by John Grisham
“So you gave up the hard life of a rich woman and moved out?”
“Yeah. I was not a very good rich woman, Adam. I hated it. It was fun for a very short while, but I didn’t fit in. Not the right blood type. Believe it or not, my family was not known in the social circles of Memphis.”
“You must be kidding.”
“I swear. And to be a proper rich woman with a future in this city you have to come from a family of rich fossils, preferably with a great-grandfather who made money in cotton. I just didn’t fit in.”
“But you still play the social game.”
“No. I still make appearances, but only for Phelps. It’s important for him to have a wife who’s his age but with a touch of gray, a mature wife who looks nice in an evening dress and diamonds and can hold her own while gabbing with his boring friends. We go out three times a year. I’m sort of an aging trophy wife.”
“Seems to me like he’d want a real trophy wife, one of the slinky blondes.”
“No. His family would be crushed, and there’s a lot of money in trust. Phelps walks on eggshells around his family. When his parents are gone, then he’ll be ready to come out of the closet.”
“I thought his parents hated you.”
“Of course they do. It’s ironic that they’re the reason we’re still married. A divorce would be scandalous.”
Adam laughed and shook his head in bewilderment. “This is crazy.”
“Yes, but it works. I’m happy. He’s happy. He has his little girls. I fool around with whomever I want. No questions are asked.”
“What about Walt?”
She slowly sat her glass of tea on the table and looked away. “What about him?” she said, without looking.
“You never talk about him.”
“I know,” she said softly, still watching something across the room.
“Let me guess. More skeletons in the closet. More secrets.”
She looked at him sadly, then gave a slight shrug as if to say, what the hell.
“He is, after all, my first cousin,” Adam said. “And to my knowledge, and barring any further revelations, he’s the only first cousin I have.”
“You wouldn’t like him.”
“Of course not. He’s part Cayhall.”
“No. He’s all Booth. Phelps wanted a son, why I don’t know. And so we had a son. Phelps, of course, had little time for him. Always too busy with the bank. He took him to the country club and tried to teach him golf, but it didn’t work. Walt never liked sports. They went to Canada once to hunt pheasants, and didn’t speak to each other for a week when they came home. He wasn’t a sissy, but he wasn’t athletic either. Phelps was a big prep school jock—football, rugby, boxing, all that. Walt tried to play, but the talent just wasn’t there. Phelps drove him even harder, and Walt rebelled. So, Phelps, with the typical heavy hand, sent him away to boarding school. My son left home at the age of fifteen.”
“Where did he go to college?”
“He spent one year at Cornell, then dropped out.”
“He dropped out?”
“Yes. He went to Europe after his freshman year, and he’s been there ever since.”
Adam studied her face and waited for more. He sipped his water, and was about to speak when the waiter appeared and rapidly placed a large bowl of green salad between them.
“Why did he stay in Europe?”
“He went to Amsterdam and fell in love.”
“A nice Dutch girl?”
“A nice Dutch boy.”
“I see.”
She was suddenly interested in the salad, which she served on her plate and began cutting into small pieces. Adam did likewise, and they ate in silence for a while as the bistro filled up and became noisier. An attractive couple of tired yuppies sat at the small table next to them and ordered strong drinks.
Adam smeared butter on a roll, took a bite, then asked, “How did Phelps react?”
She wiped the corners of her mouth. “The last trip Phelps and I took together was to Amsterdam to find our son. He’d been gone for almost two years. He’d written a few times and called me occasionally, but then all correspondence stopped. We were worried, of course, so we flew over and camped out in a hotel until we found him.”
“What was he doing?”
“Working as a waiter in a café. Had an earring in each ear. His hair was chopped off. Weird clothes. He was wearing those damned clogs with wool socks. Spoke perfect Dutch. We didn’t want to make a scene, so we asked him to come to our hotel. He did. It was horrible. Just horrible. Phelps handled it like the idiot he is, and the damage was irreparable. We left and came home. Phelps made a big production of redoing his will and revoking Walt’s trust.”
