by John Grisham
“Were you?”
“Hell no. I didn’t know who did it for almost a year.”
“They were Kluckers, weren’t they?”
“They were Klansmen.”
“Were you happy when those boys were murdered?”
“How the hell is that relevant to me and the gas chamber in 1990?”
“Did Eddie know it when you got involved with the bombing?”
“No one knew it in Ford County. We had not been too active. As I said, most of it was to the south of us, around Meridian.”
“And you couldn’t wait to jump in the middle of it?”
“They needed help. The Fibbies had infiltrated so deep hardly anyone could be trusted. The civil rights movement was snowballing fast. Something had to be done. I’m not ashamed of it.”
Adam smiled and shook his head. “Eddie was ashamed, wasn’t he?”
“Eddie didn’t know anything about it until the Kramer bombing.”
“Why did you involve him?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes you did. You told your wife to get Eddie and drive to Cleveland and pick up your car. He was an accessory after the fact.”
“I was in jail, okay. I was scared. And no one ever knew. It was harmless.”
“Perhaps Eddie didn’t think so.”
“I don’t know what Eddie thought, okay. By the time I got out of jail, he had disappeared. Y’all were gone. I never saw him again until his mother’s funeral, and then he slipped in and out without a word to anyone.” He rubbed the wrinkles on his forehead with his left hand, then ran it through his oily hair. His face was sad, and as he glanced through the slit Adam saw a trace of moisture in the eyes. “The last time I saw Eddie, he was getting in his car outside the church after the funeral service. He was in a hurry. Something told me I’d never see him again. He was there because his mother had died, and I knew that would be his last visit home. There was no other reason for him to come back. I was on the front steps of the church, Lee was with me, and we both watched him drive away. There I was burying my wife, and at the same time watching my son disappear for the last time.”
“Did you try to find him?”
“No. Not really. Lee said she had a phone number, but I didn’t feel like begging. It was obvious he didn’t want anything to do with me, so I left him alone. I often wondered about you, and I remember telling your grandmother how nice it would be to see you. But I wasn’t about to spend a lot of time trying to track y’all down.”
“It would’ve been hard to find us.”
“That’s what I heard. Lee talked to Eddie occasionally, and she would report to me. It sounded like you guys were moving all over California.”
“I went to six schools in twelve years.”
“But why? What was he doing?”
“A number of things. He’d lose his job, and we’d move because we couldn’t pay the rent. Then Mother would find a job, and we’d move somewhere else. Then Dad would get mad at my school for some vague reason, and he’d yank me out.”
“What kind of work did he do?”
“Once he worked for the post office, until he got fired. He threatened to sue them, and for a long time he maintained this massive little war against the postal system. He couldn’t find a lawyer to take his case, so he abused them with paperwork. He always had a small desk with an old typewriter and boxes filled with his papers, and they were his most valuable possessions. Every time we moved, he took great care with his office, as he called it. He didn’t care about anything else, there wasn’t much, but he protected his office with his life. I can remember many nights lying in bed trying to sleep and listening to that damned typewriter pecking away at all hours. He hated the federal government.”
“That’s my boy.”
“But for different reasons, I think. The IRS came after him one year, which I always found odd because he didn’t earn enough to pay three dollars in taxes. So he declared war on the Infernal Revenue, as he called it, and that raged for years. The State of California revoked his driver’s license one year when he didn’t renew, and this violated all sorts of civil and human rights. Mother had to drive him for two years until he surrendered to the bureaucracy. He was always writing letters to the governor, the President, U.S. senators, congressmen, anyone with an office and staff. He would just raise hell about this and that, and when they wrote him back he’d declare a small victory. He saved every letter. He got in a fight one time with a next-door neighbor, something to do with a strange dog peeing on our porch, and they were yelling at each other across the hedgerow. The madder they got, the more powerful their friends became, and both were just minutes away from making phone calls to all sorts of hotshots who would instantly inflict punishment on the other. Dad ran in the house, and within seconds returned to the argument with thirteen letters from the governor of the State of California. He counted them loudly and waved them under the neighbor’s nose, and the poor guy was crushed. End of argument. End of dog pissing on our porch. Of course, every one of the letters had asked him, in a nice way, to get lost.”
