Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

The door was shut and sealed, and Nugent signaled for the executioner, who placed a canister of sulfuric acid into a tube which ran into the bottom of the chamber. He pulled a lever, a clicking sound occurred, and the canister made its way to the bowl under the chair.

  Nugent stepped to one of the windows and watched intently. The other members of the team did likewise. Petroleum jelly had been smeared around the edges of the windows to prevent seepage.

  The poisonous gas was released slowly, and a faint mist of visible vapors rose from under the chair and drifted upward. At first, the rabbit didn’t react to the steam that permeated his little cell, but it hit him soon enough. He stiffened, then hopped a few times, banging into the sides of his cage, then he went into violent convulsions, jumping and jerking and twisting frantically. In less than a minute, he was still.

  Nugent smiled as he glanced at his watch. “Clear it,” he ordered, and a vent at the top of the chamber was opened, releasing the gas.

  The door from the Chamber Room to the outside was opened, and most of the execution team walked out for fresh air or a smoke. It would be at least fifteen minutes before the chamber could be opened and the rabbit removed. Then they had to hose it down and clean up. Nugent was still inside, watching everything. So they smoked and had a few laughs.

  Less than sixty feet away, the windows above the hallway of Tier A were open. Sam could hear their voices. It was after ten and the lights were off, but in every cell along the tier two arms protruded from the bars as fourteen men listened in dark silence.

  A death row inmate lives in a six-by-nine cell for twenty-three hours a day. He hears everything—the strange clicking sound of a new pair of boots in the hallway; the unfamiliar pitch and accent of a different voice; the faraway hum of a lawn mower or weedeater. And he can certainly hear the opening and closing of the door to the Chamber Room. He can hear the satisfied and important chuckles of the execution team.

  Sam leaned on his forearms and watched the windows above the hallway. They were practicing for him out there.

  Forty

  Between the western edge of Highway 49 and the front lawn of the administrative buildings of Parchman, a distance of fifty yards, there was a grassy strip of land that was smooth and noticeable because it was once a railroad track. It was where the death penalty protestors were corralled and monitored at every execution. They invariably arrived, usually small groups of committed souls who sat in folding chairs and held homemade placards. They burned candles at night and sang hymns during the final hours. They sang hymns, offered prayers, and wept when the death was announced.

  A new twist had occurred during the hours preceding the execution of Teddy Doyle Meeks, a child rapist and killer. The somber, almost sacred protest had been disrupted by carloads of unruly college students who suddenly appeared without warning and had a delightful time demanding blood. They drank beer and played loud music. They chanted slogans and heckled the shaken death protestors. The situation deteriorated as the two groups exchanged words. Prison officials moved in and restored order.

  Maynard Tole was next, and during the planning of his execution another section of turf on the other side of the main drive was designated for the death penalty proponents. Extra security was assigned to keep things peaceful.

  When Adam arrived Friday morning, he counted seven Ku Klux Klansmen in white robes. Three were engaged in some attempt at synchronized protest, a casual walking along the edge of the grassy strip near the highway with posters strung over their shoulders. The other four were erecting a large blue and white canopy. Metal poles and ropes were scattered on the ground. Two ice chests sat next to several lawn chairs. These guys were planning to stay awhile.

  Adam stared at them as he rolled to a stop at the front gate of Parchman. He lost track of time as he watched the Kluckers for minutes. So this was his heritage, his roots. These were the brethren of his grandfather and his grandfather’s relatives and ancestors. Were some of these figures the same ones who’d been recorded on film and edited by Adam into the video about Sam Cayhall? Had he seen them before?

  Instinctively, Adam opened the door of his car and got out. His coat and briefcase were in the rear seat. He began walking slowly in their direction, and stopped near their ice chests. Their placards demanded freedom for Sam Cayhall, a political prisoner. Gas the real criminals, but release Sam. For some reason, Adam was not comforted by their demands.

