The Chamber (65 page)

Yeah, you want those damned phones to stop ringing, Goodman thought to himself. “What?”

“I’d really like to talk to Adam Hall. Where is he?”

“Probably at Parchman. I talked to him an hour ago.”

“Can he come here today?”

“Yes, in fact he was planning on arriving in Jackson this afternoon.”

“Good. I’ll wait for him.”

Goodman suppressed a smile. Perhaps a small hole had ruptured in the dam.

Oddly, though, it was on a different, far more unlikely front where the first hint of relief surfaced.

______

Six blocks away in the federal courthouse, Breck Jefferson entered the office of his boss, the Honorable F. Flynn Slattery, who was on the phone and rather perturbed at a lawyer. Breck held a thick petition for writ of habeas corpus, and a legal pad filled with notes.

“Yes?” Slattery barked, slamming down the phone.

“We need to talk about Cayhall,” Breck said somberly. “You know we’ve got his petition alleging mental incompetence.”

“Let’s deny it and get it outta here. I’m too busy to worry with it. Let Cayhall take it to the Fifth Circuit. I don’t want that damned thing lying around here.”

Breck looked troubled, and his words came slower. “But there’s something you need to take a look at.”

“Aw, come on, Breck. What is it?”

“He may have a valid claim.”

Slattery’s face fell and his shoulders slumped. “Come on. Are you kidding? What is it? We have a trial starting in thirty minutes. There’s a jury waiting out there.”

Breck Jefferson had been the number-two student in his law class at Emory. Slattery trusted him implicitly. “They’re claiming Sam lacks the mental competence to face an execution, pursuant to a rather broad Mississippi statute.”

“Everybody knows he’s crazy.”

“They have an expert who’s willing to testify. It’s not something we can ignore.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“You’d better look at it.”

His Honor massaged his forehead with his fingertips. “Sit down. Let me see it.”

______

“Just a few more miles,” Adam said as they sped toward the prison. “How you doing?”

Carmen had said little since they left Memphis. Her first journey into Mississippi had been spent looking at the vastness of the Delta, admiring the lushness of its miles of cotton and beans, watching in amazement as crop dusters bounced along the tops of the fields, shaking her head at the clusters of impoverished shacks. “I’m nervous,” she admitted, not for the first time. They had talked briefly about Berkeley and Chicago and what the next years might bring. They had said nothing about their mother or father. Sam and his family were likewise neglected.

“He’s nervous too.”

“This is bizarre, Adam. Rushing along this highway in this wilderness, hurrying to meet a grandfather who’s about to be executed.”

He patted her firmly on the knee. “You’re doing the right thing.” She wore oversized chinos, hiking boots, a faded red denim shirt. Very much the grad student in psychology.

“There it is.” He suddenly pointed ahead. On both sides of the highway, cars had parked bumper to bumper. Traffic was slow as people walked toward the prison.

“What’s all this?” she asked.

“This is a circus.”

They passed three Klansmen walking on the edge of the pavement. Carmen stared at them, then shook her head in disbelief. They inched forward, going slightly faster than the people hurrying to the demonstrations. In the middle of the highway in front of the entrance, two state troopers directed traffic. They motioned for Adam to turn right, which he did. A Parchman guard pointed to an area along a shallow road ditch.

They held hands and walked to the front gate, pausing for a moment to stare at the dozens of robed Klansmen milling about in front of the prison. A fiery speech was being delivered into a megaphone that malfunctioned every few seconds. A group of brownshirts stood shoulder to shoulder, holding signs and facing the traffic. No less than five television vans were parked on the other side of the highway. Cameras were everywhere. A news helicopter circled above.

At the front gate, Adam introduced Carmen to his new pal Louise, the guard who took care of the paperwork. She was nervous and frazzled. There’d been an altercation or two between the Kluckers and the press and the guards. Things were dicey at the moment, and not likely to improve, in her opinion.

A uniformed guard escorted them to a prison van, and they hurriedly left the front entrance.

“Unbelievable,” Carmen said.

“It gets worse each day. Wait till tomorrow.”

The van slowed as they eased along the main drive, under the large shade trees and in front of the neat, white houses. Carmen watched everything.

“This doesn’t look like a prison,” she said.

“It’s a farm. Seventeen thousand acres. Prison employees live in those houses.”

