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Caryl Chessman was what they used to call “a nasty piece of work.” Born in 1921, by the time he was 20 he had spent time in three reform schools and three prisons, including San Quentin, Chino and Folsom. He stole his first car at 16 and by the time he was caught, for the umpteenth time, in 1947, he had robbed liquor stores, burgled homes, stolen cars and, finally, led police on a bullet-riddled 10 mile high speed car chase through Los Angeles. When he was stopped, he ran from the car into the neighborhood, chased on foot by the cops until he was tripped up and handcuffed. 

Or, as Chessman himself put it, “I am not generally regarded as a pleasant or socially minded fellow.”

He would have been just another petty criminal with a lifetime of serial prison terms but for a series of sensational crimes, which ended in that car chase and capture. 

In late 1947 and early 1948, there were a series of robberies in Los Angeles in which a man in a gray Ford coupe with a red police light would flag down drivers, point a gun in their face and rob them of what cash they had. He became known in the papers as the “Red Light Bandit.” A special police task force was created to track him down. 

On Jan. 19, the red light bandit stopped a car with a couple in it, robbed the man and then dragged the woman out of the car and forced her to perform fellatio on him. Three days later, he stopped a man and the man’s 17-year-old neighbor, robbed him and took the girl into his car, drove several miles, stopped and attempted to rape her. Failing in that, attempted anal rape, and failing in that, forced her to perform oral sex on him. He then drove her to her neighborhood and left her on the side of the road. 

The next day, police spotted the Ford coupe, implicated in the crimes, and gave chase, gunfire and all. And when they caught Chessman (and his accomplice, who was later convicted of several of the robberies he had pulled off with Chessman), the young rape victim identified Chessman as her assailant. Later, the first victim also identified him. Evidence was found in the coupe, including a red ribbon the young girl had lost in the attack. 

A three-day trial ended with Chessman convicted of 17 counts of robbery, rape, attempted rape and kidnapping. Chessman had chosen to act as his own attorney. The judge tried his best to dissuade him, but Chessman persisted, and defended himself incompetently. 

The problem that brought Chessman to national and international attention was that he was convicted, in part, under a 1933 California law, called a “baby Lindbergh law,” which offered the death penalty in cases where kidnapping was accompanied by another crime and led to “bodily harm.” Chessman’s crime ticked all the boxes. No one had been killed, though, and for many, including California’s governor Pat Brown, the death penalty in such cases was too extreme. Brown was a vocal opponent of the death penalty. 

Chessman, protesting his innocence and claiming to know who the “real” red light bandit was, filed appeal on appeal, getting nowhere. Various judges and judicial panels put stays on the execution order and Chessman was on the edge of his death eight times, always getting a last-minute stay of execution. This went on for nearly 12 years, becoming an international cause célèbre, and a rallying point for the anti-death-penalty movement. 

“A cat, I am told, has nine lives,” wrote Chessman. “If that is true, I know how a cat feels.”

He wrote three books while on death row. As he put it in one of them, The Face of Justice, “I won the dubious distinction of having existed longer under death sentence than any other condemned man in the nation’s then 179-year history. Day after day, I would go on breaking my own record.”

Chessman’s case was covered widely in the news, especially in the last year. He was featured on the covers of Time magazine and Germany’s Der Spiegel. Rallies were held worldwide. Folk singers wrote ballads. 

I was in seventh grade at the time, and remember quite well how much Chessman was in the news. It was the first time I was ever fully thoughtful about the death penalty. 

In the years Chessman waited for his date with the gas chamber, the baby Lindbergh law was repealed, although not retroactively. The anti-death penalty movement gained traction, and Gov. Brown found himself unable to commute Chessman’s sentence because California law required that the state supreme court concur to the commutation, which they refused to do. 

And so, on May 2, 1960, Chessman was led to the gas chamber at San Quentin Prison. 

______________________________

“I guess I’ll just have to practice holding my breath.”

— Caryl Chessman

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It is called “capital punishment,” because “capital” (“of the head,” derived via the Latin capitalis from caput, “head”) refers to execution by beheading, one of the older, and historically quite popular, forms of criminal execution. 

The gas chamber was originally considered an improvement on earlier methods, and thought less cruel than hanging, electrocution, beheading or being shot by a firing squad. Just how “painless” death by cyanide gas is is up for discussion. At best, it is not a pretty sight. 

