by John Grisham
There was so much to talk about, yet there was little to say. The legal theories and maneuverings had been beaten to death. Family was a subject they’d covered as much as they’d dared. The weather was good for no more than five minutes of conjecture. And both men knew they would spend much of the next two and a half days together. Serious matters could wait. Unpleasant subjects could be shoved back just a bit longer. Twice Adam glanced at his watch and said he’d best be going, and both times Sam insisted he stay. Because when Adam left, they would come for him and take him back to his cell, his little cage where the temperature was over a hundred. Please stay, he begged.
______
Late that night, well after midnight, long after Adam had told Carmen about Lee and her problems, and about Phelps and Walt, about McAllister and Wyn Lettner, and the theory of the accomplice, hours after they’d finished a pizza and discussed their mother and father and grandfather and the whole pathetic bunch, Adam said the one moment he’d never forget was the two of them sitting there on the desk, passing time in silence as an invisible clock ticked away, with Sam patting him on the knee. It was like he had to touch me in some affectionate way, he explained to her, like a good grandfather would touch a small loved one.
Carmen had heard enough for one night. She’d been on the patio for four hours, suffering through the humidity and absorbing the desolate oral history of her father’s family.
But Adam had been very careful. He’d hit the peaks and skipped the woeful valleys—no mention of Joe Lincoln or lynchings or sketchy hints of other crimes. He portrayed Sam as a violent man who made terrible mistakes and was now burdened with remorse. He had toyed with the idea of showing her his video of Sam’s trials, but decided against it. He would do it later. She could handle only so much in one night. At times, he couldn’t believe the things he’d heard in the past four weeks. It would be cruel to hit her with all of it in one sitting. He loved his sister dearly. They had years to discuss the rest of the story.
Forty-five
Monday, August 6, 6 a.m. Forty-two hours to go. Adam entered his office and locked the door.
He waited until seven, then called Slattery’s office in Jackson. There was no answer, of course, but he was hoping for a recorded message that might direct him to another number that might lead to someone down there who could tell him something. Slattery was sitting on the mental claim; just ignoring it as if it was simply another little lawsuit.
He called information and received the home number for F. Flynn Slattery, but decided not to bother him. He could wait until nine.
Adam had slept less than three hours. His pulse was pounding, his adrenaline was pumping. His client was now down to the last forty-two hours, and dammit, Slattery should quickly rule one way or the other. It wasn’t fair to sit on the damned petition when he could be racing off to other courts with it.
The phone rang and he lunged for it. The Death Clerk from the Fifth Circuit informed him that the court was denying the appeal of Sam’s claim of ineffective assistance of counsel. It was the opinion of the court that the claim was procedurally barred. It should’ve been filed years ago. The court did not get to the merits of the issue.
“Then why’d the court sit on it for a week?” Adam demanded. “They could’ve reached this nitpicking decision ten days ago.”
“I’ll fax you a copy right now,” the clerk said.
“Thanks. I’m sorry, okay.”
“Keep in touch, Mr. Hall. We’ll be right here waiting on you.”
Adam hung up, and went to find coffee. Darlene arrived, tired, haggard, and early, at seven-thirty. She brought the fax from the Fifth Circuit, along with a raisin bagel. Adam asked her to fax to the U.S. Supreme Court the petition for cert on the ineffectiveness claim. It had been prepared for three days, and Mr. Olander in Washington had told Darlene that the Court was already reviewing it.
Darlene then brought two aspirin and a glass of water. His head was splitting as he packed most of the Cayhall file into a large briefcase and a cardboard box. He gave Darlene a list of instructions.
Then he left the office, the Memphis branch of Kravitz & Bane, never to return.
______
Colonel Nugent waited impatiently for the tier door to open, then rushed into the hallway with eight members of his select execution team behind him. They swarmed into the quietness of Tier A with all the finesse of a Gestapo squad—eight large men, half in uniform, half plainclothed, following a strutting little rooster. He stopped at cell six, where Sam was lying on his bed, minding his own business. The other inmates were instantly watching and listening, their arms hanging through the bars.