  “What do you want?” demanded one with a sign draped over his chest. The other six stopped what they were doing and stared.

  “I don’t know,” Adam said truthfully.

  “Then what are you looking at?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Three others joined the first, and they stepped together near Adam. Their robes were identical—white and made of a very light fabric with red crosses and other markings. It was almost 9 a.m., and they were already sweating. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Sam’s grandson.”

  The other three crowded behind the others, and all seven examined Adam from a distance of no more than five feet. “Then you’re on our side,” one said, relieved.

  “No. I’m not one of you.”

  “That’s right. He’s with that bunch of Jews from Chicago,” another said for the edification of the rest, and this seemed to stir them up a bit.

  “Why are you people here?” Adam asked.

  “We’re trying to save Sam. Looks like you’re not gonna do it.”

  “You’re the reason he’s here.”

  A young one with a red face and rows of sweat on his forehead took the lead and walked even closer to Adam. “No. He’s the reason we’re here. I wasn’t even born when Sam killed those Jews, so you can’t blame it on me. We’re here to protest his execution. He’s being persecuted for political reasons.”

  “He wouldn’t be here had it not been for the Klan. Where are your masks? I thought you people always hid your faces.”

  They twitched and fidgeted as a group, uncertain what to do next. He was, after all, the grandson of Sam Cayhall, their idol and champion. He was the lawyer trying to save a most precious symbol.

  “Why don’t you leave?” Adam asked. “Sam doesn’t want you here.”

  “Why don’t you go to hell?” the young one sneered.

  “How eloquent. Just leave, okay. Sam’s worth much more to you dead than alive. Let him die in peace, then you’ll have a wonderful martyr.”

  “We ain’t leavin’. We’ll be here till the end.”

  “And what if Sam asks you to leave? Will you go then?”

  “No,” he sneered again, then glanced over his shoulders at the others who all seemed to agree that they would, in fact, not leave. “We plan to make a lot of noise.”

  “Great. That’ll get your pictures in the papers. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Circus clowns in funny costumes always attract attention.”

  Car doors slammed somewhere behind Adam, and as he looked around he saw a television crew making a speedy exit from a van parked near his Saab.

  “Well, well,” he said to the group. “Smile, fellas. This is your big moment.”

  “Go to hell,” the young one snapped angrily. Adam turned his back to them and walked toward his car. A hurried reporter with a cameraman in tow rushed to him.

  “Are you Adam Hall?” she asked breathlessly. “Cayhall’s lawyer?”

  “Yes,” he said without stopping.

  “Could we have a few words?”

  “No. But those boys are anxious to talk,” he said, pointing over his shoulder. She walked along beside him while the cameraman fumbled with his equipment. Adam opened his car door, then slammed it as he turned the ignition.

  Louise, the guard at the gate, handed him a numbered card for his dashboard, then waved him through.

  ______

  Packer went through the motions of the obligatory frisk inside the front door of the Row. “What’s in there?” he asked, pointing to the small cooler Adam held in his left hand.
>
  “Eskimo Pies, Sergeant. Would you like one?”

  “Lemme see.” Adam handed the cooler to Packer, who flipped open the top just long enough to count half a dozen Eskimo Pies, still frozen under a layer of ice.

  He handed the cooler back to Adam, and pointed to the door of the front office, a few feet away. “Y’all will be meetin’ in here from now on,” he explained. They stepped into the room.

  “Why?” Adam asked as he looked around the room. There was a metal desk with a phone, three chairs, and two locked file cabinets.

  “That’s just the way we do things. We lighten up some as the big day gets close. Sam gets to have his visitors here. No time limit either.”

  “How sweet.” Adam placed his briefcase on the desk and picked up the phone. Packer left to fetch Sam.

