Read Online Change of Heart by Jodi Picoult - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jodi Picoult
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painless,” DeeDee murmured. “Lethal injection.”
They
: the establishment, the lawmakers, the ones assuaging their guilt over their own actions with rhetoric. “That’s because no one ever comes back to tell them otherwise,” I said. I thought of Shay Bourne being given the news of his own impending death. I thought of lying on a table like this one, being put to sleep.
Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. The blankets were too hot, the cream on my skin too thick. I wanted out of the layers and began to fight my way free.
“Whoa,” DeeDee said. “Hang on, let me help you.” She pulled and peeled and handed me a towel. “Your mother didn’t tell me you were claustrophobic.”
I sat up, drawing great gasps of air into my lungs.
Of course she didn’t,
I thought.
Because she’s the one who’s suffocating me
.
Lucius
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
It was late afternoon, almost time for the shift change, and I-tier was relatively quiet. Me, I’d been sick all day, hazing in and out of sleep brought on by fever. Calloway, who usually played chess with me, was playing with Shay instead. “Bishop takes a6,” Calloway called out. He was a racist bigot, but Calloway was also the best chess player I’d ever met.
During the day, Batman the Robin resided in his breast pocket, a small lump no bigger than a pack of Starburst candies. Sometimes it crawled onto his shoulder and pecked at the scars on his scalp. At other times, he kept Batman in a paperback copy of
The Stand
that had been doctored as a hiding place—starting on chapter six, a square had been cut out of the pages of the thick book with a pilfered razor blade, creating a little hollow that Calloway lined with tissues to make a bed. The robin ate mashed potatoes; Calloway traded precious masking tape and twine and even a homemade handcuff key for extra portions.
“Hey,” Calloway said. “We haven’t made a wager on this game.”
Crash laughed. “Even Bourne ain’t dumb enough to bet you when he’s losing.”
“What have you got that I want?” Calloway mused.
“Intelligence?” I suggested. “Common sense?”
“Keep out of this, homo.” Calloway thought for a moment. “The brownie. I want the damn brownie.”
By now, the brownie was two days old. I doubted that Calloway would even be able to swallow it. What he’d enjoy, mostly, was the act of taking it away from Shay.
“Okay,” Shay said. “Knight to g6.”
I sat up on my bunk. “Okay? Shay, he’s beating the pants off you.”
“How come you’re too sick to play, DuFresne, but you don’t mind sticking your two cents into every conversation?” Calloway said. “This is between me and Bourne.”
“What if
I
win?” Shay asked. “What do I get?”
Calloway laughed. “It won’t happen.”
“The bird.”
“I’m not giving you Batman—”
“Then I’m not giving you the brownie.” There was a beat of silence.
“Fine,” Calloway said. “You win, you get the bird. But you’re not going to win, because my bishop takes d3. Consider yourself officially screwed.”
“Queen to h7,” Shay replied. “Checkmate.”
“What?” Calloway cried. I scrutinized the mental chessboard I’d been tracking—Shay’s queen had come out of nowhere, screened by his knight. There was nowhere left for Calloway to go.
At that moment the door to I-tier opened, admitting a pair of officers in flak jackets and helmets. They marched to Calloway’s cell and brought him onto the catwalk, securing his handcuffs to a metal railing along the far wall.
There was nothing worse than having your cell searched. In here, all we had were our belongings, and having them pored over was a gross invasion of privacy. Not to mention the fact that when it happened, you had an excellent chance of losing your best stash, be that drugs or hooch or chocolate or artsupplies or the stinger rigged from paper clips to heat up your instant coffee.
They came in with flashlights and long-handled mirrors and worked
They
: the establishment, the lawmakers, the ones assuaging their guilt over their own actions with rhetoric. “That’s because no one ever comes back to tell them otherwise,” I said. I thought of Shay Bourne being given the news of his own impending death. I thought of lying on a table like this one, being put to sleep.
Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. The blankets were too hot, the cream on my skin too thick. I wanted out of the layers and began to fight my way free.
“Whoa,” DeeDee said. “Hang on, let me help you.” She pulled and peeled and handed me a towel. “Your mother didn’t tell me you were claustrophobic.”
I sat up, drawing great gasps of air into my lungs.
Of course she didn’t,
I thought.
Because she’s the one who’s suffocating me
.
Lucius
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
It was late afternoon, almost time for the shift change, and I-tier was relatively quiet. Me, I’d been sick all day, hazing in and out of sleep brought on by fever. Calloway, who usually played chess with me, was playing with Shay instead. “Bishop takes a6,” Calloway called out. He was a racist bigot, but Calloway was also the best chess player I’d ever met.
During the day, Batman the Robin resided in his breast pocket, a small lump no bigger than a pack of Starburst candies. Sometimes it crawled onto his shoulder and pecked at the scars on his scalp. At other times, he kept Batman in a paperback copy of
The Stand
that had been doctored as a hiding place—starting on chapter six, a square had been cut out of the pages of the thick book with a pilfered razor blade, creating a little hollow that Calloway lined with tissues to make a bed. The robin ate mashed potatoes; Calloway traded precious masking tape and twine and even a homemade handcuff key for extra portions.
“Hey,” Calloway said. “We haven’t made a wager on this game.”
Crash laughed. “Even Bourne ain’t dumb enough to bet you when he’s losing.”
“What have you got that I want?” Calloway mused.
“Intelligence?” I suggested. “Common sense?”
“Keep out of this, homo.” Calloway thought for a moment. “The brownie. I want the damn brownie.”
By now, the brownie was two days old. I doubted that Calloway would even be able to swallow it. What he’d enjoy, mostly, was the act of taking it away from Shay.
“Okay,” Shay said. “Knight to g6.”
I sat up on my bunk. “Okay? Shay, he’s beating the pants off you.”
“How come you’re too sick to play, DuFresne, but you don’t mind sticking your two cents into every conversation?” Calloway said. “This is between me and Bourne.”
“What if
I
win?” Shay asked. “What do I get?”
Calloway laughed. “It won’t happen.”
“The bird.”
“I’m not giving you Batman—”
“Then I’m not giving you the brownie.” There was a beat of silence.
“Fine,” Calloway said. “You win, you get the bird. But you’re not going to win, because my bishop takes d3. Consider yourself officially screwed.”
“Queen to h7,” Shay replied. “Checkmate.”
“What?” Calloway cried. I scrutinized the mental chessboard I’d been tracking—Shay’s queen had come out of nowhere, screened by his knight. There was nowhere left for Calloway to go.
At that moment the door to I-tier opened, admitting a pair of officers in flak jackets and helmets. They marched to Calloway’s cell and brought him onto the catwalk, securing his handcuffs to a metal railing along the far wall.
There was nothing worse than having your cell searched. In here, all we had were our belongings, and having them pored over was a gross invasion of privacy. Not to mention the fact that when it happened, you had an excellent chance of losing your best stash, be that drugs or hooch or chocolate or artsupplies or the stinger rigged from paper clips to heat up your instant coffee.
They came in with flashlights and long-handled mirrors and worked
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