Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  ______

  After three weeks as a death row lawyer, Adam was beginning to yearn for the predictability of his office in Chicago, if, in fact, he still had an office. Before ten o’clock Wednesday, he had finished a claim for postconviction relief. He had talked with various court clerks four times, then with a court administrator. He had talked with Richard Olander in Washington twice concerning the habeas claim attacking the gas chamber, and he had talked with a clerk at the death desk at the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans regarding the ineffectiveness claim.

  The claim alleging Sam’s lack of mental competence was now in Jackson, by fax with the original to follow by Fed-Ex, and Adam was forced to politely beg the court’s administrator to speed things up. Hurry up and deny it, he said, though not in those words. If a stay of execution was forthcoming, it would in all likelihood be issued by a federal judge.

  Each new claim brought with it a scant new ray of hope, and, as Adam was quickly learning, also the potential for another loss. A claim had to clear four obstacles before it was extinguished—the Mississippi Supreme Court, the federal district court, the Fifth Circuit, and the U.S. Supreme Court—so the odds were against success, especially at this stage of the appeals. Sam’s bread and butter issues had been litigated thoroughly by Wallace Tyner and Garner Goodman years ago. Adam was now filing the crumbs.

  The clerk at the Fifth Circuit doubted if the court would care to indulge in another oral argument, especially since it appeared that Adam would be filing new claims every day. The three-judge panel would probably consider only the briefs. Conference calls would be used if the judges wished to hear his voice.

  Richard Olander called again to say the Supreme Court had received Adam’s petition for cert, or request to hear the case, and that it had been assigned. No, he did not think the Court would care to hear oral argument. Not this late in the game. He also informed Adam that he had received by fax a copy of the new claim of mental incompetency, and that he would monitor it through the local courts. Interesting, he said. He asked again what new claims Adam might be contemplating, but Adam wouldn’t say.

  Judge Slattery’s law clerk, Breck Jefferson, he of the permanent scowl, called to inform Adam that His Honor had received by fax a copy of the new claim filed with the Mississippi Supreme Court, and frankly His Honor didn’t think much of it but would nonetheless give it full consideration once it arrived in their court.

  Adam took a little satisfaction in the knowledge that he had managed to keep four very different courts hopping at the same time.

  At eleven, Morris Henry, the infamous Dr. Death in the Attorney General’s office, called to inform Adam that they had received the latest round of gangplank appeals, as he enjoyed calling them, and Mr. Roxburgh himself had assigned a dozen lawyers to produce the responding paperwork. Henry was nice enough on the phone, but the call had made its point—we have lots of lawyers, Adam.

  The paperwork was being generated by the pound now, and the small conference table was covered with neat stacks of it. Darlene was in and out of the office constantly—making copies, delivering phone messages, fetching coffee, proofreading briefs and petitions. She’d been trained in the tedious field of government bonds, so the detailed and voluminous documents did not intimidate her. She confessed more than once that this was an exciting change from her normal drudgery. “What’s more exciting than a looming execution?” Adam asked.

  Even Baker Cooley managed to tear himself away from the latest updates in federal banking regulations and popped in for a look.

  Phelps called around eleven to ask if Adam wanted to meet for lunch. Adam did not, and begged off by blaming deadlines and cranky judges. Neither had heard from Lee. Phelps said she’d disappeared before, but never for more than two days. He was worried and thinking about hiring a private investigator. He’d keep in touch.

  “There’s a reporter here to see you,” Darlene said, handing him a business card declaring the presence of Anne L. Piazza, correspondent for Newsweek. She was the third reporter who’d contacted the office on Wednesday. “Tell her I’m sorry,” Adam said with no regret.

  “I did that already, but I thought that since it was Newsweek you might wanna know.”

  “I don’t care who it is. Tell her the client’s not talking either.”

  She left in a hurry as the phone was ringing. It was Goodman, reporting from Jackson that he was to see the governor at one. Adam brought him up to date on the flurry of activity and phone calls.