The death of Caryl Chessman in San Quentin’s gas chamber on May 2, 1960, was described by several reporters. He was brought to the large metal capsule with two chairs, side by side. He was placed in one and straps attached to his arms, legs and torso. A doctor attaches a long stethoscope tube to the condemned’s chest. 

Chessman; San Quentin gas chamber; wax exhibit of Chessman at Mme. Tussaud’s

One reporter wrote, “The doctor of the prison walks up and utters the victim’s full name — you know, like “Richard Allen McVictim” — the full legal name you only hear when you are in trouble.”

“After they strap the soon-deceased into the metal chair, one of the guards, usually at 10:02 a.m. is wont to tell the victim something like, ‘Take a deep breath as soon as you smell the gas — it will make it easier for you (“how the fuck would you know” is what Barbara Graham is legended to have replied) [when she was executed in 1955].”

Continuing from another reporter, “The execution squad left the chamber and quickly closed and sealed the big airtight door. At 10:03 a.m., Warden Dickson nodded to Max Brice, the state executioner, a tall man in a dark business suit, who stood next to him. Brice moved a lever and a dozen egg-shaped Dupont cyanide pellets in a cheesecloth bag were lowered into a vat of sulphuric acid under the death chair. Almost instantly, deadly invisible fumes began to rise in the chamber. Chessman took a deep breath and held it, warding off unconsciousness for as long as possible. But the fumes must have reached him very quickly because witnesses saw his nose twitch, then he expelled the breath he was holding and breathed in. He looked over at Eleanor Black once again and smiled a sad, half-smile just before his head fell forward. Seconds later, foamy saliva began to drool from his open mouth.”

Further on, “In the chamber, Caryl Chessman’s body began to react to the death that was seizing it. He vomited up part of his breakfast; his bladder and bowels emptied inside his clothes. Then his heart stopped beating. At 10:12 the physician listening through the stethoscope advised Warden Dickson that Chessman was dead. Dickson turned to one of the execution squad officers. ‘Start the blowers.’ The officer threw a switch and a fan high above the chamber began to suck out the fumes and the stench.”

Public hanging; Ruth Snyder in the electric chair, 1929; Weegee photo of gas chamber execution

Finally, from another account, “Reporters one has interviewed who have witnessed executions say that there are screams, coughing, hacking, wild facial grimaces and drool. The murdered human loses control over his system, drooling…  The body slumps. After 8 to 10 minutes, the heart stops. The gas is sucked out of the chamber, the puke and defecation is hosed from the metal, the body is hauled away.”

Death by cyanide gas was first introduced in 1924 with the execution of Tong gang murderer Gee Jon in Carson City, Nev. The state supreme court ruled that gas was not “cruel and unusual punishment, but should be considered as “inflicting the death penalty in the most humane manner known to modern science.”

The desire to kill offenders humanely drove justice systems and penologists from the late 1700s onward. The most famous of “humane” methods was proposed by Joseph-Ignace Guillotin to the French National Assembly in 1789 in the form of decapitation “by means of a simple mechanism.” Although that mechanism had been around in various forms for centuries, it took on Guillotin’s name: a tall wooden frame holding a heavy angled blade that would drop from a height and sever head from body more cleanly and with less fuss than the older, more traditional sword or ax decapitations, which were sometimes rather gruesome and could take several whacks to get it right. 

Last public execution by guillotine in France, 1939

The guillotine — aka the “National Razor” — was last used in France for public execution in 1939, and last used at all in 1977 and outlawed in 1981. In use in the 20th century, the process could be quite efficient, as seen in a moment of Gilles Pontecorvo’s 1966 hyper-realistic film, The Battle of Algiers. A prisoner is marched to an inner courtyard of the prison where he is strapped to a vertical board which pivots down under the blade, which falls and severs the head — a process that took all of two or three seconds from start to finish. No ritual, no ceremony. If you are thinking of scenes of Louis XVI or Marie Antoinette on the scaffold making noble speeches, forget it. Pivot, slice, bounce. Quick as that. The headless body is then rolled over onto a gurney and with the head thrown in, wheeled away. 

Each new version of “humane” execution has been followed by another attempt as the previous became recognized as barbaric. And so, in the U.S., the gas chamber and electrocution, followed by lethal injection and most recently, by nitrogen asphyxiation. 

