Since their breakin had yet to be discovered, they went back and stole the rest of the guns. The homeowners were obviously away on a long trip. It was July, vacation time. Brian decided they should move quickly before anyone returned home. They rode their （stolen） bikes into the city and stopped at a favorite pawn shop. They knew the owner well and considered him trustworthy, or as honorable as one might be in the shady business of stolen merchandise. His front-room pawn shop was always crowded with customers, its shelves stocked with everything from saxophones to vacuum cleaners. His back room was where he made his money dealing in hot weapons. He gave them $50 each for the revolvers. When Brian asked if he had any interest in a Beretta 686 Silver Pigeon, he was floored.
“Holy crap, man!” he’d gushed. “Where in hell?” But then he’d caught himself and stopped talking. Never ask a thief where he found his inventory.
Brian laughed and assured him they indeed had one in stock, and it was in mint condition.
“I’ll check around,” the dealer had said, obviously excited.
A week later they returned with the shotgun and left the pawn shop with $200 in cash, a record for them. They went to an old motel on the edge of town and paid $30 a night. They showered, washed their clothes, ate cheeseburgers at a joint across the street, and for two days lived like kings.
When it was time, they retreated to the woods and moved their campsite miles away. They had hit enough homes in the area and the police were patrolling more.
（5）
It’s eight thirty and Cody walks back and forth, pacing zombie-like with his eyes closed, touching a bookshelf, then touching the bars. Back and forth. He is anxious and wishes he hadn’t thrown away those pills. He suspects his lawyer will soon return for the last time and deliver the news that everyone expects.
There was usually a flurry of last-minute pleas and appeals, with lawyers running frantically from one court to another, but not always. A year earlier, Lemoyne Rubley went all the way with little fanfare. He was two doors down and he and Cody were friendly. They chatted for hours as the clock ticked away, though they couldn’t see one another. The day before the execution, the courts pulled all the plugs and his lawyers gave up. It was the most peaceful execution Cody had lived through in his fourteen years on The Row.
Frankly, now that it’s his turn, he’s thankful he has someone out there still firing away, though with very little ammo. He’s not looking forward to his last visit with Jack Garber.
He’s paid the guy nothing. For the past ten years Jack has represented him with a loyalty that has been amazing. On several occasions, Jack came within one vote of convincing an appellate court that Cody should get a new trial. He once asked Jack why he had chosen to be a death penalty lawyer. The answer was vague and brief and touched on some lofty ideas about capital punishment. He asked Jack who was paying him, and he explained that he worked for a nonprofit foundation that represents people like Cody, death row inmates.
The buzzer rattles again in the distance and Cody jolts back to reality. He walks to the bars, waits, and Marvin appears again. He smiles and says, “Cody, I have some good news.”
“I doubt that. Right now the only good news can come from my lawyer.”
“No, not that kind of good news. It’s something else. You have a visitor. It ain’t your lawyer or the chaplain or some reporter. It’s a real visitor.”
“I’ve never had a real visitor.”
“I know.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s a nice little lady from Nebraska.”
“Miss Iris?”
“Miss Iris Vanderkamp.”
“No way!”
“I swear.”
“But she’s eighty years old and in a wheelchair.”
“Well, she made it. Warden says you can see her for fifteen minutes.”
“What a great guy. I don’t believe this, Marvin. Miss Iris finally made it.”
“She’s right here.” Marvin disappears for a second, then returns pushing Miss Iris in a wheelchair. He parks her at Cody’s door and fades into the darkness of the hallway.
Cody is awestruck, speechless. He inches closer to the bars and studies her smiling face. “I can’t believe this,” he finally says softly. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, how about something like, ‘Hello and nice to meet you after all these years’？ That work?”
“Hello and nice to meet you after all these years.”
“Same on this end. I got here as fast as I could. Sorry it took me twelve years.”