Remo Williams took the mentholated cigarette from his mouth, held it before his face where he could see the red ember feeding on that hint of mint, then tossed it on the floor.
He took a fresh cigarette from one of two packs at his side on the brown, scratchy-wool blanket. He looked up at the two guards whose backs were to him. He hadn't spoken to them since he entered Death Row two days ago.
They had never walked the morning hours on a beat looking at windows and waiting to be made detective. They had never been framed in an alley with a pusher, who as a corpse, didn't have the stuff on him.
They went home at night and they left the prison and the law behind them. They waited for their pensions and the winterized cottage in their fifth year. They were the clerks of law enforcement.
The law.
Williams looked at the freshly-lit cigarette in his hand and suddenly hated the mentholated taste that was like eating Vicks. He tore the filter off and tossed it on the floor. Then he put the ragged end of the cigarette between his lips and drew deeply.
He inhaled on the cigarette and lay back on the cot, blowing the smoke toward the seamless plaster ceiling that was as gray as the floor and the walls and the prospects of those guards out in the corridor.
He had strong, sharp, features and deepset brown eyes that crinkled at the edges, but not from laughter. Remo rarely laughed.
His body was hard, his chest deep, his hips perhaps a bit too wide for a man, but not too large for his powerful shoulders.
He had been the brick of the line in high school and murder on defense. And all of it hadn't been worth the shower water that carried the sweat down the drain.
So somebody scored.
Suddenly, Remo's facial muscles tightened and he sat up again. His eyes, focussed at no particular range, suddenly detected every line in the floor. He saw the sink and for the first time really saw the solid gray metal of the bars. He crushed out the cigarette with his toe.
Well, damn it, they didn't score… not through his slot. They never went through the middle of the line. And if he left only that, he left something.
Slowly, he leaned forward and reached for the burned-out butts on the floor.
One of the guards spoke. He was a tall man and his uniform was too tight around the shoulders. Remo vaguely remembered his name as Mike.
«It'll be cleaned,» Mike said.
«No, I'll do it,» Remo said. The words were slow in coming out. How long had it been since he had spoken?
«Do you want something to eat…?» the guard's voice trailed off. He paused and looked down the corridor. «It's late, but we could get you something.»
Remo shook his head. «I'll just finish cleaning up. How much time do I have?»
«About a half hour.»
Remo did not answer. He wiped the ashes together with his big, square hands. If he had a mop, it would go better.
«Is there anything we can get you?» Mike asked.
Remo shook his head. «No thanks.» He decided he liked the guard. «Want a cigarette?»
«No. I can't smoke here.»
«Oh. Well, would you like the pack? I've got two packs.»
«Couldn't take it, but thanks anyway.»
«It must be a tough job you have,» Remo lied.
The guard shrugged. «It's a job. You know. Not like pounding a beat. But we have to watch it anyhow.»
«Yeah,» Remo said and smiled. «A job's a job.»
«Yeah,» the guard said. There was silence, all the louder for having been broken once.
Remo tried to think of something to say but couldn't.
The guard spoke again. «The priest will be here in a while.» It was almost a question.
Remo grimaced. «More power to him. I haven't been to church since I was an altar boy. Hell, every punk I arrest tells me he was an altar boy, even Protestants and Jews. Maybe they know something I don't. Maybe it helps. Yeah, I'll see the priest.»
Remo stretched his legs and walked over to the bars where he rested his right hand. «It's a hell of a business, isn't it?»
The guard nodded, but both men took a step back from the bars.
The guard said: «I can get the priest now if you want.»
«Sure,» Remo said. «But in a minute. Wait.»
The guard lowered his eyes. «There isn't much time.»
«We have a few minutes.»
«Okay. He'll be here anyway without us calling.»
«It's routine?» The final insult. They would try to save his mortal soul because it was spelled out in the state's penal code.
«I don't know,» he answered. «I've only been here two years. We haven't had anyone in that time. Look, I'll go see if he's ready.»
«No, don't.»
«I'll be back. Just to the end of the corridor.»
«Sure, go ahead,» Remo said. It wasn't worth arguing. «Take your time. I'm sorry.»
CHAPTER TWO
It was a legend in the state prison that condemned men usually ate a heartier meal on the night of an execution than Warden Matthew Wesley Johnson did. Tonight was no exception.
The warden tried to concentrate on his evening paper. He propped it against the untouched dinner tray on his office desk. The air conditioner hummed. He would have to be at the electrocution. It was his job. Why the hell didn't the telephone ring?
Johnson looked to the window. Night boats moved slowly up the narrow black river toward the hundreds of piers and docks that dotted the nearby sea coast, their lights blinking codes and warnings to receivers who were rarely there.
He glanced at his watch. Only twenty-five minutes left. He went back to the Newark Evening News. The crime rate was rising, a front-page story warned. So what, he thought. It rises every year. Why keep putting it on the front page to get people worked up? Besides, we've got a solution to the crime problem now. We're going to execute all the cops. He thought of Remo Williams in the cell.
Long ago, he had decided it was the smell that bothered him. Not from his frozen roast beef dinner, untouched before him, but from the anticipation of the night. Maybe if it were cleaner. But there was the smell. Even with the exhaust fan, there was the smell. Flesh burning.
How many had it been in seventeen years? Seven men. Tonight would be eight. Johnson remembered every one of them. Why didn't the phone ring? Why didn't the governor call with a reprieve? Remo Williams was no thug. He was a cop, damn it, a cop.
Johnson turned to the inside pages of the paper, looking for crime news. Man charged with murder. He read through the story looking for details. Negro knifing in Jersey City. He would probably get the man. A bar fight. That would be dropped to manslaughter. No death sentence there. Good.
But here was Williams tonight. Johnson shook his head. What were the courts coming to? Were they panicked by these civil rights groups? Didn't they know that each sacrifice has to lead to a bigger sacrifice, until you have nothing left? Execute a cop for killing a punk? Was a decade of progress to be followed by a decade of vigilante law?
It had been three years since the last execution. He had thought things were changing. But the swiftness of Williams' indictment and trial, the quick rejection of his appeal, and now this poor man waiting in the death house.
Damn it. What did he need this job for? Johnson looked across his broad oak desk to a framed picture in the corner. Mary and the children. Where else could he get $24,000 a year? Served him right for backing political winners.
Why didn't the bastard phone with a pardon? How many men did they expect him to fry for $24,000?
The button lit up on his ivory telephone's private line. Relief spread across his broad Swedish features. He snatched the telephone to his ear. «Johnson here,» he said.