The barbarity of earlier methods is to modern moralities appalling.  Before the Age of Enlightenment and before jails and prisons became widespread in the 19th century, the primary punishments were public humiliation (such as the stocks), fines, torture, and death. These were pretty much the gamut. Death was meted out for even petty crimes. 

In Medieval England, you could be executed for: theft; cattle rustling; blasphemy; sodomy; incest; adultery; fraud; insult to the king; failure to pay taxes; extortion; kidnapping; being Roman Catholic (at one point); being Protestant (at another point) — and the list goes on. It is estimated that some 72,000 people were executed under the reign of Henry VIII alone. 

As late as 1820, in the British era of the so-called “Bloody Laws,” you could be executed for shoplifting, insurance fraud, or cutting down a cherry tree in an orchard. 

And we haven’t even mentioned the sin of being the wrong ethnicity. Millions upon millions have been murdered under official sanction for that, not only in Nazi Germany, but in the Ottoman Empire, in China, or Burma, or Rwanda. Genocide is a new word, but for an ancient practice. 

And historically, the methods could be grizzly. Torture on the wheel, for one, where you would be tied to a wheel, perhaps held up in the air, to die over a period of days from hunger and thirst, or from the broken bones and ruptured organs caused by the process. 

There was the gibbet, where the condemned was hung in a cage in public, again to die of hunger and thirst over days exposed to the elements.

One of the oldest methods was stoning, popular in the Old Testament and in modern fundamentalist Islam. It is a punishment still in use in some Islamic countries. 

 

As is beheading, the official execution method of Saudi Arabia. 

Other methods used in the past include: burning at the stake; boiling in oil or water; crushing by an elephant; fed to the lions or other animals; trampling by horses; being buried alive; crucifixion; disembowelment; dismemberment (as in being drawn and quartered); drowning; being pushed off a cliff; being flayed alive; garrotting; being walled up (immurement); being crushed under weights; impalement; having molten metal poured down the gullet; being tied in sack with wild animals and thrown into a river; poisoning; methodically slicing off body pieces until death; suffocation in ash. 

And there’s always tying the condemned to the mouth of a cannon and firing it, blowing the victim to pieces. And to prevent the spilling of blood, ancient Mongolians would execute prisoners by breaking their backs.  Then, there’s the Brazen Bull, a hollow bronze effigy of a bull wherein the condemned was encased and cooked inside as a fire was burned underneath. The Soviet method was to simply shoot the prisoner quickly in the back of the head, often without warning. And the Viking “Blood Eagle,” in which the condemned was put face down and his ribs cut from his backbone on both sides, spread open and the lungs pulled out and laid out as “wings.” 

The methods seemed to elicit the most sadistic tendencies of the human race. Death by torture was common. 

Western cultures have slowly weaned themselves of capital punishment over the past two centuries, albeit in fits and starts. It is uncommon in the developed world, but still practiced in much of the rest of the world. The U.S. remains largely squirmy at the idea, but, state-by-state, has either outlawed the death penalty or reveled in it (I’m looking at you, Texas). 

The arguments for and against continue to be made. Is it retribution; is it meant to discourage crime; or is it a hygienic process to eliminate unwanted criminal elements from society? With so many convictions being overturned by newer evidence, especially DNA evidence, can it still be justified? 

As Moses Maimonides said in the 12th century, “It is better and more satisfactory to acquit a thousand guilty persons than to put a single innocent one to death.”

San Quentin lethal injection room 

Currently, there are just under 2,500 inmates in the U.S. waiting execution. The average time between sentencing and execution is now 20 years, far exceeding Chessman’s 11 years and 10 months. Forty-two percent are White; 42 percent are Black; 14 percent are Hispanic. Just under 98 percent are male and more than two-thirds have not got even a high-school education. Since 1972, 1.6 percent have been formally exonerated and released. 


RW ca 1975Although almost everything I write is in some way about myself — I call it all “Nilsenology,” after all, very little is overtly autobiographical. I am by nature rather private. But there was a moment in my life when I realized I could be private by being completely open: that if I put it all out there, it would be possible for me to be left alone, no one would have to pry.

