The Chamber (32 page)

The vodka deadened some of the pain in his head, but it also did nothing to calm his stomach. As they bounced toward Calico Rock on the bumpy road, Adam was terrified that he would be sick.

Though Lettner had passed out first, he was remarkably healthy this morning. No sign of a hangover. He’d eaten a plate full of grease and biscuits, and he’d sipped only one bloody mary. He’d diligently read the paper and commented about this and that, and Adam
figured he was one of those functional alcoholics who got plastered every night but shook it off easily.

The village was in view. The road was suddenly smoother and Adam’s stomach stopped bouncing. “Sorry about last night,” Lettner said.

“What?” Adam asked.

“About Sam. I was harsh. I know he’s your grandfather and you’re very concerned. I lied about something. I really don’t want Sam to be executed. He’s not a bad guy.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Yeah. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

They entered the town and turned toward the bridge. “There’s something else,” Lettner said. “We always suspected Sam had a partner.”

Adam smiled and looked through his window. They passed a small church with elderly people standing under a shade tree in their pretty dresses and neat suits.

“Why?” Adam asked.

“For the same reasons. Sam had no history with bombs. He had not been involved in Klan violence. The two witnesses, especially the truck driver in Cleveland, always bothered us. The trucker had no reason to lie, and he seemed awfully certain of himself. Sam just didn’t seem like the type to start his own bombing campaign.”

“So who’s the man?”

“I honestly don’t know.” They rolled to a stop by the river, and Adam opened his door just in case. Lettner leaned on the steering wheel, and cocked his head toward Adam. “After the third or fourth bombing, I think maybe it was the synagogue in Jackson, some big Jews in New York and Washington met with LBJ, who in turn called in Mr. Hoover, who in turn called me. I went to D.C., where I met with Mr. Hoover and the President, and they pretty much crawled
my ass. I returned to Mississippi with renewed determination. We came down hard on our informants. I mean, we hurt some people. We tried everything, but to no avail. Our sources simply did not know who was doing the bombing. Only Dogan knew, and it was obvious he wasn’t telling anybody. But after the fifth bomb, which I think was the newspaper office, we got a break.”

Lettner opened his door and walked to the front of the jeep. Adam joined him there, and they watched the river ease along through Calico Rock. “You wanna beer? I keep it cold in the bait shop.”

“No, please. I’m half-sick now.”

“Just kidding. Anyway, Dogan ran this huge used car lot, and one of his employees was an illiterate old black man who washed the cars and swept the floors. We had carefully approached the old man earlier, but he was hostile. But out of the blue he tells one of our agents that he saw Dogan and another man putting something in the trunk of a green Pontiac a couple of days earlier. He said he waited, then opened the trunk and saw it was dynamite. The next day he heard that there was another bombing. He knew the FBI was swarming all around Dogan, so he figured it was worth mentioning to us. Dogan’s helper was a Klucker named Virgil, also an employee. So I went to see Virgil. I knocked on his door at three o’clock one morning, just beat it like hell, you know, like we always did in those days, and before long he turned on the light and stepped on the porch. I had about eight agents with me, and we all stuck our badges in Virgil’s face. He was scared to death. I told him we knew he had delivered the dynamite to Jackson the night before, and that he was looking at thirty years. You could hear his wife crying through the screen door. Virgil was shaking and ready to cry himself. I left him my card with instructions
to call me before noon that very day, and I threatened him if he told Dogan or anybody else. I told him we’d be watching him around the clock.

“I doubt if Virgil went back to sleep. His eyes were red and puffy when he found me a few hours later. We got to be friends. He said the bombings were not the work of Dogan’s usual gang. He didn’t know much, but he’d heard enough from Dogan to believe that the bomber was a very young man from another state. This guy had dropped in from nowhere, and was supposed to be very good with explosives. Dogan picked the targets, planned the jobs, then called this guy, who sneaked into town, carried out the bombings, then disappeared.”

“Did you believe him?”

“For the most part, yes. It just made sense. It had to be someone new, because by then we had riddled the Klan with informants. We knew virtually every move they made.”

“What happened to Virgil?”

“I spent some time with him, gave him some money, you know, the usual routine. They always wanted money. I became convinced he had no idea who was planting the bombs. He would never admit that he’d been involved, that he’d delivered the cars and dynamite, and we didn’t press him. We weren’t after him.”

