The Chamber (Page 34)

To his right was J. B. Gullitt, an illiterate white kid who’d raped and killed a homecoming queen. Three years earlier, Gullitt had come within days of execution before Sam intervened with a crafty motion. Sam pointed out several unresolved issues, and explained to the Fifth Circuit that Gullitt had no lawyer. A stay was immediately granted, and Gullitt became a friend for life.

To his left was Hank Henshaw, the reputed leader of along-forgotten band of thugs known as the Redneck Mafia. Hank and his motley gang had hijacked an eighteen-wheeler one night, planning only to steal its cargo. The driver produced a gun, and was killed in the ensuing shootout. Hank’s family was paying good lawyers, and thus he was not expected to die for many years.

The three neighbors referred to their little section of MSU as Rhodesia.

Sam flipped the cigarette into the toilet and reclined on his bed. The day before the Kramer bombing he had stopped at Eddie’s house in Clanton, he couldn’t remember why except that he did deliver some fresh spinach from his garden, and he had played with little Alan, now Adam, for a few minutes in the front yard. It was April, and warm, he remembered, and his grandson was barefoot. He remembered the chubby little feet with a Band-Aid around one toe. He had cut it on a rock, Alan had explained with great pride. The kid loved Band-Aids, always had one on a finger or a knee. Evelyn held the spinach and shook her head as he proudly showed his grandfather a whole box of assorted adhesives.

That was the last time he had seen Alan. The bombing took place the next day, and Sam spent the next ten months in jail. By the time the second trial was over and he was released, Eddie and his family were gone. He had too much pride to give chase. There had been rumors and gossip of their whereabouts. Lee said they were in California, but she couldn’t find them. Years later, she talked to Eddie and learned of the second child, a girl named Carmen.

There were voices at the end of the tier. Then the flush of a toilet, then a radio. Death row was creaking to life. Sam combed his oily hair, lit another Montclair, and studied the calendar on the wall. Today was July 12. He had twentyseven days.

He sat on the edge of his bed and studied his feet some more. J. B. Gullitt turned on his television to catch the news, and as Sam puffed and scratched his ankles he listened to the NBC affiliate in Jackson. After the rundown of local shootings, robberies, and killings, the anchorman delivered the hot news that an execution was materializing up at Parchman. The Fifth Circuit, he reported eagerly, had lifted the stay for Sam Cayhall, Parchman’s most famous inmate, and the date was now set for August 8. Authorities believe that Cayhall’s appeals have been exhausted, the voice said, and the execution could take place.

Sam turned on his television. As usual, the audio preceded the picture by a good ten seconds, and he listened as the Attorney General himself predicted justice for Mr. Cayhall, after all these many years. A grainy face formed on the screen, with words spewing forth, and then there was Roxburgh smiling and frowning at the same time, deep in thought as he relished for the cameras the scenario of finally hauling Mr. Cayhall into the gas chamber. Back to the anchorperson, a local kid with a peach fuzz mustache, who wrapped up the story by blitzing through Sam’s horrible crime while over his shoulder in the background was a crude illustration of a Klansman in a mask and pointed hood. A gun, a burning cross, and the letters KKK finished the depiction. The kid repeated the date, August 8, as if his viewers should circle their calendars and plan to take the day off. Then they were on to the weather.

He turned off the television, and walked to the bars.

"Did you hear it, Sam?" Gullitt called out from next door.

"Yep."

"It’s gonna get crazy, man."

"Yep.),

"Look on the bright side, man."

"What’s that?"

"You’ve only got four weeks of it." Gullitt chuckled as he hit this punch line, but he didn’t laugh long. Sam pulled some papers from the file and sat on the edge of his bed. There were no chairs in the cell. He read through Adam’s agreement of representation, a two-page document with a page and a half of language. On all margins, Sam had made neat, precise notes with a pencil. And he had added paragraphs on the backs of the sheets. Another idea hit him, and he found room to add it. With a cigarette in his right fingers, he held the document with his left and read it again. And again.

Finally, Sam reached to his shelves and carefully took down his ancient Royal portable typewriter. He balanced it perfectly on his knees. He inserted a sheet of paper, and began typing.

At ten minutes after six, the doors on the north end of Tier A clicked and opened, and two guards entered the hallway. One pushed a cart with fourteen trays stacked neatly in slots. They stopped at cell number one, and slid the metal tray through a narrow opening in the door. The occupant of number one was a skinny Cuban who was waiting at the bars, shirtless in his drooping briefs. He grabbed the tray like a starving refugee, and without a word took it to the edge of his bed.

This morning’s menu was two scrambled eggs, four pieces of toasted white bread, a fat slice of bacon, two scrawny containers of grape jelly, a small bottle of prepackaged orange juice, and a large Styrofoam cup of coffee. The food was warm and filling, and had the distinction of being approved by the federal courts.

They moved to the next cell where the inmate was waiting. They were always waiting, always standing by the door like hungry dogs.

"You’re eleven minutes late," the inmate said quietly as he took his tray. The guards did not look at him.

"Sue us," one said.

"I’ve got my rights."

"Your rights are a pain in the ass."

"Don’t talk to me that way. I’ll sue you for it. You’re abusive."

The guards rolled away to the next door with no further response. just part of the daily ritual.

Sam was not waiting at the door. He was busy at work in his little law office when breakfast arrived.

"I figured you’d be typing," a guard said as they stopped in front of number six. Sam slowly placed the typewriter on the bed.

"Love letters," he said as he stood.

"Well, whatever you’re typing, Sam, you’d better hurry. The cook’s already talking about your last meal."

"Tell him I want microwave pizza. He’ll probably screw that up. Maybe I’ll just go for hot dogs and beans." Sam took his tray through the opening.

"It’s your call, Sam. Last guy wanted steak and shrimp. Can you imagine? Steak and shrimp around this place."

"Did he get it?"

"No. He lost his appetite and they filled him full of Valium instead."

"Not a bad way to go."

"Quiet!" J. B. Gullitt yelled from the next cell. The guards eased the cart a few feet down the tier and stopped in front of J.B., who was gripping the bars with both hands. They kept their distance.

"Well, well, aren’t we frisky this morning?" one said.

"Why can’t you assholes just serve the food in silence? I mean, do you think we want to wake up each morning and start the day by listening to your cute little comments? Just give me the food, man."

"Gee, J.B. We’re awful sorry. We just figured you guys were lonely."

"You figured wrong." J.B. took his tray and turned away.

"Touchy, touchy," a guard said as they moved away in the direction of someone else to torment.

Sam sat his food on the bed and mixed a packet of sugar in his coffee. His daily routine did not include scrambled eggs and bacon. He would save the toast and jelly and eat it throughout the morning. He would carefully sip the coffee, rationing it until ten o’clock, his hour of exercise and sunshine.