The Chamber (16 page)

“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.”

      Eleven      

P
acker 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.”

“Who?”

“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.

Lucas turned onto another road. “There’s another reason,” he continued. “Louisiana is killing them right and left. Texas has executed six already this year. Florida,
five. We haven’t had an execution in over two years. We’re dragging our feet, some people say. It’s time to show these other states that we’re just as serious about good government as they are. Just last week in Jackson a legislative committee held hearings on the issue. There were all sorts of angry statements by our leaders about the endless delays in these matters. Not surprisingly, it was decided that the federal courts are to blame. There’s lots of pressure to kill somebody. And Sam happens to be next.”

“Who’s after Sam?”

“Nobody, really. It could be two years before we get this close again. The buzzards are circling.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m not the enemy, okay? I’m the attorney for the prison, not the State of Mississippi. And you’ve never been here before. I thought you’d want to know these things.”

“Thanks,” Adam said. Though the information was unsolicited, it was certainly useful.

“I’ll help in any way I can.”

The roofs of buildings could be seen on the horizon. “Is that the front of the prison?” Adam asked.

“Yes.”

“I’d like to leave now.”

______

The Memphis office of Kravitz & Bane occupied two floors of a building called Brinkley Plaza, a 1920s edifice on the corner of Main and Monroe in downtown. Main Street was also known as the Mid-America Mall. Cars and trucks had been banished when the city attempted to revitalize its downtown and converted asphalt into tiles, fountains, and decorative trees. Only pedestrian traffic was permitted on the Mall.

The building itself had been revitalized and renewed tastefully. Its main lobby was marble and bronze. The
K&B offices were large and richly decorated with antiques and oak-paneled walls and Persian rugs.

Adam was escorted by an attractive young secretary to the corner office of Baker Cooley, the managing partner. They introduced themselves, shook hands, and admired the secretary as she left the room and closed the door. Cooley leered a bit too long and seemed to hold his breath until the door was completely closed and the glimpse was over.

“Welcome south,” Cooley said, finally exhaling and sitting in his posh burgundy leather swivel chair.

“Thanks. I guess you’ve talked to Garner Goodman.”

“Yesterday. Twice. He gave me the score. We’ve got a nice little conference room at the end of this hall with a phone, computer, plenty of room. It’s yours for the, uh, duration.”

Adam nodded and glanced around the office. Cooley was in his early fifties, a neat man with an organized desk and a clean room. His words and hands were quick, and he bore the gray hair and dark circles of a frazzled accountant. “What kind of work goes on here?” Adam asked.

“Not much litigation, and certainly no criminal work,” he answered quickly as if criminals were not allowed to set their dirty feet on the thick carpeting and fancy rugs of this establishment. Adam remembered Goodman’s description of the Memphis branch—a boutique firm of twelve good lawyers whose acquisition years earlier by Kravitz & Bane was now a mystery. But the additional address looked nice on the letterhead.

“Mostly corporate stuff,” Cooley continued. “We represent some old banks, and we do a lot of bond work for local governmental units.”

Exhilarating work, Adam thought.

“The firm itself dates back a hundred and forty years, the oldest in Memphis, by the way. Been around since the Civil War. It split up and spun off a few times, then merged with the big boys in Chicago.”

Cooley delivered this brief chronicle with pride, as if the pedigree had a damned thing to do with practicing law in 1990.

“How many lawyers?” Adam asked, trying to fill in the gaps of a conversation that had started slow and was going nowhere.

“A dozen. Eleven paralegals. Nine clerks. Seventeen secretaries. Miscellaneous support staff of ten. Not a bad operation for this part of the country. Nothing like Chicago, though.”

You’re right about that, Adam thought. “I’m looking forward to visiting here. I hope I won’t be in the way.”

“Not at all. I’m afraid we won’t be much help, though. We’re the corporate types, you know, office practitioners, lots of paperwork and all. I haven’t seen a courtroom in twenty years.”

“I’ll be fine. Mr. Goodman and those guys up there will help me.”

Cooley jumped to his feet and rubbed his hands as if he wasn’t sure what else to do with them. “Well, uh, Darlene will be your secretary. She’s actually in a pool, but I’ve sort of assigned her to you. She’ll give you a key, give you the scoop on parking, security, phones, copiers, the works. All state of the art. Really good stuff. If you need a paralegal, just let me know. We’ll steal one from one of the other guys, and—”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Thanks.”

“Well, then, let’s go look at your office.”

Adam followed Cooley down the quiet and empty hallway, and smiled to himself as he thought of the offices in Chicago. There the halls were always filled with harried lawyers and busy secretaries. Phones rang
incessantly, and copiers and faxes and intercoms beeped and buzzed and gave the place the atmosphere of an arcade. It was a madhouse for ten hours a day. Solitude was found only in the alcoves of the libraries, or maybe in the corners of the building where the partners worked.