The Chamber (50 page)

“When are you coming back?” Sam asked.

“Monday. Listen, Sam, this is not a pleasant subject, but we need to address it. You’re gonna die one of these days. It might be on August 8, or it might be five years from now. At the rate you’re smoking, you can’t last for long.”

“Smoking is not my most pressing health concern.”

“I know. But your family, Lee and I, need to make some burial arrangements. It can’t be done overnight.”

Sam stared at the rows of tiny triangles in the screen. Adam scribbled on a legal pad. The air conditioner spewed and hissed, accomplishing little.

“Your grandmother was a fine lady, Adam. I’m sorry you didn’t know her. She deserved better than me.”

“Lee took me to her grave.”

“I caused her a lot of suffering, and she bore it well. Bury me next to her, and maybe I can tell her I’m sorry.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Do that. How will you pay for the plot?”

“I can handle it, Sam.”

“I don’t have any money, Adam. I lost it years ago, for reasons which are probably obvious. I lost the land and the house, so there are no assets to leave behind.”

“Do you have a will?”

“Yes. I prepared it myself.”

“We’ll look at it next week.”

“You promise you’ll be here Monday.”

“I promise, Sam. Can I bring you anything?”

Sam hesitated for a second and almost seemed embarrassed.
“You know what I’d really like?” he asked with a childish grin.

“What? Anything, Sam.”

“When I was a kid, the greatest thrill in life was an Eskimo Pie.”

“An Eskimo Pie?”

“Yeah, it’s a little ice cream treat on a stick. Vanilla, with a chocolate coating. I ate them until I came to this place. I think they still make them.”

“An Eskimo Pie?” Adam repeated.

“Yeah. I can still taste it. The greatest ice cream in the world. Can you imagine how good one would taste right now in this oven?”

“Then, Sam, you shall have an Eskimo Pie.”

“Bring more than one.”

“I’ll bring a dozen. We’ll eat ’em right here while we sweat.”

______

Sam’s second visitor on Saturday was not expected. He stopped at the guard station by the front gate, and produced a North Carolina driver’s license with his picture on it. He explained to the guard that he was the brother of Sam Cayhall, and had been told he could visit Sam on death row at his convenience between now and the scheduled execution. He had talked to a Mr. Holland somewhere deep in Administration yesterday, and Mr. Holland had assured him the visitation rules were relaxed for Sam Cayhall. He could visit anytime between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., any day of the week. The guard stepped inside and made a phone call.

Five minutes passed as the visitor sat patiently in his rented car. The guard made two more calls, then copied the registration number of the car onto her clipboard. She instructed the visitor to park a few feet away, lock his car, and wait by the guard station. He
did so, and within a few minutes a white prison van appeared. An armed, uniformed guard was behind the wheel, and he motioned for the visitor to get in.

The van was cleared through the double gates at MSU, and driven to the front entrance where two other guards waited. They frisked him on the steps. He was carrying no packages or bags.

They led him around the corner and into the empty visitors’ room. He took a seat near the middle of the screen. “We’ll get Sam,” one of the guards said. “Take about five minutes.”

Sam was typing a letter when the guards stopped at his door. “Let’s go, Sam. You have a visitor.”

He stopped typing and stared at them. His fan was blowing hard and his television was tuned to a baseball game. “Who is it?” he snapped.

“Your brother.”

Sam gently placed the typewriter on the bookshelf and grabbed his jumpsuit. “Which brother?”

“We didn’t ask any questions, Sam. Just your brother. Now come on.”

They handcuffed him and he followed them along the tier. Sam once had three brothers, but his oldest had died of a heart attack before Sam was sent to prison. Donnie, the youngest at age sixty-one, now lived near Durham, North Carolina. Albert, age sixty-seven, was in bad health and lived deep in the woods of rural Ford County. Donnie sent the cigarettes each month, along with a few dollars and an occasional note. Albert hadn’t written in seven years. A spinster aunt had written until her death in 1985. The rest of the Cayhalls had forgotten Sam.

It had to be Donnie, he said to himself. Donnie was the only one who cared enough to visit. He hadn’t seen him in two years, and he stepped lighter as they neared
the door to the visitors’ room. What a pleasant surprise.

