american tragedy

Chapter 150 (2)
Chapter 328 (2)
"Clyde Griffiths, you have been convicted of the murder of Roberta Alden, and you are sentenced to death: The book transfers you to the Warden of the Auburn New York State Penitentiary for solitary confinement until the week of Monday, January [-], [-]XX, and entrusts you to be appointed by the Warden of the Auburn New York State Penitentiary on a day of the week, You, Clyde Griffiths, are executed in accordance with the laws of New York."

After the sentence was delivered, Mrs. Griffiths smiled at her son, and Clyde smiled back.Because, laughing like this, they said to themselves: Now she must believe him.She wasn't swayed by all the evidence against him.Moreover, no matter whether this belief is wrong or right, it can have such a large support force at this time, and this is exactly what he desperately needs.He now believed that what he had just said was true.He didn't hit Roberta.This is true.Because of this, he is innocent.However, Kraut and Slack now grabbed him and escorted him to the cell.

Immediately afterwards, his mother, seated at the press table, explained to the curious reporters who surrounded her: "You mustn't take me too seriously, gentlemen of your papers. I don't care about such things. Not very knowledgeable, but I want to be with my kids, and that's the only way I can get here. There's no other way for me to get here." Then a tall, lanky reporter came up and said, " Don't worry, Mom. Can I help you with anything? Let me sort out what you have to say? I'd love to." Then he sat down beside her, following what she thought the Denver paper would welcome. Format to sort out her impressions.Some other reporters also expressed their willingness to do their best, and they were all very moved.

Two days later, the transfer documents were ready, and his mother was notified of the transfer, but she was not allowed to accompany him.Clyde was about to be transferred to Auburn, a prison in western New York, where he was to be held in what was called "Death Row" or "Murderer's Cell," which was a gruesome prison. Hell, where all the cruel methods that people can imagine to be used against the living can be said to be available there. It is two buildings put together, with a total of 22 cells, and he will be held in it, awaiting review or trial. It is the execution.

However, at every stop along the way from Bridgeburg, there was a throng of people--men, women, and children--wanting to catch a glimpse of the marvelous young murderer.Girls and grown women, though they really wanted nothing more than to see this daring, romantic, and unfortunate character, pretended to be well-meaning, throwing hurls at him as the train pulled out of the station. flowers, and exclaimed joyously:

"Hey, Clyde! Hope to see you again right away. Don't hang around there too long." "Just appeal and acquittal. That's what we're looking forward to anyway."

Compared with the attitude of the Bridgeburg crowd, there was such a sudden, abnormal, passionate, even fanatical curiosity here, which was obviously very different from that there, and it was still in his favor. Clyde was astonished.Later, it even made him feel very encouraged.He just bowed to them, smiled, and even waved to them.But even so, he still thought to himself: "I am on my way to the house of death, and people can still be so kind. Their courage is really amazing." Clout and Sissel, the two guards, People, because he was caught at the same time, and he was also a prisoner.They have this kind of honor, and the passengers on board and the people outside the car regard them so differently, they themselves are very proud, and think that their status is superior to others.

It's been a brief but dramatic trip since his arrest, in full view. (Here, "travel" and "fleeing" have the same meaning. The original text is fight, and the author has the meaning of sarcasm and humor.) Passing by in front of him, there are waiting crowds. fields and mountains covered with snow.These sights reminded him of Lycurgus, of Sondra and Roberta, of all that had happened in the past year and eight months, which had changed and brought him down at last.And once the journey was over, the gray place of Auburn portended all misfortune.The wall of isolation from the outside world appeared before his eyes. After he was handed over to a clerk in the warden's office, his name and charges were immediately registered, and then he was handed over to two assistants, who were called by their names. He took a bath in the prison bathroom and had his head shaved, all the curly black hair that he was always proud of was shaved off.He was also given a prison uniform with stripes, an ugly hat of the same material, a pair of ragged prisoner trousers, and a pair of gray felt shoes, so that if he walked around the cell in a panic, he might be in danger. Make a sound.Give another number: [-].

So dressed, he was immediately sent to death row, and locked up in a cell downstairs.It was a boxy, bright, clean place, eight feet by ten feet long, with plumbing plumbing, a bed, a table, a chair, and a small bookcase.He's finally here.At this time, he still knew that there were cells all around here, and the whole house was full of cells.He stood for a while, then sat down.Back in the Bridgeburg detention center, there was still some direct contact that supported him to hold his breath.Now, even that is gone.Those strange crowds and strange scenes that appeared along the way are gone now.

In the past, it was extremely tense and painful! The death sentence.This trip that was called by name along the way.His hair was shaved in the downstairs barber shop, another prisoner shaved him.The suit, the trousers, were his now, and he had them on.There are no mirrors here, nor anywhere.But whether he has it or not, he knows what he looks like now anyway.The bulging top and trousers, and the striped hat.In despair, he threw them on the ground.Just an hour ago, he was fully dressed, shirt, tie, shoes.When he left Bridgeburg he looked neat and refined himself.But now, he must be very ugly! Besides, his mother is coming tomorrow, and after that, maybe Jefferson or Belknap will come too.God!

But there was something worse. In a cell directly opposite him, there was a sallow, thin, fierce-looking Chinese prisoner, dressed exactly like him.He went to the railing of the door of his cell, and the pair of unfathomable, slanting eyes were still looking at him.But the man immediately turned his head and scratched vigorously, and Clyde immediately thought it might be lice.There are bed bugs in Bridgeburg.

