Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  “It’s very simple. If we get to that point, there will be about fifteen witnesses. Since I’m the guest of honor, I get to select two. The statute, once you’ve had a chance to review it, lists a few who must be present. The warden, a Lebanese-American by the way, has some discretion in picking the rest. They usually conduct a lottery with the press to choose which of the vultures are allowed to gawk at it.”

  “Then why do you want this clause?”

  “Because the lawyer is always one of the two chosen by the gassee. That’s me.”

  “And you don’t want me to witness the execution?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You’re assuming I’ll want to witness it.”

  “I’m not assuming anything. It’s just a fact that the lawyers can’t wait to see their poor clients gassed once it becomes inevitable. Then they can’t wait to get in front of the cameras and cry and carry on and rail against injustice.”

  “And you think I’ll do that?”

  “No. I don’t think you’ll do that.”

  “Then, why this clause?”

  Sam leaned forward with his elbows on the counter. His nose was an inch from the screen. “Because you will not witness the execution, okay?”

  “It’s a deal,” he said casually, and flipped to another page. “We’re not going to get that far, Sam.”

  “Atta boy. That’s what I want to hear.”

  “Of course, we may need the governor.”

  Sam snorted in disgust and relaxed in his chair. He crossed his right leg on his left knee, and glared at Adam. “The agreement is very plain.”

  Indeed it was. Almost an entire page was dedicated to a venomous attack on David McAllister. Sam forgot about the law and used words like scurrilous and egotistical and narcissistic and mentioned more than once the insatiable appetite for publicity.

  “So you have a problem with the governor,” Adam said.

  Sam snorted.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea, Sam.”

  “I really don’t care what you think.”

  “The governor could save your life.”

  “Oh really. He’s the only reason I’m here, on death row, waiting to die, in the gas chamber. Why in hell would he want to save my life?”

  “I didn’t say he wanted to. I said that he could. Let’s keep our options open.”

  Sam smirked for a long minute as he lit a cigarette. He blinked and rolled his eyes as if this kid was the dumbest human he’d encountered in decades. Then he leaned forward on his left elbow and pointed at Adam with a crooked right finger. “If you think David McAllister will grant me a last minute pardon, then you’re a fool. But let me tell you what he will do. He’ll use you, and me, to suck out all the publicity imaginable. He’ll invite you to his office at the state capitol, and before you get there he’ll tip off the media. He’ll listen with remarkable sincerity. He’ll profess grave reservations about whether I should die. He’ll schedule another meeting, closer to the execution. And after you leave, he’ll hold a couple of interviews and divulge everything you’ve just told him. He’ll rehash the Kramer bombing. He’ll talk about civil rights and all that radical nigger crap. He’ll probably even cry. The closer I get to the gas chamber, the bigger the media circus will become. He’ll try every way in the world to get in the middle of it. He’ll meet with you every day, if we allow it. He’ll take us to the wire.”

  “He can do this without us.”

  “And he will. Mark my word, Adam. An hour before I die, he’ll hold a press conference somewhere—probably here, maybe at the governor’s mansion—and he’ll stand there in the glare of a hundred cameras and deny me clemency. And the bastard will have tears in his eyes.”

  “It won’t hurt to talk to him.”

  “Fine. Go talk to him. And after you do, I’ll invoke paragraph two and your ass’ll go back to Chicago.”

  “He might like me. We could be friends.”

  “Oh, he’ll love you. You’re Sam’s grandson. What a great story! More reporters, more cameras, more journalists, more interviews. He’d love to make your acquaintance so he can string you along. Hell, you might get him reelected.”

  Adam flipped another page, made some more notes, and stalled for a while in an effort to move away from the governor. “Where’d you learn to write like this?” he asked.

  “Same place you did. I was taught by the same learned souls who provided your instruction. Dead judges. Honorable justices. Windy lawyers. Tedious professors. I’ve read the same garbage you’ve read.”

  “Not bad,” Adam said, scanning another paragraph.

  “I’m delighted you think so.”

  “I understand you have quite a little practice here.”

  “Practice. What’s a practice? Why do lawyers practice? Why can’t they just work like everyone else? Do plumbers practice? Do truck drivers practice? No, they simply work. But not lawyers. Hell no. They’re special, and they practice. With all their damned practicing you’d think they’d know what the hell they were doing. You’d think they’d eventually become good at something.”

  “Do you like anyone?”

  “That’s an idiotic question.”

  “Why is it idiotic?”

  “Because you’re sitting on that side of the wall. And you can walk out that door and drive away. And tonight you can have dinner in a nice restaurant and sleep in a soft bed. Life’s a bit different on this side. I’m treated like an animal. I have a cage. I have a death sentence which allows the State of Mississippi to kill me in four weeks, and so yes, son, it’s hard to be loving and compassionate. It’s hard to like people these days. That’s why your question is foolish.”

  “Are you saying you were loving and compassionate before you arrived here?”

