“I’m sorry. They’ll be delivered.” Adam circled something on his checklist. “We have two appeals left. The Fifth Circuit is sitting on the ineffectiveness claim. I expected something by now, but there’s been no movement for two days. The district court has the mental claim.”
“It’s all hopeless, Adam.”
“Maybe, but I’m not quitting. I’ll file a dozen more petitions if I have to.”
“I’m not signing anything else. You can’t file them if I don’t sign them.”
“Yes, I can. There are ways.”
“Then you’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me, Sam. I’m your grandson.”
“We have an agreement saying I can fire you whenever I want. We put it in writing.”
“It’s a flawed document, drafted by a decent jailhouse lawyer, but fatally defective nonetheless.”
Sam huffed and puffed and began striding again on his row of tiles. He made half a dozen passes in front of Adam, his lawyer now, tomorrow, and for the remainder of his life. He knew he couldn’t fire him.
“We have a clemency hearing scheduled for Monday,” Adam said, looking at his legal pad and waiting for the explosion. But Sam took it well and never missed a step.
“What’s the purpose of the clemency hearing?” he asked.
“To appeal for clemency.”
“Appeal to whom?”
“The governor.”
“And you think the governor will consider granting me clemency?”
“What’s there to lose?”
“Answer the question, smartass. Do you, with all your training, experience, and judicial brilliance, seriously expect this governor to entertain ideas of granting me clemency?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe my ass. You’re stupid.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
“Don’t mention it.” He stopped directly in front of Adam and pointed a crooked finger at him. “I’ve told you from the very beginning that I, as the client and as such certainly entitled to some consideration, will have nothing to do with David McAllister. I will not appeal to that fool for clemency. I will not ask him for a pardon. I will have no contact with him, whatsoever. Those are my wishes, and I made this very plain to
you, young man, from day one. You, on the other hand, as the lawyer, have ignored my wishes and gone about your merry business doing whatever the hell you wanted. You are the lawyer, nothing more or less. I, on the other hand, am the client, and I don’t know what they taught you in your fancy law school, but I make the decisions.”
Sam walked to an empty chair and picked up another envelope. He handed it to Adam, and said, “This is a letter to the governor requesting him to cancel the clemency hearing on Monday. If you refuse to get it canceled, then I will make copies of this and give it to the press. I will embarrass you, Garner Goodman, and the governor. Do you understand?”
“Plain enough.”
Sam returned the envelope to the chair, and lit another cigarette.
Adam made another circle on his list. “Carmen will be here Monday. I’m not sure about Lee.”
Sam eased to a chair and sat down. He did not look at Adam. “Is she still in rehab?”
“Yes, and I’m not sure when she’ll get out. Do you want her to visit?”
“Let me think about it.”
“Think fast, okay.”
“Funny, real funny. My brother Donnie stopped by earlier. He’s my youngest brother, you know. He wants to meet you.”
“Was he in the Klan?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“It’s a simple yes or no question.”
“Yes. He was in the Klan.”
“Then I don’t want to meet him.”
“He’s not a bad guy.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“He’s my brother, Adam. I want you to meet my brother.”
“I have no desire to meet new Cayhalls, Sam, especially ones who wore robes and hoods.”
“Oh, really. Three weeks ago you wanted to know everything about the family. Just couldn’t get enough of it.”
“I surrender, okay? I’ve heard enough.”
“Oh, there’s lots more.”
“Enough, enough. Spare me.”
Sam grunted and smiled smugly to himself. Adam glanced at his legal pad, and said, “You’ll be happy to know that the Kluckers outside have now been joined by some Nazis and Aryans and skinheads and other hate groups. They’re all lined along the highway, waving posters at cars passing by. The posters, of course, demand the freedom of Sam Cayhall, their hero. It’s a regular circus.”
“I saw it on television.”
“They’re also marching in Jackson around the state capitol.”
“This is my fault?”
“No. It’s your execution. You’re a symbol now. About to become a martyr.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Nothing. Just go ahead and die, and they’ll all be happy.”
“Aren’t you an asshole today?”
“Sorry, Sam. The pressure’s getting to me.”