This came after several personal catastrophes in the 1970s, a year of fleeing to Seattle and then returning, tail between my legs, to North Carolina. I was basically homeless, no job, no ambition, no career, no future. My friends Alexander and Mary Lou had offered me a room in their house in Summerfield, about 10 miles north of Greensboro, N.C., and gave me a year and a half to recover. My life is in debt to their generosity. Aside from cooking and maintenance — part of the agreement — mostly what I did was write letters, rather like Moses Herzog, going through his own crises. In a single month — March of 1980, I wrote 500 pages of letters on my aqua-colored plastic portable typewriter, using a tree stump as a desk by the barn out back of the house. I am including one of those letters here. 

It was during this time I became a writer. Alexander in Summerfield NC

Alexander in Summerfield

In the first year I spent back in North Carolina, I worked for Manpower a total of six days; I substitute taught at a school for juvenile delinquents a total of about 15 days; I worked at The Carolina Peacemaker, the black weekly newspaper in Greensboro, for two stretches of three weeks each; I shot two freelance photo jobs. The money from that, from my income tax refund and $600 I made selling my Hasselblad camera is everything I earned and lived on, November 1979 to November 1980.

Alexander had given me his old Ford Falcon. It was a dark blue bomb, with no heat, no windshield wipers and a hole in the floor under the driver that let you see the road flash by under the chassis. When I had some money, I could fill it with gas and try to find some extra work.

But I really never had any money. I managed to live for a month on $20 and use the change for the following month. There were those few Manpower stints — one working in an electronics hardware factory was as close to Dante’s hell as I ever hope to know: My job for 8-hours a day was to collect the vacuum-molded plastic sprues from the individual machines and carry them back to a jet-engine-noisy room where I dumped them handful by handful into a grinding machine that chewed them back into pellets that could be reused in the molding machines.

I enjoyed my retreat from society; I enjoyed it too much. But I wrote so often for that year and a half that, although almost nothing was published (and what was published was only bits and pieces for the black newspapers), I reckon the beginning of my existence as a writer from that time. 

I took a perverse pleasure in my poverty, I got down to my lowest point: a point that remains one of the cruxes of my life, the node or nodule of meaning around which I build a sense of my selfhood. I had no job, no prospect, old ragged clothes, a jalopy but no money for gasoline. It was icy cold, December, no heat in my room. I had exactly two nickels and three pennies to my name; nothing more was coming. 

A few times, my poverty grinded me into pellets, too. In December, 1980, I wrote this letter:

When I read about the poverty in Dickens or in a monster Russian novel — read about stealing an overcoat or sleeping in an icy room with no heat — I respond out of recognition. C’est moi.

Take for instance, last Wednesday. I got up early, watching my breath condense before me and feeling my lungs disabused by the frigid air. I planned to drive downtown on the last gallon of gas in the car. It would not be enough gas to get me back from downtown. I was going to stop at the Plasma Center and donate — sell — my blood. My conscience bothered me terribly, but I could see no other way out. I had borrowed money from friends and I never liked the feeling, and my friends, Alexander and Mary Lou — my “family” — were so short of money themselves that they were borrowing off their credit card.

So I got in my car and headed for town. The car has no heater, so the half-hour’s drive to Greensboro was as bad as trying to get out of bed in the morning into air cold enough to preserve a mastodon. In town, I kept trying to put off going to the Plasma Center, first by going up to my old office at the Peacemaker, and then by seeing my old boss at the camera store, where I had worked in the early ’70s.Peacemaker

At the newspaper, I found them late for press because the typesetting machine was busted. I fixed it for them, saving them a $75 IBM service call, but when Rosie, the editor, asked me to stay and help proofread, I said I had another appointment.

So I went to see Bill Stanley at the photo shop. His face lit up when he saw me. “Well, look what the shit drugged in,” he said. “So, how’s it going Richie? You still living out in Summerstone? Didja have a good vacation?” A wry smile tortured his face as he explained to his current helper, “Richie here has been on vacation for … How many years is it now?”

The helper  sat passively, probably thinking if I was any friend of Stanley’s, he’d better stay out of it.

“Hey, you want some lunch?”, asked Stanley.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any money.”

“Shit, I didn’t ask you if you had any money. Listen to what I say, willya. I asked if you wanted lunch.”

“I’d love some.”

“That’s more like it.”

I was hungry as a dung beetle. I hadn’t eaten any breakfast since there was nothing in the house, and I couldn’t afford to stop at Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and a cruller. So we left the kid in charge and went across the road to Matthews Bar and Grill, the regular lunch spot.