“Was he involved with Kramer?”

“No. Dogan used someone else for that one. At times, Dogan seemed to have a sixth sense about when to mix things up, to change routines.”

“Virgil’s suspect certainly doesn’t sound like Sam Cayhall, does he?” Adam asked.

“No.”

“And you had no suspects?”

“No.”

“Come on, Wyn. Surely you guys had some idea.”

“I swear. We did not. Shortly after we met Virgil, Kramer got bombed and it was all over. If Sam had a buddy, then the buddy left him.”

“And the FBI heard nothing afterward?”

“Not a peep. We had Sam, who looked and smelled extremely guilty.”

“And, of course, you guys were anxious to close the case.”

“Certainly. And the bombings stopped, remember. There were no bombings after Sam got caught, don’t forget that. We had our man. Mr. Hoover was happy. The Jews were happy. The President was happy. Then they couldn’t convict him for fourteen years, but that was a different story. Everyone was relieved when the bombings stopped.”

“So why didn’t Dogan squeal on the real bomber when he squealed on Sam?”

They had eased down the bank to a point just inches above the water. Adam’s car sat nearby. Lettner cleared his throat and spat into the river. “Would you testify against a terrorist who was not in custody?”

Adam thought for a second. Lettner smiled, flashed his big yellow teeth, then chuckled as he started for the dock. “Let’s have a beer.”

“No. Please. I need to go.”

Lettner stopped, and they shook hands and promised to meet again. Adam invited him to Memphis, and Lettner invited him back to Calico Rock for more fishing and drinking. At the moment, his invitation was not well received. Adam sent his regards to Irene, apologized again for passing out in the washroom, and thanked him again for the chat.

He left the small town behind, driving gingerly around the curves and hills, still careful not to upset his stomach.

______

Lee was struggling with a pasta dish when he entered her apartment. The table was set with china and silver and fresh flowers. The recipe was for baked manicotti, and things were not going well in the kitchen. On more than one occasion in the past week she’d confessed to being a lousy cook, and now she was proving it. Pots and pans were scattered along the countertops. Her seldom used apron was covered with tomato sauce. She laughed as they kissed each other on the cheeks and said there was a frozen pizza if matters got worse.

“You look awful,” she said, suddenly staring at his eyes.

“It was a rough night.”

“You smell like alcohol.”

“I had two bloody marys for breakfast. And I need another one now.”

“The bar’s closed.” She picked up a knife and stepped to a pile of vegetables. A zucchini was the next victim. “What did you do up there?”

“Got drunk with the FBI man. Slept on the floor next to his washer and dryer.”

“How nice.” She came within a centimeter of drawing blood. She jerked her hand away from the chopping block and examined a finger. “Have you seen the Memphis paper?”

“No. Should I?”

“Yes. It’s over there.” She nodded to a corner of the snack bar.

“Something bad?”

“Just read it.”

Adam took the Sunday edition of the Memphis Press and sat in a chair at the table. On the front page of the second section, he suddenly encountered his smiling face. It was a familiar photo, one taken not long ago when he was a second-year law student at Michigan.
The story covered half the page, and his photo was joined by many others—Sam, of course, Marvin Kramer, Josh and John Kramer, Ruth Kramer, David McAllister, the Attorney General, Steve Roxburgh, Naifeh, Jeremiah Dogan, and Mr. Elliot Kramer, father of Marvin.

Todd Marks had been busy. His narrative began with a succinct history of the case which took an entire column, then he moved quickly to the present and recapped the same story he’d written two days earlier. He found a bit more biographical data on Adam—college at Pepperdine, law school at Michigan, law review editor, brief employment history with Kravitz & Bane. Naifeh had very little to say, only that the execution would be carried out according to the law. McAllister, on the other hand, was full of wisdom. He had lived with the Kramer nightmare for twenty-three years, he said gravely, thinking about it every day of his life since it happened. It had been his honor and privilege to prosecute Sam Cayhall and bring the killer to justice, and only the execution could close this awful chapter of Mississippi’s history. No, he said after much thought, the idea of clemency was out of the question. Just wouldn’t be fair to the little Kramer boys. And on and on.

