Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  “Here you go,” an excited young man called back, tugging at his lucky badge.

  “Your name?” Nugent yelled.

  “Edwin King, with the Arkansas Gazette.”

  A deputy warden next to Nugent wrote down the name and paper. Edwin King was admired by his colleagues.

  Nugent quickly called the other four numbers and completed the pool. A noticeable ebb of despair rolled through the group as the last number was called out. The losers were crushed. “At exactly eleven, two vans will pull up over there.” Nugent pointed to the main drive. “The eight witnesses must be present and ready. You will be driven to the Maximum Security Unit to witness the execution. No cameras or recorders of any type. You will be searched once you arrive there. Sometime around twelve-thirty, you will reboard the vans and return to this point. A press conference will then be held in the main hall of the new administration building, which will be opened at 9 p.m. for your convenience. Any questions?”

  “How many people will witness the execution?” someone asked.

  “There will be approximately thirteen or fourteen people in the witness room. And in the Chamber Room, there will be myself, one minister, one doctor, the state executioner, the attorney for the prison, and two guards.”

  “Will the victims’ family witness the execution?”

  “Yes. Mr. Elliot Kramer, the grandfather, is scheduled to be a witness.”

  “How about the governor?”

  “By statute, the governor has two seats in the witness room at his discretion. One of those seats will go to Mr. Kramer. I have not been told whether the governor will be here.”

  “What about Mr. Cayhall’s family?”

  “No. None of his relatives will witness the execution.”

  Nugent had opened a can of worms. The questions were popping up everywhere, and he had things to do. “No more questions. Thank you,” he said, and walked off the porch.

  ______

  Donnie Cayhall arrived for his last visit a few minutes before six. He was led straight to the front office, where he found his well-dressed brother laughing with Adam Hall. Sam introduced the two.

  Adam had carefully avoided Sam’s brother until now. Donnie, as it turned out, was clean and neat, well groomed and dressed sensibly. He also resembled Sam, now that Sam had shaved, cut his hair, and shed the red jumpsuit. They were the same height, and though Donnie was not overweight, Sam was much thinner.

  Donnie was clearly not the hick Adam had feared. He was genuinely happy to meet Adam and proud of the fact that he was a lawyer. He was a pleasant man with an easy smile, good teeth, but very sad eyes at the moment. “What’s it look like?” he asked after a few minutes of small talk. He was referring to the appeals.

  “It’s all in the Supreme Court.”

  “So there’s still hope?”

  Sam snorted at this suggestion.

  “A little,” Adam said, very much resigned to fate.

  There was a long pause as Adam and Donnie searched for less sensitive matters to discuss. Sam really didn’t care. He sat calmly in a chair, legs crossed, puffing away. His mind was occupied with things they couldn’t imagine.

  “I stopped by Albert’s today,” Donnie said.

  Sam’s gaze never left the floor. “How’s his prostate?”

  “I don’t know. He thought you were already dead.”

  “That’s my brother.”

  “I also saw Aunt Finnie.”

  “I thought she was already dead,” Sam said with a smile.

  “Almost. She’s ninety-one. Just all tore up over what’s happened to you. Said you were always her favorite nephew.”

  “She couldn’t stand me, and I couldn’t stand her. Hell, I didn’t see her for five years before I came here.”

  “Well, she’s just plain crushed over this.”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  Sam’s face suddenly broke into a wide smile, and he started laughing. “Remember the time we watched her go to the outhouse behind Grandmother’s, then peppered it with rocks? She came out screaming and crying.”

  Donnie suddenly remembered, and began to shake with laughter. “Yeah, it had a tin roof,” he said between breaths, “and every rock sounded like a bomb going off.”

  “Yeah, it was me and you and Albert. You couldn’t have been four years old.”

  “I remember though.”

  The story grew and the laughter was contagious. Adam caught himself chuckling at the sight of these two old men laughing like boys. The one about Aunt Finnie and the outhouse led to one about her husband, Uncle Garland, who was mean and crippled, and the laughs continued.

