Remo said nothing. His eyebrows drew together, forming a deep notch.
"I'm sorry," the warden said in a voice that was neither sympathetic nor sarcastic, but simply a voice. "You were a police officer once, according to your records. And I hold no truck with drug pushers. Maybe you had your reasons for doing what you did, but killing a corrections officer ... well, my responsibility is to the law."
"I want to talk to my lawyer," Remo said tightly.
"I understand that an appeal has already been filed on your behalf. In the meanwhile, you'll be expected to obey the rules of this institution. You'll be allowed out of your cell for two minutes every other day to shower, and twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays, for thirty minutes of supervised exercise in the prison yard. Otherwise, you will be confined to your cell, where you will take your meals and do all your business. Given your rather extensive record of violence against corrections officers and fellow prisoners, I will have no choice but to put you into segregated detention if you misbehave in any way."
"You make me sound like a bad little boy," Remo said in a hard voice.
"Be assured, Mr. Williams, I do not see you in that light at all. Now, do you understand everything I have just told you?"
"Guess so."
"Do you understand what I mean by segregated detention?"
"Sure. Solitary."
"Is that what they call it up at Trenton?"
Remo had to think about that before answering. "They called it administrative detention," he said at last.
"And I'm certain a man who's staring at the death penalty will think twice about living out his last days in solitary confinement." The warden pressed a buzzer. The two C.O.'s entered the room and took their places on either side of Remo Williams' unflinching face.
"Before these officers escort you back to your cell, do you have any questions?" the warden wanted to know.
Remo stood up, sending his chains clacking. "Just one," he said quietly.
The warden looked up quizzically.
"Do you gas, inject, or fry in this state?"
"We have a very efficient electric chair, Mr. Williams. If it comes to that, you won't feel much more than a short-lived jolt. It's quite humane, really."
"Just the same, I think I'd prefer the needle." The warden's face registered curious interest.
"Really?" he said. "If you don't mind my asking, why is that?"
"They don't shave your head before the lethal injection."
"Ah," the warden said as if understanding. But Remo could tell by the opacity in back of his eyes that he didn't understand at all.
Remo was silent as they led him away.
Chapter 3
They waited until Remo was back in his cell before they removed the chains and leg irons. Remo sat on the bunk as the barred door clanged shut. For the first time he noticed the white sign fixed to the cell doors: DANGER! STAND CLEAR WHILE GATE IS IN MOTION in stark black death-warrant letters.
It was the only reading material in the cell, so Remo read it several times slowly.
A voice from the adjoining cell broke his concentration.
"Hey, Jim. What's happenin'?" The voice was black. Southern.
"The name's Remo."
"Don't be takin' no attitude, man. I calls all white boys Jim. What're you in for?"
"None of your business."
"Suit yourself. I was just bein' friendly. My name's Mohammed."
"In that case, my name's Allah."
"The Muslim brothers pronounces it Al-lah, whitey. But if it suits you, you can call me Popcorn. All the cons do. Just don't you be puttin' down my personal god. Allah's all that be gettin' me through the day till I gotta walk down the line. I killed my old lady, don't you know."
"Tough."
"Don't I know it. Sometimes I really miss the woman. Wouldn't have cut her, but I caught her in bed with some turkey I never saw before. And it was my birthday. That was the unforgiving thing, you know."
"Spare me," Remo said, throwing himself back on the cot. He stared up at the ceiling.
"I hear you was a cop once."
"Once," Remo said tonelessly.
"So what's a cop doin' in this empty place?"
"I forgot to Mirandize your mother."
"Hoo! You are some cold dude. But let me set you straight, bro. The cons, they know you're a cop. The hacks, they know you offed a guard. That put you in a very bad place. I'd make all the friends I could get, I was you."
"You're not me," Remo returned, suddenly wishing for a cigarette. Maybe it would clear the cobwebs from his mind. He felt like stale beer-flat and too warm.
"In that case, I just got one more piece of advice for you, Jim." When there was no answer, Popcorn said, "Don't eat the meatloaf. It's always yesterday's hamburger. And if they offer you meatloaf stew, that's not only yesterday's meatloaf, it's also the day before's hamburger. They don't waste shit in this joint. They just reheat it and slide it back into your sorry face all over again."
"I'll keep that in mind," Remo said, still staring at the ceiling. It was too smooth. In his old cell, the ceiling was cracked and peeling: He used to imagine the cracks were an earthquake and the hanging flakes volcanic eruptions. He used to follow the cracks with his eyes for hours, imagining them-no, willing them-wider. Sometimes, it seemed that they did widen, but they never widened enough to let him out, now matter how long he stared through the endless gray days and months.
Remo rolled to the side of his bunk. He found no entertainment in this flat unblemished ceiling. Staring at his shoes, he thought about what the warden had said.
He couldn't remember killing any guard back at Trenton State. But his mind was still fuzzy from sedation. Remo couldn't remember ever hearing of an inmate being shipped under sedation. Not a sane one. He wondered if he had cracked from the long years of imprisonment on death row.
He let his mind roll back over the years. It was all a flat gray blur. How many since the day they came for him at his Newark walk-up? Ten years? Twenty? Closer to twenty. Twenty long years since the judge-what was his name, Harold something? had sent him up the river. In those days, New Jersey enforced its death penalty. Remo had sweated out over a year on death row-a "Dead Man" in the parlance of the other inmates-while his lawyer filed appeal after appeal.
It was not so much the appeals process that saved his life as it was the trend against invoking the death-penalty statutes that finally saved ex-patrolman Remo Williams' life. It wasn't vindication, but it was better than sitting on the chair.
Now, twenty years later, he was facing the chair all over again.
Remo stood up. His joints felt stiff. His not-quite-numb fingers stroked the stiff stubble of his chin and throat. There was no mirror in the cell. On death row a man might cheerfully slice open his throat rather than be dragged to the chair.
Swallowing reminded Remo of how dry his throat was. The washbasin was dry, so Remo decided to go in the other direction.
"I could use a smoke," he said aloud.
There was no answer from the left-hand cell, which Remo recalled had been empty when he passed it. But from the other side Popcorn asked, "Camel do for you?"
"Yeah."
"Well, here she come. One tailor-made."
Outside his cell door, a filterless cigarette rolled into view. Remo had to get down on his knees to snare it. But his wrists were too thick for the narrow space between the bars. He strained, his fingers nearly brushing the paper cylinder. He shifted to the other hand, but only succeeded in pushing the cigarette completely out of reach.
Remo returned to his bunk and sat down heavily, his face a mask of defeat.
After a while Popcorn remarked, "I don't smell no smoke, Jim. And I had my heart set on second-hand."