Cómo hacer que ChatGPT proporcione mejores fuentes y citas

 

Nellis, Stephan. 2024. "How to Make ChatGPT Provide Better Sources and Citations." ZDNet, March 4, 2024. https://www.zdnet.com/article/how-to-make-chatgpt-provide-better-sources-and-citations/. Nellis explica que una de las principales críticas a ChatGPT es su falta de precisión en las fuentes que proporciona. A menudo, la IA no cita sus fuentes o brinda enlaces incorrectos. Sin embargo, existen estrategias para mejorar la calidad de las referencias obtenidas Una de las críticas más recurrentes a ChatGPT es la dificultad para verificar la precisión de la información que proporciona. Esto se debe a que no siempre incluye fuentes, notas a pie de página o enlaces que respalden sus respuestas. Según la propia descripción de ChatGPT: «En su versión gratuita, GPT-4o ofrece citas básicas y esenciales, priorizando referencias rápidas y concisas para facilitar la trazabilidad de la información. En cambio, la versión de pago proporciona citas más detalladas y frecuentes, incorporando múltiples fuentes y anotaciones contextuales para una verificación y comprensión más completas. Esto garantiza una experiencia más sólida y fiable, especialmente útil para quienes necesitan información en profundidad y validación rigurosa de las fuentes.» Para mejorar la precisión de las fuentes y citas proporcionadas por ChatGPT, es esencial adoptar estrategias que incrementen la fiabilidad de sus respuestas. A continuación, se detallan algunas recomendaciones respaldadas por recursos externos: Solicitar fuentes y citas explícitamente: Se recomienda preguntar directamente por fuentes y enlaces, especificando la cantidad deseada o el tipo de fuente (académica, revisada por pares, etc.). Refinar las solicitudes: Se pueden mejorar los resultados pidiendo fuentes confiables o ajustando los rangos de fechas para evitar información obsoleta. Verificar la validez de las fuentes: Muchos enlaces proporcionados por ChatGPT son incorrectos o irrelevantes, por lo que es esencial contrastarlos con búsquedas en Google Scholar, JSTOR u otras bases de datos académicas. Utilizar ChatGPT como asistente de investigación: En lugar de confiar ciegamente en sus respuestas, se recomienda usar sus sugerencias como punto de partida para investigaciones más profundas.

UNDER THE TREE

 

 

 

"It's Christmas Eve, Commander Robin," said the Spaceman. You better go to bed if you want Santa Claus to come.

"Exactly, Robin," said his mother. It's time to say good night.

The boy, dressed in his blue pajamas, nodded his head but made no move to get up.

"Give me a kiss," said Bear. Bear took a few awkward, graceful steps around the tree and put his arms around Robin. We have to go to bed. I'm going too. -It was what he said every night.

Robin's mother shook her head, somewhere between amused and desperate.

"Listen to them," he said. Look at it, Bertha. He looks like a little prince surrounded by her court. How is he going to feel when he grows up and can't have transistorized sycophants constantly coddling him?

Bertha, the robot maid, nodded her almost human head as she replaced the poker in its holder.

-Yes, that's true, Mrs. Jackson. Of course it is true.

The Dancing DollHe took Robin's hand and made an arabesque punch. Robin now stood up. His guards formed up and presented weapons.

"On the other hand," said Robin's mother, "they're only going to be children for a short time."

Bertha nodded again.

"You're only young once, Mrs. Jackson, of course." Is it okay if I ask these cute little toys to help me clean this up when the kid is asleep?

The Captain of the guards saluted with his silver saber. The Biggest Guard beat the chant on his drum, and the rest of the guards formed a double file.

"Sleep with Bear," said Robin's mother.

-I can do without Bear, there are many others.

The Spaceman touched the buckle of his antigravity belt and rose to a height of five feet like a graceful, broad-shouldered balloon. Withthe Dancing Dollon the left and Bear on the right, Robin set off unsteadily behind the guards. Robin's mother stubbed out her last cigarette of the night, winked at Bertha, and said:

-I guess I'd better retire too. You don't need to help me undress, just pick up my things in the morning.

-Yes ma'am. It's a pity that Mr. Jackson is not here, today it is Christmas Eve, these days...

-In a week he returns from Brazil: I have already told you. Bertha, you speak worse every day. Are you sure you wouldn't like to be a French maid for a while?

-No way, Mrs. Jackson. I have too much trouble answering men who knock on the door when I'm French.

