The Chamber (6 page)

Goodman now sat with his rear on the edge of his chair.

“Eddie Cayhall was my father.”

Goodman hesitated slightly. “Sam Cayhall is your grandfather?”

“Yes. I didn’t know it until I was almost seventeen. My aunt told me after we buried my father.”

“Wow.”

“You promised not to tell.”

“Of course.” Goodman moved his butt to the edge of his desk, and placed his feet in the chair. He stared at the blinds. “Does Sam know—”

“No. I was born in Ford County, Mississippi, a town called Clanton, not Memphis. I was always told I was born in Memphis. My name then was Alan Cayhall, but I didn’t know this until much later. I was three years old when we left Mississippi, and my parents never talked about the place. My mother believes that there was no contact between Eddie and Sam from the day we left until she wrote him in prison and told him his son was dead. He did not write back.”

“Damn, damn, damn,” Goodman mumbled to himself.

“There’s a lot to it, Mr. Goodman. It’s a pretty sick family.”

“Not your fault.”

“According to my mother, Sam’s father was an active Klansman, took part in lynchings and all that. So I come from pretty weak stock.”

“Your father was different.”

“My father killed himself. I’ll spare you the details, but I found his body, and I cleaned up the mess before my mother and sister returned home.”

“And you were seventeen?”

“Almost seventeen. It was 1981. Nine years ago. After my aunt, Eddie’s sister, told me the truth, I became fascinated with the sordid history of Sam Cayhall. I’ve spent hours in libraries digging up old newspaper and magazine stories; there are quite a lot of materials. I’ve read the transcripts of all three trials. I’ve studied the appellate decisions. In law school I began studying this firm’s representation of Sam Cayhall. You and Wallace Tyner have done exemplary work.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“I’ve read hundreds of books and thousands of articles on the Eighth Amendment and death penalty litigation. You’ve written four books, I believe. And a number of articles. I know I’m just a rookie, but my research is impeccable.”

“And you think Sam will trust you as his lawyer?”

“I don’t know. But he’s my grandfather, like it or not, and I have to go see him.”

“There’s been no contact—”

“None. I was three when we left, and I certainly don’t remember him. I’ve started a thousand times to write him, but it never happened. I can’t tell you why.”

“It’s understandable.”

“Nothing’s understandable, Mr. Goodman. I do not understand how or why I’m standing here in this office at this moment. I always wanted to be a pilot, but I went to law school because I felt a vague calling to help society. Someone needed me, and I suppose I felt that someone was my demented grandfather. I had four job offers, and I picked this firm because it had the guts to represent him for free.”

“You should’ve told someone up front about this, before we hired you.”

“I know. But nobody asked if my grandfather was a client of this firm.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“They won’t fire me, will they?”

“I doubt it. Where have you been for the past nine months?”

“Here, working ninety hours a week, sleeping on my desk, eating in the library, cramming for the bar exam, you know, the usual rookie boot camp you guys designed for us.”

“Silly, isn’t it?”

“I’m tough.” Adam opened a slit in the blinds for a better view of the lake. Goodman watched him.

“Why don’t you open these blinds?” Adam asked. “It’s a great view.”

“I’ve seen it before.”

“I’d kill for a view like this. My little cubbyhole is a mile from any window.”

“Work hard, bill even harder, and one day this will all be yours.”

“Not me.”

“Leaving us, Mr. Hall?”

“Probably, eventually. But that’s another secret, okay? I plan to hit it hard for a couple of years, then move on. Maybe open my own office, one where life
does not revolve around a clock. I want to do public interest work, you know, sort of like you.”

“So after nine months you’re already disillusioned with Kravitz & Bane.”

“No. But I can see it coming. I don’t want to spend my career representing wealthy crooks and wayward corporations.”

“Then you’re certainly in the wrong place.”

Adam left the window and walked to the edge of the desk. He looked down at Goodman. “I am in the wrong place, and I want a transfer. Wycoff will agree to send me to our little office in Memphis for the next few months so I can work on the Cayhall case. Sort of a leave of absence, with full pay of course.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s about it. It’ll work. I’m just a lowly rookie, expendable around here. No one will miss me. Hell, there are plenty of young cutthroats just eager to work eighteen hours a day and bill twenty.”

