Chamber

by John Grisham

  Packer disappeared inside without a word, and Sam stood in the same spot for a full minute as lights flashed and his head pounded. The heat didn't bother him because he lived with it, but the sunlight hit like lasers and caused a severe headache each time he was allowed to venture from the dungeon. He could easily afford a pair of cheap sunglasses, similar to Packer's, but of course that would be too sensible. Sunglasses were not on the approved list of items an inmate could own.

  He walked unsteadily through the clipped grass, looking through the fence to the cotton fields beyond. The recreation yard was nothing more than a fenced-in plot of dirt and grass with two wooden benches and a basketball hoop for the Africans. It was known to guards and prisoners alike as the bullpen. Sam had stepped it off carefully a thousand times, and had compared his measurements with those of other inmates. The yard was fifty-one feet long and thirty-six feet wide. The fence was ten feet tall and crowned with another eighteen inches of razor wire. Beyond the fence was a stretch of grass which ran a hundred feet or so to the main fence, which was watched by the guards in the towers.

  Sam walked in a straight line next to the fence, and when it stopped he turned ninety degrees and continued his little routine, counting every step along the way. Fifty-one feet by thirty-six. His cell was six by nine. The law library, the Twig, was eighteen by fifteen. His side of the visitors' room was six by thirty. He'd been told the Chamber Room was fifteen by twelve, and the chamber itself was a mere cube barely four feet wide.

  During the first year of his confinement, he had jogged around the edges of the yard, trying to sweat and give his heart a workout. He'd also tossed shots at the basketball hoop, but quit when he went days without making one. He had eventually quit exercising, and for years had used this hour to do nothing but enjoy the freedom from his cell. At one time, he'd fallen into the habit of standing at the fence and staring past the fields to the trees where he imagined all sorts of things. Freedom. Highways. Fishing. Food. Sex occasionally. He could almost picture his little farm in Ford County not far over there between two small patches of woods. He would dream of Brazil or Argentina or some other laid-back hiding place where he should be living with a new name.

  And then he'd stopped the dreaming. He'd stopped gazing through the fence as if a miracle would take him away. He walked and smoked, almost always by himself. His most rigorous activity was a game of checkers.

  The door opened again, and Hank Henshaw walked through it. Packer uncuffed him as he squinted furiously and looked at the ground. He rubbed his wrists as soon as they were free, then stretched his back and legs. Packer walked to one of the benches and placed a worn cardboard box on it.

  The two inmates watched Packer until he left the yard, then they walked to the bench and assumed their positions astraddle the wooden plank with the box between them. Sam carefully placed the checkerboard on the bench as Henshaw counted the checkers.

  "My turn to be red," Sam said.

  "You were red last time," Henshaw said, staring at him.

  "I was black last time."

  "No, I was black last time. It's my turn to be red."

  "Look, Hank. I've got sixteen days, and if I want to be red, then I get to be red."

  Henshaw shrugged and conceded. They arranged their checkers meticulously.

  "I guess you get the first move," Henshaw said.

  "Of course." Sam slid a checker to a vacant square, and the match was on. The midday sun baked the ground around them and within minutes their red jumpsuits stuck to their backs. They both wore rubber shower shoes with no socks.

  Hank Henshaw was forty-one, now a resident of the Row for seven years but not expected to ever see the gas chamber. Two crucial errors had been made at trial, and Henshaw had a decent chance of getting reversed and freed from the Row.

  "Bad news yesterday," he said as Sam pondered the next move.

  "Yes, things are lookin' pretty grim, wouldn't you say?"

  "Yeah. What does your lawyer say?" Neither of them looked up from the checkerboard.

  "He says we have a fightin' chance."

  "What the hell does that mean?" Henshaw asked as he made a move.

  "I think it means they're gonna gas me, but I'll go down swinging."

  "Does the kid know what he's doing?"

  "Oh yeah. He's sharp. Runs in the blood, you know."

  "But he's awfully young."

