The Chamber (70 page)

The doctor opened the door and left, followed by Packer and Tiny. Sam stood and stretched his back, then began pacing slowly across the room. The shoes slipped on his heels and affected his stride. “Are you nervous?” he asked with a nasty smile.

“Of course. And I guess you’re not.”

“The dying cannot be worse than the waiting. Hell, I’m ready. I’d like to get it over with.”

Adam almost said something trite about their reasonable chances in the Supreme Court, but he was not in the mood to be rebuked. Sam paced and smoked and was not in a talkative mood. Adam, typically, got busy with the telephone. He called Goodman and Kerry, but their conversations were brief. There was little to say, and no optimism whatsoever.

______

Colonel Nugent stood on the porch of the Visitors Center and asked for quiet. Assembled before him on the lawn was the small army of reporters and journalists, all anxiously awaiting the lottery. Next to him on a table was a tin bucket. Each member of the press wore an orange, numbered button dispensed by the prison administration as credentials. The mob was unusually quiet.

“According to prison regulations, there are eight seats allotted to members of the press,” Nugent explained slowly, his words carrying almost to the front gate. He was basking in the spotlight. “One seat is allotted to the AP, one to the UPI, and one to the Mississippi Network. That leaves five to be selected at random. I’ll pull five numbers from this bucket, and if one of them corresponds to your credentials, then it’s your lucky day. Any questions?”

Several dozen reporters suddenly had no questions. Many of them pulled at their orange badges to check their numbers. A ripple of excitement went through the group. Nugent dramatically reached into the bucket and pulled out a slip of paper. “Number four-eight-four-three,” he announced, with all the skill of a seasoned bingo caller.

“Here you go,” an excited young man called back, tugging at his lucky badge.

“Your name?” Nugent yelled.

“Edwin King, with the Arkansas Gazette.”

A deputy warden next to Nugent wrote down the name and paper. Edwin King was admired by his colleagues.

Nugent quickly called the other four numbers and completed the pool. A noticeable ebb of despair rolled through the group as the last number was called out. The losers were crushed. “At exactly eleven, two vans will pull up over there.” Nugent pointed to the main drive. “The eight witnesses must be present and ready. You will be driven to the Maximum Security Unit to witness the execution. No cameras or recorders of any type. You will be searched once you arrive there. Sometime around twelve-thirty, you will reboard the vans and return to this point. A press conference will then be held in the main hall of the new administration building, which will be opened at 9 p.m. for your convenience. Any questions?”

“How many people will witness the execution?” someone asked.

“There will be approximately thirteen or fourteen people in the witness room. And in the Chamber Room, there will be myself, one minister, one doctor, the state executioner, the attorney for the prison, and two guards.”

“Will the victims’ family witness the execution?”

“Yes. Mr. Elliot Kramer, the grandfather, is scheduled to be a witness.”

“How about the governor?”

“By statute, the governor has two seats in the witness room at his discretion. One of those seats will go to Mr. Kramer. I have not been told whether the governor will be here.”

“What about Mr. Cayhall’s family?”

“No. None of his relatives will witness the execution.”

Nugent had opened a can of worms. The questions were popping up everywhere, and he had things to do. “No more questions. Thank you,” he said, and walked off the porch.

______

Donnie Cayhall arrived for his last visit a few minutes before six. He was led straight to the front office, where he found his well-dressed brother laughing with Adam Hall. Sam introduced the two.

Adam had carefully avoided Sam’s brother until now. Donnie, as it turned out, was clean and neat, well groomed and dressed sensibly. He also resembled Sam, now that Sam had shaved, cut his hair, and shed the red jumpsuit. They were the same height, and though Donnie was not overweight, Sam was much thinner.

Donnie was clearly not the hick Adam had feared. He was genuinely happy to meet Adam and proud of the fact that he was a lawyer. He was a pleasant man with an easy smile, good teeth, but very sad eyes at the moment. “What’s it look like?” he asked after a few minutes of small talk. He was referring to the appeals.

“It’s all in the Supreme Court.”

“So there’s still hope?”

Sam snorted at this suggestion.

