by John Grisham
Carmen stood and hugged him again. She was crying as they left the room.
46
BY noon judge Slattery had fully embraced the gravity of the moment, and though he tried hard to conceal it, he was enjoying immensely this brief interval in the center of the storm. First, he had dismissed the jury and lawyers in the civil trial pending before him. He had twice talked to the clerk of the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans, then to justice McNeely himself. The big moment had come a few minutes after eleven when Supreme Court Justice Edward F. Allbright called fromWashington to get an update. Allbright was monitoring the case by the hour. They talked law and theory. Neither man was opposed to the death penalty, and both had particular problems with the Mississippi statute in question. They were concerned that it could be abused by any death row inmate who could pretend to be insane and find a wacky doctor to play along.
The reporters quickly learned that a hearing of some type was scheduled, and they not only flooded Slattery's office with calls, but parked themselves in his receptionist's office. The U.S. marshall was called to disperse the reporters.
The secretary brought messages by the minute. Breck Jefferson dug through countless law books and scattered research over the long conference table. Slattery talked to the governor, the Attorney General, Garner Goodman, dozens of others. His shoes were under his massive desk. He walked around it, holding the receiver with a long cord, thoroughly enjoying the madness.
If Slattery's office was hectic, then the Attorney General's was pure chaos. Roxburgh had gone ballistic with the news that one of Cayhall's shots in the dark had hit a target. You fight these bears for ten years, up and down the appellate ladders, out of one courtroom and into another, battling the creative legal minds of the ACLU and similar outfits, producing along the way enough paperwork to destroy a rain forest, and right when you've got him in your sights, he files a ton of gangplank appeals and one of them gets noticed by a judge somewhere who just happens to be in a tender mood.
He had stormed down the hall to the office of Morris Henry, Dr. Death himself, and together they hastily had assembled a team of their best criminal boys. They met in a large library with rows and stacks of the latest books. They reviewed the Cayhall petition and the applicable law, and they plotted strategy. Witnesses were needed. Who had seen Cayhall in the last month? Who could testify about the things he said and did? There was no time for one of their doctors to examine him. He had a doctor, but they didn't. This was a significant problem. To get their hands on him with a reputable doctor, the state would be forced to ask for time. And time meant a stay of execution. A stay was out of the question.
The guards saw him every day. Who else? Roxburgh called Lucas Mann, who suggested that he talk to Colonel Nugent. Nugent said he'd seen Sam just hours earlier, and, yes, of course, he would be happy to testify. Son of a bitch wasn't crazy. He was just mean. And Sergeant Packer saw him every day. And the prison psychiatrist, Dr. N. Stegall, had met with Sam, and she could testify. Nugent was anxious to help. He also suggested the prison chaplain. And he would think about others.
Morris Henry organized a hit squad of four lawyers to do nothing but dig for dirt on Dr. Anson Swinn. Find other cases he'd been involved in. Talk to other lawyers around the country. Locate transcripts of his testimony. The guy was nothing but a hired mouthpiece, a professional testifier. Get the goods to discredit him.
Once Roxburgh had the attack planned and others doing the work, he rode the elevator to the lobby of the building to chat with the press.
Adam parked in a vacant spot on the grounds of the state capitol. Goodman was waiting under a shade tree with his jacket off and sleeves rolled up, his paisley bow tie perfect. Adam quickly introduced Carmen to Mr. Goodman.
"The governor wants to see you at two. I just left his office, for the third time this morning. Let's walk to our place," he said, waving toward downtown. "It's just a coupla blocks."
"Did you meet Sam?" Goodman asked Carmen.
"Yes. This morning."
"I'm glad you did."
"What's on the governor's mind?" Adam asked. They were walking much too slow to suit him. Relax, he told himself. Just relax.
"Who knows? He wants to meet with you privately. Maybe the market analysis is getting to him. Maybe he's planning a media stunt. Maybe he's sincere. I can't read him. He does look tired, though."
