The Chamber (Page 114)

"Donnie doesn’t want to do it. I will not allow you to be there. I can’t imagine anybody else who’d want to see it."

"Fine. Speaking of them, I have at least thirty requests for interviews. Virtually every major paper and news magazine wants access."

"No."

"Fine. Remember that writer we discussed last time, Wendall Sherman? The one who wants to record your story on tape and – "

"Yeah. For fifty thousand bucks."

"Now it’s a hundred thousand. His publisher will put up the money. He wants to get everything on tape, watch the execution, do extensive research, then write a big book about it.

"No."

"Fine."

"I don’t want to spend the next three days talking about my life. I don’t want some stranger poking his nose around Ford County. And I don’t particularly need a hundred thousand dollars at this point in my life."

"Fine with me. You once mentioned the clothing you wanted to wear – "

"Donnie’s taking care of it."

"Okay. Moving right along. Barring a stay, you’re allowed to have two people with you during your final hours. Typically, the prison has a form for you to sign designating these people."

"It’s always the lawyer and the minister, right?"

"That’s correct."

"Then it’s you, and Ralph Griffin, I guess."

Adam filled the names in on a form. "Who’s Ralph Griffin?"

"The new minister here. He’s opposed to the death penalty, can you believe it? His predecessor thought we should all be gassed, in the name of Jesus, of course."

Adam handed the form to Sam. "Sign here."

Sam scribbled his name and handed it back.

"You’re entitled to a last conjugal visit."

Sam laughed loudly. "Come on, son. I’m an old man."

"It’s on the checklist, okay. Lucas Mann whispered to me the other day that I should mention it to you."

"Okay. You’ve mentioned it."

"I have another form here for your personal effects. Who gets them?"

"You mean my estate?"

"Sort of."

"This is morbid as hell, Adam. Why are we doing this now?"

"I’m a lawyer, Sam. We get paid to sweat the details. It’s just paperwork."

"Do you want my things?"

Adam thought about this for a moment. He didn’t want to hurt Sam’s feelings, but at the same time he couldn’t imagine what he’d do with a few ragged old garments, worn books, portable television, and rubber shower shoes. "Sure," he said.

"Then they’re yours. Take them and burn them."

"Sign here," Adam said, shoving the form under his face. Sam signed it, then jumped to his feet and started pacing again. "I really want you to meet Donnie."

"Sure. Whatever you want," Adam said, stuffing his legal pad and the forms into his briefcase. The nitpicking details were now complete. The briefcase seemed much heavier.

"I’ll be back in the morning," he said to Sam.

"Bring me some good news, okay."

Colonel Nugent strutted along the edge of the highway with a dozen armed prison guards behind him. He glared at the Klansmen, twenty-six at last count, and he scowled at the brown-shined Nazis, ten in all. He stopped and stared at the group of skinheads mingling next to the Nazis. He swaggered around the edge of the grassy protest strip, pausing for a moment to speak to two Catholic nuns sitting under a large umbrella, as far away from the other demonstrators as possible. The temperature was one hundred degrees, and the nuns were broiling under the shade. They sipped ice water, their posters resting on their knees and facing the highway.

The nuns asked him who he was and what he wanted. He explained that he was the acting warden for the prison, and that he was simply making sure the demonstration was orderly.

They asked him to leave.

Chapter 43

PERHAPS it was because it was Sunday, or maybe it was the rain, but Adam drank his morning coffee in unexpected serenity. It was still dark outside, and the gentle dripping of a warm, summer shower on the patio was mesmerizing. He stood in the open door and listened to the splashing of the raindrops. It was too early for traffic on Riverside Drive below. There were no noises from the tugboats on the river. All was quiet and peaceful.

And there wasn’t a heckuva lot to be done this day, Day Three before the execution. He would start at the office, where another last minute petition had to be organized. The issue was so ridiculous Adam was almost embarrassed to file it. Then he would drive to Parchman and sit with Sam for a spell.

It was unlikely there would be movement by any court on Sunday. It was certainly possible since the death clerks and their staffs were on call when an execution was looming. But Friday and Saturday had passed without rulings coming down, and he expected the same inactivity today. Tomorrow would be much different, in his untrained and untested opinion.

Tomorrow would be nothing but frenzy. And Tuesday, which of course was scheduled to be Sam’s last day as a breathing soul, would be a nightmare of stress.

But this Sunday morning was remarkably calm. He had slept almost seven hours, another recent record. His head was clear, his pulse normal, his breathing relaxed. His mind was uncluttered and composed.

He flipped through the Sunday paper, scanning the headlines but reading nothing. There were at least two stories about the Cayhall execution, one with more pictures of the growing circus outside the prison gate. The rain stopped when the sun came up, and he sat in a wet rocker for an hour scanning Lee’s architectural magazines. After a couple of hours of peace and tranquility, Adam was bored and ready for action.

There was unfinished business in Lee’s bedroom, a matter Adam had tried to forget but couldn’t. For ten days now, a silent battle had raged in his soul over the book in her drawer. She’d been drunk when she told him about the lynching photo, but it was not the delirious talk of an addict. Adam knew the book existed. There was a real book with a real photo of a young black man hanging by a rope, and somewhere under his feet was a crowd of proud white people, mugging for the camera, immune from prosecution. Adam had mentally pieced the picture together, adding faces, sketching the tree, drawing the rope, adding titles to the space under it. But there were some things he didn’t know, he couldn’t visualize. Was the dead man’s face perceptible? Was he wearing shoes, or barefoot? Was a very young Sam easily recognizable? How many white faces were in the photo? And how old were they? Any women? Any guns? Blood? Lee said he’d been bullwhipped. Was the whip in the photo? He had imagined the picture for days now, and it was time to finally look in the book. He couldn’t wait until later. Lee might make a triumphant return. She might move the book, hide it again. He planned to spend the next two or three nights here, but that could change with one phone call. He could be forced to rush to Jackson or sleep in his car at Parchman. Such routine matters as lunch and dinner and sleeping were suddenly unpredictable when your client had less than a week to live.

This was the perfect moment, and he decided that he was now ready to face the lynch mob. He walked to the front door and scanned the parking lot, just to make sure she hadn’t decided to drop in. He actually locked the door to her bedroom, and pulled open the top drawer. It was filled with her lingerie, and he was embarrassed for this intrusion.

The book was in the third drawer, lying on top of a faded sweatshirt. It was thick and bound in green fabric – Southern Negroes and the Great Depression. Published in 1947 by Toffler Press, Pittsburgh. Adam clutched it and sat on the edge of her bed. The pages were immaculate and pristine, as if the book had never been handled or read. Who in the Deep South would read such a book anyway? And if the book had been in the Cayhall family for several decades, then Adam was positive it had never been read. He studied the binder and pondered what set of circumstances brought this particular book into the custody of the Sam Cayhall family.