  "He's a smart kid. Great education. Number two in his law class at Michigan, you know. Editor of the law review."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Means he's brilliant. He'll think of something."

  "Are you serious, Sam? Do you think it's gonna happen?"

  Sam suddenly jumped two black checkers, and Henshaw cursed. "You're pitiful," Sam said with a grin. "When was the last time you beat me?"

  "Two weeks ago."

  "You liar. You haven't beat me in three years."

  Henshaw made a tentative move, and Sam jumped him again. Five minutes later, the game was over with Sam victorious again. They cleared the board, and started over.

  At noon, Packer and another guard appeared with handcuffs, and the fun was over. They were led to their cells where lunch was in progress. Beans, peas, mashed potatoes, and several slices of dry toast. Sam ate less than a third of the bland food on his plate, and waited patiently for a guard to come after him. He held a pair of clean boxer shorts and a bar of soap. It was time to bathe.

  The guard arrived and led Sam to a small shower at the end of the tier. By court order, death row inmates were allowed five quick showers a week, whether they needed them or not, as the guards liked to say.

  Sam showered quickly, washing his hair twice with the soap and rinsing himself in the warm water. The shower itself was clean enough, but used by all fourteen inmates on the tier. Thus, the rubber shower shoes remained on the feet. After five minutes, the water stopped, and Sam dripped for a few more minutes as he stared at the moldy tiled walls. There were some things about the Row that he would not miss.

  Twenty minutes later, he was loaded into a prison van and driven a half a mile to the law library.

  Adam was waiting inside. He removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves as the guards uncuffed Sam and left the room. They greeted each other and shook hands. Sam quickly took a seat and lit a cigarette. "Where've you been?" he asked.

  "Busy," Adam said, sitting across the table. "I had an unexpected trip to Chicago last Wednesday and Thursday."

  "Anything to do with me?"

  "You could say that. Goodman wanted to review the case, and there were a couple of other matters."

  "So Goodman's still involved?"

  "Goodman is my boss right now, Sam. I have to report to him if I want to keep my job. I know you hate him, but he's very concerned about you and your case. Believe it or not, he does not want to see you gassed."

  "I don't hate him anymore."

  "Why the change of heart?"

  "I don't know. When you get this close to death, you do a lot of thinking."

  Adam was anxious to hear more, but Sam let it pass. Adam watched him smoke and tried not to think about Joe Lincoln. He tried not to think of Sam's father being beaten in a drunken brawl at a funeral, and he tried to ignore all the other miserable stories Lee had told him in Ford County. He tried to block these things from his mind, but he couldn't.

  He had promised her he would not mention any more nightmares from the past. "I guess you've heard about our latest defeat," he said as he pulled papers from his briefcase.

  "It didn't take long, did it?"

  "No. A rather quick loss, but I've already appealed to the Fifth Circuit."

  "I've never won in the Fifth Circuit."

  "I know. But we can't select our review court at-this point."

  "What can we do at this point?"

  "Several things. I bumped into the governor last Tuesday after a meeting with the federal judge. He wanted to talk in private. He gave me his private phone numbers and invited me to call an
d talk about the case. Said he had doubts about the extent of your guilt."

  Sam glared at him. "Doubts? He's the only reason I'm here. He can't wait to see me executed."

  "You're probably right, but - "

  "You promised not to talk to him. You signed an agreement with me expressly prohibiting any contact with that fool."

  "Relax, Sam. He grabbed me outside the judge's office."

  "I'm surprised he didn't call a press conference to talk about it."

  "I threatened him, okay. I made him promise not to talk."

  "Then you're the first person in history to silence that bastard."

  "He's open to the idea of clemency."

  "He told you this?"

  "Yes."

  "Why? I don't believe it."

  "I don't know why, Sam. And I don't really care. But how can it hurt? What's the danger in requesting a clemency hearing? So he gets his picture in the paper. So the TV cameras chase him around some more. If there's a chance he'll listen, then why should you care if he gets some mileage from it?"