"The phone calls are getting through?"
"Splendidly."
"No one's suspicious?"
"Not yet. Frankly, we're hitting them so fast and so hard I doubt they have time to trace calls."
Carmen shot a blank look at her brother, who was too preoccupied to see it.
"What's the latest from Slattery?" Adam asked as they crossed a street, pausing for a minute in silence to watch the demonstration under way on the front steps of the capitol.
"Nothing since ten this morning. His clerk called you in Memphis, and your secretary gave him my number here. That's how they found me. He told me about the hearing, and said Slattery wants the lawyers in his chamber at three to plan things."
"What does this mean?" Adam asked, desperate for his mentor to say that they were on the brink of a major victory.
Goodman sensed Adam's anxiety. "I honestly don't know. It's good news, but no one knows how permanent it is. Hearings at this stage are not unusual."
They crossed another street and entered the building. Upstairs, the temporary office was buzzing as four law students rattled away on cordless phones. Two were sitting with their feet on the table. One stood in the window and talked earnestly. One was pacing along the far wall, phone stuck to her head. Adam stood by the door and tried to absorb the scene. Carmen was hopelessly confused.
Goodman explained things in a loud whisper. "We're averaging about sixty calls an hour. We dial more than that, but the lines stay jammed, obviously. We're responsible for the jamming, and this keeps other people from getting through. It was much slower over the weekend. The hotline used only one operator." He delivered this summary like a proud plant manager showing off the latest in automated machinery.
"Who are they calling?" Carmen asked.
A law student stepped forward and introduced himself to Adam, and then to Carmen. He was having a ball, he said.
"Would you like something to eat?" Goodman asked. "We have some sandwiches." Adam declined.
"Who are they calling?" Carmen asked again.
"The governor's hotline," Adam replied, without explanation. They listened to the nearest caller as he changed his voice and read a name from a phone list. He was now Benny Chase from Hickory Flat, Mississippi, and he had voted for the governor and didn't think Sam Cayhall should be executed. It was time for the governor to step forward and take care of this situation.
Carmen cut her eyes at her brother, but he ignored her.
"These four are law students at Mississippi College," Goodman explained further. "We've used about a dozen students since Friday, different ages, whites and blacks, male and female. Professor Glass has been most helpful in finding these people. He's made calls too. So have Hez Kerry and his boys at the Defense Group. We've had at least twenty people calling."
They pulled three chairs to the end of a table and sat down. Goodman found soft drinks in a plastic cooler, and sat them on the table. He continued talking in a low voice. "John Bryan Glass is doing some research as we speak. He'll have a brief prepared by four. Hez Kerry is also at work. He's checking with his counterparts in other death states to see if similar statutes have been used recently."
"Kerry is the black guy?" Adam said.
"Yeah, he's the director of the Southern Capital Defense Group. Very sharp."
"A black lawyer busting his butt to save Sam."
"It makes no difference to Hez. It's just another death case."
"I'd like to meet him."
"You will. All these guys will be at the hearing."
"And they're working for free?" Carmen asked.
"Sort of. Kerry i
s on salary. Part of his job is to monitor every death case in this state, but since Sam has private lawyers Kerry is off the hook. He's donating his time, but it's something he wants to do. Professor Glass is on salary at the law school, but this is definitely outside the scope of his employment there. We're paying these students five bucks an hour."
"Who's paying them?" she asked.
"Dear old Kravitz & Bane."
Adam grabbed a nearby phonebook. "Carmen needs to get a flight out of here this afternoon," he said, flipping to the yellow pages.
"I'll take care of it," Goodman said, taking the phonebook. "Where to?"
"San Francisco."
"I'll see what's available. Look, there's a little deli around the corner. Why don't you two get something to eat? We'll walk to the governor's office at two."
"I need to get to a library," Adam said, looking at his watch. It was almost one o'clock.
"Go eat, Adam. And try to relax. We'll have time later to sit down with the brain trust and talk strategy. Right now, you need to relax and eat."