“He’s never come home?”
“Never. I meet him in Paris once a year. We both arrive alone, that’s the only rule. We stay in a nice hotel and spend a week together, roaming the city, eating the food, visiting the museums. It’s the highlight of my year. But he hates Memphis.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
Lee watched him carefully, then her eyes watered. “Bless you. If you’re serious, I’d love for you to go with me.”
“I’m serious. I don’t care if he’s gay. I’d enjoy meeting my first cousin.”
She took a deep breath and smiled. The ravioli arrived on two heaping plates with steam rising in all directions. A long loaf of garlic bread was placed along the edge of the table, and the waiter was gone.
“Does Walt know about Sam?” Adam asked.
“No. I’ve never had the guts to tell him.”
“Does he know about me and Carmen? About Eddie? About any of our family’s glorious history?”
“Yes, a little. When he was a little boy, I told him he had cousins in California, but that they never came to Memphis. Phelps, of course, told him that his California cousins were of a much lower social class and therefore not worthy of his attention. Walt was groomed by his father to be a snob, Adam, you must understand this. He attended the most prestigious prep schools, hung out at the nicest country clubs, and his family consisted of a bunch of Booth cousins who were all the same. They’re all miserable people.”
“What do the Booths think of having a homosexual in the family?”
“They hate him, of course. And he hates them.”
“I like him already.”
“He’s not a bad kid. He wants to study art and paint. I send him money all the time.”
“Does Sam know he has a gay grandson?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know who would tell him.”
“I probably won’t tell him.”
“Please don’t. He has enough on his mind.”
The ravioli cooled enough to eat, and they enjoyed it in silence. The waiter brought more water and tea. The couple next to them ordered a bottle of red wine, and Lee glanced at it more than once.
Adam wiped his mouth and rested for a moment. He leaned over the table. “Can I ask you something personal?” he said quietly.
“All your questions seem to be personal.”
“Right. So can I ask you one more?”
“Please do.”
“Well, I was just thinking. Tonight you’ve told me you’re an alcoholic, your husband’s an animal, and your son is gay. That’s a lot for one meal. But is there anything else I should know?”
“Lemme see. Yes, Phelps is an alcoholic too, but he won’t admit it.”
“Anything else?”
“He’s been sued twice for sexual harassment.”
“Okay. Forget about the Booths. Any more surprises from our side of the family?”
“We haven’t scratched the surface, Adam.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Eighteen
A loud thunderstorm rolled across the Delta before dawn, and Sam was awakened by the crack of lightning. He heard raindrops dropping hard against the open windows above the hallway. Then he heard them drip and puddle against the wall under the windows not f
ar from his cell. The dampness of his bed was suddenly cool. Maybe today would not be so hot. Maybe the rain would linger and shade the sun, and maybe the wind would blow away the humidity for a day or two. He always had these hopes when it rained, but in the summer a thunderstorm usually meant soggy ground which under a glaring sun meant nothing but more suffocating heat.
He raised his head and watched the rain fall from the windows and gather on the floor. The water flickered in the reflected light of a distant yellow bulb. Except for this faint light, the Row was dark. And it was silent.
Sam loved the rain, especially at night and especially in the summer. The State of Mississippi, in its boundless wisdom, had built its prison in the hottest place it could find. And it designed its Maximum Security Unit along the same lines as an oven. The windows to the outside were small and useless, built that way for security reasons, of course. The planners of this little branch of hell also decided that there would be no ventilation of any sort, no chance for a breeze getting in or the dank air getting out. And after they built what they considered to be a model penal facility, they decided they would not air condition it. It would sit proudly beside the soybeans and cotton, and absorb the same heat and moisture from the ground. And when the land was dry, the Row would simply bake along with the crops.
