by John Grisham
"Do they realize Saturdays and Sundays count? That the clock doesn't stop ticking for me on the weekends?"
"It could be good news. They could be considering my brilliant appeals."
"Maybe, but I suspect the honorable brethren are more likely at their lake homes drinking beer and cooking ribs. Don't you think?"
"Yeah, you're probably right. What's in the paper?"
"Same old rehash of me and my brutal crime, pictures of those people out front demonstrating, comments from McAllister. Nothing new. I've never seen such excitement."
"You're the man of the hour, Sam. Wendall Sherman and his publisher are now at a hundred and fifty thousand, but the deadline is six o'clock tonight. He's in Memphis, sitting with his tape recorders, just itching to get down here. He says he'll need at least two full days to record your story."
"Great. What exactly am I supposed to do with the money?"
"Leave it to your precious grandchildren."
"Are you serious? Will you spend it? I'll do it if you'll spend it."
"No. I'm just kidding. I don't want the money, and Carmen doesn't need it. I couldn't spend it with a clear conscience."
"Good. Because the last thing I wanna do between now and Tuesday night is to sit with a stranger and talk about the past. I don't care how much money he has. I'd rather not have a book written about my life."
"I've already told him to forget it."
"Atta boy." Sam eased to his feet and began walking back and forth across the room. Adam took his place on the edge of the desk and read the sports section of the Memphis paper.
"I'll be glad when it's over, Adam," Sam said, still walking, talking with his hands. "I can't stand this waiting. I swear I wish it was tonight." He was suddenly nervous and irritable, his voice louder.
Adam placed the paper to his side. "We're gonna win, Sam. Trust me."
"Win what!" he snapped angrily. "Win a reprieve? Big deal! What do we gain from that? Six months? A year? You know what that means? It means we'll get to do this again someday. I'll go through the whole damned ritual again -counting days, losing sleep, plotting last minute strategies, listening to Nugent or some other fool, talking to the shrink, whispering to the chaplain, being patted on the ass and led up here to this cubbyhole because I'm special." He stopped in front of Adam and glared down at him. His face was angry, his eyes wet and bitter. "I'm sick of this, Adam! Listen to me! This is worse than dying."
"We can't quit, Sam."
"We? Who the hell is we? It's my neck on the line, not yours. If I get a stay, then you'll go back to your fancy office in Chicago and get on with your life. You'll be the hero because you saved your client. You'll get your picture in Lawyer's Quarterly, or whatever you guys read. The bright young star who kicked ass in Mississippi. Saved his grandfather, a wretched Klucker, by the way. Your client, on the other hand, is led back to his little cage where he starts counting days again." Sam threw his cigarette on the floor and grabbed Adam by the shou iers. "Look at me, son. I can't go through thi again. I want you to stop everything. Drop it. Call the courts and tell them we're dismissing all the petitions and appeals. I'm an old man. Please allow me to die with dignity."
His hands were shaking. His breathing was labored. Adam searched his brilliant blue eyes, surrounded with layers of dark wrinkles, and saw a stray tear ease out of one corner and fall slowly down his cheek until it vanished in the gray beard.
For the first time, Adam could smell his grandfather. The strong nicotine aroma mixed with an odor of dried perspiration to form a scent that was not pleasant. It was not repulsive, though, the way it would have been if radiated by a person with access to plenty of soap and hot water, air conditioning, and deodorant. After the second breath, it didn't bother Adam at all.
"I don't want you to die, Sam."
Sam squeezed his shoulders harder. "Why not?" he demanded.
"Because I've just found you. You're my grandfather."
Sam stared for a second longer, then relaxed. He released Adam and took a step backward. "I'm sorry you found me like this," he said, wiping his eyes.
"Don't apologize."
"But I have to. I'm sorry I'm not a better grandfather. Look at me," he said, glancing down at his legs. "A wretched old man in a red monkey suit. A convicted murderer about to be gassed like an animal. And look at you. A fine young man with a beautiful education and a bright future. Where in the world did I go wrong? What happened to me? I've spent my life hating people, and look what I have to show for it. You, you don't hate anybody. And look where you're headed. We have the same blood. Why am I here?"
