of his tongue. Swallowed it like raw liver. Then he held that poor suffering bastard's face down on the floor until he done bleed to death. Leastways, that's the way I heard it told."

  Rerno grunted. He wondered if Popcorn was trying to scare him. Some cons took pleasure in testing a newcomer's nerve.

  But Remo Williams was no newcomer. He had done hard time. He was afraid, but he wasn't frightened. That slim distinction often was the margin by which a man survived imprisonment.

  They passed through the last door to the yard. It was empty.

  Remo relaxed. Then Popcorn spoke up. "Don't get comfortable," he said. "The row always get first crack at the yard before they turn the population loose."

  And behind them, the cacophony of buzzers indicated that C Block was being released from their cages. They milled out like schoolkids at recess, everyone talking but no single voice rising above any other.

  "Catch you later," Popcorn said, edging away from Remo. "If you live."

  Remo hung back near a corner of the yard. The institution was a lime-green building surrounded by a double Cyclone fence. Green watchtowers thrust up in battlementlike extensions by the fence. The sun was high and it was warm, but muggy, as if they were near the ocean. Remo could almost smell the salt air.

  The cons came out like a human wave, but quickly separated into groups. Cellies paired off or split up, each according to the tension of the day. The lames-those who couldn't adjust to prison life-went off by themselves. The obvious queens gathered together, talking in high-pitched voices. A basketball game started under a gingle forlorn hoop.

  And towering above even the tallest of the general population was the bullet head of Crusher McGurk. His eyes, small and mean and overhung by bony brows, sought out Remo.

  Remo met the giant's gaze with frank contempt. Crusher pushed a pair of squealing queens apart and started out of the crowd. Instead of coming toward Remo, however, he made a bounding, bellyswaying beeline for Popcorn, who stood with his back to the population, shading his eyes from the overhead sun. His head was tilted back. He was watching a lone sea gull wheeling in long lazy circles just over the north fence.

  He didn't see or hear Crusher come up on him with the steady flat-footed walk of a man who didn't care where he stepped or what he stepped in-or on. It was obviously all the same to Crusher McGurk.

  One of Crusher's big hammy paws lifted up and snared the top of Popcorn's hairdo and twisted his head around sharply. Popcorn spun with the twist, almost losing his footing.

  "What you on me for, man?" Popcorn said, his voice skittering into a high fearful wail. One second his face was dry, the next it looked as if it had been smeared with oil. That's how quickly the sweat oozed from his pores. "Leggo my 'do!"

  McGurk's growled response was too low for Remo to catch. He debated his best move. He decided to simply get this over with.

  He walked up behind McGurk. "Let him go," Rerno said coldly.

  McGurk, not letting go, twisted his face around. A fierce expression crept over it.

  "Is this your wife come to rescue you, Popcorn?" McGurk growled, lifting Popcorn's elastic scalp. "Or maybe it's the other way around."

  "I barely know the dude, Crusher," Popcorn insisted.

  "I said let him go," Remo repeated, then adding tightly, "Delbert."

  "Crusher's my street name, motherfucker."

  "And Delbert's the name your mother gave you. She had you pegged better than the street." Crusher McGurk's expression was momentarily stupefied. His bristling brows dropped lower over his eyes. They narrowed so tightly that they started to cross. Crusher muscled Popcorn around in front of him and gathered him into a headlock. Popcorn, his face dripping perspiration now, simply extended his hands in abject surrender.

  Crusher squeezed. Popcorn's face darkened almost immediately.

  "Look at me," Crusher taunted. "I'm making the nigger turn colors. Hey, cop. Ever seen a nigger choke? First he gets darker, then he goes kinda purple. White folks turn blue. Not a nigger. They favor purple. Even the tongue goes purple. Show the man, nigger."

  Crusher squeezed and Popcorn gagged. His tongue lolled out of his mouth. He began making strangling, hacking sounds. Popcorn's tongue was pink. But his lips were turning faintly purple.

  "Oooh, look at that long lapping tongue," Crusher said. "No wonder you don't want no harm coming to this homeboy. I'll bet he gives head almost as good as the cop."

  "The name is Remo," Remo said, taking a step forward. "McJerk."

  Crusher split his lips in a bestial grin. Abruptly he released Popcorn. The wiry black teenager fell to his knees, clutching his throat with one hand and support
ing himself with the other.

  "Now I know what you care about," McGurk said hotly, "I'll give you time to think my offer over. You become my slave, or next time the nigger turns purple. Forever. Next time. In the yard."

  And Crusher swaggered away into the population. The other cons gave him a wide berth.

