o a knowledge of their deaths from the ankles up。 There was a black silk bag that went over their heads after they had finished their rambling and mostly disjointed last remarks。 It was supposed to be for them； but I always thought： it was really for us； to keep us from seeing the awful tide of dismay in their eyes as they realized they were going to die with their knees bent。
There was no death row at Cold Mountain； only E Block； set apart from the other four and about a quarter their size； brick instead of wood； with a horrible bare metal roof that glared in the summer sun like a delirious eyeball。 Six cells inside； three on each side of a wide center aisle； each almost twice as big as the cells in the other four blocks。 Singles； too。 Great acmodations for a prison （especially in the thirties）； but the inmates would have traded for cells in any of the other four。 Believe me； they would have traded。
There was never a time during my years as block superintendent when all six cells were occupied at one time…thank God for small favors。 Four was the most； mixed black and white （at Cold Mountain； there was no segregation among the walking dead）； and that was a little piece of hell。 One was a woman； Beverly McCall。 She was black as the ace of spades and as beautiful as the sin you never had nerve enough to mit。 She put up with six years of her husband beating her； but wouldn't put up with his creeping around for a single day。 On the evening after she found out he was cheating； she stood waiting for the unfortunate Lester McCall； known to his pals （and； presumably； to his extremely short…term mistress） as Cutter； at the top of the stairs leading to the apartment over his barber shop。 She waited until he got his overcoat half off； then dropped his cheating gu