by John Grisham
- " He chuckled to himself and lit the cigarette.
- "Not in my wildest dreams did I envision this. If I'd had the slightest inkling, the faintest clue that this might happen to me, then I would have been gone years ago. I was completely free, you understand, no restrictions. I would've gone to South America, changed my name, disappeared two or three times, then settled in some place like Sao Paulo or Rio."
- "Like Mengele."
- "Something like that. They never caught him, you know. They never caught a bunch of those guys. I'd be living right now in a nice little house, speaking Portuguese and laughing at fools like David McAllister." Sam shook his head and closed his eyes, and dreamed of what might have been.
- "Why didn't you leave when McAllister started making noises?"
- "Because I was foolish. It happened slowly. It was like a bad dream coming to life in small segments. First, McAllister got elected with all his promises. Then, a few months later Dogan got nailed by the IRS. I started hearing rumors and reading little things in the newspapers. But I simply refused to believe it could happen. Before I knew it, the FBI was following me and I couldn't run."
Adam looked at his watch and was suddenly tired. They had been talking for more than two hours, and he needed fresh air and sunshine. His head ached from the cigarette smoke, and the room was growing warmer by the moment. He screwed the cap on his pen and slid the legal pad into his briefcase.
- "I'd better go," he said in the direction of the screen. "I'll probably come back tomorrow for another round."
- "I'll be here."
- "Lucas Mann has given me the green light to visit anytime I want."
"A helluva guy, isn't he?"
"He's okay. Just doing his job."
"So's Naifeh and Nugent and all those other white folks."
"White folks?"
"Yeah, it's slang for the authorities. Nobody really wants to kill me, but they're just doing their jobs. There's this little moron with nine fingers who's the official executioner - the guy who mixes the gas and inserts the canister. Ask him what he's doing as they strap me in, and he'll say, `Just doing my job.' The prison chaplain and the prison doctor and the prison psychiatrist, along with the guards who'll escort me in and the medics who'll carry me out, well, they're nice folks, nothing really against me, but they're just doing their jobs."
"It won't get that far, Sam."
"Is that a promise?"
"No. But think positive."
"Yeah, positive thinking's real popular around here. Me and the boys are big on motivational shows, along with travel programs and home shopping. The Africans prefer `Soul Train'."
"Lee's worried about you, Sam. She wanted me to tell you she's thinking about you and praying for you."
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.
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 tru
stee 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 fifty-fifty." 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."
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 wire-rimmed 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."
Marks took a deep breath and savored this incredible fact which no doubt led to an extraordinary story. He could see the headlines.
Then he realized he should ask some more questions. He carefully took a pen from his pocket. "Who's your father?"
"My father is deceased."
A long pause. "Okay. So Sam is your mother's father?"
"No. Sam is my father's father."
"All right. Why do you have different last names?"