Chamber Page 12

  "So explain it to me," Adam said.

  "It would take forever."

  "We have four weeks. You can do a lot of talking in four weeks."

  "Just exactly what is it that you want to hear?"

  Adam leaned even closer on his elbows, pen and pad ready. His eyes were inches from the slit in the screen. "First, I want to talk about the case - appeals, strategies, the trials, the bombing, who was with you that night - "

  "No one was with me that night."

  "We can talk about it later."

  "We're talking about it now. I was alone, do you hear me?"

  "Okay. Second, I want to know about my family."

  "Why?"

  "Why not? Why keep it buried? I want to know about your father and his father, and your brothers and cousins. I may dislike these people when it's all over, but I have the right to know about them. I've been deprived of this information all of my life, and I want to know."

  "It's nothing remarkable."

  "Oh really. Well, Sam, I think it's pretty remarkable that you've made it here to death row. This is a pretty exclusive society. Throw in the fact that you're white, middle class, almost seventy years old, and it becomes even more remarkable. I want to know how and why you got here. What made you do those things? How many Klansmen were in my family? And why? How many other people were killed along the way?"

  "And you think I'll just spill my guts with all this?"

  "Yeah, I think so. You'll come around. I'm your grandson, Sam, the only living, breathing relative who gives a damn about you anymore. You'll talk, Sam. You'll talk to me."

  "Well, since I'll be so talkative what else will we discuss?"

  "Eddie."

  Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "You don't want much, do you?" he said softly. Adam scribbled something meaningless on his pad.

  It was now time for the ritual of another cigarette, and Sam performed it with even more patience and care. Another blast of blue smoke joined the fog well above their heads. His hands were steady again. "When we get finished with Eddie, who do you want to talk about?"

  "I don't know. That should keep us busy for four weeks."

  "When do we talk about you?"

  "Anytime." Adam reached into his briefcase and removed a thin file. He slid a sheet of paper and a pen through the opening. "This is an agreement for legal representation. Sign at the bottom."

  Without touching it, Sam read it from a distance. "So I sign up again with Kravitz & Bane."

  "Sort of."

  "What do you mean, sort of? Says right here I agree to let those Jews represent me again. It took me forever to fire them, and, hell, I wasn't even paying them."

  "The agreement is with me, Sam, okay. You'll never see those guys unless you want to."

  "I don't want to."

  "Fine. I happen to work for the firm, and so the agreement must be with the firm. It's easy."

  "Ah, the optimism of youth. Everything's easy. Here I sit less than a hundred feet from the gas chamber, clock ticking away on the wall over there, getting louder and louder, and everything's easy."

  "Just sign the damned paper, Sam."

  "And then what?"

  "And then we go to work. Legally, I can't do anything for you until we have that agreement. You sign it, we go to work."

  "And what's the first bit of work you'd like to do?"

  "Walk through the Kramer bombing, very slowly, step by step."

  "It's been done a thousand times."

  "We'll do it again. I have a thick notebook full of questions."

  "They've all been asked."

  "Yeah, Sam, but they haven't been answered, have they?"

  Sam stuck the filter between his lips.

  "And they haven't been asked by me, have they?"

  "You think I'm lying."

  "Are you?"

  "No."

  "But you haven't told the whole story, have you?"

  "What difference does it make, counselor? You've read Bateman."

  "Yeah, I've memorized Bateman, and there are a number of soft spots in it."

  "Typical lawyer."

  "If there's new evidence, then there are ways to present it. All we're doing, Sam, is trying to create enough confusion to make some judge somewhere give it a second thought. Then a third thought. Then he grants a stay so he can learn more."

  "I know how the game is played, son."

  "Adam, okay, it's Adam."

  "Yeah, and just call me Gramps. I suppose you plan to appeal to the governor."

  "Yes."

