thirty years then, since an attempted robbery went bad and left two employees gravely injured,
a bystander dead. He was seventeen at the time.
Ezekiel had barely got through the fifth grade. But in prison he began to educate himself, first reading his way through the
prison library, then writing to churches outside the prison asking that their members donate more books, which he also read,
finally to university libraries to request any books pulled from their shelves. A college in southeastern Louisiana sent a
cache of old editions of law books. Ezekiel holed up for over a year studying them.
Sometime in the seventies, when the new Supreme Court rulings came down carrying Zeke's death sentence along with them, to
simple life, he took over editorship of the prison weekly, transforming it from a bulletin board for the prison administration
to a realnewspaper. Stories appeared on prison employees who purloined quality meats purchased in bulk for the prison, substituting
hot dogs and cheap bologna; others documented a cruel, corrupt and hugely ineffective prison medical program. Threats came
down from all sides. But support from reform-minded wardens and the wide attention Zeke's efforts had gained from national
newspapers helped protect him.
He'd first written to tell me how much he liked Mole. Then every now and again he'd write to ask my advice about matters at the paper, and finally, though we'd never met, we'd
put in enough time to become friends of a sort. I introduced him by mail to Hosie Straughter, who wound up picking up a lot
of his stuff, columns and a half-dozen or so features, for 77M? Criot.
Now Ezekiel was back out on streets I barely still recognized, so much had changed in recent years. And in thirty-three of them? It wasn't even the same world.
"What, they didn't warn you this was about to happen, discuss it with you?"
"Sure they did, Lewis. I just didn't believe them. Why would I, after all those years? How many times you think I heard how much better things were about to get?"
"So what are you going to do?"
"Well, I tell you. Right now I'm at a phone booth 'cross from Ruby's Fishhook Bar and Lounge trying to remember how a glass
of cold beer tastes. I think, once I hang up, I'm gonna have to go in and find out. After that, who knows. See what life has
to offer. You purely can't imagine how strange this all is, Lewis."
"You're right. I can't. And it doesn't matter how hard I try, how hard I want to."
"No." Behind his silence, clouds in a clear sky, I could hear sirens, raised voices, automobile horns. "But sometimes wanting
to, trying to, is enough, Ix)wis. That's as close as we everreally get anyway, most of us."
"You have a place to stay?"
"Slate gave me a list, halfway houses and the like. Takes care of its own, you know."
"Yeah. Sure it does. Join our happy little family of guys lying awake all night flat on their backs staring at the ceiling
and trying not to scream."
I told him my address.
"If I'm not here, the key'll be under a brick in the flowerbed out front, one nearest the door. It's a big house. Stay as
long as you need to, come and go as you want."
Silence again. "You sure about this, Lewis?"
I thought about Vicky years ago, asking Cherie to stay with us until she got her life together. Remembered before that, before
he was killed, Cherie's brother Jimmi sitting up in the bed next to mine at the halfway house reading a book on economics.
And how Verne's last years, past the shutters of her personal pain, were given over to others. She made a difference in a
lot of lives around here, Richard Garces had told me.
"I'm sure," I said.
"Then maybe I'll be seeing you soon, huh. After all these years."
I'd barely hung up, had the thought I'd love a drink and triumphantly decided on coffee instead, wandering out to the kitchen
to see about assembling some, when the phone rang again. I picked it up out there.
"Mr. Griffin?"
"Yes."
"You may not
a bystander dead. He was seventeen at the time.
Ezekiel had barely got through the fifth grade. But in prison he began to educate himself, first reading his way through the
prison library, then writing to churches outside the prison asking that their members donate more books, which he also read,
finally to university libraries to request any books pulled from their shelves. A college in southeastern Louisiana sent a
cache of old editions of law books. Ezekiel holed up for over a year studying them.
Sometime in the seventies, when the new Supreme Court rulings came down carrying Zeke's death sentence along with them, to
simple life, he took over editorship of the prison weekly, transforming it from a bulletin board for the prison administration
to a realnewspaper. Stories appeared on prison employees who purloined quality meats purchased in bulk for the prison, substituting
hot dogs and cheap bologna; others documented a cruel, corrupt and hugely ineffective prison medical program. Threats came
down from all sides. But support from reform-minded wardens and the wide attention Zeke's efforts had gained from national
newspapers helped protect him.
He'd first written to tell me how much he liked Mole. Then every now and again he'd write to ask my advice about matters at the paper, and finally, though we'd never met, we'd
put in enough time to become friends of a sort. I introduced him by mail to Hosie Straughter, who wound up picking up a lot
of his stuff, columns and a half-dozen or so features, for 77M? Criot.
Now Ezekiel was back out on streets I barely still recognized, so much had changed in recent years. And in thirty-three of them? It wasn't even the same world.
"What, they didn't warn you this was about to happen, discuss it with you?"
"Sure they did, Lewis. I just didn't believe them. Why would I, after all those years? How many times you think I heard how much better things were about to get?"
"So what are you going to do?"
"Well, I tell you. Right now I'm at a phone booth 'cross from Ruby's Fishhook Bar and Lounge trying to remember how a glass
of cold beer tastes. I think, once I hang up, I'm gonna have to go in and find out. After that, who knows. See what life has
to offer. You purely can't imagine how strange this all is, Lewis."
"You're right. I can't. And it doesn't matter how hard I try, how hard I want to."
"No." Behind his silence, clouds in a clear sky, I could hear sirens, raised voices, automobile horns. "But sometimes wanting
to, trying to, is enough, Ix)wis. That's as close as we everreally get anyway, most of us."
"You have a place to stay?"
"Slate gave me a list, halfway houses and the like. Takes care of its own, you know."
"Yeah. Sure it does. Join our happy little family of guys lying awake all night flat on their backs staring at the ceiling
and trying not to scream."
I told him my address.
"If I'm not here, the key'll be under a brick in the flowerbed out front, one nearest the door. It's a big house. Stay as
long as you need to, come and go as you want."
Silence again. "You sure about this, Lewis?"
I thought about Vicky years ago, asking Cherie to stay with us until she got her life together. Remembered before that, before
he was killed, Cherie's brother Jimmi sitting up in the bed next to mine at the halfway house reading a book on economics.
And how Verne's last years, past the shutters of her personal pain, were given over to others. She made a difference in a
lot of lives around here, Richard Garces had told me.
"I'm sure," I said.
"Then maybe I'll be seeing you soon, huh. After all these years."
I'd barely hung up, had the thought I'd love a drink and triumphantly decided on coffee instead, wandering out to the kitchen
to see about assembling some, when the phone rang again. I picked it up out there.
"Mr. Griffin?"
"Yes."
"You may not
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