The Chamber (57 page)

Kerry agreed to participate in Goodman’s market analysis project over the weekend.

At eleven, Goodman returned to the governor’s office in the state capitol, and handed to Lawyer Larramore a written request for a clemency hearing. The governor was out of the office, very busy these days, and he, Larramore, would see him just after lunch. Goodman left his phone number at the Millsaps-Buie House, and said he would call in periodically.

He then drove to his new office, now supplied with the finest rental furniture available on two months’ lease, cash of course. The folding chairs were leftovers from a church fellowship hall, according to the markings under the seats. The rickety tables too had seen their share of potluck suppers and wedding receptions.

Goodman admired his hastily assembled little hole-in-the-wall. He took a seat, and on a new cellular phone he called his secretary in Chicago, Adam’s office in Memphis, his wife at home, and the governor’s hotline.

______

By 4 p.m. Thursday, the Mississippi Supreme Court still had not denied the claim based on Sam’s alleged mental incompetence. Almost thirty hours had passed
since Adam filed it. He’d made a nuisance of himself calling the court’s clerk. He was tired of explaining the obvious—he needed an answer, please. There was not the slightest trace of optimism that the court was actually considering the merits of the claim. The court, in Adam’s opinion, was dragging its feet and delaying his rush to federal court. At this point, relief in the state supreme court was impossible, he felt.

He wasn’t exactly on a roll in the federal courts either. The U.S. Supreme Court had not ruled on his request to consider the claim that the gas chamber was unconstitutional. The Fifth Circuit was sitting on his ineffectiveness of counsel claim.

Nothing was moving on Thursday. The courts were just sitting there as if these were ordinary lawsuits to be filed and assigned and docketed, then continued and delayed for years. He needed action, preferably a stay granted at some level, or if not a stay then an oral argument, or a hearing on the merits, or even a denial so he could move on to the next court.

He paced around the table in his office and listened for the phone. He was tired of pacing and sick of the phone. The office was littered with the debris of a dozen briefs. The table was blanketed with disheveled piles of paper. Pink and yellow phone messages were stuck along one bookshelf.

Adam suddenly hated the place. He needed fresh air. He told Darlene he was going for a walk, and left the building. It was almost five, still bright and very warm. He walked to the Peabody Hotel on Union, and had a drink in a corner of the lobby near the piano. It was his first drink since Friday in New Orleans, and although he enjoyed it he worried about Lee. He looked for her in the crowd of conventioneers flocking around the registration desk. He watched the tables in the lobby fill up with well-dressed people, hoping that for some
reason she would appear. Where do you hide when you’re fifty years old and running from life?

A man with a ponytail and hiking boots stopped and stared, then walked over. “Excuse me, sir. Are you Adam Hall, the lawyer for Sam Cayhall?”

Adam nodded.

The man smiled, obviously pleased that he’d recognized Adam, and walked to his table. “I’m Kirk Kleckner with the New York Times.” He laid a business card in front of Adam. “I’m here covering the Cayhall execution. Just arrived, actually. May I sit down?”

Adam waved at the empty seat across the small round table. Kleckner sat down. “Lucky to find you here,” he said, all smiles. He was in his early forties with a rugged, globe-trotting journalist look—scruffy beard, sleeveless cotton vest over a denim shirt, jeans. “Recognized you from some pictures I studied on the flight down.”

“Nice to meet you,” Adam said dryly.

“Can we talk?”

“About what?”

“Oh, lots of things. I understand your client will not give interviews.”

“That’s correct.”

“What about you?”

“The same. We can chat, but nothing for the record.”

“That makes it difficult.”

“I honestly don’t care. I’m not concerned with how difficult your job may be.”

“Fair enough.” A pliant young waitress in a short skirt stopped by long enough to take his order. Black coffee. “When did you last see your grandfather?”

“Tuesday.”

“When will you see him again?”

“Tomorrow.”

“How is he holding up?”

“He’s surviving. The pressure is building, but he’s taking it well, so far.”

“What about you?”

“Just having a ball.”

“Seriously. Are you losing sleep, you know, things like that?”

