Chamber Page 15

  Sam turned on his television. As usual, the audio preceded the picture by a good ten seconds, and he listened as the Attorney General himself predicted justice for Mr. Cayhall, after all these many years. A grainy face formed on the screen, with words spewing forth, and then there was Roxburgh smiling and frowning at the same time, deep in thought as he relished for the cameras the scenario of finally hauling Mr. Cayhall into the gas chamber. Back to the anchorperson, a local kid with a peach fuzz mustache, who wrapped up the story by blitzing through Sam's horrible crime while over his shoulder in the background was a crude illustration of a Klansman in a mask and pointed hood. A gun, a burning cross, and the letters KKK finished the depiction. The kid repeated the date, August 8, as if his viewers should circle their calendars and plan to take the day off. Then they were on to the weather.

  He turned off the television, and walked to the bars.

  "Did you hear it, Sam?" Gullitt called out from next door.

  "Yep."

  "It's gonna get crazy, man."

  "Yep.),

  "Look on the bright side, man."

  "What's that?"

  "You've only got four weeks of it." Gullitt chuckled as he hit this punch line, but he didn't laugh long. Sam pulled some papers from the file and sat on the edge of his bed. There were no chairs in the cell. He read through Adam's agreement of representation, a two-page document with a page and a half of language. On all margins, Sam had made neat, precise notes with a pencil. And he had added paragraphs on the backs of the sheets. Another idea hit him, and he found room to add it. With a cigarette in his right fingers, he held the document with his left and read it again. And again.

  Finally, Sam reached to his shelves and carefully took down his ancient Royal portable typewriter. He balanced it perfectly on his knees. He inserted a sheet of paper, and began typing.

  At ten minutes after six, the doors on the north end of Tier A clicked and opened, and two guards entered the hallway. One pushed a cart with fourteen trays stacked neatly in slots. They stopped at cell number one, and slid the metal tray through a narrow opening in the door. The occupant of number one was a skinny Cuban who was waiting at the bars, shirtless in his drooping briefs. He grabbed the tray like a starving refugee, and without a word took it to the edge of his bed.

  This morning's menu was two scrambled eggs, four pieces of toasted white bread, a fat slice of bacon, two scrawny containers of grape jelly, a small bottle of prepackaged orange juice, and a large Styrofoam cup of coffee. The food was warm and filling, and had the distinction of being approved by the federal courts.

  They moved to the next cell where the inmate was waiting. They were always waiting, always standing by the door like hungry dogs.

  "You're eleven minutes late," the inmate said quietly as he took his tray. The guards did not look at him.

  "Sue us," one said.

  "I've got my rights."

  "Your rights are a pain in the ass."

  "Don't talk to me that way. I'll sue you for it. You're abusive."

  The guards rolled away to the next door with no further response. just part of the daily ritual.

  Sam was not waiting at the door. He was busy at work in his little law office when breakfast arrived.

  "I figured you'd be typing," a guard said as they stopped in front of number six. Sam slowly placed the typewriter on the bed.

  "Love letters," he said as he stood.

  "Well, whatever you're typing, Sam, you'd better hurry. The cook's already talking about your last meal."

  "Tell him I want microwave pizza. He'll probably screw that up. Maybe I'll just go for hot dogs and beans." Sam took his tray through the opening.

  "It's your call, Sam. Last guy wanted steak and shrimp. Can you imagine? Steak and shrimp around this place."

  "Did he get it?"

  "No. He lost his appetite and they filled him full of Valium instead."

  "Not a bad way to go."

  "Quiet!" J. B. Gullitt yelled from the next cell. The guards eased the cart a few feet down the tier and stopped in front of J.B., who was gripping the bars with both hands. They kept their distance.

  "Well, well, aren't we frisky this morning?" one said.

  "Why can't you assholes just serve the food in silence? I mean, do you think we want to wake up each morning and start the day by listening to your cute little comments? Just give me the food, man."