  ______

  Sam’s last meal was a deliberate snub at the fingerless cooks in the kitchen and the uninspired rations they’d tormented him with for nine and a half years. He requested something that was light, came from a carton, and could be found with ease. He had often marveled at his predecessors who’d ordered seven-course dinners—steaks and lobster and cheesecake. Buster Moac had consumed two dozen raw oysters, then a Greek salad, then a large rib eye and a few other courses. He’d never understood how they summoned such appetites only hours before death.

  He wasn’t the least bit hungry when Nugent knocked on the door at seven-thirty. Behind him was Packer, and behind Packer was a trustee holding a tray. In the center of the tray was a large bowl with three Eskimo Pies in it, and to the side was a small thermos of French Market coffee, Sam’s favorite. The tray was placed on the desk.

  “Not much of a dinner, Sam,” Nugent said.

  “Can I enjoy it in peace, or will you stand there and pester me with your idiot talk?”

  Nugent stiffened and glared at Adam. “We’ll come back in an hour. At that time, your guest must leave, and we’ll return you to the Observation Cell. Okay?”

  “Just leave,” Sam said, sitting at the desk.

  As soon as they were gone, Donnie said, “Damn, Sam, why didn’t you order something we could enjoy? What kind of a last meal is this?”

  “It’s my last meal. When your time comes, order what you want.” He picked up a fork and carefully scraped the vanilla ice cream and chocolate covering off the stick. He took a large bite, then slowly poured the coffee into the cup. It was dark and strong with a rich aroma.

  Donnie and Adam sat in the chairs along a wall, watching Sam’s back as he slowly ate his last meal.

  ______

  They’d been arriving since five o’clock. They came from all over the state, all driving alone, all riding in big four-door cars of varied colors with elaborate seals and emblems and markings on the doors and fenders. Some had racks of emergency lights across the roof. Some had shotguns mounted on the screens above the front seats. All had tall antennas swinging in the wind.

  They were the sheriffs, each elected in his own county to protect the citizenry from lawlessness. Most had served for many years, and most had already taken part in the unrecorded ritual of the execution dinner.

  A cook named Miss Mazola prepared the feast, and the menu never varied. She fried large chickens in animal fat. She cooked black-eyed peas in ham hocks. And she made real buttermilk biscuits the size of small saucers. Her kitchen was in the rear of a small cafeteria near the main administration building. The food was always served at seven, regardless of how many sheriffs were present.

  Tonight’s crowd would be the largest since Teddy Doyle Meeks was put to rest in 1982. Miss Mazola anticipated this because she read the papers and everybody knew about Sam Cayhall. She expected at least fifty sheriffs.

  They were waved through the front gates like dignitaries, and they parked haphazardly around the cafeteria. For the most part they were big men, with earnest stomachs and voracious appetites. They were famished after the long drive.

  Their banter was light over dinner. They ate like hogs, then retired outside to the front of the building where they sat on the hoods of their cars and watched it grow dark. They picked chicken from their teeth and bragged on Miss Mazola�
��s cooking. They listened to their radios squawk, as if the news of Cayhall’s death would be transmitted at any moment. They talked about other executions and heinous crimes back home, and about local boys on the Row. Damned gas chamber wasn’t used enough.

  They stared in amazement at the hundreds of demonstrators near the highway in front of them. They picked their teeth some more, then went back inside for chocolate cake.

  It was a wonderful night for law enforcement.

  Forty-nine

  Darkness brought an eerie quiet to the highway in front of Parchman. The Klansmen, not a single one of whom had considered leaving after Sam asked them to, sat in folding chairs and on the trampled grass, and waited. The skinheads and like-minded brethren who’d roasted in the August sun sat in small groups and drank ice water. The nuns and other activists had been joined by a contingent from Amnesty International. They lit candles, said prayers, hummed songs. They tried to keep their distance from the hate groups. Pick any other day, another execution, another inmate, and those same hateful people would be screaming for blood.

