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Updated: May 23, 2025
LISTEN! Paul's in jail. He shot his wife, he shot Zilla, this noon. She may not live." HE drove to the City Prison, not blindly, but with unusual fussy care at corners, the fussiness of an old woman potting plants. It kept him from facing the obscenity of fate. The attendant said, "Naw, you can't see any of the prisoners till three-thirty visiting-hour." It was three.
So, having been directed down an interminable corridor, I presented myself at Ward W. On entering I had knocked, but no response rewarded this courtesy I was requested, by a stern-visaged Sister, to state my business. Her sternness was excusable. The visiting-hour was not yet, and in my unprofessional guise she had taken me for a visitor. My explanation dispelled her frowns. She was expecting me.
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