Warren Murphy: Death Sentence

"What you on me for, man?" Popcorn said, his voice skittering into a high fearful wail. One second his face was dry, the next it looked as if it had been smeared with oil. That's how quickly the sweat oozed from his pores. "Leggo my 'do!"

McGurk's growled response was too low for Remo to catch. He debated his best move. He decided to simply get this over with.

He walked up behind McGurk. "Let him go," Rerno said coldly.

McGurk, not letting go, twisted his face around. A fierce expression crept over it.

"Is this your wife come to rescue you, Popcorn?" McGurk growled, lifting Popcorn's elastic scalp. "Or maybe it's the other way around."

"I barely know the dude, Crusher," Popcorn insisted.

"I said let him go," Remo repeated, then adding tightly, "Delbert."

"Crusher's my street name, motherfucker."

"And Delbert's the name your mother gave you. She had you pegged better than the street." Crusher McGurk's expression was momentarily stupefied. His bristling brows dropped lower over his eyes. They narrowed so tightly that they started to cross. Crusher muscled Popcorn around in front of him and gathered him into a headlock. Popcorn, his face dripping perspiration now, simply extended his hands in abject surrender.

Crusher squeezed. Popcorn's face darkened almost immediately.

"Look at me," Crusher taunted. "I'm making the nigger turn colors. Hey, cop. Ever seen a nigger choke? First he gets darker, then he goes kinda purple. White folks turn blue. Not a nigger. They favor purple. Even the tongue goes purple. Show the man, nigger."

Crusher squeezed and Popcorn gagged. His tongue lolled out of his mouth. He began making strangling, hacking sounds. Popcorn's tongue was pink. But his lips were turning faintly purple.

"Oooh, look at that long lapping tongue," Crusher said. "No wonder you don't want no harm coming to this homeboy. I'll bet he gives head almost as good as the cop."

"The name is Remo," Remo said, taking a step forward. "McJerk."

Crusher split his lips in a bestial grin. Abruptly he released Popcorn. The wiry black teenager fell to his knees, clutching his throat with one hand and supporting himself with the other.

"Now I know what you care about," McGurk said hotly, "I'll give you time to think my offer over. You become my slave, or next time the nigger turns purple. Forever. Next time. In the yard."

And Crusher swaggered away into the population. The other cons gave him a wide berth.

Remo offered Popcorn his hand. It was a minute before Popcorn was conscious of it. He accepted the gesture and let Remo help him to his feet.

"Don't know whether to be thankin' you or blamin' you," Popcorn muttered. "So if it's just the same, I'll do neither."

Remo looked up at the guard towers. Their windows were smoked glass.

"Don't the hacks try to break up fights?" he asked.

"Sometimes. But they be afraid of Delbert too. Delbert, he take on anyone. Guard or con, it don't matter to him. He feels the same way about sex. A mouth is a mouth to Delbert. A man's asshole is just as snug as a woman's. Besides, man, you offed a guard up in Jersey. Everybody know that. So don't be looking to the hacks for no help."

"I don't remember killing any guard in Jersey or anywhere. "

"Say it again for luck," Popcorn said. "Amnesia get me through most nights too."

Before Remo could say another word, Popcorn sauntered off. Remo let him go. He was staring into the guard towers. He felt eyes on him. For all he knew, the guards were sighting on him down their telescopic rifle sights. They used to do that back at the other prison. Just for practice. Only there you could see them. Remo didn't like the smoked glass. He preferred to look his tormentors in the eye.

He shrugged and dropped to his hands and toes. He started with push-ups, then went into a flurry of leg lifts, with the right and then the left leg, reversing and doing equal numbers of reps. On death row he'd have no access to the weight room-assuming Florida State Prison even had a weight room-so he had to make the best of his opportunitites to maintain his physique.

While he exercised, Remo checked out the yard. It was set in what seemed to be the northeast corner of the prison. Remo could see the front gate from his vantage point. The tall Cyclone fence was broken by a section of chain-link gate that moved on rollers. The gate section was taller than the main fence by a good three feet. Beyond it was a lime-green gatehouse that looked like one of the watchtowers had given birth to an infant correctional outhouse. The razor wire atop the fencing was strung in wide loops. It wasn't electrified. That meant that the best way out was over the wall and past the guard towers. It was hardly an option, not with the guards invisible behind smoked glass; there was no way to tell when they were looking in an escapee's direction and when they were not.

The buzzer announced an end to yard time, and Remo, not in a hurry, leisurely drifted back toward the main building.

At the entrance, a guard stopped him with a white nightstick against his chest. It was the squat C.O. who had manacled him the day before.

"You," he said gruffly. "Dead Man. Step out of line."

Woodenly Remo stepped out and took his place against the wall.

"Strip and spread 'em, boy."

"I didn't do anything," Remo protested.

"Not yet. Not here. But where you come from, you shanked a guard. I'm gonna see that you don't shank me while you're in sunny Florida. Now, strip and spread your cheeks."

Remo hesitated. To refuse would mean to go on report. Probably go to solitary. No more yard time. Remo was considering if it was worth it, when the captain of the guards strolled out and pointed to the guard who had Remo.

"You!" he barked. "Pepone. Find Mohammed Diladay and bring him to interrogation."

"Once I'm done with this one," Pepone shot back.

"No. Now." The captain of the guards stormed off: The guard's face fell. He placed his hand on Remo's shoulder and walked him back into the marching line.

"Next time," he whispered in Remo's ear. "Boy." Remo said nothing. He kept walking. He was a marked man now, and he knew it. The guards were out to get him-if McGurk didn't get him first. Solitary started to look good.

Remo watched the guard named Pepone move along the line until he found Popcorn and pulled him out. Mohammed went along with more of the usual bounce to his step. Remo wondered where he was going and if it had anything to do with the altercation in the yard.

An hour later, another C.O. brought Popcorn back to his cell. He walked with his head down and his eyes on the yellow line. If he was aware of Remo, he gave no sign as he passed Remo's cell. Taking the hint, Remo left him in peace. He would open up in time.

It was after the dinner trays had been collected that Popcorn finally made a sound. He didn't speak. Instead he broke down into an inarticulate sob and went on for ten racking minutes before his animallike grunting broke into a long wail of despair.

Remo waited until he fell silent and asked quietly, "Want to talk about it?"

"I talked to my mouthpiece, man," Popcorn sniffled. "They turned down my last appeal. I go Tuesday. Tuesday! You'd think they'd give a poor black man a month to get his shit together. Or a week. I'd settle for a week. But I cook on Tuesday."

"Tough," Remo said. The hardness in his voice belied his sympathy. Popcorn had reverted from the cellwise con he pretended to be to what he truly was-a poor dumb teenager who had screwed up on his birthday and was about to pay for it with his life.

"What do they think this is?" Popcorn demanded of the walls. "China? What did I do that was so bad? Sure, I killed her. But who's to know she wouldn't have died of cancer by now anyway. Smoked like a chimney, that woman did. I may have done her a favor by doin' her quick. Yeah, that's it, I did her a favor, poor bitch. But jeez, man, I don't wanna fry."