  Darlene delivered a deli sandwich at twelve-thirty. Adam ate it quickly, then napped in a chair as his computer spewed forth another brief.

  ______

  Goodman flipped through a car magazine as he waited alone in the reception area next to the governor’s office. The same pretty secretary worked on her nails between phone calls at her switchboard. One o’clock came and went without comment. Same for one-thirty. The receptionist, now with glorious peach nails, apologized at two. No problem, said Goodman with a warm smile. The beauty of a pro bono career was that labor was not measured by time. Success meant helping people, regardless of hours billed.

  At two-fifteen, an intense young woman in a dark suit appeared from nowhere and walked to Goodman. “Mr. Goodman, I’m Mona Stark, the governor’s chief of staff. The governor will see you now.” She smiled correctly, and Goodman followed her through a set of double doors and into a long, formal room with a desk at one end and a conference table far away at the other.

  McAllister was standing by the window with his jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves up, very much the beleaguered and overworked servant of the people. “Hello, Mr. Goodman,” he said with a hand thrust forward and teeth flashing brilliantly.

  “Governor, my pleasure,” Goodman said. He had no briefcase, no standard lawyer accessories. He looked as if he’d simply passed by on the street and decided to stop and meet the governor.

  “You’ve met Mr. Larramore and Ms. Stark,” McAllister said, waving a hand at each.

  “Yes. We’ve met. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.” Goodman tried to match his dazzling smile, but it was hopeless. At the moment, he was most humble and appreciative just to be in this great office.

  “Let’s sit over here,” the governor said, waving at the conference table and leading the way. The four of them sat on separate sides of the table. Larramore and Mona withdrew pens and were poised for serious note-taking. Goodman had nothing but his hands in front of him.

  “I understand there’ve been quite of lot of filings in the past few days,” McAllister said.

  “Yes sir. Just curious, have you been through one of these before?” Goodman asked.

  “No. Thankfully.”

  “Well, this is not unusual. I’m certain we’ll be filing petitions until the last moment.”

  “Can I ask you something, Mr. Goodman?” the governor said sincerely.

  “Certainly.”

  “I know you’ve handled many of these cases. What’s your prediction at this point? How close will it get?”

  “You never know. Sam’s a bit different from most inmates on death row because he’s had good lawyers—good trial counsel, then superb appellate work.”

  “By you, I believe.”

  Goodman smiled, then McAllister smiled, then Mona managed a grin. Larramore remained hunched over his legal pad, his face contorted in furious concentration.

  “That’s right. So Sam’s major claims have already been ruled on. What you’re seeing now are the desperate moves, but they often work. I’d say fifty-fifty, today, seven days away.”

  Mona quickly recorded this on paper as if it carried some enormous legal significance. Larramore had written every word so far.

  McAllister thought about it for a few seconds. “I’m a little confused, Mr. Goodman. Your client does not know we’re meeting. He’s opposed to the idea of a clemency hearing. You want this meeting kept quiet. So why are we here?”

  “Things change, Governor. Again, I’ve been here many times
before. I’ve watched men count down their last days. It does strange things to the mind. People change. As the lawyer, I have to cover every base, every angle.”

  “Are you asking for a hearing?”

  “Yes sir. A closed hearing.”

  “When?”

  “What about Friday?”

  “In two days,” McAllister said as he gazed through a window. Larramore cleared his throat, and asked, “What sort of witnesses do you anticipate?”

  “Good question. If I had names, I’d give them to you now, but I don’t. Our presentation will be brief.”

  “Who will testify for the state?” McAllister asked Larramore, whose moist teeth glistened as he pondered. Goodman looked away.

  “I’m certain the victims’ family will want to say something. The crime is usually discussed. Someone from the prison might be needed to discuss the type of inmate he’s been. These hearings are quite flexible.”

  “I know more about the crime than anyone,” McAllister said, almost to himself.