But the State of Mississippi could not control the weather, and when the rains came and cooled the air, Sam smiled to himself and offered a small prayer of thanks. A higher being was in control after all. The state was helpless when it rained. It was a small victory.
He eased to his feet and stretched his back. His bed consisted of a piece of foam, six feet by two and a half, four inches thick, otherwise known as a mattress. It rested on a metal frame fastened securely to the floor and wall. It was covered with two sheets. Sometimes they passed out blankets in the winter. Back pain was common throughout the Row, but with time the body adjusted and there were few complaints. The prison doctor was not considered to be a friend of death row inmates.
He took two steps and leaned on his elbows through the bars. He listened to the wind and thunder, and watched the drops bounce along the windowsill and splatter on the floor. How nice it would be to step through that wall and walk through the wet grass on the other side, to stroll around the prison grounds in the driving rain, naked and crazy, soaking wet with water dripping from his hair and beard.
The horror of death row is that you die a little each day. The waiting kills you. You live in a cage and when you wake up you mark off another day and you tell yourself that you are now one day closer to death.
Sam lit a cigarette and watched the smoke float upward toward the raindrops. Weird things happen with our absurd judicial system. Courts rule this way one day and the other way the next. The same judges reach different conclusions on familiar issues. A court will ignore a wild motion or appeal for years, then one day embrace it and grant relief. Judges die and they’re replaced by judges who think differently. Presidents come and go and they appoint their pals to the bench. The Supreme Court drifts one way, then another.
At times, death would be welcome. And if given the choice of death on one hand, or life on death row on the other, Sam would quickly take the gas. But there was always hope, always the slight glimmering promise that something somewhere in the vast maze of the judicial jungle would strike a chord with someone, and his case would be reversed. Every resident of the Row dreamed of the miracle reversal from heaven. And their dreams sustained them from one miserable day to the next.
Sam had recently read that there were almost twenty-five hundred inmates sentenced to die in America, and last year, 1989, only sixteen were executed. Mississippi had executed only four since 1977, the year Gary Gilmore insisted on a firing squad in Utah. There was safety in those numbers. They fortified his resolve to file even more appeals.
He smoked through the bars as the storm passed and the rain stopped. He took his breakfast as the sun rose, and at seven o’clock he turned on the television for the morning news. He had just bitten into a piece of cold toast when suddenly his face appeared on the screen behind a Memphis morning anchorperson. She eagerly reported the thrilling top story of the day, the bizarre case of Sam Cayhall and his new lawyer. Seems his new lawyer was his long-lost grandson, one Adam Hall, a young lawyer from the mammoth Chicago firm of Kravitz & Bane, the outfit who’d represented Sam for the past seven years or so. The photo of Sam was at least ten years old, the same one they used every time his name was mentioned on TV or in print. The photo of Adam was a bit stranger. He obviously had not posed for it. Someone had snapped it outdoors while he wasn’t looking. She explained with wild eyes that the Memphis Press was reporting this morning that Adam Hall had confirmed that he was in fact the grandson of Sam Cayhall. She gave a fleeting sketch of Sam’s crime, and twice gave the date of his pending execution. More on the story later, she promised, perhaps maybe as soon as the “Noon Report.” Then she was off on the morning summary of last night’s murders.
Sam threw the toast on the floor next to the bookshelves and stared at it. An insect found it almost immediately and crawled over and around it a half dozen times before deciding it wasn’t worth eating. His lawyer had already talked to the press. What do they teach these people in law school? Do they give instruction on media control?
“Sam, you there?” It was Gullitt.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Just saw you on channel four.”
“Yeah. I saw it.”
“You pissed?”
“I’m okay.”
“Take a deep breath, Sam. It’s okay.”
Among men sentenced to die in the gas chamber, the expression “Take a deep breath” was used often and considered nothing more than an effort at humor. They said it to each other all the time, usually when one was angry. But when used by the guards it was far from funny. It was a constitutional violation. It had been mentioned in more than one lawsuit as an example of the cruel treatment dispensed on death row.
