“Not well enough, Mr. Goetz. There was a truck overturned on that road that Friday. Big, trailer truck. Had the road blocked from three to six.”
Mina was past speech as I turned at the door.
“Good night, Mina,” I said.
I shall always remember her face, as the complex web of circumstances drew tight around her. Fascinating, really fascinating.
My own position was ridiculous to say the least. They were polite enough to me when they took me to the station, even apologizing for the necessity of taking my finger prints, then maintaining the tradition of all police departments, keeping at me and at me, repeating in a hundred ways the same dull questions, over and over, annoying me to a point of distraction. I am not a patient man, nevertheless I bore this endless repetition for nearly two hours, feeling a sense of relief when at long last I asked for and received the proper equipment to write this account, which I have done as carefully and accurately as my recollection would permit.
I am somewhat regretful about making further difficulties for Mina Goetz, but after all the whole thing was her idea.
Signed,
Jonathan Keeler
Night of an Execution
by Mann Rubin
I shall not be my usual suave, witty, charming self in introducing this drama. I shall merely say that in bringing it to you I have been clever, enterprising and commendably compassionate.
Darcy waited until the guards had finished shaving his legs and the Chaplain was seated across from him, ready to open the Bible, before making his move. He had five minutes before the Warden would arrive.
The gun he withdrew was a small, rusty automatic that had been smuggled to him three weeks previously by a friend, who had stood by him all through his trial and later through his long ordeal to escape the chair, through twelve years in a six-by-six cell on Death Row.
Darcy clicked off the safety-latch to let them know he desired their attention. The two guards were piling his last supper leftovers on a tray and the Chaplain was adjusting his glasses, when the low, metallic sound scraped through the cell like sand-paper. Their three heads turned simultaneously.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” said Darcy, “but your astonishment has some foundation. This gun’s loaded. Please cooperate and no one’ll get hurt.”
Fred, the older of the two guards, was the first to recover. His body trembling, he raised his hands, forgetting the half-filled coffee cup he was holding so that it smashed to the floor, splattering his pants with liquid stains. He looked positively abashed, as if he had suddenly caught his best friend kissing his wife.
“You’re crazy. You’ll never get away with it.”
“We’ll see,” said Darcy unperturbed. “Let’s just wait and see.”
Next it was the Chaplain, a tall, white-haired man with a calm, untheatrical manner. Darcy had found him to be extremely well read and a fine conversationalist; he hoped the man would offer no difficulty.
“Put the gun down, William. You don’t have a chance.”
“Please, Chaplain, stay out of this. You know me well enough by this time to realize I’ve weighed and reweighed every detail of this move. Under the circumstances, I know exactly what my chances are for what I want to do.”
A flicker of movement caught the corner of Darcy’s left eye and he turned abruptly, the gun so tightly held it seemed a part of his own flesh. It was Brick, the younger guard, the one Darcy felt might be the most trouble. A big, likeable farmboy, he took pride in his assignment, and through the years had treated Darcy more like a personal friend then a condemned murderer. This relationship plus the total improbability of a convict on Death Row having a gun, had created the laxity that had made it possible for Darcy to get the gun.
Young Brick stood posed, ready to spring into action, more out of hurt then anger; tears welled in his eyes.
“Don’t be a fool,” warned Darcy.
“You dirty louse!” screamed the boy. “I trusted you! Now I see you’re everything they said! They should have killed you years ago!”
“Don’t think they didn’t try,” said Darcy, grinning, rising. He waved the gun menacingly. “Okay, all of you. Back against the far wall. And keep your hands in sight at all times. When I finally leave here, I don’t want your blood on my hands.”
They obeyed him in silence, their eyes continuing to stare bewilderedly at the violence of his action. Each felt personally betrayed. Darcy sensed this, and he sincerly wanted them to understand he wasn’t acting out of a sudden impulse or whim.
“If you’re interested, that coffee pot near my bed is still warm. Also let me recommend the French pastry.”
They ignored his offer.
He shrugged, took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it, and still keeping in the shadows, moved to the front of his cell, where he could observe both ends of the outside corridor without being seen. It was a familiar sight after twelve years, so that even a cursory glance told him all was running according to plan. On the left was the heavy steel door through which the Warden would eventually come, and on the right, twenty-five yards farther down, was the small green door that opened into the execution chamber.
His eyes paused on one other object in the immediate area, a telephone resting on a wooden table half-way between his cell and the execution room. He knew the phone was hooked up on a direct line to the Governor’s mansion. He had heard it ring many times for many men, just as he had heard its silence pronounce final doom on an equal number of men, who walked past it to the green door — never to return. Tonight, it was the most vital instrument in Darcy’s plan, on it depended the success or failure of his entire operation.
“What’s the time?” he asked over his shoulder.
“You have less than ten minutes,” answered the Chaplain, his voice solemn, unforgiving.
“When do you make your break?” asked the young guard.
“Be patient.”
“You’ll be caught.”
“Perhaps.”
“I hope they give you a good long fry for this one.”
“I’m touched by your sentiments.”
He stumped out his cigarette; nothing tasted right tonight. He looked toward the Chaplain.
“What about you? Don’t you have two cents to add?”
“You said you didn’t want my advice.”
“Even so, I can read your eyes. You’re so disappointed in me. I haven’t followed the rules, haven’t conformed to the etiquette expected of someone who’s lived twelve years on Death Row. Where’s my sportsmanship, my school loyalty?”
“I’m not going to condemn you, William. It’s your life. You must know what you’re doing.”
“That’s right, Chaplain. It is my life. Every miserable second of it. I owe nothing to nobody. That’s why my mind’s made up. This is the night I go.”
Silence again. Eyes studying him, puzzled, remote, frightened.
“But what if the Governor calls? What if there’s a reprieve?” someone asked.
Darcy laughed cynically. “You mean like last time?”
“Yes,” said the Chaplain, suddenly emotional as if he sensed a weakness in Darcy’s armor. “Exactly like last time, and the time before that, and all the other times before that. I think the authorities of this state have been most lenient with you.”
“I agree. Most lenient.”
“Then give them another chance.”
“No. Tonight I call the shots.”
He paced silently in front of them. Outside a light rain was falling, but the wind was heavy and dark, brooding clouds cruised the sky making the night blacker than usual. He wondered what people were doing in New York, Chicago, San Francisco. One thing they could always say about him, he was big city all the way; he loved jazz and glitter and a fast pace. That was why the twelve years had been such a nightmare. It was like being buried alive, pebble by pebble, until nothing was left alive in you, not even memories.