by John Grisham
"He wouldn't be here had it not been for the Klan. Where are your masks? I thought you people always hid your faces."
They twitched and fidgeted as a group, uncertain what to do next. He was, after all, the grandson of Sam Cayhall, their idol and champion. He was the lawyer trying to save a most precious symbol.
"Why don't you leave?" Adam asked. "Sam doesn't want you here."
"Why don't you go to hell?" the young one sneered.
"How eloquent. Just leave, okay. Sam's worth much more to you dead than alive. Let him die in peace, then you'll have a wonderful martyr."
"We ain't leavin'. We'll be here till the end."
"And what if Sam asks you to leave? Will you go then?"
"No," he sneered again, then glanced over his shoulders at the others who all seemed to agree that they would, in fact, not leave. "We plan to make a lot of noise."
"Great. That'll get your pictures in the papers. That's what this is about, isn't it? Circus clowns in funny costumes always attract attention."
Car doors slammed somewhere behind Adam, and as he looked around he saw a television crew making a speedy exit from a van parked near his Saab.
"Well, well," he said to the group. "Smile, fellas. This is your big moment."
"Go to hell," the young one snapped angrily. Adam turned his back to them and walked toward his car. A hurried reporter with a cameraman in tow rushed to him.
"Are you Adam Hall?" she asked breathlessly. "Cayhall's lawyer?"
"Yes," he said without stopping.
"Could we have a few words?"
"No. But those boys are anxious to talk," he said, pointing over his shoulder. She walked along beside him while the cameraman fumbled with his equipment. Adam opened his car door, then slammed it as he turned the ignition.
Louise, the guard at the gate, handed him a numbered card for his dashboard, then waved him through.
Packer went through the motions of the obligatory frisk inside the front door of the Row. "What's in there?" he asked, pointing to the small cooler Adam held in his left hand.
"Eskimo pies, Sergeant. Would you like one?"
"Lemme see." Adam handed the cooler to Packer, who flipped open the top just long enough to count half a dozen Eskimo Pies, still frozen under a layer of ice.
He handed the cooler back to Adam, and pointed to the door of the front office, a few feet away. "Y'all will be meetin' in here from now on," he explained. They stepped into the room.
"Why?" Adam asked as he looked around the room. There was a metal desk with a phone, three chairs, and two locked file cabinets.
"That's just the way we do things. We lighten up some as the big day gets close. Sam gets to have his visitors here. No time limit either."
"How sweet." Adam placed his briefcase on the desk and picked up the phone. Packer left to fetch Sam.
The kind lady in the clerk's office in Jackson informed Adam that the Mississippi Supreme Court had denied, just minutes ago, his client's petition for postconviction relief on the grounds that he was mentally incompetent. He thanked her, said something to the effect that this was what he expected and that it could've been done a day earlier, then asked her to fax a copy of the court's decision to his office in Memphis, and also to Lucas Mann's office at Parchman. He called Darlene in Memphis and told her to fax the new petition to the federal district court, with copies faxed to the Fifth Circuit and to Mr. Richard Olander's rather busy death desk at the Supreme Court in Washington. He called Mr. Olander to inform him it was coming, and was told that the U.S. Supreme Court had just denied cert on Adam's claim that the gas chamber was unconstitutional.
Sam entered the front office without handcuffs while Adam was on the phone. They shook hands quickly, and Sam took a seat. Instead of a cigarette, he opened the cooler and removed an Eskimo Pie. He ate it slowly while listening as Adam talked with Olander. "U.S. Supreme Court just denied cert," Adam whispered to Sam with his hand over the receiver.
Sam smiled oddly and studied some envelopes he'd brought with him.
"The Mississippi Supreme Court also turned us down," Adam explained to his client as he punched more numbers. "But that was to be expected. We're filing it in federal court right now." He was calling the Fifth Circuit to check the status of the ineffective counsel claim. The clerk in New Orleans informed him that no action had been taken that morning. Adam hung up and sat on the edge of the desk.
