The Chamber (Page 130)

"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-fourthree," 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 welldressed 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.