Steve Roxburgh had evidently enjoyed his interview too. He stood ready to fight the final efforts by Cayhall and his lawyer to thwart the execution. He and his staff were prepared to work eighteen hours a day to carry out the wishes of the people. This matter had dragged on long enough, he was quoted as saying more than once, and it was time for justice. No, he was not worried about the last ditch legal challenges of Mr. Cayhall. He had confidence in his skills as a lawyer, the people’s lawyer.

Sam Cayhall refused to comment, Marks explained,
and Adam Hall couldn’t be reached, as if Adam was eager to talk but simply couldn’t be found.

The comments from the family were both interesting and disheartening. Elliot Kramer, now seventy-seven and still working, was described as spry and healthy in spite of heart trouble. He was also very bitter. He blamed the Klan and Sam Cayhall not only for killing his two grandsons, but also for Marvin’s death. He’d been waiting twenty-three years for Sam to be executed, and it couldn’t come a minute too soon. He lashed out at a judicial system that allows a convict to live for almost ten years after the jury gives him a death penalty. He was not certain if he would witness the execution, it would be up to his doctors, he said, but he wanted to. He wanted to be there and look Cayhall in the eyes when they strapped him in.

Ruth Kramer was a bit more moderate. Time had healed many of the wounds, she said, and she was unsure how she would feel after the execution. Nothing would bring back her sons. She had little to say to Todd Marks.

Adam folded the paper and placed it beside the chair. He suddenly had a knot in his fragile stomach, and it came from Steve Roxburgh and David McAllister. As the lawyer expected to save Sam’s life, it was frightening to see his enemies so eager for the final battle. He was a rookie. They were veterans. Roxburgh in particular had been through it before, and he had an experienced staff which included a renowned specialist known as Dr. Death, a skilled advocate with a passion for executions. Adam had nothing but an exhausted file full of unsuccessful appeals, and a prayer that a miracle would happen. At this moment he felt completely vulnerable and hopeless.

Lee sat next to him with a cup of espresso. “You look worried,” she said, stroking his arm.

“My buddy at the trout dock was of no help.”

“Sounds like old man Kramer is hell-bent.”

Adam rubbed his temples and tried to ease the pain. “I need a painkiller.”

“How about a Valium?”

“Wonderful.”

“Are you real hungry?”

“No. My stomach is not doing well.”

“Good. Dinner has been terminated. A slight problem with the recipe. It’s frozen pizza or nothing.”

“Nothing sounds good to me. Nothing but a Valium.”

      Twenty-one      

A
dam dropped his keys in the red bucket and watched it ascend to a point twenty feet off the ground where it stopped and spun slowly on the end of the rope. He walked to the first gate, which jerked before sliding open. He walked to the second gate, and waited. Packer emerged from the front door a hundred feet away, stretching and yawning as if he’d been napping on the Row.

The second gate closed behind him, and Packer waited nearby. “Good day,” he said. It was almost two, the hottest time of the day. A morning radio forecaster had merrily predicted the first one-hundred-degree day of the year.

“Hello, Sergeant,” Adam said as if they were old friends now. They walked along the brick path to the small door with the weeds in front of it. Packer unlocked it, and Adam stepped inside.

“I’ll get Sam,” Packer said, in no hurry, and disappeared.

The chairs on his side of the metal screen were scattered about. Two were flipped over, as if the lawyers and visitors had been brawling. Adam pulled one close to the counter at the far end, as far as possible from the air conditioner.

He removed a copy of the petition he’d filed at nine that morning. By law, no claim or issue could be raised in federal court unless it had first been presented and denied in state court. The petition attacking the gas chamber had been filed in the Mississippi Supreme
Court under the state’s postconviction relief statutes. It was a formality, in Adam’s opinion, and in the opinion of Garner Goodman. Goodman had worked on the claim throughout the weekend. In fact, he’d worked all day Saturday while Adam was drinking beer and trout fishing with Wyn Lettner.

Sam arrived as usual, hands cuffed behind his back, no expression on his face, red jumpsuit unbuttoned almost to the waist. The gray hair on his pale chest was slick with perspiration. Like a well-trained animal, he turned his back to Packer, who quickly removed the cuffs, then left through the door. Sam immediately went for the cigarettes, and made certain one was lit before he sat down and said, “Welcome back.”