“I’m tired. Yeah, I’m losing sleep. I’m working lots of hours, running back and forth to the prison. It’ll go down to the wire, so the next few days will be hectic.”

“I covered the Bundy execution in Florida. Quite a circus. His lawyers went days without sleep.”

“It’s difficult to relax.”

“Will you do it again? I know this is not your specialty, but will you consider another death case?”

“Only if I find another relative on death row. Why do you cover these things?”

“I’ve written for years on the death penalty. It’s fascinating. I’d like to interview Mr. Cayhall.”

Adam shook his head and finished his drink. “No. There’s no way. He’s not talking to anyone.”

“Will you ask him for me?”

“No.”

The coffee arrived. Kleckner stirred it with a spoon. Adam watched the crowd. “I interviewed Benjamin Keyes yesterday in Washington,” Kleckner said. “He said he wasn’t surprised that you’re now saying he made mistakes at trial. He said he figured it was coming.”

At the moment, Adam didn’t care about Benjamin Keyes or any of his opinions. “It’s standard. I need to run. Nice to meet you.”

“But I wanted to talk about—”

“Listen, you’re lucky you caught me,” Adam said, standing abruptly.

“Just a couple of things,” Kleckner said as Adam walked away.

Adam left the Peabody, and strolled to Front Street near the river, passing along the way scores of well-dressed young people very much like himself, all in a hurry to go home. He envied them; whatever their vocations or careers, whatever their pressures at the moment, they weren’t carrying burdens as heavy as his.

He ate a sandwich at a delicatessen, and by seven was back in his office.

______

The rabbit had been trapped in the woods at Parchman by two of the guards, who named him Sam for the occasion. He was a brown cottontail, the largest of the four captured. The other three had already been eaten.

Late Thursday night, Sam the rabbit and his handlers, along with Colonel Nugent and the execution team, entered the Maximum Security Unit in prison vans and pickups. They drove slowly by the front and around the bullpens on the west end. They parked by a square, red-brick building attached to the southwest corner of MSU.

Two white, metal doors without windows led to the interior of the square building. One, facing south, opened to a narrow room, eight feet by fifteen, where the witnesses sat during the execution. They faced a series of black drapes which, when opened, revealed the rear of the chamber itself, just inches away.

The other door opened into the Chamber Room, a fifteen-by-twelve room with a painted concrete floor. The octagonal-shaped gas chamber sat squarely in the middle, glowing smartly from a fresh coat of silver enamel varnish and smelling like the same. Nugent had inspected it a week earlier and ordered a new paint job. The death room, as it was also known, was spotless
and sanitized. The black drapes over the windows behind the chamber were pulled.

Sam the rabbit was left in the bed of a pickup while a small guard, about the same height and weight as Sam Cayhall, was led by two of his larger colleagues into the Chamber Room. Nugent strutted and inspected like General Patton—pointing and nodding and frowning. The small guard was pushed gently into the chamber first, then joined by the two guards who turned him around and eased him into the wooden chair. Without a word or a smile, neither a grin nor a joke, they strapped his wrists first with leather bands to the arms of the chair. Then his knees, then his ankles. Then one lifted his head up an inch or two and held it in place while the other managed to buckle the leather head strap.

The two guards stepped carefully from the chamber, and Nugent pointed to another member of the team who stepped forward as if to say something to the condemned.

“At this point, Lucas Mann will read the death warrant to Mr. Cayhall,” Nugent explained like an amateur movie director. “Then I will ask if he has any last words.” He pointed again, and a designated guard closed the heavy door to the chamber and sealed it.

“Open it,” Nugent barked, and the door came open. The small guard was set free.

“Get the rabbit,” Nugent ordered. One of the handlers retrieved Sam the rabbit from the pickup. He sat innocently in a wire cage which was handed to the same two guards who’d just left the chamber. They carefully placed him in the wooden chair, then went about their task of strapping in an imaginary man. Wrists, knees, ankles, head, and the rabbit was ready for the gas. The two guards left the chamber.

The door was shut and sealed, and Nugent signaled
for the executioner, who placed a canister of sulfuric acid into a tube which ran into the bottom of the chamber. He pulled a lever, a clicking sound occurred, and the canister made its way to the bowl under the chair.