  Remo offered Popcorn his hand. It was a minute before Popcorn was conscious of it. He accepted the gesture and let Remo help him to his feet.

  "Don't know whether to be thankin' you or blamin' you," Popcorn muttered. "So if it's just the same, I'll do neither."

  Remo looked up at the guard towers. Their windows were smoked glass.

  "Don't the hacks try to break up fights?" he asked.

  "Sometimes. But they be afraid of Delbert too. Delbert, he take on anyone. Guard or con, it don't matter to him. He feels the same way about sex. A mouth is a mouth to Delbert. A man's asshole is just as snug as a woman's. Besides, man, you offed a guard up in Jersey. Everybody know that. So don't be looking to the hacks for no help."

  "I don't remember killing any guard in Jersey or anywhere. "

  "Say it again for luck," Popcorn said. "Amnesia get me through most nights too."

  Before Remo could say another word, Popcorn sauntered off. Remo let him go. He was staring into the guard towers. He felt eyes on him. For all he knew, the guards were sighting on him down their telescopic rifle sights. They used to do that back at the other prison. Just for practice. Only there you could see them. Remo didn't like the smoked glass. He preferred to look his tormentors in the eye.

  He shrugged and dropped to his hands and toes. He started with push-ups, then went into a flurry of leg lifts, with the right and then the left leg, reversing and doing equal numbers of reps. On death row he'd have no access to the weight room-assuming Florida State Prison even had a weight room-so he had to make the best of his opportunitites to maintain his physique.

  While he exercised, Remo checked out the yard. It was set in what seemed to be the northeast corner of the prison. Remo could see the front gate from his vantage point. The tall Cyclone fence was broken by a section of chain-link gate that moved on rollers. The gate section was taller than the main fence by a good three feet. Beyond it was a lime-green gatehouse that looked like one of the watchtowers had given birth to an infant correctional outhouse. The razor wire atop the fencing was strung in wide loops. It wasn't electrified. That meant that the best way out was over the wall and past the guard towers. It was hardly an option, not with the guards invisible behind smoked glass; there was no way to tell when they were looking in an escapee's direction and when they were not.

  The buzzer announced an end to yard time, and Remo, not in a hurry, leisurely drifted back toward the main building.

  At the entrance, a guard stopped him with a white nightstick against his chest. It was the squat C.O. who had manacled him the day before.

  "You," he said gruffly. "Dead Man. Step out of line."

  Woodenly Remo stepped out and took his place against the wall.

  "Strip and spread 'em, boy."

  "I didn't do anything," Remo protested.

  "Not yet. Not here. But where you come from, you shanked a guard. I'm gonna see that you don't shank me while you're in sunny Florida. Now, strip and spread your cheeks."

  Remo hesitated. To refuse would mean to go on report. Probably go to solitary. No more yard time. Remo was considering if it was worth it, when the captain of the guards strolled out and pointed to the guard who had Remo.

  "You!" he barked. "Pepone. Find Mohammed Diladay and bring him to interrogation."

  "Once I'm done with this one," Pepone shot back.

  "No. Now." The captain of the guards stormed off: The guard's face fell. He placed his hand on Remo's shoulder and walked him back into the marching line.

  "Next time," he whispered in Remo's ear. "Boy." Remo said nothing. He kept walking. He was a marked man now, and he knew it. The guards were out to get him-if McGurk didn't get him first. Solitary started to look good.

  Remo watched the guard named Pepone move along the line until he found Popcorn and pulled him out. Mohammed went along with more of the usual bounce to his step. Remo wondered where he was going and if it had anything to do with the altercation in the yard.

  An hour later, another C.O. brought Popcorn back to his cell. He walked with his head down and his eyes on the yellow line. If he was aware of Remo, he gave no sign as he passed Remo's cell. Taking the hint, Remo left him in peace. He would open up in time.

  It was after the dinner trays had been collected that Popcorn finally made a sound. He didn't speak. Instead he broke down into an inarticulate sob and went on for ten racking minutes before his animallike grunting broke into a long wail of despair.

  Remo waited until he fell silent and asked quietly, "Want to talk about it?"

  "I talked to my mouthpiece, man," Popcorn sniffled. "They turned down my last appeal. I go Tuesday. Tuesday! You'd think they'd give a poor black man a month to get his shit together. Or a week. I'd settle for a week. But I cook on Tuesday."

  "Tough," Remo said. The hardness in his voice belied his sympathy. Popcorn had reverted from the cellwise con he pretended to be to what he truly was-a poor dumb teenager who had screwed up on his birthday and was about to pay for it with his life.