Sam slowly sat in a chair, put his elbows on his knees, and covered his eyes. Neither moved or spoke for a long time. The occasional voice of a guard could be heard in the hall, but the room was quiet.
"You know, Adam, I'd rather not die in such an awful way," Sam said hoarsely with his fists resting on his temples, still looking blankly at the floor. "But death itself doesn't worry me now. I've known for a long time that I would die here, and my biggest fear was dying without knowing anyone would care. That's an awful thought, you know. Dying and nobody cares. There's nobody to cry and grieve, to mourn properly at the funeral and burial. I've had dreams where I saw my body in a cheap wooden casket lying in the funeral home in Clanton, and not a soul was in the room with me. Not even Donnie. In the same dream, the preacher chuckled through the funeral service because it was just the two of us, all alone in the chapel, rows and rows of empty pews. But that's different now. I know somebody cares about me. I know you'll be sad when I die because you care, and I know you'll be there when I'm buried to make sure it's done properly. I'm really ready to go now, Adam. I'm ready."
"Fine, Sam, I respect that. And I promise I'll be here to the bitter end, and I'll grieve and mourn, and after it's over I'll make sure you're buried properly. No one's gonna screw around with you, Sam, as long as I'm here. But, please, look at it through my eyes. I have to give it my best shot, because I'm young and I have the rest of my life. Don't make me leave here knowing I could've done more. It's not fair to me."
Sam folded his arms across his chest and looked at Adam. His pale face was calm, his eyes still wet. "Let's do it this way," he said, his voice still low and pained. "I'm ready to go. I'll spend tomorrow and Tuesday making final preparations. I'll assume it's gonna happen at midnight Tuesday, and I'll be ready for it. You, on the other hand, play it like a game. If you can win it, good for you. If you lose it, I'll be ready to face the music."
"So you'll cooperate?"
"No. No clemency hearing. No more petitions or appeals. You have enough junk floating around out there to keep you busy. Two issues are still alive. I'm not signing any more petitions."
Sam stood, his decrepit knees popping and wobbling. He walked to the door and leaned on it. "What about Lee?" he asked softly, reaching for his cigarettes.
"She's still in rehab," Adam lied. He was tempted to blurt out the truth. It seemed childish to be lying to Sam in these declining hours of his life, but Adam still held a strong hope that she would be found before Tuesday. "Do you want to see her?"
"I think so. Can she get out?"
"It may be difficult, but I'll try. She's sicker than I first thought."
"She's an alcoholic?"
"Yes."
"Is that all? No drugs?"
"Just alcohol. She told me she's had a problem for many years. Rehab is nothing new."
"Bless her heart. My children didn't have a chance."
"She's a fine person. She's had a rough time with her marriage. Her son left home at an early age and never returned."
"Walt, right?"
"Right," Adam answered. What a heartbroken bunch of people. Sam was not even certain of the name of his grandson.
"How old is he?"
"I'm not sure. Probably close to my age."
"Does he even know about me?"
"I don't know. He's been gone for many years. Lives in Amsterdam."
Sam pic
ked up a cup from the desk and took a drink of cold coffee. "What about Carmen?" he asked.
Adam instinctively glanced at his watch. "I pick her up at the Memphis airport in three hours. She'll be here in the morning."
"That just scares the hell outta me."
"Relax, Sam. She's a great person. She's smart, ambitious, pretty, and I've told her all about you."
"Why'd you do that?"
"Because she wants to know."
"Poor child. Did you tell her what I look like?"
"Don't worry about it, Sam. She doesn't care what you look like."
"Did you tell her I'm not some savage monster?"
"I told her you were a sweetheart, a real dear, sort of a delicate little fella with an earring, ponytail, limp wrist, and these cute little rubber shower shoes that you sort of glide in."
"You kiss my ass!"
"And that you seemed to be a real favorite of the boys here in prison."
