The Chamber (Page 44)

Nugent’s back, though painfully stiff already, seemed to straighten even more. He nodded quickly, eyes dancing in all directions.

Naifeh delicately sat in his seat, grimacing as he eased onto the soft leather. "Since I’m just not up to it, George, Lucas and I were thinking that maybe you’d do a good job with this one."

The colonel couldn’t suppress a smile. Then it quickly disappeared and was replaced with a most serious scowl. "I’m sure I can handle it, sir."

"I’m sure you can too." Naifeh pointed to a black binder on the corner of his desk. "We have a manual of sorts. There it is, the collected wisdom of two dozen visits to the gas chamber over the past thirty years."

Nugent’s eyes narrowed and focused on the black book. He noticed that the pages were not all even and uniform, that an assortment of papers were actually folded and stuffed slovenly throughout the text, that the binder itself was worn and shabby. Within hours, he quickly decided, the manual would be transformed into a primer worthy of publication. That would be his first task. The paperwork would be immaculate.

"Why don’t you read it tonight, and let’s meet again tomorrow?"

"Yes sir," he said smugly.

"Not a word to anyone about this until we talk again, understood?"

"No sir."

Nugent nodded smartly at Lucas Mann, and left the office cradling the black book like a kid with a new toy. The door closed behind him.

"He’s a nut," Lucas said.

"I know. We’ll watch him."

"We’d better watch him. He’s so damned gung-ho he might try to gas Sam this weekend."

Naifeh opened a desk drawer and retrieved a bottle of pills. He swallowed two without the assistance of water. "I’m going home, Lucas. I need to lie down. I’ll probably die before Sam does."

"You’d better hurry."

The phone conversation with E. Garner Goodman was brief. Adam explained with some measure of pride that he and Sam had a written agreement on representation, and that they had already spent four hours together though little had been accomplished. Goodman wanted a copy of the agreement, and Adam explained that there were no copies as of now, that the original was safely tucked away in a cell on death row, and, furthermore, there would be copies only if the client decided so.

Goodman promised to review the file and get to work. Adam gave him Lee’s phone number and promised to check in every day. He hung up the phone and stared at two terrifying phone messages beside his computer. Both were from reporters, one from a Memphis newspaper and one from a television station in Jackson, Mississippi.

Baker Cooley had talked to both reporters. In fact, a TV crew from Jackson had presented itself to the firm’s receptionist and left only after Cooley made threats. All this attention had upset the tedious routine of the Memphis branch of Kravitz & Bane. Cooley was not happy about it. The other partners had little to say to Adam. The secretaries were professionally polite, but anxious to stay away from his office.

The reporters knew, Cooley had warned him gravely. They knew about Sam and Adam, the grandson-grandfather angle, and while he wasn’t sure how they knew, it certainly hadn’t come from him. He hadn’t told a soul, until, of course, word was already out and he’d been forced to gather the partners and associates together just before lunch and break the news.

It was almost five o’clock. Adam sat at his desk with the door shut, listening to the voices in the hall as clerks and paralegals and other salaried staff made last minute preparations to leave for the day. He decided he would have nothing to say to the TV reporter. He dialed the number for Todd Marks at the Memphis Press. A recorded message guided him through the wonders of voice mail, and after a couple of minutes, Mr. Marks picked up his five-digit extension and said hurriedly, "Todd Marks." He sounded like a teenager.

"This is Adam Hall, with Kravitz & Bane. I had a note to call you."

"Yes, Mr. Hall," Marks gushed, instantly friendly and no longer in a hurry. "Thanks for calling. I, uh, well, we, uh, picked up a rumor about your handling of the Cayhall case, and, uh, I was just trying to track it down."

"I represent Mr. Cayhall," Adam said with measured words.

"Yes, well, that’s what we heard. And, uh, you’re from Chicago?"

"I am from Chicago."

"I see. How, uh, did you get the case?"

"My firm has represented Sam Cayhall for seven years."

"Yes, right. But didn’t he terminate your services recently?"

"He did. And now he’s rehired the firm." Adam could hear keys pecking away as Marks gathered his words into a computer.

"I see. We heard a rumor, just a rumor, I guess, that Sam Cayhall is your grandfather."

"Where’d you hear this?"

"Well, you know, we have sources, and we have to protect them. Can’t really tell you where it came from, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Adam took a deep breath and let Marks hang for a minute. "Where are you now?"

"At the paper."

"And where’s that? I don’t know the city."

"Where are you?" Marks asked.

"Downtown. In our office."

"I’m not far away. I can be there in ten minutes."

"No, not here. Let’s meet somewhere else. A quiet little bar some place."

"Fine. The Peabody Hotel is on Union, three blocks from you. There’s a nice bar off the lobby called Mallards."

"I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Just me and you, okay?"

"Sure."

Adam hung up the phone. Sam’s agreement contained some loose and ambiguous language that attempted to prevent his lawyer from talking to the press. The particular clause had major loopholes that any lawyer could walk through, but Adam did not wish to push the issue. After two visits, his grandfather was still nothing but a mystery. He didn’t like lawyers and would readily fire another, even his own grandson.

Mallards was filling up quickly with young weary professionals who needed a couple of stiff ones for the drive to the suburbs. Few people actually lived in downtown Memphis, so the bankers and brokers met here and in countless other bars and gulped beer in green bottles and sipped Swedish vodka. They lined the bar and gathered around the small tables to discuss the direction of the market and debate the future of the prime. It was a tony place, with authentic brick walls and real hardwood floors. A table by the door held trays of chicken wings and livers wrapped with bacon.

Adam spotted a young man in jeans holding a notepad. He introduced himself, and they went to a table in the corner. Todd Marks was no more than twenty-five. He wore wirerimmed glasses and hair to his shoulders. He was cordial and seemed a bit nervous. They ordered Heinekens.

The notepad was on the table, ready for action, and Adam decided to take control. "A few ground rules," he said. "First, everything I say is off the record. You can’t quote me on anything. Agreed?"

Marks shrugged as if this was okay but not exactly what he had in mind. "Okay," he said.

"I think you call it deep background, or something like that."

"That’s it."

"I’ll answer some questions for you, but not many. I’m here because I want you to get it right, okay?"

"Fair enough. Is Sam Cayhall your grandfather?"

"Sam Cayhall is my client, and he has instructed me not to talk to the press. That’s why you can’t quote me. I’m here to confirm or deny. That’s all."

"Okay. But is he your grandfather?"

"Yes."