  Sam stared through the opening and puffed on the cigarette. “Another stupid question.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s irrelevant, counselor. You’re a lawyer, not a shrink.”

  “I’m your grandson. Therefore, I’m allowed to ask questions about your past.”

  “Ask them. They might not be answered.”

  “Why not?”

  “The past is gone, son. It’s history. We can’t undo what’s been done. Nor can we explain it all.”

  “But I don’t have a past.”

  “Then you are indeed a lucky person.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Look, if you expect me to fill in the gaps, then I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person.”

  “Okay. Who else should I talk to?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not important.”

  “Maybe it’s important to me.”

  “Well, to be honest, I’m not too concerned about you right now. Believe it or not, I’m much more worried about me. Me and my future. Me and my neck. There’s a big clock ticking somewhere, ticking rather loudly, wouldn’t you say? For some strange reason, don’t ask me why, but I can hear the damned thing and it makes me real anxious. I find it very difficult to worry about the problems of others.”

  “Why did you become a Klansman?”

  “Because my father was in the Klan.”

  “Why did he become a Klansman?”

  “Because his father was in the Klan.”

  “Great. Three generations.”

  “Four, I think. Colonel Jacob Cayhall fought with Nathan Bedford Forrest in the war, and family legend has it that he was one of the early members of the Klan. He was my great-grandfather.”

  “You’re proud of this?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not a matter of pride.” Sam nodded at the counter. “Are you going to sign that agreement?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do it.”

  Adam signed at the bottom of the back page and handed it to Sam. “You’re asking questions that are very confidential. As my lawyer, you cannot breathe a word.”

  “I understand the relationship.”

&
nbsp; Sam signed his name next to Adam’s, then studied the signatures. “When did you become a Hall?”

  “A month before my fourth birthday. It was a family affair. We were all converted at the same time. Of course, I don’t remember.”

  “Why did he stick with Hall? Why not make a clean break and go with Miller or Green or something?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No.”

  “He was running, Sam. And he was burning bridges as he went. I guess four generations was enough for him.”

  Sam placed the contract in a chair beside him, and methodically lit another cigarette. He exhaled at the ceiling and stared at Adam. “Look, Adam,” he said slowly, his voice suddenly much softer. “Let’s lay off the family stuff for a while, okay. Maybe we’ll get around to it later. Right now I need to know what’s about to happen to me. What are my chances, you know? Stuff like that. How do you stop the clock? What do you file next?”

  “Depends on several things, Sam. Depends on how much you tell me about the bombing.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “If there are new facts, then we present them. There are ways, believe me. We’ll find a judge who’ll listen.”

  “What kind of new facts?”

  Adam flipped to a clean page on his pad, and scribbled the date in the margin. “Who delivered the green Pontiac to Cleveland on the night before the bombing?”

  “I don’t know. One of Dogan’s men.”

  “You don’t know his name?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Sam.”

  “I swear. I don’t know who did it. I never saw the man. The car was delivered to a parking lot. I found it. I was supposed to leave it where I found it. I never saw the man who delivered it.”

  “Why wasn’t he discovered during the trials?”

  “How am I supposed to know? He was just a minor accomplice, I guess. They were after me. Why bother with a gopher? I don’t know.”

  “Kramer was bombing number six, right?”

  “I think so.” Sam leaned forward again with his face almost touching the screen. His voice was low, his words carefully chosen as if someone might be listening somewhere.

  “You think so?”

  “It was a long time ago, okay.” He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “Yeah, number six.”

  “The FBI said it was number six.”

  “Then that settles it. They’re always right.”

  “Was the same green Pontiac used in one or all of the prior bombings?”

  “Yes. In a couple, as I remember. We used more than one car.”

  “All supplied by Dogan?”

  “Yes. He was a car dealer.”

  “I know. Did the same man deliver the Pontiac for the prior bombings?”

  “I never saw or met anyone delivering the cars for the bombings. Dogan didn’t work that way. He was extremely careful, and his plans were detailed. I don’t know this for a fact, but I’m certain that the man delivering the cars didn’t have a clue as to who I was.”

  “Did the cars come with the dynamite?”

  “Yes. Always. Dogan had enough guns and explosives for a small war. Feds never found his arsenal either.”

  “Where’d you learn about explosives?”

  “KKK boot camp and the basic training manual.”

  “Probably hereditary, wasn’t it?”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “I’m serious. How’d you learn to detonate explosives?”

  “It’s very basic and simple. Any fool could pick it up in thirty minutes.”

  “Then with a bit of practice you’re an expert.”

  “Practice helps. It’s not much more difficult than lighting a firecracker. You strike a match, any match will do, and you place it at the end of a long fuse until the fuse lights. Then you run like hell. If you’re lucky, it won’t blow up for about fifteen minutes.”

  “And this is something that is just sort of absorbed by all Klansmen?”

  “Most of the ones I knew could handle it.”

  “Do you still know any Klansmen?”

  “No. They’ve abandoned me.”

