Adam admired the displays in the front counters. A young man in jeans appeared from the back and asked, “Can I help you?”
Adam smiled, and was suddenly nervous. “Yes, I’d like to see Mr. Elliot Kramer.”
“Are you a salesman?”
“No.”
“Are you a buyer?”
“No.”
The young man was holding a pencil and had things on his mind. “Then, may I ask what you need?”
“I need to see Mr. Elliot Kramer. Is he here?”
“He spends most of his time at the main warehouse south of town.”
Adam took three steps toward the guy and handed him a business card. “My name is Adam Hall. I’m an attorney from Chicago. I really need to see Mr. Kramer.”
He took the card and studied it for a few seconds, then he looked at Adam with a great deal of suspicion. “Just a minute,” he said, and walked away.
Adam leaned on a counter and admired the cash register. He had read somewhere in his voluminous research that Marvin Kramer’s family had been prosperous merchants in the Delta for several generations. An ancestor had made a hasty exit from a steamboat at the port in Greenville, and decided to call it home. He opened a small dry goods store, and one thing led to another. Throughout the ordeal of Sam’s trials, the Kramer family was repeatedly described as wealthy.
After twenty minutes of waiting, Adam was ready to leave, and quite relieved. He’d made the effort. If Mr. Kramer didn’t want to meet with him, there was nothing he could do about it.
He heard footsteps on the wooden floor, and turned around. An elderly gentleman stood with a business card in his hand. He was tall and thin, with wavy gray hair, dark brown eyes with heavy shadows under them, a lean, strong face which at the moment was not smiling. He stood erect, no cane to aid him, no eyeglasses to help him see. He scowled at Adam, but said nothing.
For an instant, Adam wished he’d left five minutes ago. Then he asked himself why he was there to begin with. Then he decided to go for it anyway. “Good afternoon,”
he said, when it was obvious the gentleman would not speak. “Mr. Elliot Kramer?”
Mr. Kramer nodded in the affirmative, but nodded ever so slowly as if challenged by the question.
“My name is Adam Hall. I’m an attorney from Chicago. Sam Cayhall is my grandfather, and I represent him.” It was obvious Mr. Kramer had already figured this out, because Adam’s words didn’t faze him. “I would like to talk to you.”
“Talk about what?” Mr. Kramer said in a slow drawl.
“About Sam.”
“I hope he rots in hell,” he said, as if he was already certain of Sam’s eternal destination. His eyes were so brown they were almost black.
Adam glanced at the floor, away from the eyes, and tried to think of something noninflammatory. “Yes sir,” he said, very much aware that he was in the Deep South where politeness went a long way. “I understand how you feel. I don’t blame you, but I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Does Sam send his apologies?” Mr. Kramer asked. The fact that he referred to him simply as Sam struck Adam as odd. Not Mr. Cayhall, not Cayhall, just Sam, as if the two were old friends who’d been feuding and now it was time to reconcile. Just say you’re sorry, Sam, and everything’s fine.
The thought of a quick lie raced through Adam’s mind. He could lay it on thick, say how terrible Sam felt in these, his last days, and how he desperately wanted forgiveness. But Adam couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Would it make any difference?” he asked.
Mr. Kramer carefully placed the card in his shirt pocket, and began what would become a long stare past Adam and through the front window. “No,” he said, “it wouldn’t make any difference. It’s something
that should’ve been done long ago.” His words were accented with the heavy drip of the Delta, and even though their meanings were not welcome, their sounds were very soothing. They were slow and thoughtful, uttered as if time meant nothing. They also conveyed the years of suffering, and the hint that life had ceased long ago.
“No, Mr. Kramer. Sam does not know I’m here, so he does not send his apologies. But I do.”
The gaze through the window and into the past did not flinch or waver. But he was listening.
Adam continued, “I feel the obligation to at least say, for myself and Sam’s daughter, that we’re terribly sorry for all that’s happened.”
“Why didn’t Sam say it years ago?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“I know. You’re new.”
Ah, the power of the press. Of course Mr. Kramer had been reading the papers like everyone else.
“Yes sir. I’m trying to save his life.”
“Why?”
“Many reasons. Killing him will not bring back your grandsons, nor your son. He was wrong, but it’s also wrong for the government to kill him.”