Mat’s is another story. It is run by a Greek, Mihaious Daskilakis, and his wife. Everyone calls him Mat and calls her Mrs. D. When I first worked at the camera store about 10 years ago, she was a knockout, looking dark and earthy like Irene Papas. And even now, she is good looking, though the years have filled out her rump and her hair is mostly grey. And she can still barely speak English.

She is pleasant to the customers, but a termigant to Mat. He is a thinner version of Mel from Mel’s Diner, with black hair. He speaks a broken English and types amusing menus because of it. Mrs. D is unspeakably jealous and the waitress, though it is a new one every few months is invariably over 300 pounds. Mrs. D has last word in hiring waitresses. Once, when she was back in Greece for a family visit, Mat hired a good-looking, friendly, intelligent woman. She lasted until Mrs. D got back and was gone the next day.

The food at Matthews is slophouse diner food, drooling with grease. And the coffee, which I grew to love, is officially classed as a carcinogen by the FDA. The waitress has to pour it from a reagent bottle. The daily lunch special is something like meatloaf with a choice of two vegetables — from a list of peas, corn, okra, cottage cheese, french fries and “You wanta da gravies?”

“I’ll have the meatloaf,” says Stanley, “and okra. Just okra. Hold the other vegetable. And I want only one piece of bread.”

“Coffee?”

“I guess so.”

“And you?” She turned to me.

“A cheeseburger, with lettuce and tomato. And coffee.”

“Izatall?” butts in Stanley. “Have what you want. Shit, man, don’t be bashful.”

“A burger is all I need, but thanks, Willie.” I always called him Willie or William; everyone else called him Stanley.

As the waitress sets down the coffee, its surface swirled with grease or detergent, I thought, cripes, just like Henry Miller, bumming meals off the old buddies. And it was true that the burger was all I needed. Probably all I could have stood. My stomach had shrunk out of disuse. (Oh, I eat well enough at dinner, which I cooked, but breakfasts and lunches are often meager or non-existent.)

“Do you think the Old Man might need some Christmas help?”, I asked.

“Yeah, it could be. But you’d better ask him. I’m too close to retirement.”

I didn’t ask what that might mean.

“Has he been around yet today?”

“No. He’s out on his rounds now. I dunno if he’s coming downtown.” Willie slurped his coffee like an air raid siren and began sopping up the last of the gravy with the half-piece of bread he had left.

I knew I couldn’t put off my errand any more, so I thanked Willie for the meal and walked out into the cold and up the street to the seedy storefront that served for the Plasma Center.

I have given blood many times, but it has always been a free donation at a Red Cross bloodmobile. I strongly believe that is as it should be. I am appalled by the idea of selling part of me to make a buck. It is almost like “percentage slavery:” If I can’t sell whole human beings, at least I can sell of parts of them — or parts of myself, anyway.

It’s all too mercenary. But I was desperate.

What a marvelous word: “Desperate.” I had not a dollar to my name and no hopes of getting any. My clothes were wearing out and I was skimping on food. I was hitting on old friends for a meal. I was wearing summer sandals because they were all I owned and my feet were stiff with cold. Without the money from selling my blood, I doubted I could even drive home, let alone look for a job.

Behind the reception counter was a fine-looking woman of maybe 18 or 19. She looked surprised to see me: I was dressed in my Sunday best — my good pair of trousers and my last clean sports jacket. Even so, I must have looked a class apart from the derelicts who habituate the joint. Puzzled, she asked, “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’ve given blood before …”

“So, we draw out a pint and then extract the red blood corpuscles and shoot them back into you. Then we have to do it all again to make a whole pint of plasma. If you have ever felt faint after giving blood, you won’t feel that, since we give you back all your red blood. The whole process, the first time, takes at least a hour and a half. We pay seven dollars the first visit, because of the physical, and eight dollars each time after that.

“But the doctor’s already gone for the day, so we can see you whenever you can come back.”

A real disappointment. I was hoping for at least $10. And now I was in town with no way to get out. So I drove out to Guilford College, where I had been doing some work in a professor’s darkroom. I thought I might as well get some production out of the day.