  Sam inched forward in his chair and moved close to the screen. With the index finger of his right hand, he began pointing at a spot somewhere in the center of Adam's nose. His face was suddenly harsh, his eyes narrow. "You listen to me, Adam," he growled, finger pointing back and forth. "If I sign this piece of paper, you are never to talk to that bastard. Never. Do you understand?"

  Adam watched the finger but said nothing.

  Sam decided to continue. "He is a bogus son of a bitch. He is vile, sleazy, thoroughly corrupt, and completely able to mask it all with a pretty smile and a clean haircut. He is the only reason I'm sitting here on death row. If you contact him in any way, then you're finished as my lawyer."

  "So I'm your lawyer."

  The finger dropped and Sam relaxed a bit. "Oh, I may give you a shot, let you practice on me. You know, Adam, the legal profession is really screwed up. If I was a free man, just trying to make a living, minding my own business, paying my taxes, obeying the laws and such, then I couldn't find a lawyer who'd take the time to spit on me unless I had money. But here I am, a convicted killer, condemned to die, not a penny to my name, and I've got lawyers all over the country begging to represent me. Big, rich lawyers with long names preceded with initials and followed by numerals, famous lawyers with their own jets and television shows. Can you explain this?"

  "Of course not. Nor do I care about it."

  "It's a sick profession you've gotten yourself in."

  "Most lawyers are honest and hardworking."

  "Sure. And most of my pals here on death row would be ministers and missionaries if they hadn't been wrongly convicted."

  "The governor might be our last chance."

  "Then they might as well gas me now. That pompous ass'll probably want to witness my execution, then he'll hold a press conference and replay every detail for the world. He's a spineless little worm who's made it this far because of me. And if he can milk me for a few more sound bites, then he'll do it. Stay away from him."

  "We can discuss it later."

  "We're discussing it now, I believe. You'll give me your word before I sign this paper."

  "Any more conditions?"

  "Yeah. I want something added here so that if I decide to fire you again, then you and your firm won't fight me. That should be easy."

  "Let me see it."

  The agreement was passed through the slit again, and Adam printed a neat paragraph at the bottom. He handed it back to Sam, who read it slowly and laid it on the counter.

  "You didn't sign it," Adam said.

  "I'm still thinking."

  "Can I ask some questions while you're thinking?"

  "You can ask them."

  "Where did you learn to handle explosives?"

  "Here and there."

  "There were at least five bombings before Kramer, all with the same type, all very basic - dynamite, caps, fuses. Kramer, of course, was different because a timing device was used. Who taught you how to make bombs?"

  "Have you ever lit a firecracker?"

  "Sure."

  "Same principle. A match to the fuse, run like crazy, and boom."

  "The timing device is a bit more complicated. Who taught you how to wire one?"

  "My mother. When do you plan to return here?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "Good. Here's what we'll do. I need some time to think about this. I don't want to talk right now, and I damned sure don't want to answer a bunch o
f questions. Let me look over this document, make some changes, and we'll meet again tomorrow."

  "That's wasting time."

  "I've wasted almost ten years here. What's another day?"

  "They may not allow me to return if I don't officially represent you. This visit is a favor."

  "A great bunch of guys, aren't they? Tell them you're my lawyer for the next twenty-four hours. They'll let you in."

  "We have a lot of ground to cover, Sam. I'd like to get started."

  "I need to think, okay. When you spend over nine years alone in a cell, you become real good at thinking and analyzing. But you can't do it fast, understand? It takes longer to sort things out and place them in order. I'm sort of spinnin' right now, you know. You've hit me kinda hard."

  "Okay."

  "I'll be better tomorrow. We can talk then. I promise."

  "Sure." Adam placed the cap on his pen and stuck it in his pocket. He slid the file into the briefcase, and relaxed in his seat. "I'll be staying in Memphis for the next couple of months."

  "Memphis? I thought you lived in Chicago."

  "We have a small office in Memphis. I'll be working out of there. The number's on the card. Feel free to call anytime."