"When Mr. Jackson gets promoted again, we're going to have a driver," Robin's mother said. He will be Italian, and always will be, you understand?

Bertha watched as the woman quickly left the room.

-Come on, lazy toys! Let's empty the ashtrays into the fire and leave nothing in the middle here. I'm going to disconnect, but the next time I walk into this room I want everything to be in its place or there's going to be a big mess of toys.

He was watching long enough to see

to the Gingham Dog to dump the contents of the largest ashtray on the crackling logs, to the Space Man to float to put the magazines on the coffee table right andthe Dancing Doll start sweeping the home.

"To your box," he said to the guards, and then he went off.

In the smallest bedroom, Bear lay in Robin's arms.

"Be still," Robin said.

"But I'm still," said Bear.

-Every time I'm about to fall asleep, you move.

"It's not true," said Bear.

-Yes.

-No.

-Yes. -. "Sometimes you have trouble sleeping too," said Bear.

"When I'm having a hard time is tonight," Robin answered pointedly.

Bear slipped out of the boy's arms.

-I want to see if it's snowing again.

He climbed from the bed to an open drawer and from the open drawer to the top of the dresser. She was snowing.

"Bear," said Robin, "you have a loose circuit." -It was what her mother sometimes said to Bertha. Bear did not answer. "I know, Bear," Robin said sleepily a moment later. I know why you are like this. Tomorrow is your birthday, and you think I won't have anything for you.

-Have something? -Bear asked.

"I'll have it," Robin answered. Mom is going to take me to the store.

A minute later, his breathing became the regular, heavy sigh of a sleeping child. Bear sat on the edge of the dresser and stared at it. Then, in a very low voice, he said:

-I know how to sing Christmas carols.

It was the first thing he had said to Robin, a year ago now. She spread her arms. Everything is calm, everything is

light. This made him think of the lights on the tree and the splendid fire in the living room. Spaceman was there, but since he was the only toy that could fly, none of the others liked him very much. Alsothe Dancing Doll It was there.The Dancing DollShe was smart, but well... she couldn't think of the word. She jumped into the drawer and landed on a pile of Robin's t-shirts. She then unhooked herself from the box and, stealthily, went down to the dark carpeted floor.

"Limited," he said to himself. The Dancing Doll It is very limited.

He thought again of the fire and the old toys. The Blocks that Robin had before him,the Dancing Dolland the others will arrive, and the Wooden Man riding a yellow bicycle, andthe Singing Top.

The door to Robin's room was ajar. A thin strip of light came through the opening, so that Robin would not be afraid. Bear closed it a little more each night. Now, he didn't want to open it. It had been a long time since Robin had asked about his Wooden Man, his Singing Top, and his "B" Block, with all its talk of apples, acorns, and alligators.

In the living room,the Dancing Doll He was posting the Guards under the watchful supervision of the Spaceman, standing on the mantelpiece.

"We can put three or four behind the bookcase," he shouted.

"They won't be able to see anything from there," grumbled Bear.

The Dancing DollHe did a pirouette and then a pompous bow.

"We were afraid you wouldn't come," he said.

"Put one behind each leg of the table," Bear told him. I had to wait until she fell asleep. Now listen to me, listen to me everyone. When I shout "Charge!", we all have to run at them. This is very important. If possible, we practice it before.

The Greatest Guard said:

-I'll hit the drum.

"You'll hit the enemy or you'll end up in the fire with the rest of us," replied Bear.

Robin was skating on the ice. His feet slid forward and rose into the air, he fell to the ground and suffered a tremendous blow that left him completely shocked. He raised his head, and saw that he was not in the frozen park pond. He was in his own bed, while the moon was shining through the window and it was the eve... no, it was already Christmas night, already... Santa Claus was going to come. Maybe he had come already. Robin strained his ears to see if he heard reindeer on the roof and did not hear the sound of his footsteps. Then he listened in case Santa Claus was eating the cupcakes his mother had left for him on the stone shelf by the fireplace. There was no sound of anyone chewing, no crunching. He now threw back the covers and slid over the edge of the bed until his feet touched the floor. The pleasant smells of the tree and the fire had reached his room. He left his room with great stealth and followed them into the hallway.

Santa Claus was in the living room, leaning by the tree! Robin's eyes widened until they were the size and roundness of pajama buttons. Immediately Santa Claus stood up, and it wasn't Santa Claus, mind you, but Robin's mother dressed in a new red bathrobe. Robin's mother was almost as fat as Santa Claus, and Robin couldn't help but put his fingers in her mouth to keep from laughing as he watched Mrs. Jackson huff and puff and hold her knees until she could stand upright.