"I'm hungry," Carmen said, anxious to be alone with her brother for a few minutes. They eased from the room, and closed the door behind them.
She stopped him in the shabby hallway before they reached the stairs. "Please explain that to me," she insisted, grabbing his arm.
"What?"
"That little room in there."
"It's pretty obvious, isn't it?"
"Is it legal?"
"It's not illegal."
"Is it ethical?"
Adam took a deep breath and stared at the wall. "What are they planning to do with Sam?"
"Execute him."
"Execute, gas, exterminate, kill, call it what you want. But it's murder, Carmen. Legal murder. It's wrong, and I'm trying to stop it. It's a dirty business, and if I have to bend a few ethics, I don't care."
"It stinks."
"So does the gas chamber."
She shook her head and held her words. Twenty-four hours earlier she'd been eating lunch with her boyfriend at a sidewalk cafe in San Francisco. Now, she wasn't sure where she was.
"Don't condemn me for this, Carmen. These are desperate hours."
"Okay," she said, and headed down the stairs.
The Governor and the young lawyer were alone in the vast office, in the comfortable leather chairs, their legs crossed and feet almost touching. Goodman was rushing Carmen to the airport to catch a flight. Mona Stark was nowhere in sight.
"It's strange, you know, you're the grandson, and you've known him for less than a month." McAllister's words were calm, almost tired. "But I've known him for many years. In fact, he's been a part of my life for a long time. And I've always thought that I'd look forward to this day. I've wanted him to die, you know, to be punished for killing those boys." He flipped his bangs and gently rubbed his eyes. His words were so genuine, as if two old friends were catching up on the gossip. "But now I'm not so sure. I have to tell you, Adam, the pressure's getting to me."
He was either being brutally honest, or he was a talented actor. Adam couldn't tell. "What will the state prove if Sam dies?" Adam asked. "Will this be a better place to live when the sun comes up Wednesday morning and he's dead?"
"No. But then you don't believe in the death penalty. I do."
"Why?"
"Because there has to be an ultimate punishment for murder. Put yourself in Ruth Kramer's position, and you'd feel differently. The problem you have, Adam, and people like you, is that you forget about the victims."
"We could argue for hours about the death penalty."
"You're right. Let's skip it. Has Sam told you anything new about the bombing?"
"I can't divulge what Sam's told me. But the answer is no."
"Maybe he acted alone, I don't know."
"What difference would it make today, the day before the execution?"
"I'm not sure, to be honest. But if I knew that Sam was only an accomplice, that someone else was responsible for the killings, then it would be impossible for me to allow him to be executed. I could stop it, you know. I could do that. I'd catch hell for it. It would hurt me politically. The damage could be irreparable, but I wouldn't mind. I'm getting tired of politics. And I don't enjoy being placed in this position, the giver or taker of life. But I could pardon Sam, if I knew the truth."
"You believe he had help. You've told me that already. The FBI agent in charge of the investigation believes it too. Why don't you act on your beliefs and grant clemency?"
"Because we're not certain."
"So, one word from Sam, just one name thrown out here in the final hours, and, bingo, you take your pen and save his life?"
"No, but I might grant a reprieve so the name could be investigated."
"It won't happen, Governor. I've tried. I've asked so often, and he's denied so much, that it's not even discussed anymore."
"Who's he protecting?"
"Hell if I know."
"Perhaps we're wrong. Has he ever given you the details of the bombing?"
"Again, I can't talk about our conversations. But he takes full responsibility for it."
"Then why should I consider clemency? If the criminal himself claims he did the crime, and acted alone, how am I supposed to help him?"
"Help him because he's an old man who'll die soon enough anyway. Help him because it's the right thing to do, and deep down in your heart you want to do it. It'll take guts."
"He hates me, doesn't he?"
"Yes. But he could come around. Give him a pardon and he'll be your biggest fan."