“Sam, it’s time to go to the Observation Cell,” Nugent said as if he was truly bothered by this. His men lined the wall behind him, under the row of windows.
Sam slowly eased himself from the bed, and walked to the bars. He glared at Nugent, and asked, “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“But why move me eight doors down the tier? What purpose does it serve?”
“It’s procedure, Sam. It’s in the book.”
“So you don’t have a good reason, do you?”
“I don’t need one. Turn around.”
Sam walked to his sink and brushed his teeth for a long time. Then he stood over his toilet and urinated with his hands on his hips. Then he washed his hands, as Nugent and his boys watched and fumed. Then he lit a cigarette, stuck it between his teeth, and eased his hands behind his back and through the narrow opening in the door. Nugent slapped the cuffs on his wrists, and nodded at the end of the tier for the door to be opened. Sam stepped onto the tier. He nodded at J. B. Gullitt, who was watching in horror and ready to cry. He winked at Hank Henshaw.
Nugent took his arm and walked him to the end of the hall, past Gullitt and Loyd Eaton and Stock Turner and Harry Ross Scott and Buddy Lee Harris, and, finally, past Preacher Boy, who at the moment was lying on his bed, face down, crying. The tier ran to a wall of iron bars, identical to those on the front of the cells, and the wall had a heavy door in the center of it. On the other side was another group of Nugent’s goons, all watching quietly and loving every moment of it. Behind them was a short, narrow hallway which led to the Isolation Room. And then to the chamber.
Sam was being moved forty-eight feet closer to death. He leaned against the wall, puffing, watching in stoic silence. This was nothing personal, just part of the routine.
Nugent walked back to cell six and barked orders. Four of the guards entered Sam’s cell and began grabbing his possessions. Books, typewriter, fan, television, toiletries, clothing. They held the items as if they were contaminated and carried them to the Observation Cell. The mattress and bedding were rolled up and moved by a burly plainclothed guard who accidentally stepped on a dragging sheet and ripped it.
The inmates watched this sudden flurry of activity with a saddened curiosity. Their cramped little cells were like additional layers of skin, and to see one so unmercifully violated was painful. It could happen to them. The reality of an execution was crashing in; they could hear it in the heavy boots shuffling along the tier, and in the stern muted voices of the death team. The distant slamming of a door would’ve barely been noticed a week ago. Now, it was a jolting shock that rattled the nerves.
The officers trooped back and forth with Sam’s assets until cell six was bare. It was quick work. They arranged things in his new home without the slightest care.
None of the eight worked on the Row. Nugent had read somewhere in Naifeh’s haphazard notes that the members of the execution team should be total strangers to the inmate. They should be pulled from the other camps. Thirty-one officers and guards had volunteered for this duty. Nugent had chosen only the best.
“Is everything in?” he snapped at one of his men.
“Yes sir.”
“Very well. It’s all yours, Sam.”
“Oh thank you, sir,” Sam sneered as he entered the cell. Nugent nodded to the far end of the hall,
and the door closed. He walked forward and grabbed the bars with both hands. “Now, listen, Sam,” he said gravely. Sam was leaning with his back to the wall, looking away from Nugent. “We’ll be right here if you need anything, okay. We moved you down here to the end so we can watch you better. All right? Is there anything I can do for you?”
Sam continued to look away, thoroughly ignoring him.
“Very well.” He backed away, and looked at his men. “Let’s go,” he said to them. The tier door opened less than ten feet from Sam, and the death team filed out. Sam waited. Nugent glanced up and down the hall, then stepped from the tier.
“Hey, Nugent!” Sam suddenly yelled. “How ’bout taking these handcuffs off!”
Nugent froze and the death team stopped.
“You dumbass!” Sam yelled again, as Nugent scurried backward, fumbling for keys, barking orders. Laughter erupted along the tier, loud horselaughs and guffaws and boisterous catcalls. “You can’t leave me handcuffed!” Sam screamed into the hallway.
