the way I liked best. The dimple in her right cheek that only appeared when she smiled. The dark freckle at the base of her neck. If I was going away—and it sure looked like I was—I was going to do my best to take her with me any way I could.
“I didn’t want to go, but he—he made me. He hit me when I said no. I—I was scared. So I went. I went and I watched him shoot poor Roy dead.”
She was a wonder on the stand. She cried on cue and told the sympathetic jury what a monster I was, how frightened she had been, how horribly scarred she was from the terrible ordeal, how sorry she was to have been involved in any way. By the end of her testimony, even I was half convinced I’d done it.
The vote was unanimous. Guilty. No surprise there. In fact, the only surprise of the whole trial came during the sentencing phase when it took jurors only twenty-eight minutes to decide to give me death. It was a record for that time.
As they lead me out past Coraline, I stared deep into those acetylene-torch eyes. The look in them was a violent twister of love and sorrow and relief. I stared until they pulled me out of that courtroom and I couldn’t stare any more.
Then I went and waited to die.
Time on San Quentin’s death row unfolds slowly. That would seem to be a good thing considering what awaits you at the end of the line, but it’s not. Knowing what’s coming only drives home the futility of the never-ending days. Days stacked on weeks stacked on months stacked on years like a house of cards and just as pointless.
All that time, I never heard so much as a single word from Coraline. Not a call. Not a letter. What I got was nothing and lots of it. I’m sure a lot of guys would have been sore about that, all things considered, but I didn’t blame her any. I was glad of it, if you want to know the truth. I had not given up all I’d given up so she could waste her life pining for the dead. I wanted her to live. During the endless, countless hours of nothing to see and nothing to do, I created whole lives for her. I imagined her cleaned up and using her looks and talent working in the pictures, or traveling the world, seeing sights I’d never see, or raising a family with some average Joe who treated her like she hung the moon. You see, it didn’t matter what to me, just so long as she was doing something with my sacrifice. Anything. It didn’t seem much to ask.
I guess it was though.
Toward the end of 1945—November if I recall—I noticed a small article in the week-old copy of the Times I’d managed to get my hands on. The story explained how workers at the city dump had found the partially-nude body of a young woman. The body had later been identified as belonging to one Coraline Angel, the same Coraline Angel who had made the papers as an unwilling accomplice in the scandalous murder of producer Roy Mcardle. A heroin addict and prostitute, it was speculated that she had overdosed in one of the many east Los Angeles flophouses that had cropped up since the war and been disposed of by the other junkies hoping to avoid trouble with the law.
I must have read the story fifty times. A hundred. I just couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around the idea that Coraline was gone and it had all been for nothing. She hadn’t done a good goddamn thing with the opportunity I gave her. Not a good goddamn thing. And if that was the case, then I was a sucker for doing it. Worse, I no longer had my hopes for her or my good thoughts about my one truly selfless act to get me through the days. I think I hated her for that most of all.
There was nothing left for me. The next day I got busy dying. I called my lawyers and demanded that they waive what remained of my appeals. It didn’t take much convincing. The date was set and I looked forward to it like a kid does Christmas.
I only had a single visit my whole time on death row and it came the night before my scheduled execution. The warden himself appeared at the door to my
“I didn’t want to go, but he—he made me. He hit me when I said no. I—I was scared. So I went. I went and I watched him shoot poor Roy dead.”
She was a wonder on the stand. She cried on cue and told the sympathetic jury what a monster I was, how frightened she had been, how horribly scarred she was from the terrible ordeal, how sorry she was to have been involved in any way. By the end of her testimony, even I was half convinced I’d done it.
The vote was unanimous. Guilty. No surprise there. In fact, the only surprise of the whole trial came during the sentencing phase when it took jurors only twenty-eight minutes to decide to give me death. It was a record for that time.
As they lead me out past Coraline, I stared deep into those acetylene-torch eyes. The look in them was a violent twister of love and sorrow and relief. I stared until they pulled me out of that courtroom and I couldn’t stare any more.
Then I went and waited to die.
Time on San Quentin’s death row unfolds slowly. That would seem to be a good thing considering what awaits you at the end of the line, but it’s not. Knowing what’s coming only drives home the futility of the never-ending days. Days stacked on weeks stacked on months stacked on years like a house of cards and just as pointless.
All that time, I never heard so much as a single word from Coraline. Not a call. Not a letter. What I got was nothing and lots of it. I’m sure a lot of guys would have been sore about that, all things considered, but I didn’t blame her any. I was glad of it, if you want to know the truth. I had not given up all I’d given up so she could waste her life pining for the dead. I wanted her to live. During the endless, countless hours of nothing to see and nothing to do, I created whole lives for her. I imagined her cleaned up and using her looks and talent working in the pictures, or traveling the world, seeing sights I’d never see, or raising a family with some average Joe who treated her like she hung the moon. You see, it didn’t matter what to me, just so long as she was doing something with my sacrifice. Anything. It didn’t seem much to ask.
I guess it was though.
Toward the end of 1945—November if I recall—I noticed a small article in the week-old copy of the Times I’d managed to get my hands on. The story explained how workers at the city dump had found the partially-nude body of a young woman. The body had later been identified as belonging to one Coraline Angel, the same Coraline Angel who had made the papers as an unwilling accomplice in the scandalous murder of producer Roy Mcardle. A heroin addict and prostitute, it was speculated that she had overdosed in one of the many east Los Angeles flophouses that had cropped up since the war and been disposed of by the other junkies hoping to avoid trouble with the law.
I must have read the story fifty times. A hundred. I just couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around the idea that Coraline was gone and it had all been for nothing. She hadn’t done a good goddamn thing with the opportunity I gave her. Not a good goddamn thing. And if that was the case, then I was a sucker for doing it. Worse, I no longer had my hopes for her or my good thoughts about my one truly selfless act to get me through the days. I think I hated her for that most of all.
There was nothing left for me. The next day I got busy dying. I called my lawyers and demanded that they waive what remained of my appeals. It didn’t take much convincing. The date was set and I looked forward to it like a kid does Christmas.
I only had a single visit my whole time on death row and it came the night before my scheduled execution. The warden himself appeared at the door to my
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