But when I reached into my coat pocket to get the car key, I found $4. A drop of luck hits the day! And as I drove towards Guilford, I tried to remember where the money came from, why I should have $4 I hadn’t known about. Then I remembered: I had picked up a few groceries for Mary Lou and she had given me a tenspot to cover them. This was her change that I had forgotten in my pocket. After a short moral argument with myself, I pulled into a self-serve gas station and bought $4 worth of gas.

The darkroom I use at Guilford is built in a short corridor running from the drama department’s studio/stage to the outside of the building. The corridor is unheated and unfortunately very public. The enlarger and supplies have to be locked up in a giant metal cabinet in a corner of the room. I had brought a portable electric heater to warm up the air and I plugged it in and started setting up my chemicals.

Just then, Matthew’s coffee reached overflow in my bladder, so I walked across the stage and into the dressing room, where the nearest mens’ room was. The dressing room was filled with costumes and makeup. Old bobbies’ uniforms and patched cutaways. I relieved myself and as I was leaving, I noticed a line-up of shoes under the clothing rack. I looked at them and they all seemed to be normal size — much too small for my feet. But one pair was larger than the rest. I picked them up and looked them over.

They were a very plain pair of oxfords, a little worn, with tilted heels, but not badly scuffed. On the sole was a Salvation Army pricetag for $2.25 I sat down on the linoleum and tried them on and, though they dug into my heel a bit, they fit. Another short moral argument and I wore them out of the dressing room. Providence and a lax conscience had provided me with the pair of shoes I needed.

I have always thought of myself as honest. It it true that I stole a few paperbacks from the drugstore in New Jersey when I was in high school — mostly for the illegal thrill of it. But since then, I have been basically honest. Not that I ever felt particularly proud of it. I feel strongly in my bones that we are all capable of enormous crimes. The human heart is foul and devious. I don’t abide with those happy-face people that feel humankind is basically “good” and has only been driven to crimes for socio-pathological reasons. We are all potential murderers. That we don’t kill, for the most part is incidental. We all could.

Henry David ThoreauI believe most great writers — probably most great people — have understood this. Gentle soul Henry Thoreau says of himself, in Walden, “I never knew, and never shall know, a worse man than myself.” If my crimes are paltry — a stolen pair of worn-out shoes or a pocket of unreturned change — then it is only, I think, that I have not had the opportunities that others have had. I was not born to the Third Reich or to the Inquisition. It is easy for me to abhor the enormities of Auschwitz from my distance. It is easy to feel that I could never allow it to happen here. But I am fooling myself, as others do themselves continuously. Evil is, as they say, banal and everyday. My conscience will bother me little about the shoes: I needed them. What glib rationalization is harder to come by to steal someone’s silverware? To murder the pissant who robbed me of my redhead? To rape and pillage a whole country?

I know of few people more gentle than myself; slower to wrath, slower to find fault. I live much of my life according to “Judge not, lest ye be judged.” But when I found out how my redhead’s new husband had forbidden her to communicate with me, I felt such a welling of bile that I know I could have murdered him. I saw red. Reason drained from me. For those few hours, as I wrote the first and only vicious hate letter of my life, I was a murderer. I know in my heart that though I would likely never actually kill anyone, I was nevertheless capable of hating with a passion that rationally allowed murder. Nothing is more false than the myth propounded by the NRA that “the criminal element” is responsible for murders and rapes. Murders are committed by fathers, rapes by uncles. The Mafia really touches few of us in any direct way. If there is a criminal element, it is in each of us — a Caliban in our hearts.

And I believe that if we are to live morally — to refrain from blowing the face off our brother-in-law — we must acknowledge this beast in our bosom. If we behave morally because we believe ourselves moral and good, then what is to stop us from punishing those who are not, in our eye, also moral and good? But as I know I am capable of crime, I do my best to control myself and will spend little effort controlling others. The Inquisition was run by men who knew they were moral. They had their God on their side. They were certain; they harbored no doubts. Be we smaller people, admitting the rancor in our breasts, how can we condemn that rancor in others? If there is any Satan, surely his name is Certainty. If there is an angel who can save us, that angel is Doubt. Hitler was Certain. Anita Bryant is Certain. Jerry Falwell is Certain. The Ayatollah is Certain. Let us not be so sure. Let us not send Jews to the showers.

So, when I finished in the darkroom, I drove home on the gas I bought with Mary Lou’s money and wearing stolen shoes and not feeling too badly about myself. I could have been Raskolnikov.