  “It’s a strange situation,” Goodman confessed. “I’ve had my share of clemency hearings, and the prosecutor is usually the first witness to testify against the defendant. In this case, you were the prosecutor.”

  “Why do you want the hearing closed?”

  “The governor has long been an advocate of open meetings,” Mona added.

  “It’s really best for everyone,” Goodman said, much like the learned professor. “It’s less pressure on you, Governor, because it’s not exposed and you don’t have a lot of unsolicited advice. We, of course, would like for it to be closed.”

  “Why?” McAllister asked.

  “Well, frankly, sir, we don’t want the public to see Ruth Kramer talking about her little boys.” Goodman watched them as he delivered this. The real reason was something else altogether. Adam was convinced that the only way to talk Sam into a clemency hearing was to promise him it would not be a public spectacle. If such a hearing was closed, then Adam could maybe convince Sam that McAllister would be prevented from grandstanding.

  Goodman knew dozens of people around the country who would gladly come to Jackson on a moment’s notice to testify on Sam’s behalf. He had heard these people make some persuasive, last minute arguments against death. Nuns, priests, ministers, psychologists, social workers, authors, professors, and a couple of former death row inmates. Dr. Swinn would testify about how dreadfully Sam was doing these days, and he would do an excellent job of trying to convince the governor that the state was about to kill a vegetable.

  In most states, the inmate has a right to a last minute clemency hearing, usually before the governor. In Mississippi, however, the hearing was discretionary.

  “I guess that makes sense,” the governor actually said.

  “There’s enough interest already,” Goodman said, knowing that McAllister was giddy with dreams of the forthcoming media frenzy. “It will benefit no one if the hearing is open.”

  Mona, the staunch open meetings advocate, frowned even harder and wrote something in block letters. McAllister was deep in thought.

  “Regardless of whether it’s open or closed,” he said, “there’s no real reason for such a hearing unless you and your client have something new to add. I know this case, Mr. Goodman. I smelled the smoke. I saw the bodies. I cannot change my mind unless there’s something new.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as a name. You give me the name of Sam’s accomplice, and I’ll agree to a hearing. No promise of clemency, you understand, just a regular clemency hearing. Otherwise, this is a waste of time.”

  “Do you believe there was an accomplice?” Goodman asked.

  “We were always suspicious. What do you think?”

  “Why is it important?”

  “It’s important because I make the final decision, Mr. Goodman. After the courts are finished with it, and the clock ticks down next Tuesday night, I’m the only person in the world who can stop it. If Sam deserves the death penalty, then I have no problem sitting by while it happens. But if he doesn’t, then the execution should be stopped. I’m a young man. I do not want to be haunted by this for the rest of my life. I want to make the right decision.”

  “But if you believe there was an accomplice, and you obviously do, then why not stop it anyway?”

  “Because I want to be sure. You’ve been his lawyer for many years. Do you think he had an accomplice?”

  “Yes. I’ve always thought there were two of them. I don’t know who was the leader and who was the follower, but Sam had help.”

  McAllister leaned closer to Goodman and looked into his eyes. “Mr. Goodman, if Sam will tell me the truth, then I will grant a closed hearing, and I will consider clemency. I’m not promising a damned thing, you understand, only that we’ll have the hearing. Otherwise, there’s nothing new to add to the story.”

  Mona and Larramore scribbled faster than court reporters.

  “Sam says he’s telling the truth.”

  “Then forget the hearing. I’m a busy man.”

  Goodman sighed in frustration, but kept a smile in place. “Very well, we’ll talk to him again. Can we meet here again tomorrow?”

  The governor looked at Mona, who consulted a pocket calendar and began shaking her head as if tomorrow was hopelessly filled with speeches and appearances and meetings. “You’re booked,” she said in a commanding tone.

  “What about lunch?”

  Nope. Wouldn’t work. “You’re speaking to the NRA convention.”

  “Why don’t you call me?” Larramore offered.

  “Good idea,” the governor said, standing now and buttoning his sleeves.