Though they didn’t realize it, they were both smiling by the end of this brief story.
“If he couldn’t keep a job, how did y’all survive?” Sam asked, staring through the opening.
“I don’t know. Mother always worked. She was very resourceful, and she sometimes kept two jobs. Cashier in a grocery store. Clerk in a pharmacy. She could do anything, and I remember a couple of pretty good jobs as a secretary. At some point, Dad got a license to sell life insurance, and that became a permanent part-time job. I guess he was good at it, because things improved as I got older. He could work his own hours and reported to no one. This suited him, although he said he hated insurance companies. He sued one for canceling a policy or something, I really didn’t understand it, and he lost the case. Of course, he blamed it all on his lawyer, who made the mistake of sending Eddie a long letter full of strong statements. Dad typed for three days, and when his masterpiece was finished he proudly showed it to Mother. Twenty-one pages of mistakes and lies by the lawyer. She just shook her head. He fought with that poor lawyer for years.”
“What kind of father was he?”
“I don’t know. That’s a hard question, Sam.”
“Why?”
“Because of the way he died. I was mad at him for a long time after his death, and I didn’t understand how he could decide that he should leave us, that we didn’t need him anymore, that it was time for him to check out. And after I learned the truth, I was mad at him for lying to me all those years, for changing my name and running away. It was terribly confusing for a young kid. Still is.”
“Are you still angry?”
“Not really. I tend to remember the good things about Eddie. He was the only father I’ve had, so I don’t know how to rate him. He didn’t smoke, drink, gamble, do drugs, chase women, beat his kids, or any of that. He had trouble keeping a job, but we never went without food or shelter. He and Mother were constantly talking about divorce, but it didn’t work out. She moved out several times, and then he would move out. It was disruptive, but Carmen and I became accustomed to it. He had his dark days, or bad times, as they were known, when he would withdraw to his room and lock the door and pull the shades. Mother would gather us around her and explain that he was not feeling well, and that we should be very quiet. No television or radios. She was very supportive when he withdrew. He would stay in his room for days, then suddenly emerge as if nothing happened. We learned to live with Eddie’s bad times. He looked and dressed normal. He was almost always there if we needed him. We played baseball in the backyard and rode rides at the carnival. He took us to Disneyland a couple of times. I guess he was a good man, a good father who just had this dark, strange side that flared up occasionally.”
“But you weren’t close.”
“No, we weren’t close. He helped me with my homework and science projects, and he insisted on perfect report cards. We talked about the solar sy
stem and the environment, but never about girls and sex and cars. Never about family and ancestors. There was no intimacy. He was not a warm person. There were times when I needed him and he was locked up in his room.”
Sam rubbed the corners of his eyes, then he leaned forward again on his elbows with his face close to the screen and looked directly at Adam. “What about his death?” he asked.
“What about it?”
“How’d it happen?”
Adam waited for a long time before answering. He could tell this story several ways. He could be cruel and hateful and brutally honest, and in doing so destroy the old man. There was a mighty temptation to do this. It needed to be done, he’d told himself many times before. Sam needed to suffer; he needed to be slapped in the face with the guilt of Eddie’s suicide. Adam wanted to really hurt the old bastard and make him cry.
But at the same time he wanted to tell the story quickly, glossing over the painful parts and then moving on to something else. The poor old man sitting captive on the other side of the screen was suffering enough. The government was planning to kill him in less than four weeks. Adam suspected he knew more about Eddie’s death than he let on.
