Sparring Partners(42)
“Job? Is this the kind of job you were thinking about when you went to med school?”
“Come on, Wallace,” the warden says.
“You must’ve finished dead last in your class to end up with a dipshit job like this.”
“Knock it off, Wallace.”
“How many men have you pronounced dead after a lethal injection?”
“Three.”
“And does that bother you?”
“Not really.”
Cody suddenly grabs the bars in front of Paxton and says, “I hereby declare myself healthy enough to be murdered by the state. This little exam is over. Now, get out of here.”
Paxton offers a small plastic tube and says, “You got it, pal. Here’s your Valium.” He disappears quickly and the door clangs in the distance.
The warden studies his legal pad and says, “Moving right along. Your last meal will be served at nine p.m. Do you really want a frozen pizza?”
“That’s what I said. Got a problem with it?”
“No, but you could do much better. I mean, how about a big thick steak with fries and chocolate cake. Something like that?”
“Is everything going to be difficult tonight? Why do you care what I eat?”
“Okay, okay. What about the chaplain? Would you like to see him?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe have a chat.”
“What would we talk about?”
“I don’t know, but he’s been through this a few times and I’m sure he’ll think of something.”
“I doubt we have much in common. Never been to church in my life, Warden, at least not to worship. Me and Brian robbed a few out in the country when we were hungry. Some really crappy food. Peanut butter, cheap cookies, stuff like that. The food was so bad we stopped robbing churches and went back to doing houses.”
“I see. Most people, when they come this far and the end is near, want to make sure things are right with God, maybe confess their sins, things like that.”
“Why would I confess my sins? Hell, I can’t even remember them.”
“So, no to the chaplain?”
“Oh, I don’t care. If it makes him feel like he’s doing his job, run him through. Anybody else on your checklist there? Reporters, politicians, anybody else want a piece of me before I go under?”
The warden ignores the question and checks off something on his legal pad. “What about your estate?”
“My what?”
“Your estate. Your assets. Your things.”
Cody laughs and waves his arms. “This is it, boss. Look around. Eight-by-ten, my world for the past fourteen years. All I own is right here.”
“What about all the books?”
“What about ’em?” Cody steps to the center of his cell and admires his collection. “My library. One thousand, nine hundred and forty books. All sent to me by a sweet little lady in North Platte, Nebraska. They’re worth everything to me and nothing to anyone else. I’d say ship ’em back to her but I can’t afford the freight.”
“We’re not paying for the shipping.”
“I didn’t ask you to. Give ’em to the prison library. Hell, I got more books than they do.”
“The library can’t accept books from inmates.”
“Another brilliant rule! Please give me the rationale behind that one.”
“I really don’t know.”
“There is none, same as most of your rules. Burn the damned things. Throw them in the fire with me and we’ll have the first literary cremation in the history of this wonderful state.”
“And your clothing, court files, television, letters, radio, fan?”
“Burn, burn, burn. I don’t care.”
The warden scribbles on his list, lowers his pad, clears his voice, but keeps it low. “Now, Wallace, have you given any thought to your last statement, your final words?”
“Yes, but I haven’t decided. I’ll think of something.”
“Some guys go down swinging, claiming they’re not guilty to the bitter end. Others ask for forgiveness. Some cry, some curse, some quote Scripture.”
“I thought this was your first execution.”
“It is, but I’ve done my homework. I’ve listened to some of the last statements. They’re recorded, you know? And kept on file.”
“And why do you record them?”
“I have no idea. Just one of our little procedures.”
“Of course. How long can I talk when I give my last words?”
“There’s no limit.”
“So, under your rules, I could do one of those filibuster things and talk for days while you guys wait, right?”
“Technically, yes, I suppose, but I’d probably get bored and eventually give the executioner the high sign.”
“But that’s against the rules.”
“What are you going to do, sue me?”
“I’d love to, believe me I would. I’m four out of five, you know? But I never got the chance to pop you for one.”
“Too late now.”
“And who’s the executioner?”
“His identity is always protected.”