  "Gee, J.B. We're awful sorry. We just figured you guys were lonely."

  "You figured wrong." J.B. took his tray and turned away.

  "Touchy, touchy," a guard said as they moved away in the direction of someone else to torment.

  Sam sat his food on the bed and mixed a packet of sugar in his coffee. His daily routine did not include scrambled eggs and bacon. He would save the toast and jelly and eat it throughout the morning. He would carefully sip the coffee, rationing it until ten o'clock, his hour of exercise and sunshine.

  He balanced the typewriter on his knees, and began pecking away.

  13

  SAM'S version of the law was finished by nine-thirty. He was proud of it, one of his better efforts in recent months. He munched on a piece of toast as he proofed the document for the last time. The typing was neat but outdated, the result of an ancient machine. The language was effusive and repetitive, flowery and filled with words never uttered by humble laymen. Sam was almost fluent in legalese and could hold his own with any lawyer.

  A door at the end of the hallway banged open, then shut. Heavy footsteps clicked along properly, and Packer appeared. "Your lawyer's here, Sam," he said, removing a set of handcuffs from his belt.

  Sam stood and pulled up his boxer shorts. "What time is it?"

  "A little after nine-thirty. What difference does it make?"

  "I'm supposed to get my hour out at ten."

  "You wanna go outside, or you wanna see your lawyer?"

  Sam thought about this as he slipped into his red jumpsuit and slid his feet into his rubber sandals. Dressing was a swift procedure on death row. "Can I make it up later?"

  "We'll see."

  "I want my Hour out, you know."

  "I know, Sam. Let's go."

  "It's real important to me."

  "I know, Sam. It's real important to everyone. We'll try and make it up later, okay?"

  Sam combed his hair with great deliberation, then rinsed his hands with cold water. Packer waited patiently. He wanted to say something to J. B. Gullitt, something about the mood he was in this morning, but Gullitt was already asleep again. Most of them were asleep. The average inmate on death row made it through breakfast and an hour or so of television before stretching out for the morning nap. Though his study was by no means scientific, Packer estimated they slept fifteen to sixteen hours a day. And they could sleep in the heat, the sweat, the cold, and amid the noise of loud televisions and radios.

  The noise was much lower this morning. The fans hummed and whined, but there was no yelling back and forth.

  Sam approached the bars, turned his back to Packer, and extended both hands through the narrow slot in the door. Packer applied the handcuffs, and Sam walked to his bed and picked up the document. Packer nodded to a guard at the end of the hall, and Sam's door opened electronically. Then it closed.

  Leg chains were optional in these situations, and with a younger prisoner, perhaps one with an attitude and a bit more stamina, Packer probably would have used them. But this was just Sam. He was an old man. How far could he run? How much damage could he do with his feet?

  Packer gently placed his hand around Sam's skinny bicep and led him along the hall. They stopped at the tier door, a row of more bars, waited for it to open and close, and left Tier A. Another guard followed behind as they came to an iron door which Packer unlocked with a key from his belt. They walked through it, and there was Adam sitting alone on the other side of the green grating.

  Packer removed the handcuffs and left the room.

  Adam read it slowly the first time. During
the second reading he took a few notes and was amused at some of the language. He'd seen worse work from trained lawyers. And he'd seen much better work. Sam was suffering the same affliction that hit most first-year law students. He used six words when one would suffice. His Latin was dreadful. Entire paragraphs were useless. But, on the whole, not bad for a non-lawyer.

  The two-page agreement was now four, typed neatly with perfect margins and only two typos and one misspelled word.

  "You do pretty good work," Adam said as he placed the document on the counter. Sam puffed a cigarette and stared at him through the opening. "It's basically the same agreement I handed you yesterday."

  "It's basically a helluva lot different," Sam said, correcting him.

  Adam glanced at his notes, then said, "You seem to be concerned about five areas. The governor, books, movies, termination, and who gets to witness the execution."

