Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  “I’m David McAllister, Mr. Hall, nice to meet you,” the governor said quickly, ever the anxious glad-handing politician, with an incredibly rapid flash of flawless teeth.

  “A pleasure,” Adam said, barely moving his lips.

  “And I’m Steve Roxburgh,” said the Attorney General.

  Adam only nodded at him. He’d seen his face in the newspapers.

  Roxburgh took the initiative. He began talking and pointing at people. “These are attorneys from my criminal appeals division. Kevin Laird, Bart Moody, Morris Henry, Hugh Simms, and Joseph Ely. These guys handle all death penalty cases.” They all nodded obediently while maintaining their suspicious frowns. Adam counted eleven people on the other side of the table.

  McAllister chose not to introduce his band of clones, all of whom were suffering from either migraines or hemorrhoids. Their faces were contorted from pain, or perhaps from quite serious deliberation about legal matters at hand.

  “Hope we haven’t jumped the gun, Mr. Hall,” Slattery said as he slipped a pair of reading glasses on his nose. He was in his early forties, one of the young Reagan appointees. “When do you expect to officially file your petition here in federal court?”

  “Today,” Adam said nervously, still astounded by the speed of it all. This was a positive development though, he’d decided while driving to Jackson. If Sam got any relief, it would be in federal court, not state.

  “When can the state respond?” the judge asked Roxburgh.

  “Tomorrow morning. Assuming the petition here raises the same issues as those raised in the supreme court.”

  “They’re the same,” Adam said to Roxburgh, then he turned to Slattery. “I was told to be here at eleven o’clock. What time did the meeting start?”

  “The meeting started when I decided it would start, Mr. Hall,” Slattery said icily. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Yes. It’s obvious this conference started some time ago, without me.”

  “What’s wrong with that? This is my office, and I’ll start meetings whenever I want.”

  “Yeah, but it’s my petition, and I was invited here to discuss it. Seems as though I should’ve been here for the entire meeting.”

  “You don’t trust me, Mr. Hall?” Slattery was easing forward on his elbows, thoroughly enjoying this.

  “I don’t trust anybody,” Adam said, staring at His Honor.

  “We’re trying to accommodate you, Mr. Hall. Your client doesn’t have much time, and I’m only trying to move things along. I thought you’d be pleased that we were able to arrange this meeting with such speed.”

  “Thank you,” Adam said, and looked at his legal pad. There was a brief silence as the tension eased a bit.

  Slattery held a sheet of paper. “Get the petition filed today. The state will file its response tomorrow. I’ll consider it over the weekend and issue a ruling on Monday. In the event I decide to conduct a hearing, I need to know from both sides how long it will take to prepare. How about you, Mr. Hall? How long to get ready for a hearing?”

  Sam had twenty-two days to live. Any hearing would have to be a hurried, concise affair with quick witnesses and, he hoped, a swift ruling by the court. Adding to the stress of the moment was the crucial fact that Adam had no idea how long it would take to prepare for a hearing because he’d never tried such a matter. He’d participated in a few minor skirmishes in Chicago, but always with Emmitt Wycoff close by. He was just a rookie, dammit! He wasn’t even certain where the courtroom was located.

  And something told him that the eleven vultures examining him at this precise second knew full well he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. “I can be ready in a week,” he said with a steady poker face and as much faith as he could muster.

  “Very well,” Slattery said, as if this was fine, a good answer, Adam, good boy. A week was reasonable. Then Roxburgh whispered something to one of his warlocks, and the whole bunch thought it was funny. Adam ignored them.

  Slattery scribbled something with an ink pen, then studied it. He gave it to Breck the clerk who treasured it and raced off to do something else with it. His Honor looked along the wall of legal infantry to his right, then he dropped his gaze upon young Adam. “Now, Mr. Hall, there’s something else I’d like to discuss. As you know, this execution is scheduled to take place in twenty-two days, and I would like to know if this court can expect any additional filings on behalf of Mr. Cayhall. I know this is an unusual request, but we’re operating here in an unusual situation. Frankly, this is my first involvement with a death penalty case as advanced as this one, and I think it’s best if we all work together here.”

