by John Grisham
Lettner opened his door and walked to the front of the jeep. Adam joined him there, and they watched the river ease along through Calico Rock. "You wanna beer? I keep it cold in the bait shop."
"No, please. I'm half-sick now."
"Just kidding. Anyway, Dogan ran this huge used car lot, and one of his employees was an illiterate old black man who washed the cars and swept the floors. We had carefully approached the old man earlier, but he was hostile. But out of the blue he tells one of our agents that he saw Dogan and another man putting something in the trunk of a green Pontiac a couple of days earlier. He said he waited, then opened the trunk and saw it was dynamite. The next day he heard that there was another bombing. He knew the FBI was swarming all around Dogan, so he figured it was worth mentioning to us. Dogan's helper was a Klucker named Virgil, also an employee. So I went to see Virgil. I knocked on his door at three o'clock one morning, just beat it like hell, you know, like we always did in those days, and before long he turned on the light and stepped on the porch. I had about eight agents with me, and we all stuck our badges in Virgil's face. He was scared to death. I told him we knew he had delivered the dynamite to Jackson the night before, and that he was looking at thirty years. You could hear his wife crying through the screen door. Virgil was shaking and ready to cry himself. I left him my card with instructions to call me before noon that very day, and I threatened him if he told Dogan or anybody else. I told him we'd be watching him around the clock.
"I doubt if Virgil went back to sleep. His eyes were red and puffy when he found me a few hours later. We got to be friends. He said the bombings were not the work of Dogan's usual gang. He didn't know much, but he'd heard enough from Dogan to believe that the bomber was a very young man from another state. This guy had dropped in from nowhere, and was supposed to be very good with explosives. Dogan picked the targets, planned the jobs, then called this guy, who sneaked into town, carried out the bombings, then disappeared."
"Did you believe him?"
"For the most part, yes. It just made sense. It had to be someone new, because by then we had riddled the Klan with informants. We knew virtually every move they made."
"What happened to Virgil?"
"I spent some time with him, gave him some money, you know, the usual routine. They always wanted money. I became convinced he had no idea who was planting the bombs. He would never admit that he'd been involved, that he'd delivered the cars and dynamite, and we didn't press him. We weren't after him."
"Was he involved with Kramer?"
"No. Dogan used someone else for that one. At times, Dogan seemed to have a sixth sense about when to mix things up, to change routines."
"Virgil's suspect certainly doesn't sound like Sam Cayhall, does he?" Adam asked.
« »
No.
"And you had no suspects?"
« »
No.
"Come on, Wyn. Surely you guys had some idea."
"I swear. We did not. Shortly after we met Virgil, Kramer got bombed and it was all over. If Sam had a buddy, then the buddy left him."
"And the FBI heard nothing afterward?"
"Not a peep. We had Sam, who looked and smelled extremely guilty."
"And, of course, you guys were anxious to close the case."
"Certainly. And the bombings stopped, remember. There were no bombings after Sam got caught, don't forget that. We had our man. Mr. Hoover was happy. The Jews were happy. The President was happy. Then they couldn't convict him for fourteen years, but that was a different story. Everyone was relieved when the bombings stopped."
"So why didn't Dogan squeal on the real bomber when he squealed on Sam?"
They had eased down the bank to a point just inches above the water.
Adam's car sat nearby. Lettner cleared his throat and spat into the river. "Would you testify against a terrorist who was not in custody?"
Adam thought for a second. Lettner smiled, flashed his big yellow teeth, then chuckled as he started for the dock. "Let's have a beer."
"No. Please. I need to go."
Lettner stopped, and they shook hands and promised to meet again, Adam invited him to Memphis, and Lettner invited him back to Calico Rock for more fishing and drinking. At the moment, his invitation was not well received. Adam sent his regards to Irene, apologized again for passing out in the washroom, and thanked him again for the chat.
He left the small town behind, driving gingerly around the curves and hills, still careful not to upset his stomach.
Lee was struggling with a pasta dish when he entered her apartment. The table was set with china and silver and fresh flowers. The recipe was for baked manicotti, and things were not going well in the kitchen. On more than one occasion in the past week she'd confessed to being a lousy cook, and now she was proving it. Pots and pans were scattered along the countertops. Her seldom used apron was covered with tomato sauce. She laughed as they kissed each other on the cheeks and said there was a frozen pizza if matters got worse.
"You look awful," she said, suddenly staring at his eyes.
"It was a rough night."
"You smell like alcohol."
"I had two bloody marys for breakfast. And I need another one now."