But Santa Claus had come! There were toys, new toys, around the tree.

Robin's mother walked to the stone shelf where the cupcakes were and ate half of one of them. She then drank half the glass of milk, turned to return to her room and Robin retreated into the darkness of her own room until she had passed. When she peeked cautiously from behind the door frame, the toys—The New Toys—were beginning to move.

They moved, stirred and looked around. Maybe because it was Christmas Eve. Perhaps it was simply because the light from the fire had activated his circuits. But a clown straightened his clothes and stretched, and a ragged girl smoothed her ragged apron - which had a heart embroidered on it - and a monkey made a huge leap and hung from the second branch from the bottom of the Christmas tree. Robin saw them. And Bear, who was behind the foot cushion of Robin's father's chair, saw them too, Cowboys and North American Indians lifting the lid of their box while a gentleman opened a cardboard door - which looked like wood - located on the side. from another box - which looked like stone - and a dragon looked over his shoulder.

-Charge! -Bear ordered. Charge!

He came out from behind the cushion, on all fours like a real bear, running very stiffly but very quickly, and hit the Clown in the wide waist and knocked him down, and then picked him up and threw him near the fire.

The Spaceman had pounced on the Monkey: they were struggling, hesitating, on top of a polyethylene tricycle.

The fastest loading was the Dancing Doll, faster even than Bear, in an impressive series of gestures, butthe Ragged Girl He had lifted her off the ground and was now running with her towards the fire. As Bear hit the Clown again, he saw the North American Indians taking a guard - the Captain of the guards - also towards the fire. The Captain's saber had gone through one of the North American Indians, and he must have damaged some circuit because the North American Indian had problems walking. But the next moment the Captain was already burning, his red uniform in flames, his hands in the air like tongues of fire, his black eyes glassy and cracked while a river of shining metal fell from him as if it were sweat to harden among the ashes under the eyes. logs.

The Clown tried to fight Bear, but Bear knocked him down. The Dragon's teeth were digging into Bear's left heel, but Bear kicked away.The Spotted CatIt burned, it burned. The Gingham Dog tried to get her out, but the Monkey pushed him into the fire. For a moment, Bear thought about the basement stairs and the deep, dark basement, where there were boxes and packages and a thousand forgotten corners. If he ran away and hid, maybe the New Toys would never find him, maybe they wouldn't even try to look for him. In a few years Robin would discover it, covered in dust.

The loudest and sweetest cry was that ofthe Dancing Doll, and Bear turned and met the Knight's raised sword.

When Robin's mother woke up on Christmas morning, Robin was already awake, sitting under the tree with the Cowboys and watching the North American Indians dance the rain dance. The Monkey was perched on her shoulder,the Ragged Girl - programmed, the clerk had assured Robin's mother, to begin Robin's sexual education - on her lap, and the Knight and the Dragon at her feet.

-Do you like the toys that Santa Claus brought you, Robin? -her mother asked him.

-One of the North American Indians is not walking.

-It's the same honey, we will return it. Robin, I have something very important to tell you.

Bertha the robot arrived with cornflakes and milk and vitamins for Robin and coffee with milk for Robin's mother.

-Where are all those old toys? he -wanted to know-. Well, they have cleaned well.

-Robin, toys are nothing more than that, toys, naturally... -Robin nodded absently. A red calf emerged from the ramp while a cowboy followed on horseback, lasso in hand.

-But where are the old toys, Mrs. Jackson? -Bertha asked again.

"They're programmed to self-destruct, I understand," Robin's mother said. But, Robin,

Do you know how all these new toys, the Knight and the Dragon and all these Cowboys, got here? Almost by magic. Well, the same can happen with people. -Robin looked at her with terror reflected in her eyes-. The same wonder is going to happen here, in our home, my heaven.

 

END

 

2005 Story by Paya Frank @ Blogger 

The Temple of Zeus {Story} Ingles / English

 

 

The temple of Zeus, built for the Olympic games, was one of the greatest expressions of Greek art. To make the statue of Zeus, the most famous Athenian sculptor was hired: Phidias, the creator of the “chrysoelephantine” technique, which consists of chiseling the figure on ivory and covering it with gold.

In ancient Greece, during the games season, a sacred truce was maintained throughout the country. The winning athletes were crowned in the temple, at the foot of the statue of Zeus, which represented the god majestically seated on his throne.