"You're lying! You didn't tell her all that!" Sam was grinning, but half serious, and his concern was amusing. Adam laughed, a bit too long and a bit too loud, but the humor was welcome. They both chuckled and tried their best to seem thoroughly amused by their own wit. They tried to stretch it out, but soon the levity passed and gravity sank in. Soon they were sitting on the edge of the desk, side by side, feet on separate chairs, staring at the floor while heavy clouds of tobacco smoke boiled above them in the motionless air.
There was so much to talk about, yet there was little to say. The legal theories and maneuverings had been beaten to death. Family was a subject they'd covered as much as they'd dared. The weather was good for no more than five minutes of conjecture. And both men knew they would spend much of the next two and a half days together. Serious matters could wait. Unpleasant subjects could be shoved back just a bit longer.
Twice Adam glanced at his watch and said he'd best be going, and both times Sam insisted he stay. Because when Adam left, they would come for him and take him back to his cell, his little cage where the temperature was over a hundred. Please stay, he begged.
Late that night, well after midnight, long after Adam had told Carmen about Lee and her problems, and about Phelps and Walt, about McAllister and Wyn Lettner, and the theory of the accomplice, hours after they'd finished a pizza and discussed their mother and father and grandfather and the whole pathetic bunch, Adam said the one moment he'd never forget was the two of them sitting there on the desk, passing time in silence as an invisible clock ticked away, with Sam patting him on the knee. It was like he had to touch me in some affectionate way, he explained to her, like a good grandfather would touch a small loved one.
Carmen had heard enough for one night. She'd been on the patio for four hours, suffering through the humidity and absorbing the desolate oral history of her father's family.
But Adam had been very careful. He'd hit the peaks and skipped the woeful valleys - no mention of Joe Lincoln or lynchings or sketchy hints of other crimes. He portrayed Sam as a violent man who made terrible mistakes and was now burdened with remorse. He had toyed with the idea of showing her his video of Sam's trials, but decided against it. He would do it later. She could handle only so much in one night. At times, he couldn't believe the things he'd heard in the past four weeks. It would be cruel to hit her with all of it in one sitting. He loved his sister dearly. They had years to discuss the rest of the story.
45
MONDAY, August 6, 6 A.m. Forty-two hours to go. Adam entered his office and locked the door.
He waited until seven, then called Slattery's office in Jackson. There was no answer, of course, but he was hoping for a recorded message that might direct him to another number that might lead to someone down there who could tell him something. Slattery was sitting on the mental claim; just ignoring it as if it was simply another little lawsuit.
He called information and received the home number for F. Flynn Slattery, but decided not to bother him. He could wait until nine.
Adam had slept less than three hours. His pulse was pounding, his adrenaline was pumping. His client was now down to the last forty-two hours, and dammit, Slattery should quickly rule one way or the other. It wasn't fair to sit on the damned petition when he could be racing off to other courts with it.
The phone rang and he lunged for it. The Death Clerk from the Fifth Circuit informed him that the court was denying the appeal of Sam's claim of ineffective assistance of counsel. It was the opinion of the court that the claim was procedurally barred. It should've been filed years ago. The court did not get to the merits of the issue.
"Then why'd the court sit on it for a week?" Adam demanded. "They could've reached this nitpicking decision ten days ago."
"I'll fax you a copy right now," the clerk said.
"Thanks. I'm sorry, okay."
"Keep in touch, Mr. Hall. We'll be right here waiting on you."
Adam hung up, and went to find coffee. Darlene arrived, tired, haggard, and early, at seven-thirty. She brought the fax from the Fifth Circuit, along with a raisin bagel. Adam asked her to fax to the U.S. Supreme Court the petition for cert on the ineffectiveness claim. It had been prepared for three days, and Mr. Olander in Washington had told Darlene that the Court was already reviewing it.
Darlene then brought two aspirin and a glass of water. His head was splitting as he packed most of the Cayhall file into a large briefcase and a cardboard box. He gave Darlene a list of instructions.
Then he left the office, the Memphis branch of Kravitz & Bane, never to return.
Colonel Nugent waited impatiently for the tier door to open, then rushed into the hallway with eight members of his select execution team behind him. They swarmed into the quietness of Tier A with all the finesse of a Gestapo squad - eight large men, half in uniform, half plainclothed, following a strutting little rooster.