“I see. And you think I’ve never heard this before?”
“No sir. I’m sure you’ve heard it all. You’ve seen it all. You’ve felt it all. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I’m just trying to avoid it myself.”
“What else do you want?”
“Could you spare five minutes?”
“We’ve been talking for three minutes. You have two more.” He glanced at his watch as if to set a timer, then eased his long fingers into the pockets of his pants. His eyes returned to the window and the street beyond it.
“The Memphis paper quoted you as saying you
wanted to be there when they strapped Sam Cayhall in the gas chamber; that you wanted to look him in the eyes.”
“That’s an accurate quote. But I don’t believe it’ll ever happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because we have a rotten criminal justice system. He’s been coddled and protected in prison for almost ten years now. His appeals go on and on. You’re filing appeals and pulling strings at this very moment to keep him alive. The system is sick. We don’t expect justice.”
“I assure you he’s not being coddled. Death row is a horrible place. I just left it.”
“Yeah, but he’s alive. He’s living and breathing and watching television and reading books. He’s talking to you. He’s filing lawsuits. And when and if death gets near, he’ll have plenty of time to make plans for it. He can say his good-byes. Say his prayers. My grandsons didn’t have time to say good-bye, Mr. Hall. They didn’t get to hug their parents and give them farewell kisses. They were simply blown to bits while they were playing.”
“I understand that, Mr. Kramer. But killing Sam will not bring them back.”
“No, it won’t. But it’ll make us feel a helluva lot better. It’ll ease a lot of pain. I’ve prayed a million times that I’ll live long enough to see him dead. I had a heart attack five years ago. They had me strapped to machines for two weeks, and the one thing that kept me alive was my desire to outlive Sam Cayhall. I’ll be there, Mr. Hall, if my doctors allow it. I’ll be there to watch him die, then I’ll come home and count my days.”
“I’m sorry you feel this way.”
“I’m sorry I do too. I’m sorry I ever heard the name Sam Cayhall.”
Adam took a step backward and leaned on the counter near the cash register. He stared at the floor, and Mr. Kramer stared through the window. The sun was falling to the west, behind the building, and the quaint little museum was growing dimmer.
“I lost my father because of this,” Adam said softly.
“I’m sorry. I read where he had committed suicide shortly after the last trial.”
“Sam has suffered too, Mr. Kramer. He wrecked his family, and he wrecked yours. And he carries more guilt than you or I could ever imagine.”
“Perhaps he won’t be as burdened when he’s dead.”
“Perhaps. But why don’t we stop the killing?”
“How do you expect me to stop it?”
“I read somewhere that you and the governor are old friends.”
“Why is it any of your business?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“He’s a local boy. I’ve known him for many years.”
“I met him last week for the first time. He has the power to grant clemency, you know.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.”
“I’m not. I’m desperate, Mr. Kramer. I have nothing to lose at this point, except my grandfather. If you and your family are hell-bent on pushing for the execution, then the governor will certainly listen to you.”
“You’re right.”
“And if you decided you didn’t want an execution, I think the governor might listen to that as well.”
“So it’s all up to me,” he said, finally moving. He walked in front of Adam and stopped near the window. “You’re not only desperate, Mr. Hall, you’re also naive.”
“I won’t argue that.”
“It’s nice to know I have so much power. If I had
known this before now, your grandfather would’ve been dead years ago.”
“He doesn’t deserve to die, Mr. Kramer,” Adam said as he walked to the door. He hadn’t expected to find sympathy. It was important only for Mr. Kramer to see him and know that other lives were being affected.
“Neither did my grandsons. Neither did my son.”
Adam opened the door, and said, “I’m sorry for the intrusion, and I thank you for your time. I have a sister, a cousin, and an aunt, Sam’s daughter. I just wanted you to know that Sam has a family, such as it is. We will suffer if he dies. If he’s not executed, he’ll never leave prison. He’ll simply wilt away and die some day very soon of natural causes.”
“You will suffer?”
“Yes sir. It’s a pathetic family, Mr. Kramer, filled with tragedy. I’m trying to avoid another one.”
Mr. Kramer turned and looked at him. His face bore no expression. “Then I feel sorry for you.”