  The calm was broken momentarily when a pickup load of teenagers slowed near the front entrance. They suddenly began shouting loudly and in unison, “Gas his ass! Gas his ass! Gas his ass!” The truck squealed tires and sped away. Some of the Klansmen jumped to their feet, ready for battle, but the kids were gone, never to return.

  The imposing presence of the highway patrol kept matters under control. The troopers stood about in groups, watching the traffic, keeping close watch on the Klansmen and the skinheads. A helicopter made its rounds above.

  ______

  Goodman finally called a halt to the market analysis. In five long days, they had logged over two thousand calls. He paid the students, confiscated the cellular phones, and thanked them profusely. None of them seemed willing to throw in the towel, so they walked with him to the capitol where another candlelight vigil was under way on the front steps. The governor was still in his office on the second floor.

  One of the students volunteered to take a phone to John Bryan Glass, who was across the street at the Mississippi Supreme Court. Goodman called him, then called Kerry, then called Joshua Caldwell, an old friend who’d agreed to wait at the Death Clerk’s desk in Washington. Goodman had everyone in place. All the phones were working. He called Adam. Sam was finishing his last meal, Adam said, and didn’t wish to talk to Goodman. But he did want to say thanks for everything.

  ______

  When the coffee and ice cream were gone, Sam stood and stretched his legs. Donnie had been quiet for a long time. He was suffering and ready to go. Nugent would come soon, and he wanted to say good-bye now.

  There was a spot where Sam had spilled ice cream on his new shirt, and Donnie tried to remove it with a cloth napkin. “It’s not that important,” Sam said, watching his brother.

  Donnie kept wiping. “Yeah, you’re right. I’d better go now, Sam. They’ll be here in a minute.”

  The two men embraced for a long time, patting each other gently on the backs. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” Donnie said, his voice shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

  They pulled apart, still clutching each other’s shoulders, both men with moist eyes but no tears. They would not dare cry before each other. “You take care,” Sam said.

  “You too. Say a prayer, Sam, okay?”

  “I will. Thanks for everything. You’re the only one who cared.”

  Donnie bit his lip and hid his eyes from Sam. He shook hands with Adam, but could not utter a word. He walked behind Sam to the door, then left them.

  “No word from the Supreme Court?” Sam asked out of nowhere, as if he suddenly believed there was a chance.

  “No,” Adam said sadly.

  He sat on the desk, his feet swinging beneath him. “I really want this to be over, Adam,” he said, each word carefully measured. “This is cruel.”

  Adam could think of nothing to say.

  “In China, they sneak up behind you and put a bullet through your head. No last bowl of rice. No farewells. No waiting. Not a bad idea.”

  Adam looked at his watch for the millionth time in the past hour. Since noon, there had been gaps when hours seemed to vanish, then suddenly time would stop. It would fly, then it would crawl. Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” Sam said faintly.

  The Reverend Ralph Griffin entered and closed the door. He’d met with Sam twice during the day, and was obviously taking this hard. It was his first execution, and he’d already decided it would be his last. His cousin in the state senate would have to find him another job. He nodded at Adam and sat by Sam on the desk. It was almost nine o’clock.

  “Colonel Nugent’s out there, Sam. He said he’s waiting on you.”

  “Well, then, let’s not go out. Let’s just sit here.”

  “Suits me.”

  “You know, preacher, my heart has been touched these past few days in ways I never dreamed possible. But, for the life of me, I hate that jerk out there. And I can’t overcome it.”

  “Hate’s an awful thing, Sam.”

  “I know. But I can’t help it.”

  “I don’t particularly like him either, to be honest.”

  Sam grinned at the minister and put his arm around him. The voices outside grew louder, and Nugent barged into the room. “Sam, it’s time to go back to the Observation Cell,” he said.

  Adam stood, his knees weak with fear, his stomach in knots, his heart racing wildly. Sam, however, was unruffled. He jumped from the desk. “Let’s go,” he said.

  They followed Nugent from the front office into the narrow hallway where some of the largest guards at Parchman were waiting along the wall. Sam took Adam by the hand, and they walked slowly together with the reverend trailing behind.

