The Chamber (Page 109)

"Forget it."

"That’s what I’ve told them. But there’s one inquiry that might interest you. There’s a man named Wendall Sherman, an author of some repute who’s published four or five books and won some awards. I haven’t read any of his work, but he checks out. He’s legitimate. I talked to him yesterday by phone, and he wants to sit with you and record your story. He seemed to be very honest, and said that the recording could take hours. He’s flying to Memphis today, just in case you say yes."

"Why does he want to record me?"

"He wants to write a book about you."

"A romance novel?"

"I doubt it. He’s willing to pay fifty thousand dollars up front, with a percentage of the royalties later on."

"Great. I get fifty thousand a few days before I die. What shall I do with it?"

"I’m just relaying the offer."

"Tell him to go to hell. I’m not interested." "Fine."

"I want you to draw up an agreement whereby I assign all rights to my life story to you, and after I’m gone you do whatever the hell you want with it."

"It wouldn’t be a bad idea to record it."

"You mean – "

"Talk into a little machine with little tapes. I can get one for you. Sit in your cell and talk about your life."

"How boring." Sam finished the Eskimo pie and tossed the stick in the wastebasket.

"Depends on how you look at it. Things seem rather exciting now."

"Yeah, you’re right. A pretty dull life, but the end was sensational."

"Sounds like a bestseller to me."

"I’ll think about it."

Sam suddenly jumped to his feet, leaving the rubber shower shoes under his chair. He loped across the office in long strides, measuring and smoking as he went. "Thirteen by sixteen and a half," he mumbled to himself, then measured some more.

Adam made notes on a legal pad and tried to ignore the red figure bouncing off the walls. Sam finally stopped and leaned on a file cabinet. "I want you to do me a favor," he said, staring at a wall across the room. His voice was much lower. He breathed slowly.

"I’m listening," Adam said.

Sam took a step to the chair and picked up an envelope. He handed it to Adam and returned to his position against the file cabinet. The envelope was turned over so that Adam could not see the writing on it.

"I want you to deliver that," Sam said.

"To whom?"

"Quince Lincoln."

Adam placed it to his side on the desk, and watched Sam carefully. Sam, however, was lost in another world. His wrinkled eyes stared blankly at something on the wall across the room. "I’ve worked on it for a week," he said, his voice almost hoarse, "but I’ve thought about it for forty years."

"What’s in the letter?" Adam asked slowly.

"An apology. I’ve carried the guilt for many years, Adam. Joe Lincoln was a good and decent man, a good father. I lost my head and killed him for no reason. And I knew before I shot him that I could get by with it. I’ve always felt bad about it. Real bad. There’s nothing I can do now except say that I’m sorry."

"I’m sure it’ll mean something to the Lincolns."

"Maybe. In the letter I ask them for forgiveness, which I believe is the Christian way of doing things. When I die, I’d like to have the knowledge that I tried to say I’m sorry."

"Any idea where I might find him?"

"That’s the hard part. I’ve heard through family that the Lincolns are still in Ford County. Ruby, his widow, is probably still alive. I’m afraid you’ll just have to go to Clanton and start asking questions. They have an African sheriff, so I’d start with him. He probably knows all the Africans in the county."

"And if I find Quince?"

"Tell him who you are. Give him the letter. Tell him that I died with a lot of guilt. Can you do that?"

"I’ll be happy to. I’m not sure when I can do it."

"Wait until I’m dead. You’ll have plenty of time once this is over."

Sam again walked to the chair, and this time picked up two envelopes. He handed them to Adam, and began pacing slowly, back and forth across the room. The name of Ruth Kramer was typed on one, no address, and Elliot Kramer on the other. "Those are for the Kramers. Deliver them, but wait until the execution is over."

"Why wait?"

"Because my motives are pure. I don’t want them to think I’m doing this to arouse sympathy in my dying hours."

Adam placed the Kramer letters next to Quince Lincoln’s – three letters, three dead bodies. How many more letters would Sam crank out over the weekend? How many more victims were out there?

"You’re sure you’re about to die, aren’t you, Sam?"

He stopped by the door and pondered this for a moment. "The odds are against us. I’m getting prepared."

"We still have a chance."

"Sure we do. But I’m getting ready, just in case. I’ve hurt a lot of people, Adam, and I haven’t always stopped to think about it. But when you have a date with the grim reaper, you think about the damage you’ve done."

Adam picked up the three envelopes and looked at them. "Are there others?"

Sam grimaced and looked at the floor. "That’s all, for now."

The Jackson paper on Friday morning carried a front-page story about Sam Cayhall’s request for a clemency hearing. The story included a slick photo of Governor David McAllister, a bad one of Sam, and lots of self-serving comments by Mona Stark, the governor’s chief of staff, all to the effect that the governor was struggling with the decision.

Since he was a real man of the people, a regular servant to all Mississippians, McAllister had installed an expensive telephone hotline system shortly after he was elected. The tollfree number was plastered all over the state, and his constituents were constantly barraged with public service ads to use the People’s Hotline. Call the governor. He cared about your opinions. Democracy at its finest. Operators were standing by.

And because he had more ambition than fortitude, McAllister and his staff tracked the phone calls on a daily basis. He was a follower, not a leader. He spent serious money on polls, and had proven adept at quietly discovering the issues that bothered people, then jumping out front to lead the parade.

Both Goodman and Adam suspected this. McAllister seemed too obsessed with his destiny to launch new initiatives. The man was a shameless vote-counter, so they had decided to give him something to count.

Goodman read the story early, over coffee and fruit, and by seven-thirty was on the phone with Professor John Bryan Glass and Hez Kerry. By eight, three of Glass’ students were sipping coffee from paper cups in the grungy, temporary office. The marketing analysis was about to begin.

Goodman explained the scheme and the need for secrecy. They were breaking no laws, he assured them, just manipulating public opinion. The cellular phones were on the tables, along with pages of phone numbers Goodman had copied on Wednesday. The students were a little apprehensive, but nonetheless anxious to begin. They would be paid well. Goodman demonstrated the technique with the first call. He dialed the number.

"People’s Hotline," a pleasant voice answered.

"Yes, I’m calling about the story in this morning’s paper, the one about Sam Cayhall," Goodman said slowly in his best imitation of a drawl. It left a lot to be desired. The students were very amused.

"And your name is?"

"Yes, I’m Ned Lancaster, from Biloxi, Mississippi," Goodman replied, reading from the phone lists. "And I voted for the governor, a fine man," he threw in for good measure.