The Chamber (Page 61)

The second gate closed behind him, and Packer waited nearby. "Good day," he said. It was almost two, the hottest time of the day. A morning radio forecaster had merrily predicted the first one-hundred-degree day of the year.

"Hello, Sergeant," Adam said as if they were old friends now. They walked along the brick path to the small door with the weeds in front of it. Packer unlocked it, and Adam stepped inside.

"I’ll get Sam," Packer said, in no hurry, and disappeared.

The chairs on his side of the metal screen were scattered about. Two were flipped over, as if the lawyers and visitors had been brawling. Adam pulled one close to the counter at the far end, as far as possible from the air conditioner.

He removed a copy of the petition he’d filed at nine that morning. By law, no claim or issue could be raised in federal court unless it had first been presented and denied in state court. The petition attacking the gas chamber had been filed in the Mississippi Supreme Court under the state’s postconviction relief statutes. It was a formality, in Adam’s opinion, and in the opinion of Garner Goodman. Goodman had worked on the claim throughout the weekend. In fact, he’d worked all day Saturday while Adam was drinking beer and trout fishing with Wyn Lettner.

Sam arrived as usual, hands cuffed behind his back, no expression on his face, red jumpsuit unbuttoned almost to the waist. The gray hair on his pale chest was slick with perspiration. Like a well-trained animal, he turned his back to Packer, who quickly removed the cuffs, then left through the door. Sam immediately went for the cigarettes, and made certain one was lit before he sat down and said, "Welcome back."

"I filed this at nine this morning," Adam said, sliding the petition through the narrow slit in the screen. "I talked to the clerk with the Supreme Court in Jackson. She seemed to think the court will rule on it with due speed."

Sam took the papers, and looked at Adam. "You can bet on that. They’ll deny it with great pleasure."

"The state will be required to respond immediately, so we’ve got the Attorney General scrambling right now."

"Great. We can watch the latest on the evening news. He’s probably invited the cameras into his office while they prepare their response."

Adam removed his jacket and loosened his tie. The room was humid and he was already sweating. "Does the name Wyn Lettner ring a bell?"

Sam tossed the petition onto an empty chair and sucked hard on the filter. He released a steady stream of exhaust at the ceiling. "Yes. Why?"

"Did you ever meet him?"

Sam thought about this for a moment, before speaking, and, as usual, spoke with measured words. "Maybe. I’m not sure. I knew who he was at the time. Why?"

"I found him over the weekend. He’s retired now, and runs a trout dock on the White River. We had a long talk."

"That’s nice. And what exactly did you accomplish?"

"He says he still thinks you had someone working with you."

"Did he give you any names?"

"No. They never had a suspect, or so he says. But they had an informant, one of Dogan’s people, who told Lettner that the other guy was someone new, not one of the usual gang. They thought he was from another state, and that he was very young. That’s all Lettner knew."

"And you believe this?"

"I don’t know what I believe."

"What difference does it make now?"

"I don’t know. It could give me something to use as I try to save your life. Nothing more than that. I’m desperate, I guess."

"And I’m not?"

"I’m grasping for straws, Sam. Grasping and filling in holes."

"So my story has holes?"

"I think so. Lettner said he was always doubtful because they found no trace of explosives when they searched your house. And you had no history of using them. He said you didn’t seem to be the type to initiate your own bombing campaign."

"And you believe everything Lettner says?"

"Yeah. Because it makes sense."

"Let me ask you this. What if I told you there was someone else? What if I gave you his name, address, phone number, blood type, and urine analysis? What would you do with it?"

"Start screaming like hell. I’d file motions and appeals by the truckload. I’d get the media stirred up, and make a scapegoat out of you. I’d try to sensationalize your innocence and hope someone noticed, someone like an appellate judge."

Sam nodded slowly as if this was quite ridiculous and exactly what he’d expected. "It wouldn’t work, Adam," he said carefully, as if lecturing to a child. "I have three and a half weeks. You know the law. There’s no way to start screaming John Doe did it, when John Doe has never been mentioned."

"I know. But I’d do it anyway."

"It won’t work. Stop trying to find John Doe."

"Who is he?"

"He doesn’t exist."

"Yes he does."

"Why are you so sure?"

"Because I want to believe you’re innocent, Sam. It’s very important to me."

"I told you I’m innocent. I planted the bomb, but I had no intention of killing anyone."

"But why’d you plant the bomb? Why’d you bomb the Pinder house, and the synagogue, and the real estate office? Why were you bombing ,innocent people?"

Sam just puffed and looked at the floor.

"Why do you hate, Sam? Why does it come `so easy? Why were you taught to hate blacks and Jews and Catholics and anyone slightly different from you? Have you ever asked yourself why?"

"No. Don’t plan to."

"So, it’s just you, right. It’s your character, ‘your composition, same as your height and !blue eyes. It’s something you were born with ‘.and can’t change. It was passed down in the ‘genes from your father and grandfather, faithful Kluckers all, and it’s something you’ll proudly take to your grave, right?"

"It was a way of life. It was all I knew."

"Then what happened to my father? Why couldn’t you contaminate Eddie?"

Sam thumped the cigarette onto the floor and leaned forward on his elbows. The wrinkles tightened in the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. Adam’s face was directly through the slit, but he did not look at him. Instead, he stared down at the base of the screen. "So this is it. Time for our Eddie talk." His voice was much softer and his words even slower.

"Where did you go wrong with him?"

"This, of course, has not a damned thing to do with the little gas party they’re planning for me. Does it? Nothing to do with issues and appeals, lawyers and judges, motions and stays. This is a waste of time."

"Don’t be a coward, Sam. Tell me where you went wrong with Eddie. Did you teach him the word nigger? Did you teach him to hate little black kids? Did you try to teach him how to burn crosses or build bombs? Did you take him to his first lynching? What did you do with him, Sam? Where did you go wrong?"

"Eddie didn’t know I was in the Klan until he was in high school."

"Why not? Surely you weren’t ashamed of it. It was a great source of family pride, wasn’t it?"

"It was not something we talked about."

"Why not? You were the fourth generation of Cayhall Klansmen, with roots all the way back to the Civil War, or something like that. Isn’t that what you told me?"

"Yes."

"Then why didn’t you sit little Eddie down and show him pictures from the family album? Why didn’t you tell him bedtime stories of the heroic Cayhalls and how they rode around at night with masks on their brave faces and burned Negro shacks? You know, war stories. Father to son."