“With children,” she said, looking at bicycles and scooters lying in the front yards. “It’s so peaceful. Where are the prisoners?”

“Just wait.”

The van turned to the left. The pavement stopped and the dirt road began. Just ahead was the Row.

“See the towers there?” Adam pointed. “The fences and the razor wire?” She nodded.

“That’s the Maximum Security Unit. Sam’s home for the past nine and a half years.”

“Where’s the gas chamber?”

“In there.”

Two guards looked inside the van, then waved it through the double gates. It stopped near the front door where Packer was waiting. Adam introduced him to Carmen, who by now was barely able to speak. They stepped inside, where Packer frisked them gently. Three other guards watched. “Sam’s already in there,” Packer said nodding to the front office. “Go on in.”

Adam took her hand and clenched it tightly. She nodded and they walked to the door. He opened it.

Sam was sitting on the edge of the desk, as usual. His feet were swinging under him and he was not smoking. The air in the room was clear and cool. He glanced at Adam, then looked at Carmen. Packer closed the door behind them.

She released Adam’s hand and walked to the desk, looking Sam squarely in the eyes. “I’m Carmen,” she said softly. Sam eased from the desk. “I’m Sam, Carmen. Your wayward grandfather.” He drew her to him and they embraced.

It took a second or two for Adam to realize Sam had shaved his beard. His hair was shorter and looked much neater. His jumpsuit was zipped to the neck.

Sam squeezed her shoulders and examined her face. “You’re as pretty as your mother,” he said hoarsely. His eyes were moist and Carmen was fighting back tears.

She bit her lip and tried to smile.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, trying to grin. “I’m sorry you had to find me like this.”

“You look great,” she said.

“Don’t start lying, Carmen,” Adam said, breaking the ice. “And let’s stop the crying before it gets outta hand.”

“Sit down,” Sam said to her, pointing to a chair. He sat next to her, holding her hand.

“Business first, Sam,” Adam said as he leaned on the desk. “Fifth Circuit turned us down early this morning. So we’re off to greener pastures.”

“Your brother here is quite a lawyer,” Sam said to Carmen. “He gives me this same news every day.”

“Of course, I don’t have much to work with,” Adam said.

“How’s your mother?” Sam asked her.

“She’s fine.”

“Tell her I asked about her. I remember her as a fine person.”

“I will.”

“Any word on Lee?” Sam asked him.

“No. Do you want to see her?”

“I think so. But if she can’t make it, I’ll understand.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Adam said confidently. His last two phone calls to Phelps had not been returned. Frankly, he didn’t have time at the moment to look for Lee.

Sam leaned closer to her. “Adam tells me you’re studying psychology.”

“That’s right. I’m in grad school at Cal Berkeley. I’ll—”

A sharp knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Adam opened it slightly, and saw the anxious face of Lucas Mann. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said to Sam and Carmen, and stepped into the hall.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Garner Goodman’s looking for you,” Mann said, almost in a whisper. “He wants you in Jackson immediately.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Looks like one of your claims has found its mark.”

Adam’s heart stopped. “Which one?”

“Judge Slattery wants to talk about the mental incompetence. He’s scheduled a hearing for five this afternoon.
Don’t say anything to me, because I might be a witness for the state.”

Adam closed his eyes and gently tapped his head against the wall. A thousand thoughts swirled wildly through his brain. “Five this afternoon. Slattery?”

“Hard to believe. Look, you need to move fast.”

“I need a phone.”

“There’s one in there,” Mann said, nodding to the door behind Adam. “Look, Adam, it’s none of my business, but I wouldn’t tell Sam. This is still a long shot, and there’s no sense getting his hopes up. If it was my decision, I’d wait until the hearing is over.”

“You’re right. Thanks, Lucas.”

“Sure. I’ll see you in Jackson.”

Adam returned to the room, where the discussion had drifted to life in the Bay Area. “It’s nothing,” Adam said with a frown and went casually to the phone. He ignored their quiet talk as he punched the numbers.

“Garner, it’s Adam. I’m here with Sam. What’s up?”

“Get your ass down here, old boy,” Goodman said calmly. “Things are moving.”

“I’m listening.” Sam was describing his first and only trip to San Francisco, decades ago.