Nugent was at Sam’s door, gritting his teeth, cursing, finally getting the right key. “Turn around,” he demanded.
“You ignorant sonofabitch!” Sam yelled through the bars directly into the colonel’s red face, which was less than two feet away. The laughter roared even louder.
“And you’re in charge of my execution!” Sam said angrily, and rather loudly for the benefit of others. “You’ll probably gas yourself!”
“Don’t bet on it,” Nugent said tersely. “Now turn around.”
Someone, either Hank Henshaw or Harry Ross Scott, yelled out, “Barney Fife!” and instantly the chant reverberated along the tier:
“Barney Fife! Barney Fife! Barney Fife!”
“Shut up!” Nugent yelled back.
“Barney Fife! Barney Fife!”
“Shut up!”
Sam finally turned around and stuck out his hands so Nugent could reach them. The cuffs came off, and the colonel quick-stepped it through the tier door.
“Barney Fife! Barney Fife! Barney Fife!” they chanted in perfect unison until the door clanged shut and the hallway was empty again. Their voices died suddenly, the laughter was gone. Slowly, their arms disappeared from the bars.
Sam stood facing the hall and glared at the two guards who were watching him from the other side of the tier door. He spent a few minutes organizing the place—plugging in the fan and television, stacking his books neatly as if they would be used, checking to see if the toilet flushed and the water ran. He sat on the bed and inspected the torn sheet.
This was his fourth cell on the Row, and undoubtedly the one he would occupy for the briefest period of time. He reminisced about the first two, especially the second, on Tier B, where his close friend Buster Moac had lived next door. One day they came for Buster and brought him here, to the Observation Cell, where they watched him around the clock so he wouldn’t commit suicide. Sam had cried when they took Buster away.
Virtually every inmate who made it this far also made it to the next stop. And then to the last.
______
Garner Goodman was the first guest of the day in the splendid foyer of the governor’s office. He actually signed the guestbook, chatted amiably with the pretty receptionist, and just wanted the governor to know that he was available. She was about to say something else when the phone buzzed on her switchboard. She punched a button, grimaced, listened, frowned at Goodman who looked away, then thanked the caller. “These people,” she sighed.
“Beg your pardon,” Goodman offered, ever the innocent.
“We’ve been swamped with calls about your client’s execution.”
“Yes, it’s a very emotional case. Seems as if most people down here are in favor of the death penalty.”
“Not this one,” she said, recording the call on a pink form. “Almost all of these calls are opposed to his execution.”
“You don’t say. What a surprise.”
“I’ll inform Ms. Stark you’re here.”
“Thank you.” Goodman took his familiar seat in the foyer. He glanced through the morning papers again. On Saturday, the daily paper in Tupelo made the mistake of beginning a telephone survey to gauge public opinion on the Cayhall execution. A toll-free number was given on the front page with instructions, and, of course, Goodman and his team of market analysts had bombarded the number over the weekend. The Monday edition ran the results for the first time, and they were astounding. Of three hundred and twenty calls, three hundred and two were opposed to the execution. Goodman smiled to himself as he scanned the paper.
Not too far away, the governor was sitting at the long table in his office and scanning the same papers. His face was troubled. His eyes were sad and worried.
Mona Stark walked across the marbled floor with a cup of coffee. “Garner Goodman’s here. Waiting in the foyer.”
“Let him wait.”
“The hotline’s already flooded.”
McAllister calmly looked at his watch. Eleven minutes before nine. He scratched his chin with his knuckles. From 3 p.m. Saturday until 8 p.m. Sunday, his pollster had called over two hundred Mississippians. Seventy-eight percent favored the death penalty, which was not surprising. However, of the same sample polled, fifty-one percent believed Sam Cayhall should not be executed. Their reasons varied. Many felt he was simply too old to face it. His crime had been committed twenty-three years ago, in a generation different from today’s. He would die in Parchman soon enough anyway, so leave him alone. He was being persecuted for political reasons. Plus, he was white, and McAllister and his pollsters knew that factor was very important, if unspoken.