The statue of Zeus was destroyed eight centuries after it was made.

The most famous artist in Greece was a sculptor named Phidias, born in the city of Athens. His works were so beautiful that, one day, the authorities decided to commission him to create a sculpture for the place where the Olympic Games would be held. The sculpture was to represent the image of Zeus, the father of all gods.

At that time, the Olympic games were not just a series of sports championships. They were considered, above all, a religious festival.

A few months before the Olympiad began, several messengers traveled to every corner of Greece to announce the exact date of the event. The festival took place in a small city called “Olympia”, which had been built exclusively to venerate the gods. The athletes who became champions had to give their trophies to Zeus.

That year's games were going to be very special, because they would be presided over by Zeus created by Phidias.

The athletes who represented each city felt proud to have been chosen.

One of them was Cratylus, who came from a distant town to compete in the 192-meter race. Like many others, he arrived in Athens well in advance, ready to devote himself to the intense moral training that the competition required.

To participate in these games it was not enough to have your body in excellent condition; The spirit also had to be prepared…

The temple of Zeus was at the foot of Mount Olympus, a mountain so high that the peak was always shrouded in clouds. From very ancient times it was said that Mount Olympus was the mansion of the gods, and that Zeus, the ruler of Heaven and Earth, ruled at its summit.

It was also said that Zeus liked to use three weapons to impose his will: storms, lightning and thunder...

Phidias loved that Zeus was so tempestuous. And he thought that the statue should be made with the purest and most difficult to obtain materials.

Then he asked the rulers to send him a good supply of ivory and gold. He received it satisfied and locked himself in her workshop to carry out the work. He wanted it to be the best statue of him, the testimony of his love for his country and for the greatest of the gods.…

Very close to Phidias' workshop was the gym where Cratylus trained. One afternoon when the athlete was passing by, he peeked through the window and was dazzled by the way Phidias sculpted.

He asked permission to come in and they immediately hit it off.

Talking, they realized that they were going to be excellent friends.

Cratylus spoke to Phidias about the nervousness and excitement he felt about representing his distant people in such an important competition. And he confessed that he wanted to win to bring joy to the place where he came from... he knew that the winners had a sacred crown of olive branches placed on their heads. And, upon returning, they asked them to enter through a hole dug in the wall of his hometown, which they then closed so that the triumph could not escape.

Phidias explained to Cratylus that, when he sculpted, he forgot everything. The heavy commitments that his life as a famous sculptor imposed on him were erased as he worked. And, in the end, he only had the happiness of creating, which nothing and no one could take away from him...

"It must be very similar to what a runner feels in the last meters, when he is close to winning the race," he commented.

Cratylus had enormous admiration for the artist's work. And he began to visit Phidias' workshop every day. He went for a little while in the morning and then in the afternoon, after training. He observed the enthusiasm with which Phidias sculpted, and sighed excitedly. He thought that perhaps it was Zeus who put his strength in the hands of Phidias. And he wished that the gods would give him similar power during the race.

Phidias was totally immersed in his work. All the impulses of his body and his intelligence were aimed at creating the figure of Zeus. He felt that his hands, when shaping the statue, were like lightning that passes through a stone and transforms it into light.

Every so often, Cratylus reminded him that he should interrupt his work at least to eat. And sometimes he convinced him to go out with him to enjoy the sun.…

As soon as he finished the statue, Phidias ran to the gymnasium to look for his friend and took him to the workshop to show him the work.

-This Zeus will be the most famous in history! -exclaimed Cratylus-. In your hands the distance between gods and humans is shortened.

Covered in dust, Phidias smiled. It was the best compliment anyone could give him…

The statue of Zeus was first displayed during the inauguration of the temple, a few days before the start of the games.

The work showed Zeus sitting on his throne. In his left hand he held a staff with an eagle perched on the top. And on the right rested a statuette covered in gold: it was a beautiful image of Athena, the favorite daughter of Zeus and the protective goddess of the city of Athens.

The artist watched with satisfaction the citizens who paraded before the statue, and enjoyed seeing their expressions of fascination. Suddenly, four soldiers entered the temple saying that they were looking for the sculptor Phidias. They found him and forcibly took him to the court. There he learned that he was accused of having stolen part of the gold that Greece had given him to make the statue.

Phidias felt very bad. It was horrible that they believed him capable of defrauding his god and his country. He had done his job with dedication and love. So he was tremendously offended by that slander.