Nugent stepped to one of the windows and watched intently. The other members of the team did likewise. Petroleum jelly had been smeared around the edges of the windows to prevent seepage.

The poisonous gas was released slowly, and a faint mist of visible vapors rose from under the chair and drifted upward. At first, the rabbit didn’t react to the steam that permeated his little cell, but it hit him soon enough. He stiffened, then hopped a few times, banging into the sides of his cage, then he went into violent convulsions, jumping and jerking and twisting frantically. In less than a minute, he was still.

Nugent smiled as he glanced at his watch. “Clear it,” he ordered, and a vent at the top of the chamber was opened, releasing the gas.

The door from the Chamber Room to the outside was opened, and most of the execution team walked out for fresh air or a smoke. It would be at least fifteen minutes before the chamber could be opened and the rabbit removed. Then they had to hose it down and clean up. Nugent was still inside, watching everything. So they smoked and had a few laughs.

Less than sixty feet away, the windows above the hallway of Tier A were open. Sam could hear their voices. It was after ten and the lights were off, but in every cell along the tier two arms protruded from the bars as fourteen men listened in dark silence.

A death row inmate lives in a six-by-nine cell for twenty-three hours a day. He hears everything—the strange clicking sound of a new pair of boots in the hallway; the unfamiliar pitch and accent of a different voice; the faraway hum of a lawn mower or weedeater.
And he can certainly hear the opening and closing of the door to the Chamber Room. He can hear the satisfied and important chuckles of the execution team.

Sam leaned on his forearms and watched the windows above the hallway. They were practicing for him out there.

      Forty      

B
etween the western edge of Highway 49 and the front lawn of the administrative buildings of Parchman, a distance of fifty yards, there was a grassy strip of land that was smooth and noticeable because it was once a railroad track. It was where the death penalty protestors were corralled and monitored at every execution. They invariably arrived, usually small groups of committed souls who sat in folding chairs and held homemade placards. They burned candles at night and sang hymns during the final hours. They sang hymns, offered prayers, and wept when the death was announced.

A new twist had occurred during the hours preceding the execution of Teddy Doyle Meeks, a child rapist and killer. The somber, almost sacred protest had been disrupted by carloads of unruly college students who suddenly appeared without warning and had a delightful time demanding blood. They drank beer and played loud music. They chanted slogans and heckled the shaken death protestors. The situation deteriorated as the two groups exchanged words. Prison officials moved in and restored order.

Maynard Tole was next, and during the planning of his execution another section of turf on the other side of the main drive was designated for the death penalty proponents. Extra security was assigned to keep things peaceful.

When Adam arrived Friday morning, he counted seven Ku Klux Klansmen in white robes. Three were
engaged in some attempt at synchronized protest, a casual walking along the edge of the grassy strip near the highway with posters strung over their shoulders. The other four were erecting a large blue and white canopy. Metal poles and ropes were scattered on the ground. Two ice chests sat next to several lawn chairs. These guys were planning to stay awhile.

Adam stared at them as he rolled to a stop at the front gate of Parchman. He lost track of time as he watched the Kluckers for minutes. So this was his heritage, his roots. These were the brethren of his grandfather and his grandfather’s relatives and ancestors. Were some of these figures the same ones who’d been recorded on film and edited by Adam into the video about Sam Cayhall? Had he seen them before?

Instinctively, Adam opened the door of his car and got out. His coat and briefcase were in the rear seat. He began walking slowly in their direction, and stopped near their ice chests. Their placards demanded freedom for Sam Cayhall, a political prisoner. Gas the real criminals, but release Sam. For some reason, Adam was not comforted by their demands.

“What do you want?” demanded one with a sign draped over his chest. The other six stopped what they were doing and stared.

“I don’t know,” Adam said truthfully.

“Then what are you looking at?”

“I’m not sure.”

Three others joined the first, and they stepped together near Adam. Their robes were identical—white and made of a very light fabric with red crosses and other markings. It was almost 9 a.m., and they were already sweating. “Who the hell are you?”