  "What happens when this thing is over?"

  "I don't know. I may go back to Chicago."

  "Are you married?"

  No., "Is Carmen?" "No. "What's she like?"

  Adam folded his hands behind his head and examined the thin fog above them. "She's very smart. Very pretty. Looks a lot like her mother."

  "Evelyn was a beautiful girl."

  "She's still beautiful."

  "I always thought Eddie was lucky to get her. I didn't like her family, though."

  And she certainly didn't like Eddie's, Adam thought to himself. Sam's chin dropped almost to his chest. He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "This family business will take some work, won't it?" he said without looking.

  "Yep."

  "I may not be able to talk about some things."

  "Yes you will. You owe it to me, Sam. And you owe it to yourself."

  "You don't know what you're talking about, and you wouldn't want to know all of it."

  "Try me. I'm sick of secrets."

  "Why do you want to know so much?"

  "So I can try and make some sense of it."

  "That'll be a waste of time."

  "I'll have to decide that, won't I?"

  Sam placed his hands on his knees, and slowly stood. He took a deep breath and looked down at Adam through the screen. "I'd like to go now."

  Their eyes met through the narrow diamonds in the partition. "Sure," Adam said. "Can I bring you anything?"

  "No. Just come back."

  "I promise."

  11

  PACKER closed the door and locked it, and together they stepped from the narrow shadow outside the conference room into the blinding midday sun. Adam closed his eyes and stopped for a second, then fished through his pockets in a desperate search for sunglasses. Packer waited patiently, his eyes sensibly covered with a pair of thick imitation Ray-Bans, his face shielded by the wide brim of an official Parchman cap. The air was suffocating and almost visible. Sweat immediately covered Adam's arms and face as he finally found the sunglasses in his briefcase and put them on. He squinted and grimaced, and once able to actually see, he followed Packer along the brick trail and baked grass in front of the unit.

  "Sam okay?" Packer asked. His hands were in his pockets and he was in no hurry.

  "I guess."

  "You hungry?"

  "No," Adam replied as he glanced at his watch. It was almost one o'clock. He wasn't sure if Packer was offering prison food or something else, but he was taking no chances.

  "Too bad. Today's Wednesday, and that means turnip greens and corn bread. Mighty good."

  "Thanks." Adam was certain that somewhere deep in his genes he was supposed to crave turnip greens and corn bread. Today's menu should make his mouth drool and his stomach yearn. But he considered himself a Californian, and to his knowledge had never seen turnip greens. "Maybe next week," he said, hardly believing he was being offered lunch on the Row.

  They were at the first of the double gates. As it opened, Packer, without removing his hands from his pockets, said, "When you coming back?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "That soon?"

  "Yeah. I'm going to be around for a while."

  "Well, nice to meet you." He grinned broadly and walked away.

  As Adam walked through the second gate, the red bucket began its descent. It stopped three feet from the ground, and he rattled through the selection at the bottom until he found his keys. He never looked up at the guard.

  A white mini-van with official markings on the door and along the sides was waiting by Adam's car. The driver's window came down, and Lucas Mann leaned out. "Are you in a hurry?"

  Adam glanced at his watch again. "Not really."

  "Good. Hop in. I need to talk to you. We'll take a quick tour of the place."

  Adam didn't want a quick tour of the place, but he was planning to stop by Mann's office anyway. He opened the passenger's door and threw his coat and briefcase on a rear seat. Thankfully, the air was at full throttle. Lucas, cool and still impeccably starched, looked odd sitting behind the wheel of a mini-van. He eased away from MSU and headed for the main drive.

  "How'd it go?" he asked. Adam tried to recall Sam's exact description of Lucas Mann. Something to the effect that he could not be trusted.

  "Okay, I guess," he replied, carefully vague.

  "Are you going to represent him?"

  "I think so. He wants to dwell on it tonight. And he wants to see me tomorrow."