Goodman’s face relaxed, and a warm smile appeared. He shook his head as if this impressed him. “You planned this, didn’t you? I mean, you picked this firm because it represented Sam Cayhall, and because it has an office in Memphis.”

Adam nodded without a smile. “Things have worked out. I didn’t know how or when this moment would arrive, but, yes, I sort of planned it. Don’t ask me what happens next.”

“He’ll be dead in three months, if not sooner.”

“But I have to do something, Mr. Goodman. If the firm won’t allow me to handle the case, then I’ll probably resign and try it on my own.”

Goodman shook his head and jumped to his feet. “Don’t do that, Mr. Hall. We’ll work something out. I’ll need to present this to Daniel Rosen, the managing partner. I think he’ll approve.”

“He has a horrible reputation.”

“Well deserved. But I can talk to him.”

“He’ll do it if you and Wycoff recommend it, won’t he?”

“Of course. Are you hungry?” Goodman was reaching for his jacket.

“A little.”

“Let’s go out for a sandwich.”

______

T
HE LUNCH CROWD
at the corner deli had not arrived. The partner and the rookie took a small table in the front window overlooking the sidewalk. Traffic was slow and hundreds of pedestrians scurried along, just a few feet away. The waiter delivered a greasy Reuben for Goodman and a bowl of chicken soup for Adam.

“How many inmates are on death row in Mississippi?” Goodman asked.

“Forty-eight, as of last month. Twenty-five black, twenty-three white. The last execution was two years ago, Willie Parris. Sam Cayhall will probably be next, barring a small miracle.”

Goodman chewed quickly on a large bite. He wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. “A large miracle, I would say. There’s not much left to do legally.”

“There are the usual assortment of last ditch motions.”

“Let’s save the strategy talks for later. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to Parchman.”

“No. Since I learned the truth, I’ve been tempted to return to Mississippi, but it hasn’t happened.”

“It’s a massive farm in the middle of the Mississippi Delta, not too far from Greenville, ironically. Something like seventeen thousand acres. Probably the hottest place in the world. It sits on Highway 49, just like a little hamlet off to the west. Lots of buildings and
houses. The front part is all administration, and it’s not enclosed by fencing. There are about thirty different camps scattered around the farm, all fenced and secured. Each camp is completely separate. Some are miles apart. You drive past various camps, all enclosed by chain link and barbed wire, all with hundreds of prisoners hanging around, doing nothing. They wear different colors, depending on their classification. It seemed as if they were all young black kids, just loitering about, some playing basketball, some just sitting on the porches of the buildings. An occasional white face. You drive in your car, alone and very slowly, down a gravel road, past the camps and the barbed wire until you come to a seemingly innocuous little building with a flat roof. It has tall fences around it with guards watching from the towers. It’s a fairly modern facility. It has an official name of some sort, but everyone refers to it simply as the Row.”

“Sounds like a wonderful place.”

“I thought it would be a dungeon, you know, dark and cold with water dripping from above. But it’s just a little flat building out in the middle of a cotton field. Actually, it’s not as bad as death rows in other states.”

“I’d like to see the Row.”

“You’re not ready to see it. It’s a horrible place filled with depressing people waiting to die. I was sixty years old before I saw it, and I didn’t sleep for a week afterward.” He took a sip of coffee. “I can’t imagine how you’ll feel when you go there. The Row is bad enough when you’re representing a complete stranger.”

“He is a complete stranger.”

“How do you intend to tell him—”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I’m sure it’ll just happen.”

Goodman shook his head. “This is bizarre.”

“The whole family is bizarre.”

“I remember now that Sam had two children, seems like one is a daughter. It’s been a long time. Tyner did most of the work, you know.”

“His daughter is my aunt, Lee Cayhall Booth, but she tries to forget her maiden name. She married into old Memphis money. Her husband owns a bank or two, and they tell no one about her father.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“Portland. She remarried a few years ago, and we talk about twice a year. Dysfunctional would be a mild term.”

“How’d you afford Pepperdine?”

“Life insurance. My father had trouble keeping a job, but he was wise enough to carry life insurance. The waiting period had expired years before he killed himself.”

“Sam never talked about his family.”

“And his family never talks about him. His wife, my grandmother, died a few years before he was convicted. I didn’t know this, of course. Most of my genealogical research has been extracted from my mother, who’s done a great job of forgetting the past. I don’t know how it works in normal families, Mr. Goodman, but my family seldom gets together, and when two or more of us happen to meet the last thing we discuss is the past. There are many dark secrets.”

