Dead Men (and Women) Walking Read Online Free PDF Page B

rely on after my stint in the jail, I was left utterly
alone.
    So that night, I began
writing this, my testament, and hatched a most daring scheme. I
left my mother outside, for to be taken in by the dead. My father's
old gun sits here beside me. Soon, I will hear them coming. When
the tramping of their feet sounds, I know what I must do. After
tonight, I'll be back with my mum, and truly, I'll finally be able
to once again have a drink....

 
     
CATHERINE’S WELL
    By Jeff Brown
     
    They say it’s time for me to
confess my sins. Confess what sins? I’ve done nothing wrong.
Besides, I’m not Catholic and this isn’t some confessional I am in.
Though, quite a few inmates do their confessions in these concrete
walled rooms to other inmates who are just as “innocent” as they
are. That doesn’t really matter, though. You see, I am innocent.
For some reason they say I’m lying, they say I’m as guilty as the
next “innocent” criminal behind bars. That just doesn’t make much
sense to me—I passed four of them liar’s tests they give to us
“innocents before proven to be guilty’s.” They have no evidence
against me. Nothing at all. No weapon, nothing. Worst of all, they
don’t have a body. I know. I know. People who say they have no
proof are usually guilty of the crime they are being tried for. Not
me.
    But, here I am in this gray,
chalky 8’ x8’ jail cell staring out of a window just a wee bit
bigger than my head. I’ve been in prison for the better part of
sixteen years now. For the most part I have been in this isolation
ward in a part of the Lee County Correctional Institution that they
put the head cases like myself. Presumably.
    I’m not crazy. I know what I
saw that night seventeen years ago. I know what happened. Hell,
they did tests on me to see if I was sane—and I am. They even did
one of those ink blot tests—the ones where they pour ink onto a
piece of paper, fold it, and make shapes that look like grisly
looking butterflies, or big black blood splotches. You know, things
that some four-year-old kids could do. And, more than likely they
have four year old kids create the blotches for those head
shrinks.
    They—the psychiatrist—said,
and I quote: “He’s as sane as the next person.” However sane that
is.
    Never-the-less, I am sitting
in a damp and musky jail cell with an open jon, steel sink and an
old cot with piss stains (at least that’s what I hope they are) on
the thin cushion they call a mattress. They said the cot was new
when they brought it in about a year ago. But those stains were on
there then, and I don’t believe I have added to the mess. The
prison was relatively new when I got here in 1993, having been
transferred from another facility. I was one of the first people
that they sent here when it opened. I must say they do treat me
pretty damn good, all things considered (especially since they
don’t let me around too many other inmates). But, all’s the same
when they don’t do a lot of cleaning around this joint. One time I
saw a rat the size of a small cat—not a kitten, but a
cat.
    Oh, wait a minute—I haven’t
introduced myself, yet. I’m Jonathon Clary. I was a truck driver
for Overnite in Columbia, South Carolina, making trips back and
forth, up and down, and all around the great U. S. of A. I was a
truck driver, mind you. Until all of this happened. Until all of
what happened, you ask? Why, I never thought you would
ask.
    All of “this” is about Bobby
“Buster” Lennon and his death. We called him “Buster” when we were
kids because of the Buster Brown shoes his mother always bought
him. The name kind of stuck, and it didn’t seem to bother him too
much. Buster was, for all practical purposes, stupid. He wasn’t
retarded nor did he have any mental problems, he was just plain
stupid. He had the common sense that is comparable to sheep. Well,
no, sheep have a little more common sense, I guess, than Buster
did. Matter of fact there are quite a