“He was going through a bad time,” Adam said, gazing at the screen but avoiding Sam. “He’d been in his room for three weeks, which was longer than usual. Mother kept telling us that he was getting better, just a few more days and he’d come out. We believed her, because he always seemed to bounce out of it. He picked a day when she was at work and Carmen was at a friend’s house, a day when he knew I’d be the first one home. I found him lying on the floor of my bedroom, still holding the gun, a thirty-eight. One shot to the right temple. There was a neat circle of blood around his head. I sat on the edge of my bed.”
“How old were you?”
“Almost seventeen. A junior in high school. Straight A’s. I realized he’d carefully arranged a half dozen towels on the floor then placed himself in the middle of them. I checked the pulse in his wrist, and he was already stiff. Coroner said he’d been dead three hours. There was a note beside him, typed neatly on white paper. The note was addressed Dear Adam. Said he loved me, that he was sorry, that he wanted me to take care of the girls, and that maybe one day I would understand. Then he directed my attention to a plastic garbage bag, also on the floor, and said I should place the dirty towels in the garbage bag, wipe up the mess, then call the police. Don’t touch the gun, he said. And hurry, before the girls get home.” Adam cleared his throat and looked at the floor.
“And so I did exactly what he said, and I waited for the police. We were alone for fifteen minutes, just the two of us. He was lying on the floor, and I was lying on my bed looking down at him. I started crying and crying, asking him why and how and what happened and a hundred other questions. There was my dad, the only dad I would ever have, lying there in his faded jeans and dirty socks and favorite UCLA sweatshirt. From the neck down he could’ve been napping, but he had a hole in his head and the blood had dried in his hair. I hated him for dying, and I felt so sorry for him because he was dead. I remember asking him why he hadn’t talked to me before this. I asked him a lot of questions. I heard voices, and suddenly the room was filled with cops. They took me to the den and put a blanket around me. And that was the end of my father.”
Sam was still on his elbows, but one hand was now over his eyes. There were just a couple more things Adam wanted to say.
“After the funeral, Lee stayed with us for a while. She told me about you and about the Cayhalls. She filled in a lot of gaps about my father. I became fascinated with you and the Kramer bombing, and I began reading old magazine articles and newspaper stories. It took about a year for me to figure out why Eddie killed himself when he did. He’d been hiding in his room during your trial, and he killed himself when it was over.”
Sam removed his hand and glared at Adam with wet eyes. “So you blame me for his death, right, Adam? That’s what you really want to say, isn’t it?”
“No. I don’t blame you entirely.”
“Then how much? Eighty percent? Ninety percent? You’ve had time to do the numbers. How much of it’s my fault?”
“I don’t know, Sam. Why don’t you tell me?”
Sam wiped his eyes and raised his voice. “Oh what the hell! I’ll claim a hundred percent. I’ll take full responsibility for his death, okay? Is that what you want?”
“Take whatever you want.”
“Don’t patronize me! Just add my son’s name to my list, is that what you want? The Kramer twins, their father, then Eddie. That’s four I’ve killed, right? Anyone else you want to tack on here at the end? Do it quick, old boy, because the clock is ticking.”
“How many more are out there?”
“Dead bodies?”
“Yes. Dead bodies. I’ve heard the rumors.”
“And of course you believe them, don’t you? You seem eager to believe everything bad about me.”
“I didn’t say I believed them.”
Sam jumped to his feet and walked to the end of the room. “I’m tired of this conversation!” he yelled from thirty feet away. “And I’m tired of you! I almost wish I had those damned Jew lawyers harassing me again.”
“We can accommodate you,” Adam shot back.
Sam walked slowly back to his chair. “Here I am worried about my ass, twenty-three days away from the chamber, and all you want to do is talk about dead people. Just keep chirping away, old boy, and real soon you can start talking about me. I want some action.”
“I filed a petition this morning.”
“Fine! Then leave, dammit. Just get the hell out and stop tormenting me!”