  Adam squeezed his grandfather’s hand, and ignored the faces as they walked by. They went through the center of the Row, through two sets of doors, then through the bars at the end of Tier A. The tier door closed behind them, and they followed Nugent past the cells.

  Sam glanced at the faces of the men he’d known so well. He winked at Hank Henshaw, nodded bravely at J. B. Gullitt who had tears in his eyes, smiled at Stock Turner. They were all leaning through the bars, heads hung low, fear stamped all over their faces. Sam gave them his bravest look.

  Nugent stopped at the last cell and waited for the door to be opened from the end of the tier. It clicked loudly, then rolled open. Sam, Adam, and Ralph entered, and Nugent gave the signal to close the door.

  The cell was dark, the solitary light and television both off. Sam sat on the bed between Adam and the reverend. He leaned on his elbows with his head hanging low.

  Nugent watched them for a moment, but could think of nothing to say. He’d be back in a couple of hours, at eleven, to take Sam to the Isolation Room. They all knew he was coming back. It seemed too cruel at this moment to tell Sam he was leaving, but that he would return. So he stepped away and left through the tier door where his guards were waiting and watching in the semidarkness. Nugent walked to the Isolation Room where a foldaway cot had been installed for the prisoner’s last hour. He walked through the small room, and stepped into the Chamber Room where final preparations were being made.

  The state executioner was busy and very much in control. He was a short, wiry man named Bill Monday. He had nine fingers and would earn five hundred dollars for his services if the execution took place. By statute, he was appointed by the governor. He was in a tiny closet known simply as the chemical room, less than five feet from the gas chamber. He was studying a checklist on a clipboard. Before him on the counter was a one-pound can of sodium cyanide pellets, a nine-pound bottle of sulfuric acid, a one-pound container of caustic soda, a fifty-pound steel bottle of anhydrous ammonia, and a five-gallon container of distilled water. To his side on another, smaller counter were three gas masks, three pair of rubber gloves, a funnel, hand soap, hand towels, and a mop. Between the two counters was an acid mixing pot mounted on a two-inch pipe that ran into the fl
oor, under the wall, and resurfaced next to the chamber near the levers.

  Monday had three checklists, actually. One contained instructions for mixing the chemicals: the sulfuric acid and distilled water would be mixed to obtain approximately a 41 percent concentration; the caustic soda solution was made by dissolving one pound of caustic soda in two and a half gallons of water; and there were a couple of other brews that had to be mixed to clean the chamber after the execution. One list included all the necessary chemicals and supplies. The third list was the procedure to follow during an actual execution.

  Nugent spoke to Monday; all was proceeding as planned. One of Monday’s assistants was smearing petroleum jelly around the edges of the chamber’s windows. A plainclothed member of the execution team was checking the belts and straps on the wooden chair. The doctor was fiddling with his EKG monitor. The door was open to the outside, where an ambulance was already parked.

  Nugent glanced at the checklists once more, though he’d memorized them long ago. In fact, he’d even rewritten one other checklist, a suggested chart to record the execution. The chart would be used by Nugent, Monday, and Monday’s assistant. It was a numbered, chronological list of the events of the execution: water and acid mixed, prisoner enters chamber, chamber door locked, sodium cyanide enters acid, gas strikes prisoner’s face, prisoner apparently unconscious, prisoner certainly unconscious, movements of prisoner’s body, last visible movement, heart stopped, respiration stopped, exhaust valve opened, drain valves opened, air valve opened, chamber door opened, prisoner removed from chamber, prisoner pronounced dead. Beside each was a blank line to record the time elapsed from the prior event.

  And there was an execution list, a chart of the twenty-nine steps to be taken to begin and complete the task. Of course, the execution list had an appendix, a list of the fifteen things to do in the step-down, the last of which was to place the prisoner in the ambulance.

  Nugent knew every step on every list. He knew how to mix the chemicals, how to open the valves, how long to leave them open, and how to close them. He knew it all.