"I am innocent," he said before the judges. And to demonstrate it, I propose the following: that the gold of the sculpture be weighed with a scale. That way you will see if something is missing...

The proposal was accepted. The next day they began to dismantle the sculpture to separate the parts that had gold. It took them several days to do the work.

Cratylus accompanied Phidias throughout the entire process. He composed poems for him that could never be written or recited, because they did not contain words. They were poems that he dreamed of and that he didn't remember very well when he woke up. He could only tell Phidias what little he knew about those dreams. But that was enough to cheer him up during the wait.

Finally, it was found that the gold in the statue weighed exactly what it should. This confirmed that Phidias was innocent. And they had to free him.

However, they didn't give him much time to get happy. The four soldiers returned a short time later with a new problem.

"Phidias," they told him, "the government of Greece accuses you of having sculpted your own face on the breastplate of the statue of Athena." It is unacceptable for a human to place himself at the level of the goddess... You are a great artist, but your lack of humility has exceeded the limits.

This time there was not even a trial. They took him directly to the dungeon. Cratylus continued to visit him twice a day, just as when he went to his workshop.

One day, Cratylus gave Phidias the olive crown he had obtained for winning the 192-meter race.

"This is the most valuable thing I have," he told her. And I want it to be yours from now on.…

That night, Phidias heard a strange noise in the lock of the dungeon. The door opened a crack and a ray of light entered with the force of a gust of wind. Where could that light come from at those hours? Puzzled, Phidias got out of bed and saw that the prison door was open. It was something very mysterious, but he couldn't begin to investigate how it had happened.

He knew that this was his only chance to escape and that he had to take advantage of it...

That morning, Phidias crossed the border of his homeland. If he stayed, they would look for him to imprison him again.…

Cratylus had not been wrong: his friend's works remained in history as the maximum expression of Greek beauty. However, Phidias was never able to return to his homeland. And he began to say that artists are always foreigners in his own land. He went to different places. He would settle in one city for a time and then leave for another. He spent the rest of his life wandering from region to region. And in every place he went, he remembered his friend.

Every night, before falling asleep, he recited the athlete's poems by heart. And that olive wreath was always his most precious treasure: the symbol of an indestructible friendship.

Phidias was left wondering whether it had been Zeus or Cratylus who opened the dungeon door that night. He would never have the answer. He knew that he would never see his friend or his statue again. And he regretted not having told Cratylus what he felt from the beginning: for him, the friendship that united them was even more sacred than the statue of Zeus.

 

END

 

2001 Republished by Paya Frank @ Blogger

THE EXECUTION {Stories}

 

 

                       

When the foreman of the jury stood up and read the verdict, Warren Selby, the prosecutor, listened to the words declaring the accused guilty, as if they were a personal praise of his merits. In the somber tones of his voice she recognized not a condemnation of the man, who shuddered in the dock, but a tribute to his brilliance.

Found guilty... no, Warren Selby thought triumphantly. Guilty has been proven… thanks to me!

For a second the old judge's melancholy gaze met Selby's; and he could not suppress an expression of disgust at the shine of happiness that he saw in those eyes. However, the prosecutor could not hide the joy that appeared in his eyes, the satisfaction he felt when he saw that his efforts had borne fruit.

He picked up the papers with clumsy, nervous movements, fighting to regain his eternal poker face, although his repressed smile hurt. With the folder under her arm, she turned, facing the trial attendees.

"Forgive me," he said gravely, and made his way to the exit, thinking only of Doren at that moment.

He tried to imagine her, with her red lips that could close relentlessly or open generously, depending on whether she was in a bad or good mood. He tried to guess her gestures when he heard the good news, the impression he would get from feeling her warm body pressed against his, how her arms would hug him.

But that anticipated taste of Doren's charms was abruptly interrupted. The eyes of many men were searching for him, and countless hands were fighting to shake his to congratulate him. Garson, the district attorney, smiled sincerely and shook his lion head in approval of his cub's behavior. Vanee, the assistant district attorney, was trying to make a face that resembled a smile, but it was clear that he was not all that happy that someone younger than him had achieved such success. There were also journalists, who asked him questions; and photographers, who fired their cameras again and again.

At another time in his life, this would have been enough for Warren Selby to feel happy, seeing himself surrounded by men who admired him. But, at that moment, he also had Doren; and thinking of her he hastened to exchange the sand of her victory for a more private and pleasant prize.