He stopped at cell six, where Sam was lying on his bed, minding his own business. The other inmates were instantly watching and listening, their arms hanging through the bars.
"Sam, it's time to go to the Observation Cell," Nugent said as if he was truly bothered by this. His men lined the wall behind him, under the row of windows.
Sam slowly eased himself from the bed, and walked to the bars. He glared at Nugent, and asked, "Why?"
"Because I said so."
"But why move me eight doors down the tier? What purpose does it serve?"
"It's procedure, Sam. It's in the book."
"So you don't have a good reason, do you?"
"I don't need one. Turn around."
Sam walked to his sink and brushed his teeth for a long time. Then he stood over his toilet and urinated with his hands on his hips. Then he washed his hands, as Nugent and his boys watched and fumed. Then he lit a cigarette, stuck it between his teeth, and eased his hands behind his back and through the narrow opening in the door. Nugent slapped the cuffs on his wrists, and nodded at the end of the tier for the door to be opened. Sam stepped onto the tier. He nodded at J. B. Gullitt, who was watching in horror and ready to cry. He winked at Hank Henshaw.
Nugent .took his arm and walked him to the end of the hall, past Gullitt and Loyd Eaton and Stock Turner and Harry Ross Scott and Buddy Lee Harris, and, finally, past Preacher Boy, who at the moment was lying on his bed, face down, crying. The tier ran to a wall of iron bars, identical to those on the front of the cells, and the wall had a heavy door in the center of it. On the other side was another group of Nugent's goons, all watching quietly and loving every moment of it. Behind them was a short, narrow hallway which led to the Isolation Room. And then to the chamber.
Sam was being moved forty-eight feet closer to death. He leaned against the wall, puffing, watching in stoic silence. This was nothing personal, just part of the routine.
Nugent walked back to cell six and barked orders. Four of the guards entered Sam's cell and began grabbing his possessions. Books, typewriter, fan, television, toiletries, clothing. They held the items as if they were contaminated and carried them to t
he Observation Cell. The mattress and bedding were rolled up and moved by a burly plainclothed guard who accidentally stepped on a dragging sheet and ripped it.
The inmates watched this sudden flurry of activity with a saddened curiosity. Their cramped little cells were like additional layers of skin, and to see one so unmercifully violated was painful. It could happen to them. The reality of an execution was crashing in; they could hear it in the heavy boots shuffling along the tier, and in the stern muted voices of the death team. The distant slamming of a door would've barely been noticed a week ago. Now, it was a jolting shock that rattled the nerves.
The officers trooped back and forth with Sam's assets until cell six was bare. It was quick work, They arranged things in his new home without the slightest care.
None of the eight worked on the Row. Nugent had read somewhere in Naifeh's haphazard notes that the members of the execution team should be total strangers to the inmate. They should be pulled from the other camps. Thirty-one officers and guards had volunteered for this duty. Nugent had chosen only the best.
"Is everything in?" he snapped at one of his men.
"Yes sir."
"Very well. It's all yours, Sam."
"Oh thank you, sir," Sam sneered as he entered the cell. Nugent nodded to the far end of the hall, and the door closed. He walked forward and grabbed the bars with both hands. "Now, listen, Sam," he said gravely. Sam was leaning with his back to the wall, looking away from Nugent. "We'll be right here if you need anything, okay. We moved you down here to the end so we can watch you better. All right? Is there anything I can do for you?"
Sam continued to look away, thoroughly ignoring him.
"Very well." He backed away, and looked at his men. "Let's go," he said to them. The tier door opened less than ten feet from Sam, and the death team filed out. Sam waited. Nugent glanced up and down the hall, then stepped from the tier.
"Hey, Nugent!" Sam suddenly yelled. "How 'bout taking these handcuffs off!"
Nugent froze and the death team stopped.
"You dumbass!" Sam yelled again, as Nugent scurried backward, fumbling for keys, barking orders. Laughter erupted along the tier, loud horselaughs and guffaws and boisterous catcalls. "You can't leave me handcuffed!" Sam screamed into the hallway.