  In other words, Your Honor, you want to make damned sure there are no stays. Adam thought for a second. It was an unusual request, and one that was quite unfair. But Sam had a constitutional right to file anything at anytime, and Adam could not be bound by any promises made here. He decided to be polite. “I really can’t say, Your Honor. Not now. Maybe next week.”

  “Surely you’ll file the usual gangplank appeals,” Roxburgh said, and the smirking bastards around him all looked at Adam with wondrous amazement.

  “Frankly, Mr. Roxburgh, I’m not required to discuss my plans with you. Or with the court, for that matter.”

  “Of course not,” McAllister chimed in for some reason, probably just his inability to stay quiet for more than five minutes.

  Adam had noticed the lawyer sitting to Roxburgh’s right, a methodical sort with steely eyes that seldom left Adam. He was young but gray, clean-shaven, and very neat. McAllister favored him, and had leaned to his right several times as if receiving advice. The others from the AG’s office seemed to accede to his thoughts and movements. There was a reference in one of the hundred articles Adam had clipped and filed away about an infamous litigator in the AG’s office known as Dr. Death, a clever bird with a penchant for pushing death penalty cases to their conclusion. Either his first or last name was Morris, and Adam vaguely recalled a Morris something or other mentioned moments earlier during Roxburgh’s garbled introduction of his staff.

  Adam assumed him to be the nefarious Dr. Death. Morris Henry was his name.

  “Well, hurry up and file them then,” Slattery said with a good dose of frustration. “I don’t want to work around the clock as this thing goes down to the wire.”

  “No sir,” Adam said in mock sympathy.

  Slattery glared at him for a moment, then returned to the paperwork in front of him. “Very well, gentlemen, I suggest you stick by your telephones Sunday night and Monday morning. I’ll be calling as soon as I’ve made a decision. This meeting is adjourned.”

  The conspiracy on the other side broke up in a flurry of papers and files snatched from the table and sudden mumbled conversations. Adam was nearest the door. He nodded at Slattery, offered a feeble “Good day, Your Honor,” and left the office. He gave a polite grin to the secretary and was into the hallway when someone called his name. It was the governor, with two flunkies in tow.

  “Can we talk a minute?” McAllister asked, out thrusting a hand at Adam’s waist. They shook for a second.

  “What about?”

  “Just five minutes, okay.”

  Adam looked at the governor’s boys waiting a few feet away. “Alone. Private. And off the record,” he said.

  “Sure,” McAllister said, then pointed to a set of double doors. They stepped inside a small empty courtroom with the lights off. The governor’s hands were free. Someone else carried his briefcase and bags. He stuck them deep in his pockets and leaned against a railing. He was lean and well dressed, nice suit, fashionable silk tie, obligatory white cotton shirt. He was under forty and aging remarkably well. Only a touch of gray tinted his sideburns. “How’s Sam?” he asked, feigning deep concern.

  Adam snorted, looked away, then sat his briefcase on the floor. “Oh, he’s wonderful. I’ll tell him you asked. He’ll be thrilled.”

  “I’d heard he was in bad health.”

  “He
alth? You’re trying to kill him. How can you be worried about his health?”

  “Just heard a rumor.”

  “He hates your guts, okay? His health is bad, but he can hang on for another three weeks.”

  “Hate is nothing new for Sam, you know.”

  “What exactly do you want to talk about?”

  “Just wanted to say hello. I’m sure we’ll get together shortly.”

  “Look, Governor, I have a signed contract with my client that expressly forbids me from talking to you. I repeat, he hates you. You’re the reason he’s on death row. He blames you for everything, and if he knew we were talking now, he’d fire me.”

  “Your own grandfather would fire you?”

