by John Grisham
He took his seat and lit another one.
“Why didn’t you testify at trial?” his lawyer asked through the screen.
“Which trial?”
“Good point. The first two trials.”
“Didn’t need to. Brazelton picked good juries, all white, good sympathetic people who understood things. I knew I wouldn’t be convicted by those people. There was no need to testify.”
“And the last trial?”
“That’s a little more complicated. Keyes and I discussed it many times. He at first thought it might help, because I could explain to the jury what my intentions were. Nobody was supposed to get hurt, etc. The bomb was supposed to go off at 5 a.m. But we knew the cross-examination would be brutal. The judge had already ruled that the other bombings could be discussed to show certain things. I would be forced to admit that I did in fact plant the bomb, all fifteen sticks, which of course was more than enough to kill people.”
“So why didn’t you testify?”
“Dogan. That lying bastard told the jury that our plan was to kill the Jew. He was a very effective witness. I mean, think about it, here was the former Imperial Wizard of the Mississippi Klan testifying for the prosecution against one of his own men. It was stout stuff. The jury ate it up.”
“Why did Dogan lie?”
“Jerry Dogan went crazy, Adam. I mean, really crazy. The Feds pursued him for fifteen years—bugged his phones, followed his wife around town, harassed his kinfolks, threatened his children, knocked on his door at all hours of the night. His life was miserable. Someone was always watching and listening. Then, he got sloppy, and the IRS stepped in. They, along with the FBI, told him he was looking at thirty years. Dogan cracked under the pressure. After my trial, I heard he was sent away for a while. You know, to an institution. He got some treatment, returned home, and died not long after.”
“Dogan’s dead?”
Sam froze in mid-puff. Smoke leaked from his mouth and curled upward past his nose and in front of his eyes, which at the moment were staring in disbelief through the opening and into those of his grandson. “You don’t know about Dogan?” he asked.
Adam’s memory blitzed through the countless articles and stories which he’d collected and indexed. He shook his head. “No. What happened to Dogan?”
“I thought you knew everything,” Sam said. “Thought you’d memorized everything about me.”
“I know a lot about you, Sam. I really don’t care about Jeremiah Dogan.”
“He burned in a house fire. He and his wife. They were asleep one night when a gas line somehow began leaking propane. Neighbors said it was like a bomb going off.”
“When did this happen?”
“Exactly one year to the day after he testified against me.”
Adam tried to write this down, but his pen wouldn’t move. He studied Sam’s face for a clue. “Exactly a year?”
“Yep.”
“That’s a nice coincidence.”
“I was in here, of course, but I heard bits and pieces of it. Cops ruled it accidental. In fact, I think there was a lawsuit against the propane company.”
“So, you don’t think he was murdered?”
“Sure I think he was murdered.”
“Okay. Who did it?”
“In fact, the FBI came here and asked me some questions. Can you believe it? The Feds poking their noses around here. A couple of kids from up North. Just couldn’t wait to visit death row and flash their badges and meet a real live Klan terrorist. They were so damned scared they were afraid of their shadows. They asked me stupid questions for an hour, then left. Never heard from anybody again.”
“Who would murder Dogan?”
Sam bit the filter and extracted the last mouthful of smoke from the cigarette. He stubbed it in the ashtray while exhaling through the screen. Adam waved at the smoke with exaggerated motions, but Sam ignored him. “Lots of people,” he mumbled.
Adam made a note in the margin to talk about Dogan later. He would do the research first, then spring it again in some future conversation.
“Just for the sake of argument,” he said, still writing, “it seems as though you should’ve testified to counter Dogan.”
“I almost did,” Sam said with a trace of regret. “The last night of the trial, me and Keyes and his associate, I forget her name, stayed up until midnight discussing whether or not I should take the stand. But think about it, Adam. I would’ve been forced to admit that I planted the bomb, that it had a timing device set to go off later, that I had been involved in other bombings, and that I was across the street from the building when it blew. Plus, the prosecution had clearly proven that Marvin Kramer was a target. I mean, hell, they played those FBI phone tapes to the jury. You should’ve heard it. They rigged up these huge speakers in the courtroom, and they set the tape player on a table in front of the jury like it was some kind of a live bomb. And there was Dogan on the phone to Wayne Graves, his voice was scratchy but very audible, talking about bombing Marvin Kramer for this and for that, and bragging about how he would send his Group, as he called me, to Greenville to take care of matters. The voices on that tape sounded like ghosts from hell, and the jury hung on every word. Very effective. And, then, of course, there was Dogan’s own testimony. I would’ve looked ridiculous at that moment trying to testify and convince the jury that I really wasn’t a bad guy. McAllister would’ve eaten me alive. So we decided I shouldn’t take the stand. Looking back, it was a bad move. I should’ve talked.”
“But on the advice of your attorney you didn’t?”
“Look, Adam, if you’re thinking about attacking Keyes on the grounds of ineffective assistance of counsel, then forget it. I paid Keyes good money, mortgaged everything I had, and he did a good job. A long time ago Goodman and Tyner considered going after Keyes, but they found nothing wrong with his representation. Forget it.”
The Cayhall file at Kravitz & Bane had at least two inches of research and memos on the issue of Benjamin Keyes’ representation. Ineffective assistance of trial counsel was a standard argument in death penalty appeals, but it had not been used in Sam’s case. Goodman and Tyner had discussed it at length, bouncing long memos back and forth between their offices on the sixty-first and sixty-sixth floors in Chicago. The final memo declared that Keyes had done such a good job at trial that there was nothing to attack.
The file also included a three-page letter from Sam expressly forbidding any attack on Keyes. He would not sign any petition doing so, he promised.
The last memo, however, had been written seven years earlier at a time when death was a distant possibility. Things were different now. Issues had to be resurrected or even fabricated. It was time to grasp at straws.
“Where is Keyes now?” Adam asked.
“Last I heard he took a job in Washington. He wrote me about five years ago, said he wasn’t practicing anymore. He took it pretty hard when we lost. I don’t think either one of us expected it.”
“You didn’t expect to be convicted?”
“Not really. I had already beaten it twice, you know. And my jury the third time had eight whites, or Anglo-Americans I should say. As bad as the trial went, I don’t think I ever really believed they’d convict me.”
“What about Keyes?”
“Oh, he was worried. We damned sure didn’t take it lightly. We spent months preparing for the trial. He neglected his other clients, even his family, for weeks while we were getting ready. McAllister was popping off in the papers every day, it seemed, and the more he talked the more we worked. They released the list of potential jurors, four hundred of them, and we spent days investigating those people. His pretrial preparation was impeccable. We were not naive.”
“Lee told me you considered disappearing.”
“Oh, she did.”
“Yeah, she told me last night.”
He tapped the next cigarette on the counter, and admired it for a moment as if it might be his last. “Yeah, I thought about it. Almost
thirteen years passed before McAllister came after me. I was a free man, hell I was forty-seven years old when the second trial ended and I returned home. Forty-seven years old, and I had been cleared by two juries, and all this was behind me. I was happy. Life was normal. I farmed and ran a sawmill, drank coffee in town and voted in every election. The Feds watched me for a few months, but I guess they became convinced I’d given up bombing. From time to time, a pesky reporter or journalist would show up in Clanton and ask questions, but nobody spoke to them. They were always from up North, dumb as hell, rude and ignorant, and they never stayed long. One came to the house one day, and wouldn’t leave. Instead of getting the shotgun, I just turned the dogs loose on him and they chewed his ass up. Never came back.” 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 São 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.
Fifteen
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 trustee 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.