Chapter 9

           TherewerenothunderstormsonthenightitcameJohnCoffey’sturntowalktheGreenMile.Itwasseasonablycoldforthosepartsatthattimeofyear,inthethirties,I’dguess,andamillionstarsspilledacrossused-up,picked-outfieldswherefrostglitteredonfencepostsandglowedlikediamondsonthedryskeletonsofJuly’scorn.

           BrutusHowellwasoutfrontforthisonehewoulddothecappingandtellVanHaytorollwhenitwastime.BillDodgewasinwithVanHay.Andataroundeleven-twentyonthenightofNovember20th,DeanandHarryandIwentdowntoouroneoccupiedcell,whereJohnCoffeysatontheendofhisbunkwithhishandsclaspedbetweenhiskneesandatinydabofmeatloafgravyonthecollarofhisblueshirt.Helookedoutthroughthebarsatus,alotcalmerthanwefelt,itseemed.Myhandswerecoldandmytempleswerethrobbing.Itwasonethingtoknowhewaswillingitmadeitatleastpossibleforustodoourjobbutitwasanothertoknowweweregoingtoelectrocutehimforsomeoneelse’scrime.

           IhadlastseenHalMooresaroundseventhatevening.Hewasinhisoffice,buttoninguphisovercoat.Hisfacewaspale,hishandsshakingsobadlythathewasmakingquitesomeproductionofthosebuttons.Ialmostwantedtoknockhisfingersasideanddothecoatupmyself,likeyouwouldwithalittlekid.TheironywasthatMelindahadlookedbetterwhenJanandIwenttoseeherthepreviousweekendthanHalhadlookedearlieronJohnCoffey’sexecutionevening.

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