"Fifth Circuit is still sitting on the ineffectiveness claim," he reported to his client, who knew the law and the procedure and was absorbing it like a learned attorney. "All in all, not a very good morning."
"The Jackson TV station this morning said I've requested a clemency hearing from the governor," Sam said, between bites. "Certainly this can't be true. I didn't approve it."
"Relax, Sam. It's routine."
"Routine my ass. I thought we had an agreement. They even had McAllister on the tube talking about how he was grieving over his decision about a clemency hearing. I warned you."
"McAllister is the least of our problems, Sam. The request was a formality. We don't have to participate."
Sam shook his head in frustration. Adam watched him closely. He wasn't really angry, nor did he really care what Adam had done. He was resigned, almost defeated. The little bit of bitching came naturally. A week earlier he would've lashed out.
"They practiced last night, you know. They cranked up the gas chamber, killed a rat or something, everything worked perfectly and so now everyone's excited about my execution. Can you believe it? They had a dress rehearsal for me. The bastards."
"I'm sorry, Sam."
"Do you know what cyanide gas smells like?"
"No."
"Cinnamon. It was in the air last night. The idiots didn't bother to close the windows on our tier, and I got a whiff of it."
Adam didn't know if this was true or not. He knew the chamber was vented for several minutes after an execution and the gas escaped into the air. Surely it couldn't filter onto the tiers. Maybe Sam had heard stories about the gas from the guards. Maybe it was just part of the lore. He sat on the edge of the desk, casually swinging his feet, staring at the pitiful old man with the skinny arms and oily hair. It was such a horrible sin to kill an aged creature like Sam Cayhall. His crimes were committed a generation ago. He had suffered and died many times in his six-by-nine cell. How would the state benefit by killing him now?
Adam had things on his mind, not the least of which was perhaps their last, gasping effort. "I'm sorry, Sam," he said again, very compassionately. "But we need to talk about some items."
"Were there Klansmen outside this morning? The television had a shot of them here yesterday.'.'
"Yes. I counted seven a few minutes ago. Full uniforms except for the masks."
"I used to wear one of those, you know,"he said, much like a war veteran bragging to little boys.
"I know, Sam. And because you wore one, you're now sitting here on death row with your lawyer counting the hours before they strap you in the gas chamber. You should hate those silly fools out there."
"I don't hate them. But they have no right to be here. They abandoned me. Dogan sent me here, and when he testified against me he was the Imperial Wizard of Mississippi. They gave me not one dime for legal fees. They forgot about me."
"What do you expect from a bunch of thugs? Loyalty?"
"I was loyal."
"And look where you are, Sam. You should denounce the Klan and ask them to leave, to stay away from your execution."
Sam fiddled with his envelopes, then placed them carefully in a chair.
"I told them to leave," Adam said.
"When?"
"Just a few minutes ago. I exchanged words with them. They don't give a damn about you, Sam, they're just using this execution because you'll make such a marvelous martyr, someone to rally around and talk about for years to come. They'll chant your name when they burn crosses, and they'll make pilgrimages to your gravesite. They want you dead, Sam. I
t's great PR."
"You confronted them?" Sam asked, with a trace of amusement and pride.
"Yeah. It was no big deal. What about Carmen? If she's coming, she needs to make travel arrangements."
Sam took a thoughtful puff. "I'd like to see her, but you've gotta warn her about my appearance. I don't want her to be shocked."
"You look great, Sam."
"Gee thanks. What about Lee?"
"What about her?"
"How's she doing? We get newspapers in here. I saw her in the Memphis paper last Sunday, then I read about her drunk driving charge on Tuesday. She's not in jail, is she?"
"No. She's in a rehab clinic," Adam said as if he knew exactly where she was.
"Can she come visit?"
"Do you want her to?"
"I think so. Maybe on Monday. Let's wait and see."
"No problem," Adam said, wondering how in the world he could find her. "I'll talk to her over the weekend."