But he didn't escape in time. Garson took him by the arm and got with him into the gray car that was waiting for them at the corner.

-How are you feeling? The district attorney smiled again, patting her knees as they walked away.

-Very good. "But it was nothing," said Selby, and then tried to make some comment that would show a modesty he didn't feel. "But damn, Gar, the glory isn't just mine." Your boys did the job perfectly.

"Come on, come on, don't pretend," Garson told him. I've been watching you throughout the trial, Warren. You smelled like blood. You were the avenging sword. You were the one who put him on the list for the electric chair, not me.

-Never say that! exclaimed Selby sharply. He was guilty, and you know it. The evidence was against him. The jury gave the only possible verdict.

-OK. They did the only thing that was appropriate, based on the way you presented the evidence to them. With another prosecutor perhaps they would have acted differently. We must give the medal to those who deserve it, Warren!

Selby couldn't hold back his smile for a second longer.

And it illuminated his long face, so he felt relieved as his features relaxed. He leaned against the high back of the car.

"You may be right," he agreed. However, for me it was guilty, and I tried to convince others of it. Evidence isn't the only thing that counts, Gar, and you know it. There are times when you simply sense the truth...

-Of course. The district attorney looked out the window, "How's your wife, Warren?"

-Ah, Doren is perfectly fine.

-Glad to hear it. She is a lovely woman.

She was lying on the couch when Selby entered the apartment. She had not imagined this detail of his triumphant welcome to her home.

He approached her, and got her arms around him.

"Have you heard, Doren?" he asked, "Have you heard what happened?"

-I have followed him on the radio.

-And good? Don't you know what that means? I have achieved my first favorable ruling, and a top one! I'm not a nobody anymore, my dear!

-What will they do to that man?

He looked at her, trying to determine what mood she was in.

-I asked for the death penalty. He murdered his wife in cold blood. Isn't that what you deserve?

"I was just asking, Warren," she commented, and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

-Death is part of my job. You know it as much as I do, Doren. You're not going to blame me!

She pushed him away for a second, apparently deciding whether to get angry or not. She immediately pressed herself against him, and she could feel that warm breath that tickled her ear.

They embarked on a week of celebration. An intimate party, dining in discreet restaurants and only meeting the closest friends. It would not have been right for Selby to appear in public organizing a party under such circumstances.

On the night of the day Murray Rosman was sentenced to death, they stayed at home and drank a few brandies. Doren immediately became happy and playful; then, passionate. And Selby believed that she had never been happier than then. With a rather mediocre resume as a law student, after passing through a third-rate position in a state department, he had jumped to an important position where he was respected. He had married a pretty and cuddly woman, and he had the power to make her melt in her arms. He felt proud of himself. He would always be grateful to Murray Rosman for the opportunity he had given him.

However, on the day Rosman was scheduled to be executed, Selby was approached by a gray-haired and somewhat hunchbacked old man, who was wearing a hat stained with grease.

The character had emerged from the threshold of a drugstore, with his hands stuck in the pockets of a dirty jacket and the brim of his hat lowered. He hadn't shaved in several days, you could tell that right away because his face was covered in whitish fuzz.

"Please, sir," he said, "can I talk to you for a minute?"

Selby looked him up and down, and searched his jacket pocket for some coins.

"No," the man said quickly. I don't want a handout. I just want to talk to you, Mr. Selby.

-Do you know me?

-Yes, you can be sure of that, Mr. Selby. I've read everything about you.

The prosecutor's hard gaze softened.

-Well, right now I'm in a bit of a hurry. I have made an appointment.

-This is important, Mr. Selby. God is witness that he is! Can't we go somewhere, have coffee? It will only take you five minutes.

-Why don't you write me a letter or come to the office? We are on Chambers Street…

-It is this man, Mr. Selby, who is going to be executed tonight!

The prosecutor examined the old man's eyes. He gazed at her with an intense, penetrating gaze.

"Okay," Selby agreed. There is a cafe near here. But let it not be more than five minutes, I beg you.

It was almost half past two; Lunch time was over and there were hardly any people in the premises. They took a table at the back, and sat in silence while the waiter removed the remains of a meal.

At last the old man leaned forward and said:

-My name is Arlington, Phil Arlington. I've been out of town, in Florida. If it hadn't been like that, I would never have allowed things to get this far. Because in all this time I have neither read newspapers, nor listened to the radio or television, or anything like that.

-I don't know where you're going, Mr. Arlington. Are you talking about the Rosman trial?