  The kind lady in the clerk’s office in Jackson informed Adam that the Mississippi Supreme Court had denied, just minutes ago, his client’s petition for postconviction relief on the grounds that he was mentally incompetent. He thanked her, said something to the effect that this was what he expected and that it could’ve been done a day earlier, then asked her to fax a copy of the court’s decision to his office in Memphis, and also to Lucas Mann’s office at Parchman. He called Darlene in Memphis and told her to fax the new petition to the federal district court, with copies faxed to the Fifth Circuit and to Mr. Richard Olander’s rather busy death desk at the Supreme Court in Washington. He called Mr. Olander to inform him it was coming, and was told that the U.S. Supreme Court had just denied cert on Adam’s claim that the gas chamber was unconstitutional.

  Sam entered the front office without handcuffs while Adam was on the phone. They shook hands quickly, and Sam took a seat. Instead of a cigarette, he opened the cooler and removed an Eskimo Pie. He ate it slowly while listening as Adam talked with Olander. “U.S. Supreme Court just denied cert,” Adam whispered to Sam with his hand over the receiver.

  Sam smiled oddly and studied some envelopes he’d brought with him.

  “The Mississippi Supreme Court also turned us down,” Adam explained to his client as he punched more numbers. “But that was to be expected. We’re filing it in federal court right now.” He was calling the Fifth Circuit to check the status of the ineffective counsel claim. The clerk in New Orleans informed him that no action had been taken that morning. Adam hung up and sat on the edge of the desk.

  “Fifth Circuit is still sitting on the ineffectiveness claim,” he reported to his client, who knew the law and the procedure and was absorbing it like a learned attorney. “All in all, not a very good morning.”

  “The Jackson TV station this morning said I’ve requested a clemency hearing from the governor,” Sam said, between bites. “Certainly this can’t be true. I didn’t approve it.”

  “Relax, Sam. It’s routine.”

  “Routine my ass. I thought we had an agreement. They even had McAllister on the tube talking about how he was grieving over his decision about a clemency hearing. I warned you.”

  “McAllister is the least of our problems, Sam. The request was a formality. We don’t have to participate.”

  Sam shook his head in frustration. Adam watched him closely. He wasn’t really angry, nor did he really care what Adam had done. He was resigned, almost defeated. The little bit of bitching came naturally. A week earlier he would’ve lashed out.

  “They practiced last night, you know. They cranked up the gas chamber, killed a rat or something, everything worked perfectly and so now everyone’s excited about my execution. Can you believe it? They had a dress rehearsal for me. The bastards.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  “Do you know what cyanide gas smells like?”

  “No.”

  “Cinnamon. It was in the air last night. The idiots didn’t bother to close the windows on our tier, and I got a whiff of it.”

  Adam didn’t know if this was true or not. He knew the chamber was vented for several minutes after an execution and the gas escaped into the air. Surely it couldn’t filter onto the tiers. Maybe Sam had heard stories about the gas from the guards. Maybe it was just part of the lore. He sat on the edge of the desk, casually swinging his feet, staring at the pitiful old man with the skinny arms and oily hair. It was such a horrible sin to kill an aged creature like Sam Cayhall. His crimes were committed a generation ago. He had suffered and died many times in his six-by-nine cell. How would the state benefit by killing him now?

  Adam had things on his mind, not the least of which was perhaps their last, gasping effort. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he said again, very compassionately. “But we need to talk about some items.”

  “Were there Klansmen outside this morning? The television had a shot of them here yesterday.”

  “Yes. I counted seven a few minutes ago. Full uniforms except for the masks.”

  “I used to wear one of those, you know,” he said, much like a war veteran bragging to little boys.

  “I know, Sam. And because you wore one, you’re now sitting here on death row with your lawyer counting the hours before they strap you in the gas chamber. You should hate those silly fools out there.”

  “I don’t hate them. But they have no right to be here. They abandoned me. Dogan sent me here, and when he testified against me he was the Imperial Wizard of Mississippi. They gave me not one dime for legal fees. They forgot about me.”

  “What do you expect from a bunch of thugs? Loyalty?”

  “I was loyal.”