“Throw in the towel. I have. I highly recommend it.”
“Forget it. I’ve got these clowns on the run, Sam. I have not yet begun to fight.”
“Yeah, you’ve filed three petitions, and a total of seven courts have turned you down. Zero for seven. I hate to see what’ll happen when you really get cranked up.” Sam said this with a wicked smile, and the humor
found its mark. Adam laughed at it, and both breathed a bit easier. “I have this great idea for a lawsuit after you’re gone,” he said, feigning excitement.
“After I’m gone?”
“Sure. We’ll sue them for wrongful death. We’ll name McAllister, Nugent, Roxburgh, the State of Mississippi. We’ll bring in everybody.”
“It’s never been done,” Sam said, stroking his beard, as if deep in thought.
“Yeah, I know. Thought of it all by myself. We might not win a dime, but think of the fun I’ll have harassing those bastards for the next five years.”
“You have my permission to file it. Sue them!”
The smiles slowly disappeared and the humor was gone. Adam found something else on his checklist. “Just a couple more items. Lucas Mann asked me to ask you about your witnesses. You’re entitled to have two people in the witness room, in case this gets that far.”
“Donnie doesn’t want to do it. I will not allow you to be there. I can’t imagine anybody else who’d want to see it.”
“Fine. Speaking of them, I have at least thirty requests for interviews. Virtually every major paper and news magazine wants access.”
“No.”
“Fine. Remember that writer we discussed last time, Wendall Sherman? The one who wants to record your story on tape and—”
“Yeah. For fifty thousand bucks.”
“Now it’s a hundred thousand. His publisher will put up the money. He wants to get everything on tape, watch the execution, do extensive research, then write a big book about it.”
“No.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t want to spend the next three days talking about my life. I don’t want some stranger poking his nose around Ford County. And I don’t particularly need a hundred thousand dollars at this point in my life.”
“Fine with me. You once mentioned the clothing you wanted to wear—”
“Donnie’s taking care of it.”
“Okay. Moving right along. Barring a stay, you’re allowed to have two people with you during your final hours. Typically, the prison has a form for you to sign designating these people.”
“It’s always the lawyer and the minister, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Then it’s you, and Ralph Griffin, I guess.”
Adam filled the names in on a form. “Who’s Ralph Griffin?”
“The new minister here. He’s opposed to the death penalty, can you believe it? His predecessor thought we should all be gassed, in the name of Jesus, of course.”
Adam handed the form to Sam. “Sign here.”
Sam scribbled his name and handed it back.
“You’re entitled to a last conjugal visit.”
Sam laughed loudly. “Come on, son. I’m an old man.”
“It’s on the checklist, okay. Lucas Mann whispered to me the other day that I should mention it to you.”
“Okay. You’ve mentioned it.”
“I have another form here for your personal effects. Who gets them?”
“You mean my estate?”
“Sort of.”
“This is morbid as hell, Adam. Why are we doing this now?”
“I’m a lawyer, Sam. We get paid to sweat the details. It’s just paperwork.”
“Do you want my things?”
Adam thought about this for a moment. He didn’t want to hurt Sam’s feelings, but at the same time he couldn’t imagine what he’d do with a few ragged old garments, worn books, portable television, and rubber shower shoes. “Sure,” he said.
“Then they’re yours. Take them and burn them.”
“Sign here,” Adam said, shoving the form under his face. Sam signed it, then jumped to his feet and started pacing again. “I really want you to meet Donnie.”
“Sure. Whatever you want,” Adam said, stuffing his legal pad and the forms into his briefcase. The nitpicking details were now complete. The briefcase seemed much heavier.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” he said to Sam.
“Bring me some good news, okay.”
______
Colonel Nugent strutted along the edge of the highway with a dozen armed prison guards behind him. He glared at the Klansmen, twenty-six at last count, and he scowled at the brown-shirted Nazis, ten in all. He stopped and stared at the group of skinheads mingling next to the Nazis. He swaggered around the edge of the grassy protest strip, pausing for a moment to speak to two Catholic nuns sitting under a large umbrella, as far away from the other demonstrators as possible. The temperature was one hundred degrees, and the nuns were broiling under the shade. They sipped ice water, their posters resting on their knees and facing the highway.