McAllister smiled and unwrapped a peppermint. "Is he really insane?"
"Our expert says he is. We'll do our best to convince judge Slattery."
"I know, but really? You've spent hours with him. Does he know what's happening?"
At this point, Adam decided against honesty. McAllister was not a friend, and not at all trustworthy. "He's pretty sad," Adam admitted. "Frankly, I'm surprised any person can keep his mind after a few months on death row. Sam was an old man when he got there, and he's slowly wasted away. That's one reason he's declined all interviews. He's quite pitiful."
Adam couldn't tell if the governor believed this, but he certainly absorbed it.
"What's your schedule tomorrow?" McAllister asked.
"I have no idea. It depends on what happens in Slattery's court. I had planned to spend most of the day with Sam, but I might be running around filing last minute appeals."
"I gave you my private number. Let's keep in touch tomorrow."
Sam took three bites of pinto beans and some of the corn bread, then placed the tray at the end of his bed. The same idiot guard with the blank face watched him through the bars of the tier door. Life was bad enough in these cramped cubicles, but living like an animal and being watched was unbearable.
It was six o'clock, time for the evening news. He was anxious to hear what the world was saying about him. The Jackson station began with the breaking story of a last minute hearing before federal judge F. Flynn Slattery. The report cut to the outside of the federal courthouse in Jackson where an anxious young man with a microphone explained that the hearing had been delayed a bit as the lawyers wrangled in Slattery's office. He tried his best to briefly explain the issue. The defense was now claiming that Mr. Cayhall lacked sufficient mental capacity to understand why he was being executed. He was senile and insane, claimed the defense, which would call a noted psychiatrist in this last ditch effort to stop the execution. The hearing was expected to get under way at any moment, and no one knew when a decision might be reached by judge Slattery. Back to the anchorwoman, who said that, meanwhile, up at the state penitentiary at Parchman, all systems were go for the execution. Another young man with a microphone was suddenly on the screen, standing somewhere near the front gate of the prison, describing the increased security. He pointed to his right, and the camera panned the area near the highway where a regular carnival was happening. The highway patrol was out in force, direct
ing traffic and keeping a wary eye on an assemblage of several dozen Ku Klux Klansmen. Other protestors included various groups of white supremacists and the usual death penalty abolitionists, he said.
The camera swung back to the reporter, who now had with him Colonel George Nugent, acting superintendent for Parchman, and the man in charge of the execution. Nugent grimly answered a few questions, said things were very much under control, and if the courts gave the green light then the execution would be carried out according to the law.
Sam turned off the television. Adam had called two hours earlier and explained the hearing, so he was prepared to hear that he was senile and insane and God knows what else. Still, he didn't like it. It was bad enough waiting to be executed, but to have his sanity slandered so nonchalantly seemed like a cruel invasion of privacy.
The tier was hot and quiet. The televisions and radios were turned down. Next door, Preacher Boy softly sang `The Old Rugged Cross', and it was not unpleasant.
In a neat pile on the floor against the wall was his new outfit - a plain white cotton shirt, Dickies, white socks, and a pair of brown loafers. Donnie had spent an hour with him during the afternoon.
He turned off the light and relaxed on the bed. Thirty hours to live.
The main courtroom in the federal building was packed when Slattery finally released the lawyers from his chamber for the third time. It was the last of a series of heated conferences that had dragged on for most of the afternoon. It was now almost seven.
They filed into the courtroom and took their places behind the appropriate tables. Adam sat with Garner Goodman. In a row of chairs behind them were Hez Kerry, John Bryan Glass, and three of his law students. Roxburgh, Morris Henry, and a half dozen assistants crowded around the state's table. Two rows behind them, behind the bar, sat the governor with Mona Stark on one side and Larramore on the other.
The rest of the crowd was primarily reporters - no cameras were allowed. There were curious spectators, law students, other lawyers. It was open to the public. In the back row, dressed comfortably in a sports coat and tie, was Rollie Wedge.