“A little,” Adam said, very much resigned to fate.

There was a long pause as Adam and Donnie
searched for less sensitive matters to discuss. Sam really didn’t care. He sat calmly in a chair, legs crossed, puffing away. His mind was occupied with things they couldn’t imagine.

“I stopped by Albert’s today,” Donnie said.

Sam’s gaze never left the floor. “How’s his prostate?”

“I don’t know. He thought you were already dead.”

“That’s my brother.”

“I also saw Aunt Finnie.”

“I thought she was already dead,” Sam said with a smile.

“Almost. She’s ninety-one. Just all tore up over what’s happened to you. Said you were always her favorite nephew.”

“She couldn’t stand me, and I couldn’t stand her. Hell, I didn’t see her for five years before I came here.”

“Well, she’s just plain crushed over this.”

“She’ll get over it.”

Sam’s face suddenly broke into a wide smile, and he started laughing. “Remember the time we watched her go to the outhouse behind Grandmother’s, then peppered it with rocks? She came out screaming and crying.”

Donnie suddenly remembered, and began to shake with laughter. “Yeah, it had a tin roof,” he said between breaths, “and every rock sounded like a bomb going off.”

“Yeah, it was me and you and Albert. You couldn’t have been four years old.”

“I remember though.”

The story grew and the laughter was contagious. Adam caught himself chuckling at the sight of these two old men laughing like boys. The one about Aunt Finnie and the outhouse led to one about her husband,
Uncle Garland, who was mean and crippled, and the laughs continued.

______

Sam’s last meal was a deliberate snub at the fingerless cooks in the kitchen and the uninspired rations they’d tormented him with for nine and a half years. He requested something that was light, came from a carton, and could be found with ease. He had often marveled at his predecessors who’d ordered seven-course dinners—steaks and lobster and cheesecake. Buster Moac had consumed two dozen raw oysters, then a Greek salad, then a large rib eye and a few other courses. He’d never understood how they summoned such appetites only hours before death.

He wasn’t the least bit hungry when Nugent knocked on the door at seven-thirty. Behind him was Packer, and behind Packer was a trustee holding a tray. In the center of the tray was a large bowl with three Eskimo Pies in it, and to the side was a small thermos of French Market coffee, Sam’s favorite. The tray was placed on the desk.

“Not much of a dinner, Sam,” Nugent said.

“Can I enjoy it in peace, or will you stand there and pester me with your idiot talk?”

Nugent stiffened and glared at Adam. “We’ll come back in an hour. At that time, your guest must leave, and we’ll return you to the Observation Cell. Okay?”

“Just leave,” Sam said, sitting at the desk.

As soon as they were gone, Donnie said, “Damn, Sam, why didn’t you order something we could enjoy? What kind of a last meal is this?”

“It’s my last meal. When your time comes, order what you want.” He picked up a fork and carefully scraped the vanilla ice cream and chocolate covering off the stick. He took a large bite, then slowly poured
the coffee into the cup. It was dark and strong with a rich aroma.

Donnie and Adam sat in the chairs along a wall, watching Sam’s back as he slowly ate his last meal.

______

They’d been arriving since five o’clock. They came from all over the state, all driving alone, all riding in big four-door cars of varied colors with elaborate seals and emblems and markings on the doors and fenders. Some had racks of emergency lights across the roof. Some had shotguns mounted on the screens above the front seats. All had tall antennas swinging in the wind.

They were the sheriffs, each elected in his own county to protect the citizenry from lawlessness. Most had served for many years, and most had already taken part in the unrecorded ritual of the execution dinner.

A cook named Miss Mazola prepared the feast, and the menu never varied. She fried large chickens in animal fat. She cooked black-eyed peas in ham hocks. And she made real buttermilk biscuits the size of small saucers. Her kitchen was in the rear of a small cafeteria near the main administration building. The food was always served at seven, regardless of how many sheriffs were present.

Tonight’s crowd would be the largest since Teddy Doyle Meeks was put to rest in 1982. Miss Mazola anticipated this because she read the papers and everybody knew about Sam Cayhall. She expected at least fifty sheriffs.