Sam handed Adam one of the envelopes, unsealed. "Give this to the people up front. It's a list of approved visitors from now until then. Go ahead, open it."
Adam looked at the list. There were four names. Adam, Lee, Carmen, and Donnie Cayhall. "Not a very long list."
"I have lots of relatives, but I don't want them here. They haven't visited me in nine and a half years, so I'll be damned if they'll come draggin' in here at the last minute to say good-bye. They can save it for the funeral."
"I'm getting all kinds of requests from reporters and journalists for interviews."
"Forget it."
"That's what I've told them. But there's one inquiry that might interest you. There's a man named Wendall Sherman, an author of some repute who's published four or five books and won some awards. I haven't read any of his work, but he checks out. He's legitimate. I talked to him yesterday by phone, and he wants to sit with you and record your story. He seemed to be very honest, and said that the recording could take hours. He's flying to Memphis today, just in case you say yes."
"Why does he want to record me?"
"He wants to write a book about you."
"A romance novel?"
"I doubt it. He's willing to pay fifty thousand dollars up front, with a percentage of the royalties later on."
"Great. I get fifty thousand a few days before I die. What shall I do with it?"
"I'm just relaying the offer."
"Tell him to go to hell. I'm not interested." "Fine."
"I want you to draw up an agreement whereby I assign all rights to my life story to you, and after I'm gone you do whatever the hell you want with it."
"It wouldn't be a bad idea to record it."
"You mean - "
"Talk into a little machine with little tapes. I can get one for you. Sit in your cell and talk about your life."
"How boring." Sam finished the Eskimo pie and tossed the stick in the wastebasket.
"Depends on how you look at it. Things seem rather exciting now."
"Yeah, you're right. A pretty dull life, but the end was sensational."
"Sounds like a bestseller to me."
"I'll think about it."
Sam suddenly jumped to his feet, leaving the rubber shower shoes under his chair. He loped across the office in long strides, measuring and smoking as he went. "Thirteen by sixteen and a half," he mumbled to himself, then measured some more.
Adam made notes on a legal pad and tried to ignore the red figure bouncing off the walls. Sam finally stopped and leaned on a file cabinet. "I want you to do me a favor," he said, staring at a wall across the room. His voice was much lower. He breathed slowly.
"I'm listening," Adam said.
Sam took a step to the chair and picked up an envelope. He handed it to Adam and returned to his position against the file cabinet. The envelope was turned over so that Adam could not see the writing on it.
"I want you to deliver that," Sam said.
"To whom?"
"Quince Lincoln."
Adam placed it to his side on the desk, and watched Sam carefully. Sam, however, was lost in another world. His wrinkled eyes stared blankly at something on the wall across the room. "I've worked on it for a week," he said,
620
his voice almost hoarse, "but I've thought about it for forty years."
"What's in the letter?" Adam asked slowly.
"An apology. I've carried the guilt for many years, Adam. Joe Lincoln was a good and decent man, a good father. I lost my head and killed him for no reason. And I knew before I shot him that I could get by with it. I've always felt bad about it. Real bad. There's nothing I can do now except say that I'm sorry."
"I'm sure it'll mean something to the Lincolns."
"Maybe. In the letter I ask them for forgiveness, which I believe is the Christian way of doing things. When I die, I'd like to have the knowledge that I tried to say I'm sorry."
"Any idea where I might find him?"
"That's the hard part. I've heard through family that the Lincolns are still in Ford County. Ruby, his widow, is probably still alive. I'm afraid you'll just have to go to Clanton and start asking questions. They have an African sheriff, so I'd start with him. He probably knows all the Africans in the county."
"And if I find Quince?"
"Tell him who you are. Give him the letter. Tell him that I died with a lot of guilt. Can you do that?"
"I'll be happy to. I'm not sure when I can do it."
"Wait until I'm dead. You'll have plenty of time once this is over."
