There has seldom been a shortage of office space in the central business district in Jackson, and Goodman had little trouble finding what he wanted. A sign directed his attention to vacant footage on the third floor of an ugly building. He inquired at the front desk of a finance company on the ground level, and an hour later the owner of the building arrived and showed him the available space. It was a dingy two-room suite with worn carpet and holes in the wallboard. Goodman walked to the lone window and looked at the front of the capitol building three blocks away. “Perfect,” he said.
“It’s three hundred a month, plus electricity. Rest room’s down the hall. Six-month minimum.”
“I need it for only two months,” Goodman said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a neatly folded collection of cash.
The owner looked at the money, and asked, “What kind of business are you in?”
“Marketing analysis.”
“Where are you from?”
“Detroit. We’re thinking about establishing a branch in this state, and we need this space to get started. But for only two months. All cash. Nothing in writing. We’ll be out before you know it. Won’t make a sound.”
The owner took the cash and handed Goodman two keys, one for the office, the other for the entrance on Congress Street. They shook hands and the deal was closed.
Goodman left the dump and returned to his car at the capitol. Along the way he chuckled at the scheme he was pursuing. The idea was Adam’s brainchild, another long shot in a series of desperate plots to save Sam. There was nothing illegal about it. The cost would be slight, and who cared about a few dollars at this point? He was, after all, Mr. Pro Bono at the firm, the source of great pride and self-righteousness among his peers. Nobody, not even Daniel Rosen, would question his expenditures for a little rent and a few phones.
______
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?”