That was the good news. The bad news was contained in a printout next to the newspapers. Working with only one operator, the hotline received two hundred and thirty-one calls on Saturday, and one hundred and eighty on Sunday. A total of four hundred and eleven. Over ninety-five percent opposed the execution. Since Friday morning, the hotline had officially recorded eight hundred and ninety-seven calls about old Sam, with a strong ninety percent plus opposed to his execution. And now the hotline was hopping again.
There was more. The regional offices were reporting an avalanche of calls, almost all opposed to Sam dying. Staff members were coming to work with stories of long weekends with the phones. Roxburgh had called to say his lines had been flooded.
The governor was already tired. “There’s something at ten this morning,” he said to Mona without looking at her.
“Yes, a meeting with a group of Boy Scouts.”
“Cancel it. Give my apologies. Reschedule it. I’m not in the mood for any photographs this morning. It’s best if I stay here. Lunch?”
“With Senator Pressgrove. You’re supposed to discuss the lawsuit against the universities.”
“I can’t stand Pressgrove. Cancel it, and order some chicken. And, on second thought, bring in Goodman.”
She walked to the door, disappeared for a minute, and returned with Garner Goodman. McAllister was standing by the window, staring at the buildings downtown. He turned and flashed a weary smile. “Good morning, Mr. Goodman.”
They shook hands and took seats. Late Sunday afternoon, Goodman had delivered to Larramore a written request to cancel the clemency hearing, pursuant to their client’s rather strident demands.
“Still don’t want a hearing, huh?” the governor said with another tired smile.
“Our client says no. He has nothing else to add. We’ve tried everything.” Mona handed Goodman a cup of black coffee.
“He has a very hard head. Always has, I guess. Where are the appeals right now?” McAllister was so sincere.
“Proceeding as expected.”
“You’ve been through this before, Mr. Goodman. I haven’t. What’s your prediction, as of right now?”
Goodman stirred his coffee and pondered the question. There was no harm in being honest with the governor, not at this point. “I’m one of his lawyers, so I lean toward optimism. I’d say seventy percent chance of it hap
pening.”
The governor thought about this for a while. He could almost hear the phones ringing off the walls. Even his own people were getting skittish. “Do you know what I want, Mr. Goodman?” he asked sincerely.
Yeah, you want those damned phones to stop ringing, Goodman thought to himself. “What?”
“I’d really like to talk to Adam Hall. Where is he?”
“Probably at Parchman. I talked to him an hour ago.”
“Can he come here today?”
“Yes, in fact he was planning on arriving in Jackson this afternoon.”
“Good. I’ll wait for him.”
Goodman suppressed a smile. Perhaps a small hole had ruptured in the dam.
Oddly, though, it was on a different, far more unlikely front where the first hint of relief surfaced.
______
Six blocks away in the federal courthouse, Breck Jefferson entered the office of his boss, the Honorable F. Flynn Slattery, who was on the phone and rather perturbed at a lawyer. Breck held a thick petition for writ of habeas corpus, and a legal pad filled with notes.
“Yes?” Slattery barked, slamming down the phone.
“We need to talk about Cayhall,” Breck said somberly. “You know we’ve got his petition alleging mental incompetence.”
“Let’s deny it and get it outta here. I’m too busy to worry with it. Let Cayhall take it to the Fifth Circuit. I don’t want that damned thing lying around here.”
Breck looked troubled, and his words came slower. “But there’s something you need to take a look at.”
“Aw, come on, Breck. What is it?”
“He may have a valid claim.”
Slattery’s face fell and his shoulders slumped. “Come on. Are you kidding? What is it? We have a trial starting in thirty minutes. There’s a jury waiting out there.”
Breck Jefferson had been the number-two student in his law class at Emory. Slattery trusted him implicitly. “They’re claiming Sam lacks the mental competence to face an execution, pursuant to a rather broad Mississippi statute.”