Sam agreed with the insect and ignored the rest of his breakfast. He sipped coffee and stared at the floor.
______
At nine-thirty, Sergeant Packer was on the tier looking for Sam. It was time for his hour of fresh air. The rains were far away and the sun was blistering the Delta. Packer had two guards with him and a pair of leg irons. Sam pointed at the chains, and asked, “What are they for?”
“They’re for security, Sam.”
“I’m just going out to play, aren’t I?”
“No, Sam. We’re taking you to the law library. Your lawyer wants to meet you there so y’all can talk amongst the law books. Now turn around.”
Sam stuck both hands through the opening of his door. Packer cuffed them loosely, then the door opened and Sam stepped into the hall. The guards dropped to their knees and were securing the leg irons when Sam asked Packer, “What about my hour out?”
“What about it?”
“When do I get it?”
“Later.”
“You said that yesterday and I didn’t get my rec time. You lied to me yesterday. Now you’re lying to me again. I’ll sue you for this.”
“Lawsuits take a long time, Sam. They take years.”
“I want to talk to the warden.”
“And I’m sure he wants to talk to you too, Sam. Now, do you want to see your lawyer or not?”
“I have a right to my lawyer and I have a right to my rec time.”
“Get off his ass, Packer!” Hank Henshaw shouted from less than six feet away.
“You lie, Packer! You lie!” J. B. Gullitt added from the other side.
“Down, boys,” Packer said coolly. “We’ll take care of old Sam, here.”
“Yeah, you’d gas him today if you could,” Henshaw yelled.
The leg irons were in place, and Sam shuffled into his cell to get a file. He clutched it to his chest and waddled down the tier with Packer at his side and the guards following.
“Give ’em hell, Sam,” Henshaw ye
lled as they walked away.
There were other shouts of support for Sam and catcalls at Packer as they left the tier. They were cleared through a set of doors and Tier A was behind them.
“The warden says you get two hours out this afternoon, and two hours a day till it’s over,” Packer said as they moved slowly through a short hallway.
“Till what’s over?”
“This thang.”
“What thang?”
Packer and most of the guards referred to an execution as a thang.
“You know what I mean,” Packer said.
“Tell the warden he’s a real sweetheart. And ask him if I get two hours if this thang doesn’t go off, okay? And while you’re at it, tell him I think he’s a lying son of a bitch.”
“He already knows.”
They stopped at a wall of bars and waited for the door to open. They passed through it and stopped again by two guards at the front door. Packer made quick notes on a clipboard, and they walked outside where a white van was waiting. The guards took Sam by the arms and lifted him and his chains into the side door. Packer sat in the front with the driver.
“Does this thing have air conditioning?” Sam snapped at the driver, whose window was down.
“Yep,” the driver said as they backed away from the front of MSU.
“Then turn the damned thing on, okay.”
“Knock it off, Sam,” Packer said without conviction.
“It’s bad enough to sweat all day in a cage with no air conditioning, but it’s pretty stupid to sit here and suffocate. Turn the damned thing on. I’ve got my rights.”
“Take a deep breath, Sam,” Packer drawled and winked at the driver.
“That’ll cost you, Packer. You’ll wish you hadn’t said that.”
The driver hit a switch and the air started blowing. The van was cleared through the double gates and slowly made its way down the dirt road away from the Row.
Though he was handcuffed and shackled, this brief journey on the outside was refreshing. Sam stopped the bitching and immediately ignored the others in the van. The rains had left puddles in the grassy ditches beside the road, and they had washed the cotton plants, now more than knee-high. The stalks and leaves were dark green. Sam remembered picking cotton as a boy, then quickly dismissed the thought. He had trained his mind to forget the past, and on those rare occasions when a childhood memory flashed before him, he quickly snuffed it out.