They were waved through the front gates like dignitaries, and they parked haphazardly around the cafeteria. For the most part they were big men, with earnest stomachs and voracious appetites. They were famished after the long drive.

Their banter was light over dinner. They ate like
hogs, then retired outside to the front of the building where they sat on the hoods of their cars and watched it grow dark. They picked chicken from their teeth and bragged on Miss Mazola’s cooking. They listened to their radios squawk, as if the news of Cayhall’s death would be transmitted at any moment. They talked about other executions and heinous crimes back home, and about local boys on the Row. Damned gas chamber wasn’t used enough.

They stared in amazement at the hundreds of demonstrators near the highway in front of them. They picked their teeth some more, then went back inside for chocolate cake.

It was a wonderful night for law enforcement.

      Forty-nine      

D
arkness brought an eerie quiet to the highway in front of Parchman. The Klansmen, not a single one of whom had considered leaving after Sam asked them to, sat in folding chairs and on the trampled grass, and waited. The skinheads and like-minded brethren who’d roasted in the August sun sat in small groups and drank ice water. The nuns and other activists had been joined by a contingent from Amnesty International. They lit candles, said prayers, hummed songs. They tried to keep their distance from the hate groups. Pick any other day, another execution, another inmate, and those same hateful people would be screaming for blood.

The calm was broken momentarily when a pickup load of teenagers slowed near the front entrance. They suddenly began shouting loudly and in unison, “Gas his ass! Gas his ass! Gas his ass!” The truck squealed tires and sped away. Some of the Klansmen jumped to their feet, ready for battle, but the kids were gone, never to return.

The imposing presence of the highway patrol kept matters under control. The troopers stood about in groups, watching the traffic, keeping close watch on the Klansmen and the skinheads. A helicopter made its rounds above.

______

Goodman finally called a halt to the market analysis. In five long days, they had logged over two thousand calls. He paid the students, confiscated the
cellular phones, and thanked them profusely. None of them seemed willing to throw in the towel, so they walked with him to the capitol where another candlelight vigil was under way on the front steps. The governor was still in his office on the second floor.

One of the students volunteered to take a phone to John Bryan Glass, who was across the street at the Mississippi Supreme Court. Goodman called him, then called Kerry, then called Joshua Caldwell, an old friend who’d agreed to wait at the Death Clerk’s desk in Washington. Goodman had everyone in place. All the phones were working. He called Adam. Sam was finishing his last meal, Adam said, and didn’t wish to talk to Goodman. But he did want to say thanks for everything.

______

When the coffee and ice cream were gone, Sam stood and stretched his legs. Donnie had been quiet for a long time. He was suffering and ready to go. Nugent would come soon, and he wanted to say good-bye now.

There was a spot where Sam had spilled ice cream on his new shirt, and Donnie tried to remove it with a cloth napkin. “It’s not that important,” Sam said, watching his brother.

Donnie kept wiping. “Yeah, you’re right. I’d better go now, Sam. They’ll be here in a minute.”

The two men embraced for a long time, patting each other gently on the backs. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” Donnie said, his voice shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

They pulled apart, still clutching each other’s shoulders, both men with moist eyes but no tears. They would not dare cry before each other. “You take care,” Sam said.

“You too. Say a prayer, Sam, okay?”

“I will. Thanks for everything. You’re the only one who cared.”

Donnie bit his lip and hid his eyes from Sam. He shook hands with Adam, but could not utter a word. He walked behind Sam to the door, then left them.

“No word from the Supreme Court?” Sam asked out of nowhere, as if he suddenly believed there was a chance.

“No,” Adam said sadly.

He sat on the desk, his feet swinging beneath him. “I really want this to be over, Adam,” he said, each word carefully measured. “This is cruel.”

Adam could think of nothing to say.

“In China, they sneak up behind you and put a bullet through your head. No last bowl of rice. No farewells. No waiting. Not a bad idea.”

Adam looked at his watch for the millionth time in the past hour. Since noon, there had been gaps when hours seemed to vanish, then suddenly time would stop. It would fly, then it would crawl. Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” Sam said faintly.