A Chinese murderer, this is death row, isn't it? However, he is on par with himself.Dressed exactly like him! Oh, thank God, there may be a lot of people here to see.He had heard from his mother that no one was allowed to come in here, and that only she, Belknap, Jefferson, and the pastor he thought he would approve could visit once a week.But again he saw these solid, whitewashed walls, brightly lit by daylight from the wide skylight, and at night by the white-hot electric lights of the great room outside.How different everything was from Bridgeburg, how bright and glaring.But over there, the detention center is old, the walls are light brown, not very clean, the cell is larger, with more utensils, there is a table, sometimes a tablecloth is spread on the table, there are books, newspapers, chess pieces, and chess boards.But here, there is nothing here.Just solid, narrow walls, with iron railings all the way up to a solid ceiling above, and very, very thick iron plates, but, like Bridgeburg's iron gate, with a small hole in it.Of course, the food is handed in from here.

However, at this moment, a voice came from somewhere:

"Hi? Another person came in, buddy! Downstairs, the east end of the second floor, Cell No. [-]."

Then a second voice: "Really? What's it like?" Then a third voice: "What's your name, new one? Don't be afraid. You're no worse than us." Then the first The voice answered the second voice: "A little lanky. A baby. Like a nursing baby, but that's not bad. Hi, you! Tell us your name!"

Clyde was startled, terrified, and calculating.How should we deal with this kind of introduction? What should we say and do? Should we be friendly with these people? But, even here, his tactful instinct was revealed, and he immediately replied very politely: "Clyde Griffiths," continued one of the earlier voices, "ah, yes! We all know who you are. Welcome, Griffiths. We didn't imagine So bad. We've been talking about you, right in Bridgeburg? It's not too bad here. At least it's a good place, as they say, with a tile on top of your head." Then, from somewhere There was a big laugh.

But Clyde was so frightened and disgusted that he didn't even want to say anything. He just stared sadly at the wall, at the door, and then at the Chinese prisoner opposite him in fear.This man stood silent in the doorway and stared at him again. Poor! Terrible, and they should talk to each other like this, and talk so affectionately to people who are strangers to each other.Nothing thought of his misfortune, his inexperience, his cowardice, his suffering, but then again, why should a murderer be timid at the sight of anyone? Why should he be unlucky? The scariest thing is: here, they have been guessing when he will come.That is to say, everyone here knows about him, and they have been guessing when he will come. That is to say, his affairs are of great concern to the people here and have a great influence.Unless he listened to them submissively, would he make things difficult for him, or threaten him, or make trouble on purpose? Sandra or whoever she knew, if she saw or thought of him now Such a situation... oh my god! Besides, his biological mother is coming tomorrow.

Then, an hour later, at dusk, a tall, gray-faced sergeant in a passable uniform placed a tray of food in the door opening.There was food in it, and it was for him.The yellow-skinned, emaciated Chinese across the way was eating his share.Who and how did he kill, and there was the sound of scraping iron plates with knives in the various cells! This sound reminded him not so much of people as of feeding hungry beasts.How many people even ate, shaved, and talked at the same time?He really wants to throw up.

"Ah! The gang in the kitchen can't think of anything but cold beans, yams, and coffee. That's a very strange thing."

"Forget it today, coffee tonight... oh man! . . . Buffalo jail . . . though . . . "

"Oh, come on," said someone in the other corner, "Buffalo jail, what a treat you eat, we're sick of it. We see you've got no appetite for tea when you're here. Bar."

"Anyway," the first voice continued, "thinking about it now, things were really good in the past, anyway, it seems to be the way I think now."

"Ah! Forget it, Laffert," yelled another.

Then the man who must have been "Laffert" said, "Now, after this I've got to take a nap, and then I'll call the chauffeur for a ride. It's going to be fine tonight."

Then came another rough voice: "Ah, this set of endless dreams of yours. Me, as long as I can smoke a cigarette and fight my life, I don't care at all. Then, let's play cards comfortably for a while."

"They play cards here?" thought Clyde.

"I think it must be Rosenstein talking."

"Ah, is that so?" Probably a voice from the cell next door spoke to the approaching police officer.The voice was very soft, but heard clearly: "Hush! Any news from Albany?"

"No, Herman."

"I don't think there's even a letter."

"No letter."

The voice was tense and urgent, and a little pitiful.After this there was silence.

At that moment in the past, a voice came from a cell far away, it was really the most miserable and desperate voice from hell, "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! My God what!"

Then another voice came from upstairs, "Ah! God. The farmer's doing it again? I can't take it. Sergeant! Sergeant! Can you give that guy some narcotics?"

The voice at the bottom rang again, "Oh, my God! "Oh, my God! My God!"

Clyde stood up, clenching his fingers tightly.His nerves were on the verge of breaking.A murderer! Probably dying.Or, just moaning and moaning about the fellowship thing--that's how he'd always been moaning, at least in his mind, in Bridgeburg.Such shouting! Oh my God! And there must be others like that too!

And there must be more of this every day and night, maybe...who can say...unless...but, ah! no.Ah! No! Not his... no... never his day.Ah, it's going to be a whole year before that happens...at least that's what Jefferson said.Maybe another two years.But here...!... And within two years!!! He trembled all over, because he thought that even in the short two years...

That other room! Also somewhere here.This room is connected to that one! It's also somewhere here.This room is connected to that one.He knew that there was a door leading to that chair.

Then, as before, the voice began again: "Oh, my God, my God!"

He fell on the bed and covered his ears with his hands in fear.

(End of this chapter)