  "No. The answer is no. I will not authorize you to request a clemency hearing. Hell no. A thousand times no. I know him, Adam. He's trying to suck you into his game plan. It's all a sham, a show for the public. He'll grieve over this until the very end, milking it for all he can. He'll get more attention than I will, and it's my execution."

  "So what's the harm?"

  Sam slapped the table with the palm of his hand. "Because it won't do any good, Adam! He will not change his mind."

  Adam scribbled something on a legal pad and let a moment pass. Sam eased back in his seat, and lit another cigarette. His hair was still wet and he combed it back with his fingernails.

  Adam placed his pen on the table and looked at his client. "What do you want to do, Sam? Quit? Throw in the towel? You think you know so damned much law, tell me what you want to do."

  "Well, I've been thinking about it."

  "I'm sure you have."

  "The lawsuit on its way to the Fifth Circuit has merit, but it doesn't look promising. There's not much left, as I see things."

  "Except Benjamin Keyes."

  "Right. Except Keyes. He did a fine job for me at trial and on appeal, and he was almost a friend. I hate to go after him."

  "It's standard in death cases, Sam. You always go after the trial lawyer and claim ineffective assistance of counsel. Goodman told me he wanted to do it, but you refused. It should've been done years ago."

  "He's right about that. He begged me to do it, but I said no. I guess it was a mistake."

  Adam was on the edge of his seat taking notes. "I've studied the record, and I think Keyes made a mistake when he didn't put you on the stand to testify."

  "I wanted to talk to the jury, you know. I think I've already told you that. After Dogan testified, I thought it was essential for me to explain to the jury that I did in fact plant the bomb, but there was no intent to kill anyone. That's the truth, Adam. I didn't intend to kill anyone."

  "You wanted to testify, but your lawyer said no."

  Sam smiled and looked at the floor. "Is that what you want me to say?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

  "No."

  "Okay. That's the way it happened. I wanted to testify, but-my lawyer wouldn't allow it."

  "I'll file first thing in the morning."

  "It's too late, isn't it?"

  "Well, it's certainly late, and this issue should've been raised a long time ago. But what's there to lose?"

  "Will you call Keyes and tell him?"

  "If I have time. I'm really not concerned with his feelings at the moment."

  "Then neither am I. To hell with him. Who else can we attack?"

  "The list is rather short."

  Sam jumped to his feet and began pacing along the table in measured steps. The room was eighteen feet long. He walked around the table, behind Adam, and along each of the four walls, counting as he went. He stopped and leaned against a shelf of books.

  Adam finished some notes and watched him carefully. "Lee wants to know if she can come visit," he said.

  Sam stared at him, then slowly returned to his seat across the table. "She wants to?"

  "I think so."

  "I'll have to think about it."

  "Well hurry."

  "How's she doing?"

  "Pretty fair, I guess. She sends her love and prayers, and she thinks about you a lot these days."

  "Do people in Memphis know she's my daughter?"

  "I don't think so. It hasn't been in the papers yet."

  "I hope they keep it quiet."

  "She and I went to Clanton last Saturday."

  Sam looked at him sadly, then gazed at the ceiling. "What did you see?" he asked.

  "Lots of things. She showed me my grandmother's grave, and the plot with the other Cayhalls."

  "She didn't want to be buried with the Cayhalls, did Lee tell you that?"

  "Yes. Lee asked me where you wanted to be buried."

  "I haven't decided yet."

  "Sure. Just let me know when you make the decision. We walked through the town, and she showed me the house we lived in. We went to the square and sat in the gazebo on the courthouse lawn. The town was very busy. People were packed around the square."

  "We used to watch fireworks in the cemetery."

  "Lee told me all about it. We ate lunch at The Tea Shoppe, and took a drive in the country.

  She took me to her childhood home."

  "It's still there?"

  "Yeah, it's abandoned. The house is run-down and the weeds have taken over. We walked around the place. She told me lots of stories of her childhood. Talked a lot about Eddie."

