Sparring Partners(39)
STRAWBERRY MOON
(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.