  “Yes. I truly believe it. So if I read in tomorrow’s paper that you met with me today and we discussed Sam Cayhall, then I’ll be on my way back to Chicago, which will probably screw up your execution because Sam won’t have a lawyer. Can’t kill a man if he doesn’t have a lawyer.”

  “Says who?”

  “Just keep it quiet, okay?”

  “You have my word. But if we can’t talk, then how do we discuss the issue of clemency?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t reached that point yet.”

  McAllister’s face was always pleasant. The comely smile was always in place or just beneath the surface. “You have thought about clemency, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. With three weeks to go, I’ve thought about clemency. Every death row inmate dreams of a pardon, Governor, and that’s why you can’t grant one. You pardon one convict, and you’ll have the other fifty pestering you for the same favor. Fifty families writing letters and calling night and day. Fifty lawyers pulling strings and trying to get in your office. You and I both know it can’t be done.”

  “I’m not sure he should die.”

  He said this while looking away, as if a change of heart was under way, as if the years had matured him and softened his zeal to punish Sam. Adam started to say something, then realized the magnitude of these last words. He watched the floor for a minute, paying particular attention to the governor’s tasseled loafers. The governor was deep in thought.

  “I’m not sure he should die, either,” Adam said.

  “How much has he told you?”

  “About what?”

  “About the Kramer bombing.”

  “He says he’s told me everything.”

  “But you have doubts?”

  “Yes.”

  “So do I. I always had doubts.”

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons. Jeremiah Dogan was a notorious liar, and he was scared to death of going to prison. The IRS had him cold, you know, and he was convinced that if he went to prison he’d be raped and tortured and killed by gangs of blacks. He was the Imperial Wizard, you know. Dogan was also ignorant about a lot of things. He was sly and hard to catch when it came to terrorism, but he didn’t understand the criminal justice system. I always thought someone, probably the FBI, told Dogan that Sam had to be convicted or they’d ship him off to prison. No conviction, no deal. He was a very eager witness on the stand. He desperately wanted the jury to convict Sam.”

  “So he lied?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “About what?”

  “Have you asked Sam if he had an accomplice?”

  Adam paused for a second and analyzed the question. “I really can’t discuss what Sam and I have talked about. It’s confidential.”

  “Of course it is. There are a lot of people in this state who secretly do not wish to see Sam executed.” McAllister was now watching Adam closely.

  “Are you one of them?”

  “I don’t know. But what if Sam didn’t plan to kill either Marvin Kramer or his sons? Sure Sam was there, right in the thick of it. But what if someone else possessed the intent to murder?”

  “Then Sam isn’t as guilty as we think.”

  “Right. He’s certainly not innocent, but not guilty enough to be executed either. This bothers me, Mr. Hall. Can I call you Adam?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t suppose Sam has mentioned anything about an accomplice.”

  “I really can’t discuss that. Not now.”

  The governor slipped a hand from a pocket and gave Adam a business card. “Two phone numbers on the back. One is my private office number. The other is my home number. All phone calls are confidential, I swear. I play for the cameras sometimes, Adam, it goes with the job, but I can also be trusted.”

  Adam took the card and looked at the handwritten numbers.

  “I couldn’t live with myself if I failed to pardon a man who didn’t deserve to die,” McAllister said as he walked to the door. “Give me a call, but don’t wait too late. This thing’s already heating up. I’m getting twenty phone calls a day.”

  He winked at Adam, showed him the sparkling teeth once again, and left the room.

  Adam sat in a metal chair against the wall, and looked at the front of the card. It was gold-embossed with an official seal. Twenty calls a day. What did that mean? Did the callers want Sam dead or did they want him pardoned?

  A lot of people in this state do not wish to see Sam executed, he’d said, as if he was already weighing the votes he’d lose against those he might gain.

  Twenty-four

  The smile from the receptionist in the foyer was not as quick as usual, and as Adam walked to his office he detected a more somber atmosphere among the staff and the handful of lawyers. The chatter was an octave lower. Things were a bit more urgent.