-Yes, from the Rosman case. When I returned to the city and found out what had happened, I didn't know what to do. You understand, right? He hurt me. It hurt me a lot to read what was going to happen to that poor man. But I was afraid. Understand me. I was very scared!

-Afraid of what?

The man spoke to the collar of his shirt.

-I had a terrible time trying to decide what to do. But then it occurred to me: Damn, this Rosman is young! How old is he, perhaps thirty-eight years old? I am sixty-four, Mr. Selby. So… What is better?

-Better for what? -The young prosecutor was beginning to lose patience; He looked at the time. Explain yourself, Mr. Arlington. I am a busy man.

-I thought about asking you for advice. -The old man licked his lips-. He scared me to go to the police directly. I thought it best to talk to you first. Shall I tell you what I did, Mr. Selby? Do I tell them that I was the one who killed that woman? Answer me: do I confess it to you?

The prosecutor's world fell apart. He felt his hands go cold around the coffee cup. He examined the man sitting across from him.

-What are you talking about? -asked-. Rosman killed his wife. We have tried it.

-No no! That's where I'm going to stop. I was on the road hitchhiking, heading east. They took me to Wilford. I was wandering around the city, trying to figure out how I would manage to eat or find a job, whatever. I knocked on that door. And a very kind lady opened it for me. She had no work for me; but she offered me a sandwich. It was ham...

-What house? How do you know it belonged to the Rosmans?

-I'm sure. I've seen her photo in the newspapers. She was a very pretty lady. If she hadn't gone into the kitchen afterwards, nothing would have happened.

-That? -Selby jumped.

-I should never have done it. Truly, she was very good to me; but I was on my last legs, penniless. I dedicated myself to looking inside the vases in the closet. You know how women are: they are always putting "money" in the vases, money for unexpected expenses, like paying the gas or the electricity bill or the deadline for the vacuum cleaner. She caught me and got furious. She didn't scream or anything, but I could tell she was ready to get me into trouble. I lost control…

"I don't believe you," said Selby, "Nobody saw any person in the neighborhood." Rosman and his wife spent their time fighting...

The old man shrugged his shoulders.

-I don't know anything about that topic, Mr. Selby. I don't know those people very well. But that's how it happened, and that's why I would like your advice. -He scratched his head-. What I want to know is... if I confess... What will they do to me?

"They'll fry him in the chair," the prosecutor replied coldly. They will execute him in Rosman's place. Is that what you want?

Arlington paled.

-No. Prison, I could still take it. But never that!

-Then forget such a matter. Do you hear me? Mr. Arlington, it seems to me that you have dreamed everything you just told me, don't you? Look at it that way. A bad dream. Now get back on the road and stop thinking about it.

-But that man... they are going to kill him tonight...!

"Because he's guilty." Selby slammed his fist on the table. I proved that he was. Understands?

The old man's lips trembled.

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

Selby stood up and left a five-dollar bill on the table.

"Pay the bill," he said abruptly. And keep the change.

That same night, Doren asked him the time for the fourth time.

"Eleven o'clock," he answered sullenly.

-Just one more hour. -She sank into the sofa cushions-. I wonder what the condemned man is thinking about right now; how he will feel, right now.

-Shut up already!

-Oh! We're cranky tonight!

-I no longer have anything to do with the matter, Doren. I've told you forty times. Now it's up to the state government.

The tip of her tongue peeked out from between her teeth, a sign he knew that meant a storm was coming.

-But you put him where he is, Warren, don't deny me.

-The jury took him there.

-You don't have to yell at me, Mr. Prosecutor.

-Oh, Doren...

He leaned toward her apologetically when the phone rang.

He picked it up furious.

-Mr. Selby? I'm Arlington.

The prosecutor shuddered.

-What does he want?

-Mr. Selby, I've been thinking about what we talked about.

I don't think it's right. I can't accept that I should forget it just like that. I mean…

-Arlington, listen to me. I want you to come to my apartment right now!

From the sofa, Doren exclaimed:

-Hey!

-Did you hear me, Arlington? Before I do anything stupid, I need to talk to you. I must explain your legal situation. I think it's the least you should do for yourself.

There was a pause on the other end of the thread.

-I suppose you're right, Mr. Selby. The bad thing is that I am here, in the center of the city; and by the time I get there...

-He will get it. Take the subway; the blue line is the fastest. Get off at 86th Street.

When he hung up, his wife was standing there waiting for him.