“Thanks again,” Adam said.
“Good day, sir,” Mr. Kramer said without a smile.
Adam left the building and walked along a shaded street until he was in the center of town. He found the memorial park, and sat on the same bench not far from the bronze statue of the little boys. After a few minutes, though, he was tired of the guilt and memories, and he walked away.
He went to the same café a block away, drank coffee, and toyed with a grilled cheese. He heard a Sam Cayhall conversation several tables away, but couldn’t discern what exactly was being said.
He checked into a motel and called Lee. She sounded sober, and maybe a bit relieved that he would not be there tonight. He promised to return tomorrow evening. By the time it was dark, Adam had been asleep for half an hour.
Thirty-one
A
dam drove through downtown Memphis in the predawn hours, and was locked in his office by 7 a.m. By eight, he’d talked to E. Garner Goodman three times. Goodman, it seemed, was wired and also having trouble sleeping. They discussed at length the issue of Keyes’ representation at trial. The Cayhall file was filled with memos and research about what went wrong at trial, but little of it placed blame on Benjamin Keyes.
But that had been many years ago, when the gas chamber seemed too distant to worry about. Goodman was pleased to hear that Sam now felt he should’ve testified at trial, and that Keyes had stopped him. Goodman was skeptical of the truth at this point, but he would take Sam’s word for it.
Both Goodman and Adam knew the issue should’ve been raised years ago, and that to do so now was a long shot at best. Law books were getting thicker by the week with Supreme Court decisions barring legitimate claims because they weren’t timely filed. But it was a real issue, one always examined by the courts, and Adam got excited as he drafted and redrafted the claim and swapped faxes with Goodman.
Again, the claim would first be filed under the postconviction relief statutes in state court. He hoped for a quick denial there so he could immediately run to federal court.
At ten, he faxed his final draft to the clerk of the Mississippi Supreme Court, and also faxed a copy of it
to the attention of Breck Jefferson in Slattery’s office. Faxes also went to the clerk of the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans. Then he called the Death Clerk at the Supreme Court, and told Mr. Olander what he was doing. Mr. Olander instructed him to immediately fax a copy to Washington.
Darlene knocked on the door, and Adam unlocked it. He had a visitor waiting in the reception area, a Mr. Wyn Lettner. Adam thanked her, and a few minutes later walked down the hall and greeted Lettner, who was alone and dressed like a man who owned a trout dock. Deck shoes, fishing cap. They exchanged pleasantries: fish were biting, Irene was fine, when was he coming back to Calico Rock?
“I’m in town on business, and I just wanted to see you for a few minutes,” he said in a low whisper with his back to the receptionist.
“Sure,” Adam whispered. “My office is down the hall.”
“No. Let’s take a walk.”
They rode the elevator to the lobby, and stepped from the building onto the pedestrian mall. Lettner bought a bag of roasted peanuts from a pushcart vendor, and offered Adam a handful. He declined. They walked slowly north toward city hall and the federal building. Lettner alternately ate the peanuts and tossed them to the pigeons.
“How’s Sam?” he finally asked.
“He has two weeks. How would you feel if you had two weeks?”
“Guess I’d be praying a lot.”
“He’s not at that point yet, but it won’t be long.”
“Is it gonna happen?”
“It’s certainly being planned. There’s nothing in writing to stop it.”
Lettner threw a handful of peanuts into his mouth.
“Well, good luck to you. Since you came to see me, I’ve found myself pulling for you and ol’ Sam.”
“Thanks. And you came to Memphis to wish me luck?”
“Not exactly. After you left, I thought a lot about Sam and the Kramer bombing. I looked at my personal files and records—stuff I haven’t thought about in years. It brought back a lot of memories. I called a few of my old buddies and we told war stories about the Klan. Those were the days.”
“I’m sorry that I missed them.”
“Anyway, I thought of a few things that maybe I should’ve told you.”
“Such as.”
“There’s more to the Dogan story. You know he died a year after he testified.”
“Sam told me.”
“He and his wife were killed when their house blew up. Some kind of propane leak in the heater. House filled up with gas, and something ignited it. Went off like a bomb, a huge fireball. Buried them in sandwich bags.”
“Sad, but so what?”