  "I'm concerned about a lot of things. Those happen to be non-negotiable."

  "I promised yesterday I would have nothing to do with books and movies."

  "Good. Moving right along."

  "The termination language is fine. You want the right to terminate my representation, and that of Kravitz & Bane, at any time and for any reason, without a fight."

  "It took me a long time to fire those Jewish bastards last time. I don't want to go through it again."

  "That's reasonable."

  "I don't care whether you think it's reasonable, okay? It's in the agreement, and it's nonnegotiable."

  "Fair enough. And you want to deal with no one but me."

  "That's correct. No one at Kravitz & Bane touches my file. That place is crawling with Jews, and they don't get involved, okay? Same for niggers and women."

  "Look, Sam, can we lay off the slurs? How about we refer to them as blacks?"

  "Ooops. Sorry. How about we do the right thing and call them African-Americans and Jewish-Americans and Female-Americans? You and I'll be Irish-Americans, and also WhiteMale-Americans. If you need help from your firm, try to stick with German-Americans or Italian-Americans. Since you're in Chicago, maybe use a few Polish-Americans. Gee, that'll be nice, won't it? We'll be real proper and multicultural and politically correct, won't we?"

  "Whatever."

  "I feel better already."

  Adam made a check mark by his notes. "I'll agree to it."

  "Damned right you will, if you want an agreement. Just keep the minorities out of my life."

  "You're assuming they're anxious to jump in."

  "I'm not assuming anything. I have four weeks to live, and I'd rather spend my time with people I trust."

  Adam read again a paragraph on page three of Sam's draft. The language gave Sam the sole authority to select two witnesses at his execution. "I don't understand this clause about the witnesses," Adam said.

  "It's very simple. If we get to that point, there will be about fifteen witnesses. Since I'm the guest of honor, I get to select two. The statute, once you've had a chance to review it, lists a few who must be present. The warden, a Lebanese-American by the way, has some discretion in picking the rest. They usually conduct a lottery with the press to choose which of the vultures are allowed to gawk at it."

  "Then why do you want this clause?"

  "Because the lawyer is always one of the two chosen by the gassee. That's me."

  "And you don't want me to witness the execution?"

  "That's correct."

  "You're assuming I'll want to witness it."

  "I'm not assuming anything. It's just a fact that the lawyers can't wait to see their poor clients gassed once it becomes inevitable. Then they can't wait to get in front of the cameras and cry and carry on and rail against injustice."

  "And you think I'll do that?"

  "No. I don't think you'll do that."

  "Then, why this clause?"

  Sam leaned forward with his elbows on the counter. His nose was an inch from the screen. "Because you will not witness the execution, okay?"

  "It's a deal," he said casually, and flipped to another page. "We're not going to get that far, Sam."

  "Atta boy. That's what I want to hear."

  "Of course, we may need the governor."

  Sam snorted in disgust and relaxed in his chair. He crossed his right leg on his left knee, and glared at Adam. "The agreement is very plain."

  Indeed it was. Almost an entire page was dedicated to a venomous attack on David McAllister. Sam forgot about the law and used words like scurrilous and egotistical and narcissistic and mentioned more than once the insatiable appetite for publicity.

  "So you have a problem with the governor," Adam said.

  Sam snorted.

  "I don't think this is a good idea, Sam."

  "I really don't care what you think."

  "The governor could save your life."

  "Oh really. He's the only reason I'm here, on death row, waiting to die, in the gas chamber. Why in hell would he want to save my life?"

  "I didn't say he wanted to. I said that he could. Let's keep our options open."

