The Chamber (Page 42)

Sam bit his bottom lip and looked at the floor. He nodded slowly but said nothing.

"I’ll be staying with her for the next month or so."

"She’s still married to that guy?"

"Sort of. She wants to see you."

"No."

"Why not?"

Sam carefully eased from his chair and knocked on the door behind him. He turned and looked at Adam through the screen. They watched each other until a guard opened the door and took Sam away.

Chapter 15

"THE kid left an hour ago, with authorization, though I haven’t seen it in writing," Lucas Mann explained to Phillip Naifeh, who was standing in his window watching a litter gang along the highway. Naifeh had a headache, a backache, and was in the middle of a generally awful day which had included three early phone calls from the governor and two from Roxburgh, the Attorney General. Sam, of course, had been the reason for the calls.

"So he’s got himself a lawyer," Naifeh said while gently pressing a fist in the center of his lower back.

"Yeah, and I really like this kid. He stopped by when he left and looked like he’d been run over by a truck. I think he and his grandfather are having a rough time of it."

"It’ll get worse for the grandfather."

"It’ll get worse for all of us."

"Do you know what the governor asked me? Wanted to know if he could have a copy of our manual on how to carry out executions. I told him no, that in fact he could not have a copy. He said he was the governor of this state and he felt as though he should have a copy. I tried to explain that it wasn’t really a manual as such, just a loose-leaf little book in a black binder that gets heavily revised each time we gas someone.

What’s it called, he wanted to know. I said it’s called nothing, actually, no official name because thankfully it’s not used that much, but that on further thought I myself have referred to it as the little black book. He pushed a little harder, I got a little madder, we hung up, and fifteen minutes later his lawyer, that little hunchback fart with eyeglasses pinching his nose – "

"Larramore."

"Larramore called me and said that according to this code section and that code section he, the governor, has a right to a copy of the manual. I put him on hold, pulled the code sections, made him wait ten minutes, then we read the law together, and, of course, as usual, he’s lying and bluffing and figuring I’m an imbecile. No such language in my copy of the code. I hung up on him. Ten minutes later the governor called back, all sugar and spice, told me to forget the little black book, that he’s very concerned about Sam’s constitutional rights and all, and just wants me to keep him posted as this thing unfolds. A real charmer." Naifeh shifted weight on his feet and changed fists in his back while staring at the window.

"Then, half an hour later Roxburgh calls, and guess what he wants to know? Wants to know if I’ve talked to the governor. You see, Roxburgh thinks he and I are real tight, old political pals, you know, and therefore we can trust each other. And so he tells me, confidentially of course, buddy to buddy, that he thinks the governor might try to exploit this execution for his own political gain."

"Nonsense!" Lucas hooted.

"Yeah, I told Roxburgh that I just couldn’t believe he would think such a thing about our governor. I was real serious, and he got real serious, and we promised each other that we’d watch the governor real close and if we saw any sign that he was trying to manipulate this situation, then we’d call each other real quick. Roxburgh said there were some things he could do to neutralize the governor if he got out of line. I didn’t dare ask what or how, but he seemed sure of himself."

"So who’s the bigger fool?"

"Probably Roxburgh. But it’s a tough call." Naifeh stretched carefully and walked to his desk. His shoes were off and his shirttail was out. He was in obvious pain. "Both have insatiable appetites for publicity. They’re like two little boys scared to death that one will get a bigger piece of candy. I hate ’em both."

"Everybody hates them except the voters."

There was a sharp knock on the door, three solid raps delivered at precise intervals.. "Must be Nugent," Naifeh said and his pain suddenly intensified. "Come in."

The door opened quickly and Retired Colonel George Nugent marched into the room, pausing only slightly to close the door, and moved officially toward Lucas Mann, who did not stand but shook hands anyway. "Mr. Mann." Nugent greeted him crisply, then stepped forward and shook hands across the desk with Naifeh.

"Have a seat, George," Naifeh said, waving at an empty chair next to Mann. Naifeh wanted to order him to cut the military crap, but he knew it would do no good.

"Yes sir," Nugent answered as he lowered himself into the seat without bending his back. Though the only uniforms at Parchman were worn by guards and inmates, Nugent had managed to fashion one for himself. His shirt and pants were dark olive, perfectly matched and perfectly ironed with precise folds and creases, and they miraculously survived each day without the slightest wrinkling. The pants stopped a few inches above the ankles where they disappeared into a pair of black leather combat boots, shined and buffed at least twice a day to a state of perpetual sparkle. There had once been a weak rumor that a secretary or maybe a trustee had seen a spot of mud on one of the soles, but the rumor had not been confirmed.

The top button was left open to form an exact triangle which revealed a gray tee shirt. The pockets and sleeves were bare and unadorned, free of his medals and ribbons, and Naifeh had long suspected that this caused the colonel no small amount of humiliation. The haircut was strict military with bare skin above the ears and a thin layer of gray sprouts on top. Nugent was fifty-two, had served his country for thirty-four years, first as a buck private in Korea and later as a captain of some variety in Vietnam, where he fought the war from behind a desk. He’d been wounded in a jeep wreck and sent home with another ribbon.

For two years now Nugent had served admirably as an assistant superintendent, a trusted, loyal, and dependable underling of Naifeh’s. He loved details and regulations and rules. He devoured manuals, and was constantly writing new procedures and directives and modifications for the warden to ponder. He was a significant pain in the warden’s ass, but he was needed nonetheless. It was no secret that the colonel wanted Naifeh’s job in a couple of years.

"George, me and Lucas have been talking about the Cayhall matter. Don’t know how much you know about the appeals, but the Fifth Circuit lifted the stay and we’re looking at an execution in four weeks."

"Yes sir," Nugent snapped, absorbing and itemizing every word. "I read about it in today’s paper."

"Good. Lucas here is of the opinion that this one might come down, you know. Right, Lucas?"

"There’s a good chance. Better than fiftyfifty." Lucas said this without looking at Nugent.

"How long have you been here, George?"

"Two years, one month."

The warden calculated something while rubbing his temples. "Did you miss the Parris execution?"

"Yes sir. By a few weeks," he answered with a trace of disappointment.

"So you haven’t been through one?"

"No sir."

"Well, they’re awful, George. Just awful. Worst part of this job, by far. Frankly, I’m just not up to it. I was hoping I’d retire before.

"It won’t get that far, Sam."

"Is that a promise?"

"No. But think positive."