  Adam watched his face carefully. The fierce blue eyes were steady. The wrinkles didn’t move. There was no emotion, no feeling or sorrow or anger. Sam returned the stare without blinking.

  Adam returned to his notepad. “On March 2, 1967, the Hirsch Temple in Jackson was bombed. Did you do it?”

  “Get right to the point, don’t you?”

  “It’s an easy question.”

  Sam twisted the filter between his lips and thought for a second. “Why is it important?”

  “Just answer the damned question,” Adam snapped. “It’s too late to play games.”

  “I’ve never been asked that question before.”

  “Well I guess today’s your big day. A simple yes or no will do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you use the green Pontiac?”

  “I think so.”

  “Who was with you?”

  “What makes you think someone was with me?”

  “Because a witness said he saw a green Pontiac speed by a few minutes before the explosion. And he said two people were in the car. He even made a tentative identification of you as the driver.”

  “Ah, yes. Our little friend Bascar. I read about him in the newspapers.”

  “He was near the corner of Fortification and State streets when you and your pal rushed by.”

  “Of course he was. And he’d just left a bar at three in the morning, drunk as a goat, and stupid as hell to begin with. Bascar, as I’m sure you know, never made it near a courtroom, never placed his hand on a Bible and swore to tell the truth, never faced a cross-examination, never came forward until after I was under arrest in Greenville and half the world had seen pictures of the green Pontiac. His tentative identification occurred only after my face had been plastered all over the papers.”

  “So he’s lying?”

  “No, he’s probably just ignorant. Keep in mind, Adam, that I was never charged with that bombing. Bascar was never put under pressure. He never gave sworn testimony. His story was revealed, I believe, when a reporter with a Memphis newspaper dug through the honky-tonks and whorehouses long enough to find someone like Bascar.”

  “Let’s try it this way. Did you or did you not have someone with you when you bombed the Hirsch Temple synagogue on March 2, 1967?”

  Sam’s gaze fell a few inches below the opening, then to the counter, then to the floor. He pushed away slightly from the partition and relaxed in his chair. Predictably, the blue package of Montclairs was produced from the front pocket, and he took forever selecting one, then thumping it on the filter, then inserting it just so between his moist lips. The striking of the match was another brief ceremony, but one that was finally accomplished and a fresh fog of smoke lifted toward the ceiling.

  Adam watched and waited until it was obvious no quick answer was forthcoming. The delay in itself was an admission. He tapped his pen nervously on the legal pad. He took quick breaths and noticed an increase in his heartbeat. His empty stomach was suddenly jittery. Could this be the break? If there had been an accomplice, then perhaps they had worked as a team and perhaps Sam had not actually planted the dynamite that killed the Kramers. Perhaps this fact could be presented to a sympathetic judge somewhere who would listen and grant a stay. Perhaps. Maybe. Could it be?

  “No,” Sam said ever so softly but firmly as he looked at Adam through the opening.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “There was no accomplice.”

  “I don’t believe you, Sam.”

  Sam shrugged casually as if he couldn’t care less. He crossed his legs and wrapped his fingers around a knee.

  Adam took a deep breath, scribbled something routinely as if he’d been expecting this, and flipped to a clean page. “What time did you arrive in Cleveland on the night of April 20, 1967?”

  “Which time?”

&nb
sp; “The first time.”

  “I left Clanton around six. Drove two hours to Cleveland. So I got there around eight.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “To a shopping center.”

  “Why’d you go there?”

  “To get the car.”

  “The green Pontiac?”

  “Yes. But it wasn’t there. So I drove to Greenville to look around a bit.”

  “Had you been there before?”

  “Yes. A couple of weeks earlier, I had scouted the place. I even went in the Jew’s office to get a good look.”

  “That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it? I mean, his secretary identified you at trial as the man who came in asking for directions and wanting to use the rest room.”

  “Very stupid. But then, I wasn’t supposed to get caught. She was never supposed to see my face again.” He bit the filter and sucked hard. “A very bad move. Of course, it’s awfully easy to sit here now and second-guess everything.”

  “How long did you stay in Greenville?”

  “An hour or so. Then I drove back to Cleveland to get the car. Dogan always had detailed plans with several alternates. The car was parked in spot B, near a truck stop.”

  “Where were the keys?”

  “Under the mat.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Took it for a drive. Drove out of town, out through some cotton fields. I found a lonely spot and parked the car. I popped the trunk to check the dynamite.”

  “How many sticks?”

  “Fifteen, I believe. I was using between twelve and twenty, depending on the building. Twenty for the synagogue because it was new and modern and built with concrete and stone. But the Jew’s office was an old wooden structure, and I knew fifteen would level it.”

  “What else was in the trunk?”

  “The usual. A cardboard box of dynamite. Two blasting caps. A fifteen-minute fuse.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “What about the timing device? The detonator?”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot about that. It was in another, smaller box.”

  “Describe it for me.”

  “Why? You’ve read the trial transcripts. The FBI expert did a wonderful job of reconstructing my little bomb. You’ve read this, haven’t you?”