The nuns asked him who he was and what he wanted. He explained that he was the acting warden for the prison, and that he was simply making sure the demonstration was orderly.
They asked him to leave.
Forty-three
P
erhaps it was because it was Sunday, or maybe it was the rain, but Adam drank his morning coffee in unexpected serenity. It was still dark outside, and the gentle dripping of a warm, summer shower on the patio was mesmerizing. He stood in the open door and listened to the splashing of the raindrops. It was too early for traffic on Riverside Drive below. There were no noises from the tugboats on the river. All was quiet and peaceful.
And there wasn’t a heckuva lot to be done this day, Day Three before the execution. He would start at the office, where another last minute petition had to be organized. The issue was so ridiculous Adam was almost embarrassed to file it. Then he would drive to Parchman and sit with Sam for a spell.
It was unlikely there would be movement by any court on Sunday. It was certainly possible since the death clerks and their staffs were on call when an execution was looming. But Friday and Saturday had passed without rulings coming down, and he expected the same inactivity today. Tomorrow would be much different, in his untrained and untested opinion.
Tomorrow would be nothing but frenzy. And Tuesday, which of course was scheduled to be Sam’s last day as a breathing soul, would be a nightmare of stress.
But this Sunday morning was remarkably calm. He had slept almost seven hours, another recent record.
His head was clear, his pulse normal, his breathing relaxed. His mind was uncluttered and composed.
He flipped through the Sunday paper, scanning the headlines but reading nothing. There were at least two stories about the Cayhall execution, one with more pictures of the growing circus outside the prison gate. The rain stopped when the sun came up, and he sat in a wet rocker for an hour scanning Lee’s architectural magazines. After a couple of hours of peace and tranquility, Adam was bored and ready for action.
There was unfinished business in Lee’s bedroom, a matter Adam had tried to forget but couldn’t. For ten days now, a silent battle had raged in his soul over the book in her drawer. She’d been drunk when she told him about the lynching photo, but it was not the delirious talk of an addict. Adam knew the book existed. There was a real book with a real photo of a young black man hanging by a rope, and somewhere under his feet was a crowd of proud white people, mugging for the camera, immune from prosecution. Adam had mentally pieced the picture together, adding faces, sketching the tree, drawing the rope, adding titles to the space under it. But there were some things he didn’t know, he couldn’t visualize. Was the dead man’s face perceptible? Was he wearing shoes, or barefoot? Was a very young Sam easily recognizable? How many white faces were in the photo? And how old were they? Any women? Any guns? Blood? Lee said he’d been bullwhipped. Was the whip in the photo? He had imagined the picture for days now, and it was time to finally look in the book. He couldn’t wait until later. Lee might make a triumphant return. She might move the book, hide it again. He planned to spend the next two or three nights here, but that could change with one phone call. He could be forced to rush to Jackson or sleep in his car at Parchman. Such routine matters as
lunch and dinner and sleeping were suddenly unpredictable when your client had less than a week to live.
This was the perfect moment, and he decided that he was now ready to face the lynch mob. He walked to the front door and scanned the parking lot, just to make sure she hadn’t decided to drop in. He actually locked the door to her bedroom, and pulled open the top drawer. It was filled with her lingerie, and he was embarrassed for this intrusion.
The book was in the third drawer, lying on top of a faded sweatshirt. It was thick and bound in green fabric—Southern Negroes and the Great Depression. Published in 1947 by Toffler Press, Pittsburgh. Adam clutched it and sat on the edge of her bed. The pages were immaculate and pristine, as if the book had never been handled or read. Who in the Deep South would read such a book anyway? And if the book had been in the Cayhall family for several decades, then Adam was positive it had never been read. He studied the binder and pondered what set of circumstances brought this particular book into the custody of the Sam Cayhall family.
The book had three sections of photos. The first was a series of pictures of shotgun houses and ramshackle sheds where blacks were forced to live on plantations. There were family portraits on front porches with dozens of children, and there were the obligatory shots of farm workers stooped low in the fields picking cotton.