Sam again walked to the chair, and this time picked up two envelopes. He handed them to Adam, and began pacing slowly, back and forth across the room. The name of Ruth Kramer was typed on one, no address, and Elliot Kramer on the other. "Those are for the Kramers. Deliver them, but wait until the execution is over."
"Why wait?"
"Because my motives are pure. I don't want them to think I'm doing this to arouse sympathy in my dying hours."
Adam placed the Kramer letters next to Quince Lincoln's - three letters, three dead bodies. How many more letters would Sam crank out over the weekend? How many more victims were out there?
"You're sure you're about to die, aren't you, Sam?"
He stopped by the door and pondered this for a moment. "The odds are against us. I'm getting prepared."
"We still have a chance."
"Sure we do. But I'm getting ready, just in case. I've hurt a lot of people, Adam, and I haven't always stopped to think about it. But when you have a date with the grim reaper, you think about the damage you've done."
Adam picked up the three envelopes and looked at them. "Are there others?"
Sam grimaced and looked at the floor. "That's all, for now."
The Jackson paper on Friday morning carried a front-page story about Sam Cayhall's request for a clemency hearing. The story included a slick photo of Governor David McAllister, a bad one of Sam, and lots of self-serving comments by Mona Stark, the governor's chief of staff, all to the effect that the governor was struggling with the decision.
Since he was a real man of the people, a regular servant to all Mississippians, McAllister had installed an expensive telephone hotline system shortly after he was elected. The tollfree number was plastered all over the state, and his constituents were constantly barraged with public service ads to use the People's Hotline. Call the governor. He cared about your opinions. Democracy at its finest. Operators were standing by.
And because he had more ambition than fortitude, McAllister and his staff tracked the phone calls on a daily basis. He was a follower, not a leader. He spent serious money on polls, and had proven adept at quietly discovering the issues that bothered people, then jumping out front to lead the parade.
Both Goodman and Adam suspected this. McAllister seemed too obsessed with his destiny to launch new initiatives. The man was a shameless vote-counter, so they had decided to give him something to count.
Goodman read the story early, over coffee and fruit, and by seven-thirty w
as on the phone with Professor John Bryan Glass and Hez Kerry. By eight, three of Glass' students were sipping coffee from paper cups in the grungy, temporary office. The marketing analysis was about to begin.
Goodman explained the scheme and the need for secrecy. They were breaking no laws, he assured them, just manipulating public opinion. The cellular phones were on the tables, along with pages of phone numbers Goodman had copied on Wednesday. The students were a little apprehensive, but nonetheless anxious to begin. They would be paid well. Goodman demonstrated the technique with the first call. He dialed the number.
"People's Hotline," a pleasant voice answered.
"Yes, I'm calling about the story in this morning's paper, the one about Sam Cayhall," Goodman said slowly in his best imitation of a drawl. It left a lot to be desired. The students were very amused.
"And your name is?"
"Yes, I'm Ned Lancaster, from Biloxi, Mississippi," Goodman replied, reading from the phone lists. "And I voted for the governor, a fine man," he threw in for good measure.
"And how do you feel about Sam Cayhall?"
"I don't think he should be executed. He's an old man who's suffered a lot, and I want the governor to give him a pardon. Let him die in peace up there at Parchman."
"Okay. I'll make sure the governor knows about your call."
"Thank you."
Goodman pushed a button on the phone, and took a bow before his audience. "Nothing to it. Let's get started."
The white male selected a phone number. His conversation went something like this: "Hello, this is Lester Crosby, from Bude, Mississippi. I'm calling about the execution of Sam Cayhall. Yes ma'am. My number? It's 555-9084. Yes, that's right, Bude, Mississippi, down here in Franklin County. That's right. Well, I don't think Sam Cayhall ought to be sent to the gas chamber. I'm just opposed to it. I think the governor should step in and stop this thing. Yes ma'am, that's right. Thank you." He smiled at Goodman, who was punching another number.
