Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

“I’ve only got about fifty bucks,” Joslin said regretfully. “Suppose I win, what do I get?”

“I’ve got about a hundred dollars downstairs in the property clerk’s office.”

“Forget the money. What else?”

“Suit, shirt, tie, wallet.”

“I don’t give a damn what the stakes are. Now, here’s the bet.” He lowered his voice so that only Stuart would be able to hear. “That even if I don’t get a reprieve on Wednesday night, I’ll beat the chair that night.”

“How?” Stuart was almost hoarse. “You tell me that much or there’s no bet.”

Joslin took a deep breath. “Here it is: I’m going to kill one of the guards Wednesday night.”

Stuart was silent for a full minute, then asked, “What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”

“Easiest thing in the world, Stu. Kill one of ’em and what happens? Everything stops. New records have to be made, a full investigation has to be held. That means they won’t be able to do it then.”

“And afterwards?”

“I’ll figure something else to keep me out of the chair.”

“Won’t work,” Stuart decided grimly. “They’re pretty damn careful around here.”

“Maybe they are. Maybe not. Anyhow, that’s what the bet’s about.”

Down the cell block, Will Arbenz was saying loudly to somebody else, “Did your lawyer take advantage of clause 415? A lot of ’em forget that.”

Arbenz had written out his own appeals, and told everybody the exact wording. The man’s only serious reading matter were books on criminal law, and he probably knew them by heart.

Joslin said suddenly, loudly, “What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock,” he was told.

Joslin had purposely smashed his watch on coming into the death house, and been sorry about it ever since. But he knew he’d be laughed at if he bought a watch now.

“It’s ten minutes since I asked,” he said wonderingly. “For ten minutes I didn’t even think about what time it was.”

Down at the other end, the cell block door opened and Father Mullins came waddling in, smiling and nodding to all of them, asking if they wanted anything, if they would like to talk to him. Only Arbenz accepted that offer. Joslin, trying to read one of the innumerable pocket edition westerns in his cell, could hear Arbenz’ talk to the priest as a low muttering.

Joslin slept somehow. He woke in time to see daybreak. He felt sick. Pain laced his stomach. Every five minutes one of the other men, Brent, called out the time.

The day’s jokes and semi-wisecracks had already started with somebody asking Arbenz, “Your life insurance paid up?”

One of the guards had thrown in the morning newspaper. Joslin glanced idly through it. The sound of leaves turning in other cells came plainly to him.

Stuart said, “Anybody know a three-letter word for arbitrate?”

Brent, a southerner, was reading aloud the day’s installment of the Pogo comic strip. Arbenz complained at an opinion in one of the editorials.

In the last few months, Joslin had taken to smoking; a cigarette was rarely out of his mouth. He didn’t want to get up for a light now because of the pain in his stomach.

When he finally arose, and signalled to a guard to light his cigarette, Brent asked him sarcastically, “What do you smoke them things for? You could die of lung cancer.”

Lunch was pretty good, as were most of the meals.

In mid-afternoon, under heavy guard, the men were taken out to a special section of the yard. They were permitted to walk or run. Arbenz, with pants rolled up above the knees, did setting-up exercises and counted heavily at each move. Brent stood still, looking calmly up at the sky.

Joslin forced himself to stand absolutely motionless. When Stuart approached, he said, “Don’t bother me now.” Stuart shrugged and resumed his walk around the rim of the yard. He walked very quickly, hands at his sides.

When the exercise hour was done, the men were marched back to the cells.

In mid-afternoon, Joslin was taken to the visitor’s room. He walked heavily, head bowed.

His lawyer waited for him, a tall, gray-haired man. He wore a blue suit. Last time his lawyer had worn a brown one, the time before that a blue sharkskin. The ties were always different, too, usually of hard silk. A black-edged handkerchief always peeped out of a breast pocket.

The two men faced each other across a table in a small room. Armed guards stood at each end of the room.

“I’ve talked to the governor,” the lawyer said. “Going to see him again tomorrow afternoon. I’m doing what I can.”

On the way back to his cell, Joslin found himself trying to detect sympathetic looks from the guards.

At about seven-thirty he became grim; the execution had been scheduled for seven o’clock the next night. He resisted the impulse to pace the cell, to smash everything, to rumple and dirty the bed, to scream. He lay back, forcing himself to be quiet.

Stuart rapped lightly on the wall between them.

“Go ahead, Stu. The line’s clear.”

“Your lawyer say anything, Joss?”

Like the other men, Stuart was always hopeful.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.”