  "What do they think this is?" Popcorn demanded of the walls. "China? What did I do that was so bad? Sure, I killed her. But who's to know she wouldn't have died of cancer by now anyway. Smoked like a chimney, that woman did. I may have done her a favor by doin' her quick. Yeah, that's it, I did her a favor, poor bitch. But jeez, man, I don't wanna fry."

  "I heard it's painless," Remo said hollowly.

  "You heard shit, man," Popcorn said vehemently. "Five dudes have gone since I come here. The Man say it don't hurt, but how do they know? They ain't sat there themselves. Ain't no one who sat on of Sparky ever came back to say, 'Shit, man, it's a cakewalk. Best way to go.' You know what they do, Jim?"

  "Yeah," Remo said, surprised that his earlier craving for a cigarette hadn't returned. "I know."

  "They strap you in so tight that if they rammed a red-hot poker up your ass, you couldn't even squirm. They hook you up forehead, leg, and jones. Put a veil over your face to deny a last look at the world. It be cold, man. Cold. Then they zap you. If you be lucky, you cook fast. I hear of suckers who had to drink Florida juice twice before the eyes turn white. The electricity, you know, it cooks the eyeballs white. You die like a blind man. There's nothing lower, not even a dog dies so cruel. Oh, Jesus. Why me?"

  "Jesus? What happened to Allah?" Remo blurted out.

  "That was for the brothers' benefit. I die Tuesday. Jesus is my savior now. Only I don't think he can save me now. "

  Remo shuddered. Neither of them said another word for the rest of the night. After lights-out, the row fell silent, as if out of respect for the condemned man whose cell would be empty in a few days.

  That night, Remo dreamed again.

  In the dream, they came for him in the middle of the night. A monk came first. He had only one hand and offered his crucifix for Remo to kiss. Remo sank to his knees and obliged.

  Then they walked him down the line. Remo was surprised, even in sleep, that the corridor was of cold gay stone. It wasn't Florida. It was Trenton. They strapped him in so tight he could barely breathe. Instead of a veil, they put a leather hood over his head. It was as heavy as a medieval torture device. Then they clamped the copper helmet over his head and screwed the electrode until it touched his sweaty temple. He already felt the coldness of the electrode at his leg, where it was affixed through the split in his trouser leg. He knew that coldness would snap suddenly into a red-hot bite when the switch was pulled by the executioner.

  Even though there were no eye holes in the leather, Remo could see the executioner-a short nondescript man with a solemn face. He could see him reach for the switch. The switch came down and Remo's brain exploded into a white burst of light. His body jerked a
gainst the straps and in his mouth was an acrid taste as he bit down on something-something that he had been careful to keep under his tongue....

  He couldn't remember what it was.

  Remo snapped awake in the middle of the night. He could hear Popcorn's irregular breathing. Once the rhythms of his exhalations stopped, and resumed only after he let out a gusty sigh. Remo decided to leave him alone with his thoughts.

  He had his own thoughts to think. The dream had seemed so real, just like the one of the previous night. But it was equally preposterous. Remo thought it was interesting that in the dream he had been executed at Trenton State. But then he remembered that at Trenton he used to dream of being in his Newark walk-up. And before that, when he was a free man, his dreams always took him back to the orphanage where he was raised, Saint Theresa's.

  It struck Remo that his dreams were always behind the times. And he wondered forlornly if he would ever see a time when he would dream of being in Florida State Prison, and where he would be when that happened.

  Eventually he drifted off. This time, he did not dream....

  Chapter 6

  Remo awoke before the morning buzzer. Groggily he rolled out of his cot. To his surprise, in the next cell, Popcorn was belting out an old fifties doo-wop song, "Desiree," performing the lead vocals, harmony, and "wah-wah" accompaniment not quite simultaneously, but close enough to be music.

  "You okay?" Remo asked during the final fading "Oooo Oooo. "

  "Sure," Popcorn sang. "I got it all figured out now."

  "Yeah?"

  "The state taketh and the state giveth away," Popcorn said archly, and burst out laughing.

  "Glad you're taking it so well," Remo grunted, joining in the macabre mood.

  "Sure, I ain't gonna die cooking on Sparky's frypan."

  "No?"

  "Crusher's gonna get me first, Jim. Told you I got it all figured out. He done threatened to kill me if you don't go down on him. So come yard time, you let him break my neck. You show him you ain't afraid of nothing. Maybe he let you be."

  "You'll still be dead," Remo pointed out.

  Popcorn snorted explosively. "A day early and a dollar short," he admitted. "But at least my death will count for something. It don't mean shit if I die sitting with state ghouls gettin' off the smoke pourin' out my shoes, mouth, and armpits."