Sam stepped through the door and looked at the man sitting on the other side of the screen. It was a face he didn’t recognize. He glanced around the room, and confirmed it was empty except for this visitor, who at the moment was staring at Sam with a cool and even gaze. The guards watched closely as they sprung the handcuffs, so Sam smiled and nodded at the man. Then he stared at the guards until they left the room and shut the door. Sam sat opposite his visitor, lit a cigarette, and said nothing.

There was something familiar about him, but he couldn’t identify him. They watched each other through the opening in the screen.

“Do I know you?” Sam finally asked.

“Yes,” the man answered.

“From where?”

“From the past, Sam. From Greenville and Jackson and Vicksburg. From the synagogue and the real estate office and the Pinder home and Marvin Kramer’s.”

“Wedge?”

The man nodded slowly, and Sam closed his eyes and exhaled at the ceiling. He dropped his cigarette and slumped in his chair. “God, I was hoping you were dead.”

“Too bad.”

Sam glared wildly at him. “You son of a bitch,” he said with clenched teeth. “Son of a bitch. I’ve hoped and dreamed for twenty-three years that you were dead. I’ve killed you a million times myself, with my bare hands, with sticks and knives and every weapon known to man. I’ve watched you bleed and I’ve heard you scream for mercy.”

“Sorry. Here I am, Sam.”

“I hate you more than any person has ever been
hated. If I had a gun right now I’d blow your sorry ass to hell and back. I’d pump your head full of lead and laugh until I cried. God, how I hate you.”

“Do you treat all your visitors like this, Sam?”

“What do you want, Wedge?”

“Can they hear us in here?”

“They don’t give a damn what we’re saying.”

“But this place could be wired, you know.”

“Then leave, fool, just leave.”

“I will in a minute. But first I just wanted to say that I’m here, and I’m watching things real close, and I’m very pleased that my name has not been mentioned. I certainly hope this continues. I’ve been very effective at keeping people quiet.”

“You’re very subtle.”

“Just take it like a man, Sam. Die with dignity. You were with me. You were an accomplice and a conspirator, and under the law you’re just as guilty as me. Sure I’m a free man, but who said life is fair. Just go on and take our little secret to your grave, and no one gets hurt, okay?”

“Where have you been?”

“Everywhere. My name’s not really Wedge, Sam, so don’t get any ideas. It was never Wedge. Not even Dogan knew my real name. I was drafted in 1966, and I didn’t want to go to Vietnam. So I went to Canada and came back to the underground. Been there ever since. I don’t exist, Sam.”

“You should be sitting over here.”

“No, you’re wrong. I shouldn’t, and neither should you. You were an idiot for going back to Greenville. The FBI was clueless. They never would’ve caught us. I was too smart. Dogan was too smart. You, however, happened to be the weak link. It would’ve been the last bombing too, you know, with the dead bodies and all. It was time to quit. I fled the country and would’ve
never returned to this miserable place. You would’ve gone home to your chickens and cows. Who knows what Dogan would’ve done. But the reason you’re sitting over there, Sam, is because you were a dumbass.”

“And you’re a dumbass for coming here today.”

“Not really. No one would believe you if you started screaming. Hell, they all think you’re crazy anyway. But just the same, I’d rather keep things the way they are. I don’t need the hassle. Just accept what’s coming, Sam, and do it quietly.”

Sam carefully lit another cigarette, and thumped the ashes in the floor. “Leave, Wedge. And don’t ever come back.”

“Sure. I hate to say it, Sam, but I hope they gas you.”

Sam stood and walked to the door behind him. A guard opened it, and took him away.

______

They sat in the rear of the cinema and ate popcorn like two teenagers. The movie was Adam’s idea. She’d spent three days in her room, with the virus, and by Saturday morning the binge was over. He had selected a family restaurant for dinner, one with quick food and no alcohol on the menu. She’d devoured pecan waffles with whipped cream.

The movie was a western, politically correct with the Indians as the good guys and the cowboys as scum. All pale faces were evil and eventually killed. Lee drank two large Dr. Peppers. Her hair was clean and pulled back over her ears. Her eyes were clear and pretty again. Her face was made up and the wounds of the past week were hidden. She was as cool as ever in jeans and cotton button-down. And she was sober.

