The Chamber (60 page)

“I’m listening,” he said.

“The calls stopped around nine last night, last one was at nine-o-seven. The total for the day was four hundred and eighty-six, and at least ninety percent voiced strong opposition to the execution.”

“Ninety percent,” McAllister said in disbelief. He was no longer in shock, though. By noon yesterday, the hotline operators had reported an unusual number of calls, and by one Mona was analyzing printouts. They had spent much of yesterday afternoon staring at the numbers, contemplating the next move. He had slept little.

“Who are these people?” he said, staring through a window.

“Your constituents. The calls are coming from all over the state. The names and numbers appear to be legitimate.”

“What was the old record?”

“I don’t know. Seems like we had around a hundred
one day when the legislature gave itself another pay raise. But nothing like this.”

“Ninety percent,” he mumbled again.

“And there’s something else. There were lots of other calls to various numbers in this office. My secretary took a dozen or so.”

“All for Sam, right?”

“Yes, all opposed to the execution. I’ve talked to some of our people, and everybody got nailed yesterday. And Roxburgh called me at home last night and said that his office had been besieged with calls against the execution.”

“Good. I want him to sweat too.”

“Do we close the hotline?”

“How many operators work on Saturday and Sunday?”

“Only one.”

“No. Leave it open today. Let’s see what happens today and tomorrow.” He walked to another window and loosened his tie. “When does the polling start?”

“Three this afternoon.”

“I’m anxious to see those numbers.”

“They could be just as bad.”

“Ninety percent,” he said, shaking his head.

“Over ninety percent,” Mona corrected him.

______

The war room was littered with pizza boxes and beer cans, evidence of a long day of market analysis. A tray of fresh doughnuts and a row of tall paper coffee cups now awaited the analysts, two of whom had just arrived with newspapers. Garner Goodman stood at the window with a new pair of binoculars, watching the capitol three blocks away, and paying particular attention to the windows of the governor’s office. During a moment of boredom yesterday, he’d gone to a mall in search of a bookstore. He’d found the binoculars
in the window of a leather shop, and throughout the afternoon they’d had great fun trying to catch the governor pondering through his windows, no doubt wondering where all those damned calls were coming from.

The students devoured the doughnuts and newspapers. There was a brief but serious discussion about some obvious procedural deficiencies in Mississippi’s postconviction relief statutes. The third member of the shift, a first-year student from New Orleans, arrived at eight, and the calls started.

It was immediately apparent that the hotline was not as efficient as the day before. It was difficult to get through to an operator. No problem. They used alternate numbers—the switchboard at the governor’s mansion, the lines to the cute little regional offices he’d established, amid great fanfare, around the state so that he, a common man, could stay close to the people.

The people were calling.

Goodman left the office and walked along Congress Street to the capitol. He heard the sounds of a loudspeaker being tested, and then saw the Klansmen. They were organizing themselves, at least a dozen in full parade dress, around the monument to Confederate women at the base of the front steps to the capitol. Goodman walked by them, actually said hello to one, so that when he returned to Chicago he could say he talked to some real Kluckers.

The two reporters who’d waited for the governor were now on the front steps watching the scene below. A local television crew arrived as Goodman entered the capitol.

The governor was too busy to meet with him, Mona Stark explained gravely, but Mr. Larramore could spare a few minutes. She looked a bit frazzled, and this pleased Goodman greatly. He followed her to Larramore’s
office where they found the lawyer on the phone. Goodman hoped it was one of his calls. He obediently took a seat. Mona closed the door and left them.

“Good morning,” Larramore said as he hung up.

Goodman nodded politely, and said, “Thanks for the hearing. We didn’t expect the governor to grant one, in light of what he said on Wednesday.”

“He’s under a lot of pressure. We all are. Is your client willing to talk about his accomplice?”

“No. There’s been no change.”

Larramore ran his fingers through his sticky hair and shook his head in frustration. “Then what’s the purpose of a clemency hearing? The governor is not going to budge on this, Mr. Goodman.”

“We’re working on Sam, okay. We’re talking to him. Let’s plan on going through with the hearing on Monday. Maybe Sam will change his mind.”