Twenty-two
The door on Adam’s side opened, and Packer entered with two gentlemen behind him. They were obviously lawyers—dark suits, frowns, thick bulging briefcases. Packer pointed to some chairs under the air conditioner, and they sat down. He looked at Adam, and paid particular attention to Sam, who was still standing on the other side. “Everything okay?” he asked Adam.
Adam nodded and Sam eased into his chair. Packer left and the two new lawyers efficiently went about their business of pulling heavy documents from fat files. Within a minute, both jackets were off.
Five minutes passed without a word from Sam. Adam caught a few glimpses from the lawyers on the other end. They were in the same room with the most famous inmate on the Row, the next one to be gassed, and they couldn’t help but steal curious peeks at Sam Cayhall and his lawyer.
Then the door opened behind Sam, and two guards entered with a wiry little black man who was shackled and manacled and cuffed as if he might erupt any moment and kill dozens with his bare hands. They led him to a seat across from his lawyers, and went about the business of liberating most of his limbs. The hands remained cuffed behind his back. One of the guards left the room, but the other took a position halfway between Sam and the black inmate.
Sam glanced down the counter at his comrade, a nervous type who evidently was not happy with his lawyers. His lawyers did not appear to be thrilled either. Adam watched them from his side of the screen, and within minutes their heads were close together and they were talking in unison through the slit while their client sat militantly on his hands. Their low voices were audible, but their words were indecipherable.
Sam eased forward again, on his elbows, and motioned for Adam to do likewise. Their faces met ten inches apart with the opening between them.
“That’s Stockholm Turner,” Sam said, almost in a whisper.
“Stockholm?”
“Yeah, but he goes by Stock. These rural Africans love unusual names. He says he has a brother named Denmark and one named Germany. Probably does.”
“What’d he do?” Adam asked, suddenly curious.
“Robbed a whiskey store, I think. Shot the owner. About two years ago he got a death warrant, and it went down to the wire. He came within two hours of the chamber.”
“What happened?”
“His lawyers got
a stay, and they’ve been fighting ever since. You can never tell, but he’ll probably be the next after me.”
They both looked toward the end of the room where the conference was raging in full force. Stock was off his hands and sitting on the edge of his chair and raising hell with his lawyers.
Sam grinned, then chuckled, then leaned even closer to the screen. “Stock’s family is dirt poor, and they have little to do with him. It’s not unusual, really, especially with the Africans. He seldom gets mail or visitors. He was born fifty miles from here, but the free world has forgotten about him. As his appeals were losing steam, Stock started worrying about life and death and things in general. Around here, if no one claims your body, then the state buries you like a pauper in some cheap grave. Stock got concerned about what would happen to his body, and he started asking all kinds of questions. Packer and some of the guards picked up on it, and they convinced Stock that his body would be sent to a crematorium where it would be burned. The ashes would be dropped from the air and spread over Parchman. They told him that since he’d be full of gas anyway, when they stuck a match to him he’d go off like a bomb. Stock was devastated. He had trouble sleeping and lost weight. Then he started writing letters to his family and friends begging them for a few dollars so he could have a Christian burial, as he called it. The money trickled in, and he wrote more letters. He wrote to ministers and civil rights groups. Even his lawyers sent money.
“When his stay was lifted, Stock had close to four hundred dollars, and he was ready to die. Or so he thought.”
Sam’s eyes were dancing and his voice was light. He told the story slowly, in a low voice, and savored the details. Adam was amused more by the telling than by the narrative.
“They have a loose rule here that allows almost unlimited visitation for seventy-two hours prior to the execution. As long as there’s no security risk, they’ll allow the condemned man to do damned near anything. There’s a little office up front with a desk and phone, and that becomes the visiting room. It’s usually filled with all sorts of people—grandmothers, nieces, nephews, cousins, aunties—especially with these Africans. Hell, they run ’em in here by the busload. Kinfolks who haven’t spent five minutes thinking about the inmate suddenly show up to share his last moments. It almost becomes a social event.