  "No problem, but you need to sign him up tomorrow. We need some type of written authorization from him."

  "I'll get it tomorrow. Where are we going?" They turned left and headed away from the front of the prison. They passed the last of the neat white houses with shade trees and flower beds, and now they were driving through fields of cotton and beans that stretched forever.

  "Nowhere in particular. Just thought you might want to see some of our farm. We need to cover a few things."

  "I'm listening."

  "The decision of the Fifth Circuit hit the wire at mid-morning, and we've already had at least three phone calls from reporters. They smell blood, of course, and they want to know if this might be the end for Sam. I know some of these people, dealt with them before on other executions. A few are nice guys, most are obnoxious jerks. But anyway, they're all asking about Sam and whether or not he has a lawyer. Will he represent himself to the very end? You know, that kind of crap."

  In a field to the right was a large group of inmates in white pants and without shirts. They were working the rows and sweating profusely, their backs and chests drenched and glistening under the scorching sun. A guard on a horse watched them with a rifle. "What are these guys doing?" Adam asked.

  "Chopping cotton."

  "Are they required to?"

  "No. All volunteers. It's either that or sit in a cell all day."

  "They wear white. Sam wears red. I saw a gang by the highway in blue."

  "It's part of the classification system. White means these guys are low risk."

  "What were their crimes?"

  "Everything. Drugs, murder, repeat offenders, you name it. But they've behaved since they've been here, so they wear white and they're allowed to work."

  The mini-van turned at an intersection, and the fences and razor wire returned. To the left was a series of modern barracks built on two levels and branching in all directions from a central hub. If not for the barbed wire and guard towers, the unit could pass for a badly designed college dormitory. "What's that?" Adam asked, pointing.

  "Unit 30."

  "How many units are there?"

  "I'm not sure. We keep building and tearing down. Around thirty."

  "It looks new."

  "Oh yes. We've been in trouble with
the federal courts for almost twenty years, so we've been doing lots of building. It's no secret that the real superintendent of this place has been a federal judge."

  "Can the reporters wait until tomorrow? I need to see what Sam has on his mind. I'd hate to talk to them now, and then things go badly tomorrow."

  "I think I can put them off a day. But they won't wait long."

  They passed the last guard tower and Unit 30 disappeared. They drove at least two miles before the gleaming razor wire of another compound peeked above the fields.

  "I talked to the warden this morning, after you got here," Lucas said. "He said he'd like to meet you. You'll like him. He hates executions, you know. He was hoping to retire in a couple of years without going through another, but now it looks doubtful."

  "Let me guess. He's just doing his job, right?"

  "We're all doing our jobs here."

  "That's my point. I get the impression that everybody here wants to pat me on the back and speak to me in sad voices about what's about to happen to poor old Sam. Nobody wants to kill him, but you're all just doing your jobs."

  "There are plenty of people who want Sam dead."

  "The governor and the Attorney General. I'm sure you're familiar with the governor, but the AG is the one you'd better watch. He, of course, wants to be governor one day. For some reason we've elected in this state a whole crop of these young, terribly ambitious politicians who just can't seem to sit still."

  "His name's Roxburgh, right?"

  "That's him. He loves cameras, and I expect a press conference from him this afternoon. If he holds true to form, he'll take full credit for the victory in the Fifth Circuit, and promise a diligent effort to execute Sam in four weeks. His office handles these things, you know. And then it wouldn't surprise me if the governor himself doesn't appear on the evening news with a comment or two. My point is this, Adam - there will be enormous pressure from above to make sure there are no more stays. They want Sam dead for their own political gain. They'll milk it for all they can get."

  Adam watched the next camp as they drove by. On a concrete slab between two buildings, a game of basketball was in full force with at least a dozen players on each side. All were black. Next to the court, a row of barbells was being pumped and jerked around by some heavy lifters. Adam noticed a few whites.