Little had been said about last Thursday night when Adam slept by the door. They had agreed to discuss it later, at some distant point in the future when she
could handle it. That was fine with him. She was walking a shaky tightrope, teetering on the edge of another plunge into the blackness of dipsomania. He would protect her from torment and distress. He would make things pleasant and enjoyable. No more talk of Sam and his killings. No more talk of Eddie. No more Cayhall family history.

She was his aunt, and he loved her dearly. She was fragile and sick, and she needed his strong voice and broad shoulders.

      Thirty-five      

P
hillip Naifeh awoke in the early hours of Sunday morning with severe chest pains, and was rushed to the hospital in Cleveland. He lived in a modern home on the grounds at Parchman with his wife of forty-one years. The ambulance ride took twenty minutes, and he was stable by the time he entered the emergency room on a gurney.

His wife waited anxiously in the corridor as the nurses scurried about. She had waited there before, three years earlier with the first heart attack. A somber-faced young doctor explained that it was a mild one, that he was quite steady and secure and resting comfortably with the aid of medication. He would be monitored diligently for the next twenty-four hours, and if things went as expected he’d be home in less than a week.

He was absolutely forbidden from getting near Parchman, and could have nothing to do with the Cayhall execution. Not even a phone call from his bed.

______

Sleep was becoming a battle. Adam habitually read for an hour or so in bed, and had learned in law school that legal publications were marvelous sleeping aids. Now, however, the more he read the more he worried. His mind was burdened with the events of the past two weeks—the people he’d met, the things he’d learned, the places he’d been. And his mind raced wildly with what was to come.

He slept fitfully Saturday night, and was awake for
long stretches of time. When he finally awoke for the last time, the sun was up. It was almost eight o’clock. Lee had mentioned the possibility of another foray into the kitchen. She had once been quite good with sausage and eggs, she’d said, and anybody could handle canned biscuits, but as he pulled up his jeans and slipped on a tee shirt, he could smell nothing.

The kitchen was quiet. He called her name as he examined the coffee pot—half full. Her bedroom door was open and the lights were off. He quickly checked every room. She was not on the patio sipping coffee and reading the paper. A sick feeling came over him and grew worse with each empty room. He ran to the parking lot—no sign of her car. He stepped barefoot across the hot asphalt and asked the security guard when she’d left. He checked a clipboard, and said it had been almost two hours ago. She appeared to be fine, he said.

He found it on a sofa in the den, a three-inch stack of news and ads known as the Sunday edition of the Memphis Press. It had been left in a neat pile with the Metro section on top. Lee’s face was on the front of this section, in a photo taken at a charity ball years earlier. It was a close-up of Mr. and Mrs. Phelps Booth, all smiles for the camera. Lee was smashing in a strapless black dress. Phelps was decorated fashionably in black tie. They seemed to be a wonderfully happy couple.

The story was Todd Marks’ latest exploitation of the Cayhall mess, and with each report the series was becoming more tabloid-like. It started friendly enough, with a weekly summary of the events swirling around the execution. The same voices were heard—McAllister’s, Roxburgh’s, Lucas Mann’s, and Naifeh’s steady “no comments.” Then it turned mean-spirited quickly as it gleefully exposed Lee Cayhall Booth:
prominent Memphis socialite, wife of important banker Phelps Booth of the renowned and rich Booth family, community volunteer, aunt of Adam Hall, and, believe it or not, daughter of the infamous Sam Cayhall!

The story was written as if Lee herself were guilty of a terrible crime. It quoted alleged friends, unnamed of course, as being shocked to learn her true identity. It talked about the Booth family and its money, and pondered how a blue blood such as Phelps could stoop to marry into a clan such as the Cayhalls. It mentioned their son Walt, and again quoted unnamed sources who speculated about his refusal to return to Memphis. Walt had never married, it reported breathlessly, and lived in Amsterdam.

And then, worst of all, it quoted another nameless source and told the story of a charity event not too many years ago at which Lee and Phelps Booth were present and sat at a table near Ruth Kramer. The source had also been at the dinner, and distinctly remembered where these people had sat. The source was a friend of Ruth’s and an acquaintance of Lee’s, and was just plain shocked to learn that Lee had such a father.