The Chamber (Page 79)

Lee finished her struggle with the canned biscuits. She placed them on a small platter along with the eggs and served them, then sat at the other end of the table, as far away from Adam as possible. "Bon appetit," she said with a forced smile. Her cooking was already a rich source of humor.

Adam smiled as if everything was fine. They needed humor at this moment, but wit failed them. "Cubs lost again," he said, taking a bite of eggs and glancing at the folded newspaper.

"The Cubs always lose, don’t they?"

"Not always. You follow baseball?"

"I hate baseball. Phelps turned me against every sport known to man."

Adam grinned and read the paper. They ate without talking for a few minutes, and the silence grew heavy. Lee punched the remote and the television on the counter came on and created noise. They were both suddenly interested in the weather, which was again hot and dry. She played with her food, nibbling on a half-baked biscuit and pushing the eggs around her plate. Adam suspected her stomach was feeble at the moment.

He finished quickly and took his plate to the kitchen sink. He sat again at the table to finish the paper. She was staring at the television, anything to keep her eyes away from her nephew.

"I’ll probably go see Sam today," he said. "I haven’t been in a week."

Her gaze fell to a spot somewhere in the middle of the table. "I wish we hadn’t gone to Clanton Saturday," she said.

"I know."

"It was not a good idea."

"I’m sorry, Lee. I insisted on going, and it was not a good idea. I’ve insisted on a lot of things, and maybe I’ve been wrong."

"It’s not fair – "

"I know it’s not fair. I realize now that it’s not a simple matter of learning family history."

"It’s not fair to him, Adam. It’s almost cruel to confront him with these things when he has only two weeks to live."

"You’re right. And it’s wrong to make you relive them."

"I’ll be fine." She said this as if she certainly wasn’t fine now, but there might be a bit of hope for the future.

"I’m sorry, Lee. I’m truly sorry."

"It’s okay. What will you and Sam do today?"

"Talk, primarily. The local federal court ruled against us yesterday, and so we’ll appeal this morning. Sam likes to talk legal strategies."

"Tell him I’m thinking about him."

"I will."

She pushed her plate away and cuddled her cup with both hands.

"And ask him if he wants me to come see him."

"Do you really want to?" Adam asked, unable to conceal his surprise.

"Something tells me I should. I haven’t seen him in many years."

"I’ll ask him."

"And don’t mention Joe Lincoln, okay Adam? I never told Daddy what I saw."

"You and Sam never mentioned the killing?"

"Never. It became well known in the community. Eddie and I grew up with it and carried it as a burden, but, to be honest, Adam, it was not a big deal to the neighbors. My father killed a black man. It was 1950, and it was Mississippi. It was never discussed in our house."

"So Sam makes it to his grave without being confronted with the killing?"

"What do you accomplish by confronting him? It was forty years ago."

"I don’t know. Maybe he’ll say he was sorry."

"To you? He apologizes to you, and that makes everything okay? Come on, Adam, you’re young and you don’t understand. Leave it alone. Don’t hurt the old man anymore. Right now, you’re the only bright spot in his pathetic life."

"Okay, okay."

"You have no right to ambush him with the story of Joe Lincoln."

"You’re right. I won’t. I promise."

She stared at him with bloodshot eyes until he looked at the television, then she quickly excused herself and disappeared through the den. Adam heard the bathroom door close and lock. He eased across the carpet and stood in the hallway, listening as she heaved and vomited. The toilet flushed, and he ran upstairs to his room to shower and change.

By 10 A.m., Adam had perfected the appeal to the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals in New Orleans. Judge Slattery had already faxed a copy of his order to the clerk of the Fifth Circuit, and Adam faxed his appeal shortly after arriving at the office. He Fed-Exed the original by overnight.

He also had his first conversation with the Death Clerk, a full-time employee of the United States Supreme Court who does nothing but monitor the final appeals of all death row inmates. The Death Clerk often works around the clock as executions go down to the wire. E. Garner Goodman had briefed Adam on the machinations of the Death Clerk and his office, and it was with some reluctance that Adam placed the first call.

The clerk’s name was Richard Olander, a rather efficient sort who sounded quite tired early Monday morning. "We’ve been expecting this," he said to Adam, as if the damned thing should’ve been filed some time ago. He asked Adam if this was his first execution.

"Afraid so," Adam said. "And I hope it’s my last."

"Well, you’ve certainly picked a loser," Mr. Olander said, then explained in tedious detail exactly how the Court expected the final appeals to be handled. Every filing from this point forward, until the end, regardless of where it’s filed or what it’s about, must also simultaneously be filed with his office, he stated flatly as if reading from a textbook. In fact, he would immediately fax to Adam a copy of the Court’s rules, all of which had to be meticulously followed up until the very end. His office was on call, around the clock, he repeated more than once, and it was essential that they receive copies of everything. That was, of course, if Adam wanted his client to have a fair hearing with the Court. If Adam didn’t care, then, well, just follow the rules haphazardly and his client would pay for it.

Adam promised to follow the rules. The Supreme Court had become increasingly weary of the endless claims in death cases, and wanted to have all motions and appeals in hand to expedite matters. Adam’s appeal to the Fifth Circuit would be scrutinized by the justices and their clerks long before the Court actually received the case from New Orleans. The same would be true for all his eleventh-hour filings. The Court would then be able to grant immediate relief, or deny it quickly.

So efficient and speedy was the Death Clerk that the Court had recently been embarrassed by denying an appeal before it was actually filed.

Then Mr. Olander explained that his office had a checklist of every conceivable last minute appeal and motion, and he and his quite able staff monitored each case to see if all possible filings took place. And if a lawyer somewhere missed a potential issue, then they would actually notify the lawyer that he should pursue the forgotten claim. Did Adam desire a copy of their checklist?

No, Adam explained that he already had a copy. E. Garner Goodman had written the book on gangplank appeals.

Very well, said Mr. Olander. Mr. Cayhall had sixteen days, and, of course, a lot can happen in sixteen days. But Mr. Cayhall had been ably represented, in his humble opinion, and the matter had been thoroughly litigated. He would be surprised, he ventured, if there were additional delays.

Thanks for nothing, Adam thought.

Mr. Olander and his staff were watching a case in Texas very closely, he explained. The execution was set for a day before Sam’s, but, in his opinion, there was a likely chance for a stay. Florida had one scheduled for two days after Mr. Cayhall’s. Georgia had two set for a week later, but, well, who knows. He or someone on his staff would be available at all hours, and he himself would personally be by the phone for the twelve-hour period leading up to the execution.