The Chamber (Page 103)

McAllister was standing by the window with his jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves up, very much the beleaguered and overworked servant of the people. "Hello, Mr. Goodman," he said with a hand thrust forward and teeth flashing brilliantly.

"Governor, my pleasure," Goodman said. He had no briefcase, no standard lawyer accessories. He looked as if he’d simply passed by on the street and decided to stop and meet the governor.

"You’ve met Mr. Larramore and Ms. Stark," McAllister said, waving a hand at each.

"Yes. We’ve met. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice." Goodman tried to match his dazzling smile, but it was hopeless. At the moment, he was most humble and appreciative just to be in this great office.

"Let’s sit over here," the governor said, waving at the conference table and leading the way. The four of them sat on separate sides of the table. Larramore and Mona withdrew pens and were poised for serious note-taking. Goodman had nothing but his hands in front of him.

"I understand there’ve been quite of lot of filings in the past few days," McAllister said.

"Yes sir. Just curious, have you been through one of these before?" Goodman asked.

"No. Thankfully."

"Well, this is not unusual. I’m certain we’ll be filing petitions until the last moment."

"Can I ask you something, Mr. Goodman?" the governor said sincerely.

"Certainly."

"I know you’ve handled many of these cases. What’s your prediction at this point? How close will it get?"

"You never know. Sam’s a bit different from most inmates on death row because he’s had good lawyers – good trial counsel, then superb appellate work."

"By you, I believe."

Goodman smiled, then McAllister smiled, then Mona managed a grin. Larramore remained hunched over his legal pad, his face contorted in furious concentration.

"That’s right. So Sam’s major claims have already been ruled on. What you’re seeing now are the desperate moves, but they often work. I’d say fifty-fifty, today, seven days away."

Mona quickly recorded this on paper as if it carried some enormous legal significance. Larramore had written every word so far.

McAllister thought about it for a few seconds. "I’m a little confused, Mr. Goodman. Your client does not know we’re meeting. He’s opposed to the idea of a clemency hearing. You want this meeting kept quiet. So why are we here?"

"Things change, Governor. Again, I’ve been here many times before. I’ve watched men count down their last days. It does strange things to the mind. People change. As the lawyer, I have to cover every base, every angle."

"Are you asking for a hearing?"

"Yes sir. A closed hearing."

"When?"

"What about Friday?"

"In two days," McAllister said as he gazed through a window. Larramore cleared his throat, and asked, "What sort of witnesses do you anticipate?"

"Good question. If I had names, I’d give them to you now, but I don’t. Our presentation will be brief."

"Who will testify for the state?" McAllister asked Larramore, whose moist teeth glistened as he pondered. Goodman looked away.

"I’m certain the victims’ family will want to say something. The crime is usually discussed. Someone from the prison might be needed to discuss the type of inmate he’s been. These hearings are quite flexible."

"I know more about the crime than anyone," McAllister said, almost to himself.

"It’s a strange situation," Goodman confessed. "I’ve had my share of clemency hearings, and the prosecutor is usually the first witness to testify against the defendant. In this case, you were the prosecutor."

"Why do you want the hearing closed?"

"The governor has long been an advocate of open meetings," Mona added.

"It’s really best for everyone," Goodman said, much like the learned professor. "It’s less pressure on you, Governor, because it’s not exposed and you don’t have a lot of unsolicited advice. We, of course, would like for it to be closed."

"Why?" McAllister asked.

"Well, frankly, sir, we don’t want the public to see Ruth Kramer talking about her little boys." Goodman watched them as he delivered this. The real reason was something else altogether. Adam was convinced that the only way to talk Sam into a clemency hearing was to promise him it would not be a public spectacle. If such a hearing was closed, then Adam could maybe convince Sam that McAllister would be prevented from grandstanding.

Goodman knew dozens of people around the country who would gladly come to Jackson on a moment’s notice to testify on Sam’s behalf. He had heard these people make some persuasive, last minute arguments against death. Nuns, priests, ministers, psychologists, social workers, authors, professors, and a couple of former death row inmates. Dr. Swinn would testify about how dreadfully Sam was doing these days, and he would do an excellent job of trying to convince the governor that the state was about to kill a vegetable.

In most states, the inmate has a right to a last minute clemency hearing, usually before the governor. In Mississippi, however, the hearing was discretionary.

"I guess that makes sense," the governor actually said.

"There’s enough interest already," Goodman said, knowing that McAllister was giddy with dreams of the forthcoming media frenzy. "It will benefit no one if the hearing is open."

Mona, the staunch open meetings advocate, frowned even harder and wrote something in block letters. McAllister was deep in thought.

"Regardless of whether it’s open or closed," he said, "there’s no real reason for such a hearing unless you and your client have something new to add. I know this case, Mr. Goodman. I smelled the smoke. I saw the bodies. I cannot change my mind unless there’s something new."

"Such as?"

"Such as a name. You give me the name of Sam’s accomplice, and I’ll agree to a hearing. No promise of clemency, you understand, just a regular clemency hearing. Otherwise, this is a waste of time."

"Do you believe there was an accomplice?" Goodman asked.

"We were always suspicious. What do you think?"

"Why is it important?"

"It’s important because I make the final decision, Mr. Goodman. After the courts are finished with it, and the clock ticks down next Tuesday night, I’m the only person in the world who can stop it. If Sam deserves the death penalty, then I have no problem sitting by while it happens. But if he doesn’t, then the execution should be stopped. I’m a young man. I do not want to be haunted by this for the rest of my life. I want to make the right decision."

"But if you believe there was an accomplice, and you obviously do, then why not stop it anyway?"

"Because I want to be sure. You’ve been his lawyer for many years. Do you think he had an accomplice?"

"Yes. I’ve always thought there were two of them. I don’t know who was the leader and who was the follower, but Sam had help."

McAllister leaned closer to Goodman and looked into his eyes. "Mr. Goodman, if Sam will tell me the truth, then I will grant a closed hearing, and I will consider clemency. I’m not promising a damned thing, you understand, only that we’ll have the hearing. Otherwise, there’s nothing new to add to the story."

Mona and Larramore scribbled faster than court reporters.

"Sam says he’s telling the truth."

"Then forget the hearing. I’m a busy man."

Goodman sighed in frustration, but kept a smile in place. "Very well, we’ll talk to him again. Can we meet here again tomorrow?"