The phone rang and Larramore snatched it angrily. “No, this is not the governor’s office. Who is this?” He scribbled down a name and phone number. “This is the governor’s legal department.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you voted for the governor.” He listened some more. “Thank you, Mr. Hurt. I’ll tell the governor you called. Yes, thanks.”

He returned the receiver to the phone. “So, Mr. Gilbert Hurt from Dumas, Mississippi, is against the execution,” he said, staring at the phone, dazed. “The phones have gone crazy.”

“Lots of calls, huh?” Goodman asked, sympathetically.

“You wouldn’t believe.”

“For or against?”

“About fifty-fifty, I’d say,” Larramore said. He took the phone again and punched in the number for Mr.
Gilbert Hurt of Dumas, Mississippi. No one answered. “This is strange,” he said, hanging up again. “The man just called me, left a legitimate number, now there’s no answer.”

“Probably just stepped out. Try again later.” Goodman hoped he wouldn’t have the time to try again later. In the first hour of the market analysis yesterday, Goodman had made a slight change in technique. He had instructed his callers to first check the phone numbers to make certain there was no answer. This prevented some curious type such as Larramore or perhaps a nosy hotline operator from calling back and finding the real person. Odds were the real person would greatly support the death penalty. It slowed things a bit for the market analysts, but Goodman felt safer with it.

“I’m working on an outline for the hearing,” Larramore said, “just in case. We’ll probably have it in the House Ways and Means Committee Room, just down the hall.”

“Will it be closed?”

“No. Is this a problem?”

“We have four days left, Mr. Larramore. Everything’s a problem. But the hearing belongs to the governor. We’re just thankful he’s granted one.”

“I have your numbers. Keep in touch.”

“I’m not leaving Jackson until this is over.”

They shook hands quickly and Goodman left the office. He sat on the front steps for half an hour and watched the Klansmen get organized and attract the curious.

      Forty-two      

T
hough he’d worn a white robe and a pointed hood as a much younger man, Donnie Cayhall kept his distance from the lines of Klansmen patrolling the grassy strip near the front gate of Parchman. Security was tight, with armed guards watching the protestors. Next to the canopy where the Klansmen gathered was a small group of skinheads in brown shirts. They held signs demanding freedom for Sam Cayhall.

Donnie watched the spectacle for a moment, then followed the directions of a security guard and parked along the highway. His name was checked at the guardhouse, and a few minutes later a prison van came for him. His brother had been at Parchman for nine and a half years, and Donnie had tried to visit at least once a year. But the last visit had been two years ago, he was ashamed to admit.

Donnie Cayhall was sixty-one, the youngest of the four Cayhall brothers. All had followed the teachings of their father and joined the Klan in their teens. It had been a simple decision with little thought given to it, one expected by the entire family. Later he had joined the Army, fought in Korea, and traveled the world. In the process, he had lost interest in wearing robes and burning crosses. He left Mississippi in 1961, and went to work for a furniture company in North Carolina. He now lived near Durham.

Every month for nine and a half years, he had shipped to Sam a box of cigarettes and a small amount
of cash. He’d written a few letters, but neither he nor Sam were interested in correspondence. Few people in Durham knew he had a brother on death row.

He was frisked inside the front door, and shown to the front office. Sam was brought in a few minutes later, and they were left alone. Donnie hugged him for a long time, and when they released each other both had moist eyes. They were of similar height and build, though Sam looked twenty years older. He sat on the edge of the desk and Donnie took a chair nearby.

Both lit cigarettes and stared into space.

“Any good news?” Donnie finally asked, certain of the answer.

“No. None. The courts are turning everything down. They’re gonna do it, Donnie. They’re gonna kill me. They’ll walk me to the chamber and gas me like an animal.”

Donnie’s face fell to his chest. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“I’m sorry too, but, dammit, I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I mean it. I’m tired of living in a cage. I’m an old man and my time has come.”

“But you don’t deserve to be killed, Sam.”

“That’s the hardest part, you know. It’s not that I’m gonna die, hell, we’re all dying. I just can’t stand the thought of these jackasses getting the best of me. They’re gonna win. And their reward is to strap me in and watch me choke. It’s sick.”