“First, the governor wants to talk privately with you. He seems to be suffering. We’re wearing his ass out with the phones, and he’s feeling the heat. More importantly, Slattery, of all people, is hung up on the mental claim. I talked with him thirty minutes ago, and he’s just thoroughly confused. I didn’t help matters. He wants a hearing at five this afternoon. I’ve already talked to Dr. Swinn, and he’s on standby. He’ll land in Jackson at three-thirty and be ready to testify.”

“I’m on my way,” Adam said with his back to Sam and Carmen.

“Meet me at the governor’s office.”

Adam hung up. “Just getting the appeals filed,” he explained to Sam, who at the moment was totally indifferent. “I need to get to Jackson.”

“What’s the hurry?” Sam asked, like a man with years to live and nothing to do.

“Hurry? Did you say hurry? It’s ten o’clock, Sam, on Monday. We have exactly thirty-eight hours to find a miracle.”

“There won’t be any miracles, Adam.” He turned to Carmen, still holding her hand. “Don’t get your hopes up, dear.”

“Maybe—”

“No. It’s my time, okay. And I’m very ready. I don’t want you to be sad when it’s over.”

“We need to go, Sam,” Adam said, touching his shoulder. “I’ll be back either late tonight or early in the morning.”

Carmen leaned over and kissed Sam on the cheek. “My heart is with you, Sam,” she whispered.

He hugged her for a second, then stood by the desk. “You take care, kid. Study hard and all that. And don’t think badly of me, okay? I’m here for a reason. It’s nobody’s fault but mine. There’s a better life waiting on me outside this place.”

Carmen stood and hugged him again. She was crying as they left the room.

      Forty-six      

B
y noon, Judge Slattery had fully embraced the gravity of the moment, and though he tried hard to conceal it, he was enjoying immensely this brief interval in the center of the storm. First, he had dismissed the jury and lawyers in the civil trial pending before him. He had twice talked to the clerk of the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans, then to Justice McNeely himself. The big moment had come a few minutes after eleven when Supreme Court Justice Edward F. Allbright called from Washington to get an update. Allbright was monitoring the case by the hour. They talked law and theory. Neither man was opposed to the death penalty, and both had particular problems with the Mississippi statute in question. They were concerned that it could be abused by any death row inmate who could pretend to be insane and find a wacky doctor to play along.

The reporters quickly learned that a hearing of some type was scheduled, and they not only flooded Slattery’s office with calls, but parked themselves in his receptionist’s office. The U.S. marshall was called to disperse the reporters.

The secretary brought messages by the minute. Breck Jefferson dug through countless law books and scattered research over the long conference table. Slattery talked to the governor, the Attorney General, Garner Goodman, dozens of others. His shoes were under his massive desk. He walked around it, holding the receiver
with a long cord, thoroughly enjoying the madness.

______

If Slattery’s office was hectic, then the Attorney General’s was pure chaos. Roxburgh had gone ballistic with the news that one of Cayhall’s shots in the dark had hit a target. You fight these bears for ten years, up and down the appellate ladders, out of one courtroom and into another, battling the creative legal minds of the ACLU and similar outfits, producing along the way enough paperwork to destroy a rain forest, and right when you’ve got him in your sights, he files a ton of gangplank appeals and one of them gets noticed by a judge somewhere who just happens to be in a tender mood.

He had stormed down the hall to the office of Morris Henry, Dr. Death himself, and together they hastily had assembled a team of their best criminal boys. They met in a large library with rows and stacks of the latest books. They reviewed the Cayhall petition and the applicable law, and they plotted strategy. Witnesses were needed. Who had seen Cayhall in the last month? Who could testify about the things he said and did? There was no time for one of their doctors to examine him. He had a doctor, but they didn’t. This was a significant problem. To get their hands on him with a reputable doctor, the state would be forced to ask for time. And time meant a stay of execution. A stay was out of the question.

The guards saw him every day. Who else? Roxburgh called Lucas Mann, who suggested that he talk to Colonel Nugent. Nugent said he’d seen Sam just hours earlier, and, yes, of course, he would be happy to testify. Son of a bitch wasn’t crazy. He was just mean. And Sergeant Packer saw him every day. And the prison psychiatrist, Dr. N. Stegall, had met with Sam, and she
could testify. Nugent was anxious to help. He also suggested the prison chaplain. And he would think about others.