"The bar's closed." She picked up a knife and stepped to a pile of vegetables. A zucchini was the next victim. "What did you do up there?"
"Got drunk with the FBI man. Slept on the floor next to his washer and dryer."
"How nice." She came within a centimeter of drawing blood. She jerked her hand away from the chopping block and examined a finger. "Have you seen the Memphis paper?"
"No. Should I?"
"Yes. It's over there." She nodded to a corner of the snack bar.
"Something bad?"
"Just read it."
Adam took the Sunday edition of the Memphis Press and sat in a chair at the table. On the front page of the second section, he suddenly encountered his smiling face. It was a familiar photo, one taken not long ago when he was a second-year law student at Michigan. The story covered half the page, and his photo was joined by many others - Sam, of course, Marvin Kramer, Josh and John Kramer, Ruth Kramer, David McAllister, the Attorney General, Steve Roxburgh, Naifeh, Jeremiah Dogan, and Mr. Elliot Kramer, father of Marvin.
Todd Marks had been busy. His narrative began with a succinct history of the case which took an entire column, then he moved quickly to the present and recapped the same story he'd written two days earlier. He found a bit more biographical data on Adam - college at Pepperdine, law school at Michigan, law review editor, brief employment history with Kravitz & Bane. Naifeh had very little to say, only that the execution would be carried out according to the law. McAllister, on the other hand, was full of wisdom. He had lived with the Kramer nightmare for twenty-three years, he said gravely, thinking about it every day of his life since it happened. It had been his honor and privilege to prosecute Sam Cayhall and bring the killer to justice, and only the execution could close this awful chapter of Mississippi's history. No, he said after much thought, the idea of clemency was out of the question. Just wouldn't be fair to the little Kramer boys. And on and on.
Steve Roxburgh had evidently enjoyed his interview too. He stood ready to fight the final efforts by Cayhall and his lawyer to thwart the execution. He and his staff were prepared to work eighteen hours a day to carry out the wishes of the people. This natter had dragged on long enough, he was quoted as saying more than once, and it was time for justice. No, he was not worried about the last ditch legal challenges of Mr. Cayhall. He had confidence in his skills as a lawyer, the people's lawyer.
Sam Cayhall refused to comment, Marks explained, and Adam Hall couldn't be reached, as if Adam was eager to talk but simply couldn't be found.
The comments from the family were both interesting and disheartening. Elliot Kramer, now seventy-seven and still working, was described as spry and healthy in spite of heart trouble. He was also very bitter. He blamed the Klan and Sam Cayhall not on
ly for killing his two grandsons, but also for Marvin's death. He'd been waiting twenty-three years for Sam to be executed, and it couldn't come a minute too soon. He lashed out at a judicial system that allows a convict to live for almost ten years after the jury gives him a death penalty. He was not certain if he would witness the execution, it would be up to his doctors, he said, but he wanted to. He wanted to be there and look Cayhall in the eyes when they strapped him in.
Ruth Kramer was a bit more moderate. Time had healed many of the wounds, she said, and she was unsure how she would feel after the execution. Nothing would bring back her sons. She had little to say to Todd Marks.
Adam folded the paper and placed it beside the chair. He suddenly had a knot in his fragile stomach, and it came from Steve Roxburgh and David McAllister. As the lawyer expected to save Sam's life, it was frightening to see his enemies so eager for the final battle. He was a rookie. They were veterans. Roxburgh in particular had been through it before, and he had an experienced staff which included a renowned specialist known as Dr. Death, a skilled advocate with a passion for executions. Adam had nothing but an exhausted file full of unsuccessful appeals, and a prayer that a miracle would happen. At this moment he felt completely vulnerable and hopeless.
Lee sat next to him with a cup of espresso. "You look worried," she said, stroking his arm.
"My buddy at the trout dock was of no help."
"Sounds like old man Kramer is hell-bent."
Adam rubbed his temples and tried to ease the pain. "I need a painkiller."
"How about a Valium?"
"Wonderful."
"Are you real hungry?"
"No. My stomach is not doing well."
"Good. Dinner has been terminated. A slight problem with the recipe. It's frozen pizza or nothing."
"Nothing sounds good to me. Nothing but a Valium,"
21
ADAM dropped his keys in the red bucket and watched it ascend to a point twenty feet off the ground where it stopped and spun slowly on the end of the rope. He walked to the first gate, which jerked before sliding open. He walked to the second gate, and waited. Packer emerged from the front door a hundred feet away, stretching and yawning as if he'd been napping on the Row.
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."