  "Does she have fond memories?"

  "Not really."

  Sam crossed his arms and looked at the table. A minute passed without a word. Finally, Sam asked, "Did she tell you about Eddie's little African friend, Quince Lincoln?"

  Adam nodded slowly, and their eyes locked together. "Yes, she did."

  "And about his father, Joe?"

  "She told me the story."

  "Do you believe her?"

  "I do. Should I?"

  "It's true. It's all true."

  "I thought so."

  "How did you feel when she told you the story? I mean, how did you react to it?"

  "I hated your guts."

  "And how do you feel now?"

  "Different."

  Sam slowly rose from his seat and walked to the end of the table where he stopped and stood with his back to Adam. "That was forty years ago," he mumbled, barely audible.

  "I didn't come here to talk about it," Adam said, already feeling guilty.

  Sam turned and leaned on the same bookshelf. He crossed his arms and stared at the wall. "I've wished a thousand times it hadn't happened."

  "I promised Lee I wouldn't bring it up, Sam. I'm sorry."

  "Joe Lincoln was a good man. I've often wondered what happened to Ruby and Quince and the rest of the kids."

  "Forget it, Sam. Let's talk about something else."

  "I hope they're happy when I'm dead."

  30

  AS Adam drove past the security station at the main gate the guard waved, as if by now he was a regular customer. He waved back as he slowed and pushed a button to release his trunk. No paperwork was required for visitors to leave, only a quick look in the trunk to make sure no prisoners had caught a ride. He turned onto the highway, heading south, away from Memphis, and calculated that this was his fifth visit to Parchman. Five visits in two weeks. He had a suspicion that the place would be his second home for the next sixteen days. What a rotten thought.

  He was not in the mood to deal with Lee tonight. He felt some responsibility for her relapse into alcohol, but by her own admission this had been a way of life for many years. She was an alcoholic, and if she chose to drink there was nothing he could do to stop her. He would be there tomorrow night, to make coffee and conversation. T
onight, he needed a break.

  It was mid-afternoon, the heat emanated from the asphalt highway, the fields were dusty and dry, the farm implements languid and slow, the traffic light and sluggish. Adam pulled to the shoulder and raised the convertible top. He stopped at a Chinese grocery in Ruleville and bought a can of iced tea, then sped along a lonely highway in the general direction of Greenville. He had an errand to run, probably an unpleasant one, but something he felt obligated to do. He hoped he had the courage to go through with it.

  He stayed on the back roads, the small paved county routes, and zipped almost aimlessly across the Delta. He got lost twice, but worked himself out of it. He arrived in Greenville a few minutes before five, and cruised the downtown area in search of his target. He passed Kramer Park twice. He found the synagogue, across the street from the First Baptist Church. He parked at the end of Main Street, at the river where a levee guarded the city. He straightened his tie and walked three blocks along Washington Street to an old brick building with the sign Kramer Wholesale hanging from a veranda above the sidewalk in front of it. The heavy glass door opened to the inside, and the ancient wooden floors squeaked as he walked on them. The front part of the building had been preserved to resemble an old-fashioned retail store, with glass counters in front of wide shelves that ran to the ceiling. The shelves and counters were filled with boxes and wrappings of food products sold years ago, but now extinct. An antique cash register was on display. The little museum quickly yielded to modern commerce. The rest of the huge building was renovated and gave the appearance of being quite efficient. A wall of paned glass cut off the front foyer, and a wide carpeted hallway ran down the center of the building and led, no doubt, to offices and secretaries, and somewhere in the rear there had to be a warehouse.

  Adam admired the displays in the front counters. A young man in jeans appeared from the back and asked, "Can I help you?"

  Adam smiled, and was suddenly nervous. "Yes, I'd like to see Mr. Elliot Kramer."

  "Are you a salesman?"

  "No."

  "Are you a buyer?" No.

  The young man was holding a pencil and had things on his mind. "Then, may I ask what you need?"