beating and stomping and clubbing
his way through any who opposed him, except for his brother,
who was more feared, and more fearsome, than he.
Their ships prowled the Pacific. When the tank lights went out, I said:
"What a great fuckin' book."
"The Sea-Wolf?"
"Uh huh."
"Jack London was great. They love him in
Russia."
"In Russia!"
"Yeah. He was a communist... or at least some
kind of socialist. He was also a way out racist. It seems almost a paradox ...
a racist commie. Weird, huh?"
"Who's your favorite writer?" I asked.
"You mean this week? That's how much it changes.
You'll get to read a lot of books in the joint."
"I'm not going to the joint." For a moment I
thought he'd forgotten what I'd told him about the probation and jail sentence.
"Oh, not this time, but you went to juvenile hall
at ten, reform school at thirteen, and at sixteen you've been convicted as an
adult. Someday you're going to prison. I just hope you don't wind up next door
to me."
"I'm next door right now."
"I mean next door on Death Row."
The Death House. I saw Cagney's sniveling shadow as he
was dragged to the electric chair. It was a time when executions were so common
that nobody kept count, but it seemed all too likely to me — far more back then
than now. Murder is perhaps the easiest serious felony to get away with. Only
the most stupid and the most impulsive are apprehended and convicted. Only a
fraction of the poorest and most ignorant are among those who go to the Death
House. Fear of the death penalty would not make me hesitate one second now that
I'm old and harmless, my fires of id burned down to ashes. But back when my
rage and defiance always burned near explosion, I was afraid of the gas
chamber.
"It scares me," I told Chessman.
"Shit, it scares me, too. How about you,
Lloyd?"
"Yeah," Sampsell said laconically. "But
it's too late now."
"You got a chance at reversal?" Chessman
asked.
Sampsell's reply was a laugh.
"Me, I think I've got a shot. How can I have a
fair appeal without the right transcript? They hired this reporter after the i
it her one died . . . and where he couldn't decipher the shorthand, he .asked
the fuckin' prosecutor to clarify what was said."
"The prosecutor! How could he do that?"
"Because the judge said he could."
"Fricke?"
"The one and only."
"Does he ever get reversed?"
"I've never seen him reversed. Fricke On California Criminal Law is the numero uno textbook. How can they reverse the guy
ih.it wrote the book they learned from?"
I listened to them in the jail night after night, two
men who would both be put to death in the small green octagon chamber, where
the cyanide pellets were dipped into acid beneath the chair. They reminisced
about the legends of San Quentin. They mill me about Bob Wells, a black man who
was on Death Row for knocking out a Folsom guard's eye with a spittoon. He
started with a car theft and parlayed it all the way to Death Row. "In the
joint the best thing is to avoid trouble if you can . . . but if you get jammed
and you gotta take somebody out, if you want to avoid the gas chamber or Life,
make sure you stick him in the front — not in the back. In the front you can
make a case for self-defense. Another thing, don't ever go over to his cell
house or his job: You'll be out of bounds . . . where you're not supposed to
be."
Theirs was good advice for 1950. Twenty years later it
was impossible to be convicted of a prison murder without at least mil- guard
as eyewitness. In the '50s, most convicts felt such helpless defeat that they
usually confessed after a few days, or weeks, or even months, in the dungeon,
which was what they called a certain row of cells in Folsom's #5 building.
Nobody even thought a convict might have the right to a lawyer. Bob Wells only
ever saw his lawyer in the courtroom.
Another piece of advice I remembered from Sampsell.
"Two guys are the perfect robbery mob. With one guy, you know you won't
get snitched on . . . but one guy can only
his way through any who opposed him, except for his brother,
who was more feared, and more fearsome, than he.
Their ships prowled the Pacific. When the tank lights went out, I said:
"What a great fuckin' book."
"The Sea-Wolf?"
"Uh huh."
"Jack London was great. They love him in
Russia."
"In Russia!"
"Yeah. He was a communist... or at least some
kind of socialist. He was also a way out racist. It seems almost a paradox ...
a racist commie. Weird, huh?"
"Who's your favorite writer?" I asked.
"You mean this week? That's how much it changes.
You'll get to read a lot of books in the joint."
"I'm not going to the joint." For a moment I
thought he'd forgotten what I'd told him about the probation and jail sentence.
"Oh, not this time, but you went to juvenile hall
at ten, reform school at thirteen, and at sixteen you've been convicted as an
adult. Someday you're going to prison. I just hope you don't wind up next door
to me."
"I'm next door right now."
"I mean next door on Death Row."
The Death House. I saw Cagney's sniveling shadow as he
was dragged to the electric chair. It was a time when executions were so common
that nobody kept count, but it seemed all too likely to me — far more back then
than now. Murder is perhaps the easiest serious felony to get away with. Only
the most stupid and the most impulsive are apprehended and convicted. Only a
fraction of the poorest and most ignorant are among those who go to the Death
House. Fear of the death penalty would not make me hesitate one second now that
I'm old and harmless, my fires of id burned down to ashes. But back when my
rage and defiance always burned near explosion, I was afraid of the gas
chamber.
"It scares me," I told Chessman.
"Shit, it scares me, too. How about you,
Lloyd?"
"Yeah," Sampsell said laconically. "But
it's too late now."
"You got a chance at reversal?" Chessman
asked.
Sampsell's reply was a laugh.
"Me, I think I've got a shot. How can I have a
fair appeal without the right transcript? They hired this reporter after the i
it her one died . . . and where he couldn't decipher the shorthand, he .asked
the fuckin' prosecutor to clarify what was said."
"The prosecutor! How could he do that?"
"Because the judge said he could."
"Fricke?"
"The one and only."
"Does he ever get reversed?"
"I've never seen him reversed. Fricke On California Criminal Law is the numero uno textbook. How can they reverse the guy
ih.it wrote the book they learned from?"
I listened to them in the jail night after night, two
men who would both be put to death in the small green octagon chamber, where
the cyanide pellets were dipped into acid beneath the chair. They reminisced
about the legends of San Quentin. They mill me about Bob Wells, a black man who
was on Death Row for knocking out a Folsom guard's eye with a spittoon. He
started with a car theft and parlayed it all the way to Death Row. "In the
joint the best thing is to avoid trouble if you can . . . but if you get jammed
and you gotta take somebody out, if you want to avoid the gas chamber or Life,
make sure you stick him in the front — not in the back. In the front you can
make a case for self-defense. Another thing, don't ever go over to his cell
house or his job: You'll be out of bounds . . . where you're not supposed to
be."
Theirs was good advice for 1950. Twenty years later it
was impossible to be convicted of a prison murder without at least mil- guard
as eyewitness. In the '50s, most convicts felt such helpless defeat that they
usually confessed after a few days, or weeks, or even months, in the dungeon,
which was what they called a certain row of cells in Folsom's #5 building.
Nobody even thought a convict might have the right to a lawyer. Bob Wells only
ever saw his lawyer in the courtroom.
Another piece of advice I remembered from Sampsell.
"Two guys are the perfect robbery mob. With one guy, you know you won't
get snitched on . . . but one guy can only
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