第2部分(第1/7 頁)

o　a　knowledge　of　their　deaths　from　the　ankles　up。　There　was　a　black　silk　bag　that　went　over　their　heads　after　they　had　finished　their　rambling　and　mostly　disjointed　last　remarks。　It　was　supposed　to　be　for　them；　but　I　always　thought：　it　was　really　for　us；　to　keep　us　from　seeing　the　awful　tide　of　dismay　in　their　eyes　as　they　realized　they　were　going　to　die　with　their　knees　bent。

There　was　no　death　row　at　Cold　Mountain；　only　E　Block；　set　apart　from　the　other　four　and　about　a　quarter　their　size；　brick　instead　of　wood；　with　a　horrible　bare　metal　roof　that　glared　in　the　summer　sun　like　a　delirious　eyeball。　Six　cells　inside；　three　on　each　side　of　a　wide　center　aisle；　each　almost　twice　as　big　as　the　cells　in　the　other　four　blocks。　Singles；　too。　Great　acmodations　for　a　prison　（especially　in　the　thirties）；　but　the　inmates　would　have　traded　for　cells　in　any　of　the　other　four。　Believe　me；　they　would　have　traded。

There　was　never　a　time　during　my　years　as　block　superintendent　when　all　six　cells　were　occupied　at　one　time…thank　God　for　small　favors。　Four　was　the　most；　mixed　black　and　white　（at　Cold　Mountain；　there　was　no　segregation　among　the　walking　dead）；　and　that　was　a　little　piece　of　hell。　One　was　a　woman；　Beverly　McCall。　She　was　black　as　the　ace　of　spades　and　as　beautiful　as　the　sin　you　never　had　nerve　enough　to　mit。　She　put　up　with　six　years　of　her　husband　beating　her；　but　wouldn't　put　up　with　his　creeping　around　for　a　single　day。　On　the　evening　after　she　found　out　he　was　cheating；　she　stood　waiting　for　the　unfortunate　Lester　McCall；　known　to　his　pals　（and；　presumably；　to　his　extremely　short…term　mistress）　as　Cutter；　at　the　top　of　the　stairs　leading　to　the　apartment　over　his　barber　shop。　She　waited　until　he　got　his　overcoat　half　off；　then　dropped　his　cheating　gu