  “And look where you are, Sam. You should denounce the Klan and ask them to leave, to stay away from your execution.”

  Sam fiddled with his envelopes, then placed them carefully in a chair.

  “I told them to leave,” Adam said.

  “When?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. I exchanged words with them. They don’t give a damn about you, Sam, they’re just using this execution because you’ll make such a marvelous martyr, someone to rally around and talk about for years to come. They’ll chant your name when they burn crosses, and they’ll make pilgrimages to your gravesite. They want you dead, Sam. It’s great PR.”

  “You confronted them?” Sam asked, with a trace of amusement and pride.

  “Yeah. It was no big deal. What about Carmen? If she’s coming, she needs to make travel arrangements.”

  Sam took a thoughtful puff. “I’d like to see her, but you’ve gotta warn her about my appearance. I don’t want her to be shocked.”

  “You look great, Sam.”

  “Gee thanks. What about Lee?”

  “What about her?”

  “How’s she doing? We get newspapers in here. I saw her in the Memphis paper last Sunday, then I read about her drunk driving charge on Tuesday. She’s not in jail, is she?”

  “No. She’s in a rehab clinic,” Adam said as if he knew exactly where she was.

  “Can she come visit?”

  “Do you want her to?”

  “I think so. Maybe on Monday. Let’s wait and see.”

  “No problem,” Adam said, wondering how in the world he could find her. “I’ll talk to her over the weekend.”

  Sam handed Adam one of the envelopes, unsealed. “Give this to the people up front. It’s a list of approved visitors from now until then. Go ahead, open it.”

  Adam looked at the list. There were four names. Adam, Lee, Carmen, and Donnie Cayhall. “Not a very long list.”

  “I have lots of relatives, but I don’t want them here. They haven’t visited me in nine and a half years, so I’ll be damned if they’ll come draggin’ in here at the last minute to say good-bye. They can save it for the funeral.”

  “I’m getting all kinds of requests from reporters and journalists for interviews.”

  “Forget it.”

  “That’s what I’ve told them. But there’s one inquiry that might interest you. There’s a man named Wendall Sherman, an author of some repute who’s published four or five books and won some awards. I haven’t read any of his work, but he checks
out. He’s legitimate. I talked to him yesterday by phone, and he wants to sit with you and record your story. He seemed to be very honest, and said that the recording could take hours. He’s flying to Memphis today, just in case you say yes.”

  “Why does he want to record me?”

  “He wants to write a book about you.”

  “A romance novel?”

  “I doubt it. He’s willing to pay fifty thousand dollars up front, with a percentage of the royalties later on.”

  “Great. I get fifty thousand a few days before I die. What shall I do with it?”

  “I’m just relaying the offer.”

  “Tell him to go to hell. I’m not interested.”

  “Fine.”

  “I want you to draw up an agreement whereby I assign all rights to my life story to you, and after I’m gone you do whatever the hell you want with it.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to record it.”

  “You mean—”

  “Talk into a little machine with little tapes. I can get one for you. Sit in your cell and talk about your life.”

  “How boring.” Sam finished the Eskimo Pie and tossed the stick in the wastebasket.

  “Depends on how you look at it. Things seem rather exciting now.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. A pretty dull life, but the end was sensational.”

  “Sounds like a bestseller to me.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Sam suddenly jumped to his feet, leaving the rubber shower shoes under his chair. He loped across the office in long strides, measuring and smoking as he went. “Thirteen by sixteen and a half,” he mumbled to himself, then measured some more.

  Adam made notes on a legal pad and tried to ignore the red figure bouncing off the walls. Sam finally stopped and leaned on a file cabinet. “I want you to do me a favor,” he said, staring at a wall across the room. His voice was much lower. He breathed slowly.

  “I’m listening,” Adam said.

  Sam took a step to the chair and picked up an envelope. He handed it to Adam and returned to his position against the file cabinet. The envelope was turned over so that Adam could not see the writing on it.