The Late Matthew Brown. Paul Ketzle

and antivirus software was scheduled to hit the market in six months. There was an entire industry here, a conversion of labor, an enabling of the idle. The response from business leaders who were looking for an inexpensive labor solution or deals of cheap software had been overwhelmingly positive, and except for a few human rights activists and the nervous competitors who accused us of slave labor, Work for Justice had turned out to be a rousing success.

      But it had nothing to do with me. It had been my good fortune to be there to take credit for a decade of others’ planning and work. Plans had long ago been put into motion by previous directors to better utilize the changing face of the incarcerated population. My entire contribution had been to go out on prearranged local media junkets—TV and radio and cable access. A business magazine profiled me, also the local television news. For a brief few weeks, I was a mini-celebrity. Everyone else at Corrections, except Christy, it seemed, understood that Hal was the engine of our department. He’d been at Corrections for ages, while my qualifications were limited to that three-year stint at Environmental and my knack for having the right political connections. Learning to stay out of the way was perhaps my greatest contribution to my department.

      “Seems I have no choice,” I said.

      Christy clasped his hands together with a slap. “All right, then. That’s settled!” He started shuffling through the papers on his desk, which was our sign to leave. “How’s the baby?” he asked absently, without looking up. “I hear you have a new daughter?”

      “She’s twelve,” I said.

      “Amazing, isn’t it, how fast they grow.”

      We wound our way back through the beehive of cubicles. When Hal walked, though, everyone slipped aside, his barrel girth parting the streams. Rather than heading into his own office, Hal followed me into mine, easing himself with surprising lightness onto the corner of my desk while I took my seat.

      We sat like this for a moment, no one breathing a word.

      “Yes?” I said.

      “Nothing,” Hal said. “Just looked like you had something on your mind.”

      “I know nothing about executing someone,” I said.

      Hal shrugged. “Before my time, too. That was a whole different crew, then, a whole different administration. Bunch of fuck-ups.”

      That wasn’t an exaggeration. The last guy they tried to kill, Maxwell Carpenter Jaspers, had a barely functional IQ, and in the months leading up to his execution, this very fact had brought condemnations from human rights groups of every stripe, plus a majority of world leaders, including the Pope.

      “I don’t know that I could stand up to the Pope,” I said.

      “He ain’t so tough. Give yourself some credit. I’d give you at least even odds.”

      All of these factors would have been bad enough, but then there was the malfunction with the chair. The first jolt hadn’t succeeded in killing Jaspers, and the sight of his wheezing, smoking body had caused one witness to faint. A second electric shock then set Jaspers’ mask on fire. By the time they had shoveled his blackened corpse from the chair, several of the witnesses had become physically ill. Public protests only became more pronounced when another convict later confessed to the crime.

      Some believed that the state was done with killing people for good, at least those who put little stock in the emotional power of vengeance and its ability to drive voters out to the polls.

      Hal wasn’t leaving. He rocked on the edge of my desk, still tracing his pistol, staring at the series of old photographs on my walls. “Why do you think Christy is so intent that I do this? I’m serious. It should be you. You’re the nuts and bolts guy.”

      “Sometimes you got to just let things go,” he said, absently. “No point in making a fuss over what you can’t change. Besides,” he shrugged, “I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

      “What’s up with this review, anyway?” I asked.

      “You haven’t heard about the investigations?”

      I shook my head. I rarely paid attention to work gossip when I could avoid it. I never watched the news.

      “Several agencies are being investigated by the special prosecutor’s office. It’s all pretty hush-hush, but it’s got Christy spooked. Word is, they’ve got teams of investigators running around, asking questions, poring through the paperwork. You know Jordan Thatcher, runs Food and Agriculture?”

      “Vaguely. Small guy. Beard.”

      “Indicted. Last week, on charges of bribery, misuse of office and a few other things I’d never heard of. They’re apparently widening the net. Heard they’re going after Commerce, Health, Environmental.”

      “Environmental,” I repeated.

      My three years as director of the Bureau of Environmental Study had been a dull, uneventful, if largely pleasant experience, though my tenure there had not ended happily. Some resented my decision to up and leave so suddenly, taking me for the political opportunist I certainly am. The governor’s office had “requested” that I move to Corrections, for reasons they did not specify, and I could read the situation well enough to know not to appear as anything but perfectly compliant. The assistant they’d picked as my replacement, C. Bernie Morr, was my opposite in every respect, too. Where I was hands off, he was micro-managing; where I was disinterested and unqualified, he was passionate, with twenty years of experience and a degree in Environmental Law to draw upon. He was also a fierce and loyal partisan for the political machine in contrast to my compliant ambivalence. It was difficult to imagine the department running into trouble under his watch, and though I’d made few friends there and remained close with no one, I didn’t like the idea of my former staff suffering under the weight of an investigation.

      “You still know anyone working at the bureau?” Hal asked.

      “A few, I think. Not that they’d want to talk to me. But I don’t see what that’s got to do with us and your review.”

      “Nothing, we hope. For all our sakes. But better to know about it before they do.” Hal lifted himself heavily from the desktop. “Besides, it’s pretty obvious the political guys don’t want me anywhere near this execution. Just imagine how the voters would react to my beautiful face. Adler may be a killer, but he’s still white.”

      I laughed uncomfortably. “You can’t be serious.”

      “Think about it. That wouldn’t sit so well with certain important constituencies of the voting public. You don’t think this was Christy’s idea, do you? I’ve been here long enough to know that he’s got very specific instructions.”

      “So you think it’s all about race,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

      “You think if Adler was black they wouldn’t be putting me front and center? Of course it’s about race. They’d be crazy not to make it about race. I’m not saying I’m happy about it. But they need you, buddy. Should make you feel special.”

      “I hate this. I’m not a racist.”

      “As long as the next word isn’t ‘but,’ we’re cool.”

      I paused, then began: “I don’t like playing these kinds of games.”

      “I spend all my day around white people, and I’ve never met a single one who was a racist.”

      “That seems hard to believe,” I said.

      Hal lifted his large shoulders and pointed a finger at me with a nod. “Exactly,” he said.

      Over half our inmates were white, but a disproportionate number were black. Hal had walked me through a memo on this after I’d been on the job only a few days. Someone would ask me about this, he said, so don’t be surprised and don’t pretend it isn’t true. Just nod sadly, he recommended, and point out that our job is to incarcerate, not judge. And, now, of course, to kill.

      “I