“Can’t your lawyer do something?”

“He’s trying everything, but it looks hopeless. I want you to meet him.”

“I saw his picture in the paper. He doesn’t resemble our people.”

“He’s lucky. He looks more like his mother.”

“Sharp kid?”

Sam managed a smile. “Yeah, he’s pretty terrific. He’s really grieving over this.”

“Will he be here today?”

“Probably. I haven’t heard from him. He’s staying with Lee in Memphis,” Sam said with a touch of pride. Because of him, his daughter and his grandson had become close and were actually living together peacefully.

“I talked to Albert this morning,” Donnie said. “He says he’s too sick to come over.”

“Good. I don’t want him here. And I don’t want his kids and grandkids here either.”

“He wants to pay his respects, but he can’t.”

“Tell him to save it for the funeral.”

“Come on, Sam.”

“Look, no one’s gonna cry for me when I’m dead. I don’t want a lot of false pity before then.

“I need something from you, Donnie. And it’ll cost a little money.”

“Sure. Anything.”

Sam pulled at the waist of his red jumpsuit. “You see this damned thing. They’re called reds, and I’ve worn them every day for almost ten years. This is what the State of Mississippi expects me to wear when it kills me. But, you see, I have the right to wear anything I want. It would mean a lot if I die in some nice clothes.”

Donnie was suddenly hit with emotion. He tried to speak, but words didn’t come. His eyes were wet and his lip quivered. He nodded, and managed to say, “Sure, Sam.”

“You know those work pants called Dickies? I wore them for years. Sort of like khakis.”

Donnie was still nodding.

“A pair of them would be nice, with a white shirt of some sort, not a pullover but one with buttons on it. Small shirt, small pants, thirty-two in the waist. A pair of white socks, and some kind of cheap shoes. Hell, I’ll
just wear them once, won’t I? Go to Wal-Mart or some place and you can probably get the whole thing for less than thirty bucks. Do you mind?”

Donnie wiped his eyes and tried to smile. “No, Sam.”

“I’ll be a dude, won’t I?”

“Where will you be buried?”

“Clanton, next to Anna. I’m sure that’ll upset her peaceful rest. Adam’s taking care of the arrangements.”

“What else can I do?”

“Nothing. If you’ll just get me a change of clothes.”

“I’ll do it today.”

“You’re the only person in the world who’s cared about me all these years, do you know that? Aunt Barb wrote me for years before she died, but her letters were always stiff and dry, and I figured she was doing it so she could tell her neighbors.”

“Who the hell was Aunt Barb?”

“Hubert Cain’s mother. I’m not even sure she’s related to us. I hardly knew her until I arrived here, then she started this awful correspondence. She was just all tore up by the fact that one of her own had been sent to Parchman.”

“May she rest in peace.”

Sam chuckled, and was reminded of an ancient childhood story. He told it with great enthusiasm, and minutes later both brothers were laughing loudly. Donnie was reminded of another tale, and so it went for an hour.

______

By the time Adam arrived late Saturday afternoon, Donnie had been gone for hours. He was taken to the front office, where he spread some papers on the desk. Sam was brought in, his handcuffs removed, and the
door was closed behind them. He held more envelopes, which Adam noticed immediately.

“More errands for me?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yeah, but they can wait until it’s over.”

“To whom?”

“One is to the Pinder family I bombed in Vicksburg. One is to the Jewish synagogue I bombed in Jackson. One is to the Jewish real estate agent, also in Jackson. There may be others. No hurry, since I know you’re busy right now. But after I’m gone, I’d appreciate it if you’d take care of them.”

“What do these letters say?”

“What do you think they say?”

“I don’t know. That you’re sorry, I guess.”

“Smart boy. I apologize for my deeds, repent of my sins, and ask them to forgive me.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Sam stopped and leaned on a file cabinet. “Because I sit in a little cage all day. Because I have a typewriter and plenty of paper. I’m bored as hell, okay, so maybe I want to write. Because I have a conscience, not much of one, but it’s there, and the closer I get to death the guiltier I feel about the things I’ve done.”