  Chicago had arrived. It happened occasionally, not necessarily for purposes of inspection, but more often than not to service a local client or to conduct bureaucratic little firm meetings. No one had ever been fired when Chicago arrived. No one had ever been cursed or abused. But it always provided for a few anxious moments until Chicago left and headed back North.

  Adam opened his office door and nearly smacked into the worried face of E. Garner Goodman, complete with green paisley bow tie, white starched shirt, bushy gray hair. He’d been pacing around the room and happened to be near the door when it opened. Adam stared at him, then took his hand and shook it quickly.

  “Come in, come in,” Goodman said, closing the door as he invited Adam into his own office. He hadn’t smiled yet.

  “What are you doing here?” Adam asked, throwing his briefcase on the floor and walking to his desk. They faced each other.

  Goodman stroked his neat gray beard, then adjusted his bow tie. “There’s a bit of an emergency, I’m afraid. Could be bad news.”

  “What?”

  “Sit down, sit down. This might take a minute.”

  “No. I’m fine. What is it?” It had to be horrible if he needed to take it sitting down.

  Goodman tinkered with his bow tie, rubbed his beard, then said, “Well, it happened at nine this morning. You see, the Personnel Committee is made up of fifteen partners, almost all are younger guys. The full committee has several subcommittees, of course, one for recruiting, hiring, one for discipline, one for disputes, and on and on. And, as you might guess, there’s one for terminations. The Termination Subcommittee met this morning, and guess who was there to orchestrate everything.”

  “Daniel Rosen.”

  “Daniel Rosen. Evidently, he’s been working the Termination Subcommittee for ten days trying to line up enough votes for your dismissal.”

  Adam sat in a chair at the table, and Goodman sat across from him.

  “There are seven members of the subcommittee, and they met this morning at Rosen’s request. There were five members present, so they had a quorum. Rosen, of course, did not notify me or anyone else. Termination meetings are strictly confidential, for obvious reasons, so there was no requirement that he notify anyone.”

  “Not even me?”

  “No, not even you. You were the only item on the agenda, and the meeting lasted less than an hour. Rosen had the deck stacked before he went in, but he presented his case
very forcefully. Remember, he was a courtroom brawler for thirty years. They record all termination meetings, just in case there’s litigation afterward, so Rosen made a complete record. He, of course, claims that you were deceitful when you applied for employment with Kravitz & Bane; that it presents the firm with a conflict of interest, and on and on. And he had copies of a dozen or so newspaper articles about you and Sam and the grandfather-grandson angle. His argument was that you had embarrassed the firm. He was very prepared. I think we underestimated him last Monday.”

  “And so they voted.”

  “Four to one to terminate you.”

  “Bastards!”

  “I know. I’ve seen Rosen in tough spots before, and the guy can be brutally persuasive. He usually gets his way. He can’t go to courtrooms anymore, so he’s picking fights around the office. He’ll be gone in six months.”

  “That’s a small comfort at the moment.”

  “There’s hope. Word finally filtered to my office around eleven, and luckily Emmitt Wycoff was in. We went to Rosen’s office and had a terrible fight, then we got on the phone. Bottom line is this—the full Personnel Committee meets at eight o’clock in the morning to review your dismissal. You need to be there.”

  “Eight o’clock in the morning!”

  “Yeah. These guys are busy. Many have court dates at nine. Some have depositions all day. Out of fifteen, we’ll be lucky to have a quorum.”

  “How much is a quorum?”

  “Two-thirds. Ten. And if there’s no quorum, then we might be in trouble.”

  “Trouble! What do you call this?”

  “It could get worse. If there’s no quorum in the morning, then you have the right to request another review in thirty days.”

  “Sam will be dead in thirty days.”

  “Maybe not. At any rate, I think we’ll have the meeting in the morning. Emmitt and I have commitments from nine of the members to be there.”

  “What about the four who voted against me this morning?”

  Goodman grinned and glanced away. “Guess. Rosen made sure his votes can be there tomorrow.”

  Adam suddenly slapped the table with both hands. “I quit dammit!”