  Goodman stood and shook hands with the three. “I’ll call if something breaks. We are requesting a hearing as soon as possible, regardless.”

  “The request is denied unless Sam talks,” said the governor.

  “Please put the request in writing, sir, if you don’t mind,” Larramore asked.

  “Certainly.”

  They walked Goodman to the door, and after he left the office McAllister sat in his official chair behind his desk. He unbuttoned his sleeves again. Larramore excused himself and went to his little room down the hall.

  Ms. Stark studied a printout while the governor watched the rows of buttons blink on his phone. “How many of these calls are about Sam Cayhall?” he asked. She moved a finger along a column.

  “Yesterday, you had twenty-one calls regarding the Cayhall execution. Fourteen in favor of gassing him. Five said to spare him. Two couldn’t make up their minds.”

  “That’s an increase.”

  “Yeah, but the paper had that article about Sam’s last ditch efforts. It mentioned the possibility of a clemency hearing.”

  “What about the polls?”

  “No change. Ninety percent of the white people in this state favor the death penalty, and about half the blacks do. Overall, it’s around eighty-four percent.”

  “Where’s my approval?”

  “Sixty-two. But if you pardon Sam Cayhall, I’m sure it’ll drop to single digits.”

  “So you’re against the idea.”

  “There’s absolutely nothing to gain, and much to lose. Forget polls and numbers, if you pardon one of those thugs up there you’ll have the other fifty sending lawyers and grandmothers and preachers down here begging for the same favor. You have enough on your mind. It’s foolish.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Where’s the media plan?”

  “I’ll have it in an hour.”

  “I need to see it.”

  “Nagel’s putting the final touches on it. I think you should grant the request for a clemency hearing anyway. But hold it Monday. Announce it tomorrow. Let it simmer over the weekend.”

  “It shouldn’t be closed.”

  “Hell no! We want Ruth Kramer crying for the cameras.”

  “It’s my hearing. Sam and his lawyers will not dictate its conditions. If they want it, they’ll do it my way.”

&
nbsp; “Right. But keep in mind, you want it too. Tons of coverage.”

  ______

  Goodman signed a three-month lease for four cellular phones. He used a Kravitz & Bane credit card and deftly dodged the barrage of questions by the chirpy young salesman. He went to a public library on State Street and found a reference table filled with phonebooks. Judging by their thickness, he selected those of the larger Mississippi towns, places like Laurel, Hattiesburg, Tupelo, Vicksburg, Biloxi, and Meridian. Then he picked the thinner ones—Tunica, Calhoun City, Bude, Long Beach, West Point. At the information desk, he converted bills to quarters, and spent two hours copying pages from the phonebooks.

  He went merrily about his work. No one would’ve believed the natty little man with bushy gray hair and bow tie was in fact a partner in a major Chicago firm with secretaries and paralegals at his beck and call. No one would’ve believed he earned over four hundred thousand dollars a year. And he couldn’t have cared less. E. Garner Goodman was happy with his work. He was trying his best to save another soul from being legally killed.

  He left the library and drove a few blocks to the Mississippi College School of Law. A professor there by the name of John Bryan Glass taught criminal procedure and law, and also had begun publishing scholarly articles against the death penalty. Goodman wanted to make his acquaintance, and to see if maybe the professor had a few bright students interested in a research project.

  The professor was gone for the day, but scheduled to teach a 9 a.m. class on Thursday. Goodman checked out the law school’s library, then left the building. He drove a few blocks to the Old State Capitol Building, just killing time, and took an extended tour of it. It lasted for thirty minutes, half of which was spent at the Civil Rights Exhibit on the ground floor. He asked the clerk in the gift shop about a bed and breakfast, and she suggested the Millsaps-Buie House, about a mile down the street. He found the lovely Victorian mansion just where she’d said, and took the last vacant room. The house was immaculately restored with period pieces and furnishings. The butler fixed him a Scotch and water, and he took it to his room.