-Doren, wait. I'm sorry. This man... is an important witness that I have in my hands. I can only see him now.

- Have fun! -she shouted, without her tone indicating that that was what she wanted.

- And he went to his room.

-Doren…

She slammed the door shut and bolted it.

Selby cursed his wife's bad mood under his breath and opened the door to the liquor cabinet.

By the time Arlington knocked on the door, the prosecutor had downed half a bottle of bourbon.

The appearance of the tramp's dirty jacket and grease-stained hat contrasted with the elegance of the apartment. He took off both clothes and looked around shyly.

"We only have three quarters of an hour," he said. I have to do something, Mr. Selby. It is precise.

"I know what his behavior must be," commented the prosecutor, smiling. Let's have a drink and talk about all this one more time.

-I don't think I should... -He was staring at the bottle that Selby was holding in his hand. He smiled confidently.

Around half past eleven Arlington's voice sounded hoarse and clumsy. His gaze was no longer so intense, and his interest in Rosman's fate had already lost all its strength.

Meanwhile, Selby had continued to fill his visitor's glass.

The old man mumbled a series of stories between his teeth about his childhood, about the respectability he once had and about all those who had played dirty with him, pushing him into the situation in which he found himself. After a while, he began to nod off, and his heavy eyelids closed.

However, the chimes of the wall clock startled him out of his stupor.

-What's that?

"Nothing... the watch," Selby replied.

-The watch? What time is it?

-It's twelve o'clock, Mr. Arlington. He doesn't have to worry anymore. Mr. Rosman has paid for his crime.

-No! -The old man stood up and began to walk around the room from one side to the other. No! Is not true! I killed that woman! Noel! They can't execute him for something he hasn't...!

-Calm down, Mr. Arlington. Nothing can be done for him now.

-Yes Yes! We have to tell it... to the police...

-But for what? Rosman has been executed. When the last chime of that clock rang, he had already died. How is he going to help you at this point with his confession?

-I have to do it! -exclaimed the old man, whimpering. Don't you see it? I could never stand it, Mr. Selby. Please…

He stumbled over to the phone. The prosecutor put his hand on the device forcefully.

-No! -she ordered.

The two struggled to grab the receiver but the younger one easily got away with it.

"You won't stop me, Mr. Selby." I'll go myself, in person. I will confess, and tell them what you have done...!

Then he staggered to the door. Selby grabbed him from behind.

-Damn crazy! You're making things very difficult for me. Rosman has died...

-I do not care!

Selby punched him in the face. The old tramp staggered, groaning in pain, but persisted in his intention to reach the door. The prosecutor's fury increased and he struck him again; and then he put his hands on her neck. At that moment, naturally, an idea struck him: after all, there was little life throbbing in that throat. With a little pressure, he made the frantic breathing, the high-pitched, grating voice, and the cursing words stop…

He continued to squeeze harder and harder.

And then, he let go.

The old man fell to the ground, sliding against the prosecutor's body.

Suddenly, the beautiful wife appeared at the bedroom door with a stiff, cold expression.

-Doren, listen...

"You strangled him," he whispered.

"In self-defense!" shouted Selby. He broke in, he wanted to rob the apartment.

She slammed the door and locked it. The murderous prosecutor went to the door and started banging on it, desperately. He tried to force entry and shouted for her, but she ignored him. Then she heard him dial a phone number.

Things were already going bad, without the need for Vanee to be among the police officers who entered the apartment. The assistant district attorney made no secret of his mania for Selby, especially after the success of the Rosman case. He was sure that he would destroy, in the blink of an eye, the story of the homeless man who entered the young jurist's house by force, with the intention of stealing. Furthermore, he would find out, with the collaboration of the "mistress" Doren, that the prosecutor was expecting the visit of the homeless man. The enemy was going to enjoy the case.

But you couldn't say he was enjoying it. He seemed rather confused. He looked at the body, which was still on the floor of Selby's apartment, and asked:

-I don't understand, Warren. It really doesn't enter my head. Why did you want to kill a harmless old man like this?

-Harmless? Harmless?

-Well of course. Harmless. It's old Arlington. I would recognize him right away, anywhere.

-How do you know him? -Selby was stunned.

-Yes, of course, I ran into him when I worked in Bellaire County! A crazy old man who goes around confessing crimes. But kill him, Warren... for what?

END

1998 Edited by Paya Frank @ Blogger

Posted by Paya Frank Freelance Writer and Editor