The Chamber (Page 127)

"I guess so," Adam said, without conviction. He’d had little time to think past tomorrow.

"Well, just so you’ll know, there’s an opening in our office. One of my guys is going into private practice, and we’re looking for a new lawyer. It’s nothing but death work, you know."

"You’re right," Adam said quietly. "This is a lousy time to bring it up."

"It’s tough work, but it’s satisfying. It’s also heartbreaking. And necessary." Hez chewed on a bite of sausage, and washed it down with beer. "The money is lousy, compared with what you’re making with the firm. Tight budget, long hours, lots of clients."

"How much?"

"I can start you at thirty thousand."

"I’m making sixty-two right now. With more on the way."

"I’ve been there. I was making seventy with a big firm in D.C. when I gave it up to come here. I was on the fast track to a partnership, but it was easy to quit. Money’s not everything."

"You enjoy this?"

"It grows on you. It takes strong moral convictions to fight the system like this. Just think about it."

Goodman was now looking their way. "Are you driving to Parchman tonight?" he asked loudly.

Adam was finishing his second beer. He wanted a third, but no more. Exhaustion was rapidly setting in. "No. I’ll wait until we hear something in the morning."

They ate and drank and listened to Goodman and Glass and Kerry tell war stories of other executions. The beer flowed, and the atmosphere went from optimism to outright confidence.

Sam lay in the darkness and waited for midnight. He’d watched the late news and learned that the hearing was over, and that the clock was still ticking. There was no stay. His life was in the hands of a federal judge.

At one minute after midnight, he closed his eyes and said a prayer. He asked God to help Lee with her troubles, to be with Carmen, and to give Adam the strength to survive the inevitable.

He had twenty-four hours to live. He folded his hands over his chest, and fell asleep.

Chapter 47

NUGENT waited until exactly seven thirty to close the door and start the meeting. He walked to the front of the room, and surveyed his troops. "I just left MSU," he said somberly. "The inmate is awake and alert, not at all the blithering zombie we read about in the paper this morning." He paused and smiled and expected everyone to admire his humor. It went undetected.

"In fact, he’s already had his breakfast, and is already bitching about wanting his recreation time. So at least something is normal around here. There’s no word from the federal court in Jackson, so this thing is on schedule unless we hear otherwise. Correct, Mr. Mann?"

Lucas was sitting at the table across the front of the room, reading the paper and trying to ignore the colonel. "Right."

"Now, there are two areas of concern. First is the press. I’ve assigned Sergeant Moreland here to handle these bastards. We’re gonna move them to the Visitors Center just inside the front gate, and try to keep them pinned down there. We’re gonna surround them with guards, and just dare them to venture about. At four this afternoon, I’ll conduct the lottery to see which reporters get to watch the execution. As of yesterday, there were over a hundred names on the request list. They get five seats.

"The second problem is what’s happening outside the gate. The governor has agreed to assign three dozen troopers for today and tomorrow, and they’ll be here shortly. We have to keep our distance from these nuts, especially the skinheads, sumbitches are crazy, but at the same time we have to maintain order. There were two fights yesterday, and things could’ve deteriorated rapidly if we hadn’t been watching. If the execution takes place, there could be some tense moments. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Very well. I’ll expect everyone to act professionally today, and carry this out in a responsible manner. Dismissed." He snapped off a smart salute, and proudly watched them leave the room.

Sam straddled the bench with the checkerboard in front of him, and waited patiently for J. B. Gullitt to enter the bullpen. He sipped the stale remains of a cup of coffee.

Gullitt stepped through the door, and paused as the handcuffs were removed. He rubbed his wrists, shielded his eyes from the sun, and looked at his friend sitting alone. He walked to the bench and took his position across the board.

Sam never looked up.

"Any good news, Sam?" Gullitt asked nervously. "Tell me it won’t happen."

"Just move," Sam said, staring at the checkers.

"It can’t happen, Sam," he pleaded.

"It’s your turn to go first. Move."

Gullitt slowly lowered his eyes to the board.

The prevailing theory of the morning was that the longer Slattery sat on the petition, the greater the likelihood of a stay. But this was the conventional wisdom of those who were praying for a reprieve. No word had come by 9 A.m., nothing by 9:30.

Adam waited in Hez Kerry’s office, which had become the operations center during the past twenty-four hours. Goodman was across town supervising the relentless hounding of the governor’s hotline, a task he seemed to savor. John Bryan Glass had parked himself outside Slattery’s office.

In the event Slattery denied a stay, they would immediately appeal to the Fifth Circuit. The appeal was completed by nine, just in case. Kerry had also prepared a petition for cert to the U.S. Supreme Court if the Fifth Circuit turned them down. The paperwork was waiting. Everything was waiting.

To occupy his mind, Adam called everyone he could think of. He called Carmen in Berkeley. She was asleep and fine. He called Lee’s condo, and, of course, there was no answer. He called Phelps’ office and talked to a secretary. He called Darlene to tell her he had no idea when he might return. He called McAllister’s private number, but got a busy signal. Perhaps Goodman had it jammed too.

He called Sam and talked about the hearing last night, with special emphasis on the Reverend Ralph Griffin. Packer had testified too, he explained, and told only the truth. Nugent, typically, was an ass. He told Sam he would be there around noon. Sam asked him to hurry.

By eleven, Slattery’s name was being cursed and defamed with righteous fervor. Adam had had enough. He called Goodman and said he was driving to Parchman. He said farewell to Hez Kerry, and thanked him again.

Then he raced away, out of the city of Jackson, north on Highway 49. Parchman was two hours away if he drove within the speed limit. He found a talk radio station that promised the latest news twice an hour, and listened to an interminable discussion about casino gambling in Mississippi. There was nothing new on the Cayhall execution at the eleven-thirty newsbreak.

He drove eighty and ninety, passing on yellow lines and on curves and over bridges. He sped through speed zones in tiny towns and hamlets. He was uncertain what drew him to Parchman with such speed. There wasn’t much he could do once he got there. The legal maneuverings had been left behind in Jackson. He would sit with Sam and count the hours. Or maybe they would celebrate a wonderful gift from federal court.

He stopped at a roadside grocery near the small town of Flora for gas and fruit juice, and he was driving away from the pumps when he heard the news. The bored and listless talk show host was now filled with excitement as he relayed the breaking story in the Cayhall case. United States District Court Judge F. Flynn Slattery had just denied Cayhall’s last petition, his claim to be mentally incompetent. The matter would be appealed to the Fifth Circuit within the hour. Sam Cayhall had just taken a giant step toward the Mississippi gas chamber, the host said dramatically.