  Sam smirked for a long minute as he lit a cigarette. He blinked and rolled his eyes as if this kid was the dumbest human he'd encountered in decades. Then he leaned forward on his left elbow and pointed at Adam with a crooked right finger. "If you think David McAllister will grant me a last minute pardon, then you're a fool. But let me tell you what he will do. He'll use you, and me, to suck out all the publicity imaginable. He'll invite you to his office at the state capitol, and before you get there he'll tip off the media. He'll listen with remarkable sincerity. He'll profess grave reservations about whether I should die. He'll schedule another meeting, closer to the execution. And after you leave, he'll hold a couple of interviews and divulge everything you've just told him. He'll rehash the Kramer bombing. He'll talk about civil rights and all that radical nigger crap. He'll probably even cry. The closer I get to the gas chamber, the bigger the media circus will become. He'll try every way in the world to get in the middle of it. He'll meet with you every day, if we allow it. He'll take us to the wire."

  "He can do this without us."

  "And he will. Mark my word, Adam.

  An hour before I die, he'll hold a press conference somewhere probably here, maybe at the governor's mansion -and he'll stand there in the glare of a hundred cameras and deny me clemency. And the bastard will have tears in his eyes."

  "It won't hurt to talk to him."

  "Fine. Go talk to him. And after you do, I'll invoke paragraph two and your ass'll go back to Chicago."

  "He might like me. We could be friends."

  "Oh, he'll love you. You're Sam's grandson. What a great story! More reporters, more cameras, more journalists, more interviews. He'd love to make your acquaintance so he can string you along. Hell, you might get him reelected."

  Adam flipped another page, made some more notes, and stalled for a while in an effort to move away from the governor. "Where'd you learn to write like this?" he asked.

  "Same place you did. I was taught by the same learned souls who provided your instruction. Dead judges. Honorable justices. Windy lawyers. Tedious professors. I've read the same garbage you've read."

  "Not bad," Adam said, scanning another paragraph.

  "I'm delighted you think so."

  "I understand you have quite a little practice here."

  "Practice. What's a practice? Why do lawyers practice? Why can't they just work like everyone else? Do plumbers practice? Do truck drivers practice? No, they simply work. But not lawyers. Hell no. They're special, and they practice. With all their damned practicing you'd think they'd know what the hell they were doing. You'd think they'd eventually become good at something."

  "Do you like anyone?"

  "That's an idiotic question."

  "Why is it idiotic?"

  "Because you're sitting on that side of the wall. And you can walk out that door and drive away. And tonight you can have dinner in a nice restaurant and sleep in a soft bed. Lif
e's a bit different on this side. I'm treated like an animal. I have a cage. I have a death sentence which allows the State of Mississippi to kill me in four weeks, and so yes, son, it's hard to be loving and compassionate. It's hard to like people these days. That's why your question is foolish."

  "Are you saying you were loving and compassionate before you arrived here?"

  Sam stared through the opening and puffed on the cigarette. "Another stupid question."

  "Why?"

  "It's irrelevant, counselor. You're a lawyer, not a shrink."

  "I'm your grandson. Therefore, I'm allowed to ask questions about your past."

  "Ask them. They might not be answered."

  Why not?"

  "The past is gone, son. It's history. We can't undo what's been done. Nor can we explain it all."

  "But I don't have a past."

  "Then you are indeed a lucky person."

  "I'm not so sure."

  "Look, if you expect me to fill in the gaps, then I'm afraid you've got the wrong person."

  "Okay. Who else should I talk to?"

  "I don't know. It's not important."

  "Maybe it's important to me."

  "Well, to be honest, I'm not too concerned about you right now. Believe it or not, I'm much more worried about me. Me and my future. Me and my neck. There's a big clock ticking somewhere, ticking rather loudly, wouldn't you say? For some strange reason, don't ask me why, but I can hear the damned thing and it makes me real anxious. I find it very difficult to worry about the problems of others."

  "Why did you become a Klansman?"

  "Because my father was in the Klan."

  "Why did he become a Klansman?"

  "Because his father was in the Klan."

  "Great. Three generations."

  "Four, I think. Colonel Jacob Cayhall fought with Nathan Bedford Forrest in the war, and family legend has it that he was one of the early members of the Klan. He was my greatgrandfather."