Goodman was nibbling on a chip and listening closely. “You mentioned a sister.”

“Yes, I have a sister, Carmen. She’s twenty-three, a bright and beautiful girl, in graduate school at Berkeley. She was born in L.A., so she didn’t go through the name change like the rest of us. We keep in touch.”

“She knows?”

“Yes, she knows. My aunt Lee told me first, just after my father’s funeral, then, typically, my mother asked me to tell Carmen. She was only fourteen at the
time. She’s never expressed any interest in Sam Cayhall. Frankly, the rest of the family wishes he would quietly just go away.”

“They’re about to get their wish.”

“But it won’t be quietly, will it, Mr. Goodman?”

“No. It never is. For one brief but terrible moment, Sam Cayhall will be the most talked about man in the country. We’ll see the same old footage from the bomb blast, and the trials with the Klan marching around the courthouses. The same old debate about the death penalty will erupt. The press will descend upon Parchman. Then, they’ll kill him, and two days later it’ll all be forgotten. Happens every time.”

Adam stirred his soup and carefully picked out a sliver of chicken. He examined it for a second, then returned it to the broth. He was not hungry. Goodman finished another chip, and touched the corners of his mouth with the napkin.

“I don’t suppose, Mr. Hall, that you’re thinking you can keep this quiet.”

“I had given it some thought.”

“Forget it.”

“My mother begged me not to do it. My sister wouldn’t discuss it. And my aunt in Memphis is rigid with the remote possibility that we’ll all be identified as Cayhalls and forever ruined.”

“The possibility is not remote. When the press finishes with you, they’ll have old black-and-whites of you sitting on your granddaddy’s knee. It’ll make great print, Mr. Hall. Just think of it. The forgotten grandson charging in at the last moment, making a heroic effort to save his wretched old grandfather as the clock ticks down.”

“I sort of like it myself.”

“Not bad, really. It’ll bring a lot of attention to our beloved little law firm.”

“Which brings up another unpleasant issue.”

“I don’t think so. There are no cowards at Kravitz & Bane, Adam. We have survived and prospered in the rough and tumble world of Chicago law. We’re known as the meanest bastards in town. We have the thickest skins. Don’t worry about the firm.”

“So you’ll agree to it.”

Goodman placed his napkin on the table and took another sip of coffee. “Oh, it’s a wonderful idea, assuming your gramps will agree to it. If you can sign him up, or re-sign him I should say, then we’re back in business. You’ll be the front man. We can feed you what you need from up here. I’ll always be in your shadow. It’ll work. Then, they’ll kill him and you’ll never get over it. I’ve watched three of my clients die, Mr. Hall, including one in Mississippi. You’ll never be the same.”

Adam nodded and smiled and looked at the pedestrians on the sidewalk.

Goodman continued. “We’ll be around to support you when they kill him. You won’t have to bear it alone.”

“It’s not hopeless, is it?”

“Almost. We’ll talk strategy later. First, I’ll meet with Daniel Rosen. He’ll probably want a long conference with you. Second, you’ll have to see Sam and have a little reunion, so to speak. That’s the hard part. Third, if he agrees to it, then we’ll get to work.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, Adam. I doubt if we’ll be on speaking terms when this is over.”

“Thanks anyway.”

T
HE MEETING WAS ORGANIZED QUICKLY. E. Garner Goodman made the first phone call, and within an hour the necessary participants had been summoned. Within four hours they were present in a small, seldom used conference room next to Daniel Rosen’s office. It was Rosen’s turf, and this disturbed Adam more than a little.

By legend, Daniel Rosen was a monster, though two heart attacks had knocked off some of the edge and mellowed him a bit. For thirty years he had been a ruthless litigator, the meanest, nastiest, and without a doubt one of the most effective courtroom brawlers in Chicago. Before the heart attacks, he was known for his brutal work schedule—ninety-hour weeks, midnight orgies of work with clerks and paralegals digging and fetching. Several wives had left him. As many as four secretaries at a time labored furiously to keep pace. Daniel Rosen had been the heart and soul of Kravitz & Bane, but no longer. His doctor restricted him to fifty hours a week, in the office, and prohibited any trial work.