by John Grisham
For an instant, Adam wished he’d left five minutes ago. Then he asked himself why he was there to begin with. Then he decided to go for it anyway. “Good afternoon,” he said, when it was obvious the gentleman would not speak. “Mr. Elliot Kramer?”
Mr. Kramer nodded in the affirmative, but nodded ever so slowly as if challenged by the question.
“My name is Adam Hall. I’m an attorney from Chicago. Sam Cayhall is my grandfather, and I represent him.” It was obvious Mr. Kramer had already figured this out, because Adam’s words didn’t faze him. “I would like to talk to you.”
“Talk about what?” Mr. Kramer said in a slow drawl.
“About Sam.”
“I hope he rots in hell,” he said, as if he was already certain of Sam’s eternal destination. His eyes were so brown they were almost black.
Adam glanced at the floor, away from the eyes, and tried to think of something noninflammatory. “Yes sir,” he said, very much aware that he was in the Deep South where politeness went a long way. “I understand how you feel. I don’t blame you, but I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Does Sam send his apologies?” Mr. Kramer asked. The fact that he referred to him simply as Sam struck Adam as odd. Not Mr. Cayhall, not Cayhall, just Sam, as if the two were old friends who’d been feuding and now it was time to reconcile. Just say you’re sorry, Sam, and everything’s fine.
The thought of a quick lie raced through Adam’s mind. He could lay it on thick, say how terrible Sam felt in these, his last days, and how he desperately wanted forgiveness. But Adam couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Would it make any difference?” he asked.
Mr. Kramer carefully placed the card in his shirt pocket, and began what would become a long stare past Adam and through the front window. “No,” he said, “it wouldn’t make any difference. It’s something that should’ve been done long ago.” His words were accented with the heavy drip of the Delta, and even though their meanings were not welcome, their sounds were very soothing. They were slow and thoughtful, uttered as if time meant nothing. They also conveyed the years of suffering, and the hint that life had ceased long ago.
“No, Mr. Kramer. Sam does not know I’m here, so he does not send his apologies. But I do.”
The gaze through the window and into the past did not flinch or waver. But he was listening.
Adam continued, “I feel the obligation to at least say, for myself and Sam’s daughter, that we’re terribly sorry for all that’s happened.”
“Why didn’t Sam say it years ago?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“I know. You’re new.”
Ah, the power of the press. Of course Mr. Kramer had been reading the papers like everyone else.
“Yes sir. I’m trying to save his life.”
“Why?”
“Many reasons. Killing him will not bring back your grandsons, nor your son. He was wrong, but it’s also wrong for the government to kill him.”
“I see. And you think I’ve never heard this before?”
“No sir. I’m sure you’ve heard it all. You’ve seen it all. You’ve felt it all. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I’m just trying to avoid it myself.”
“What else do you want?”
“Could you spare five minutes?”
“We’ve been talking for three minutes. You have two more.” He glanced at his watch as if to set a timer, then eased his long fingers into the pockets of his pants. His eyes returned to the window and the street beyond it.
“The Memphis paper quoted you as saying you wanted to be there when they strapped Sam Cayhall in the gas chamber; that you wanted to look him in the eyes.”
“That’s an accurate quote. But I don’t believe it’ll ever happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because we have a rotten criminal justice system. He’s been coddled and protected in prison for almost ten years now. His appeals go on and on. You’re filing appeals and pulling strings at this very moment to keep him alive. The system is sick. We don’t expect justice.”
“I assure you he’s not being coddled. Death row is a horrible place. I just left it.”
“Yeah, but he’s alive. He’s living and breathing and watching television and reading books. He’s talking to you. He’s filing lawsuits. And when and if death gets near, he’ll have plenty of time to make plans for it. He can say his good-byes. Say his prayers. My grandsons didn’t have time to say good-bye, Mr. Hall. They didn’t get to hug their parents and give them farewell kisses. They were simply blown to bits while they were playing.”
“I understand that, Mr. Kramer. But killing Sam will not bring them back.”
“No, it won’t. But it’ll make us feel a helluva lot better. It’ll ease a lot of pain. I’ve prayed a million times that I’ll live long enough to see him dead. I had a heart attack five years ago. They had me strapped to machines for two weeks, and the one thing that kept me alive was my desire to outlive Sam Cayhall. I’ll be there, Mr. Hall, if my doctors allow it. I’ll be there to watch him die, then I’ll come home and count my days.”
“I’m sorry you feel this way.”
“I’m sorry I do too. I’m sorry I ever heard the name Sam Cayhall.”
Adam took a step backward and leaned on the counter near the cash register. He stared at the floor, and Mr. Kramer stared through the window. The sun was falling to the west, behind the building, and the quaint little museum was growing dimmer.
“I lost my father because of this,” Adam said softly.
“I’m sorry. I read where he had committed suicide shortly after the last trial.”
“Sam has suffered too, Mr. Kramer. He wrecked his family, and he wrecked yours. And he carries more guilt than you or I could ever imagine.”
“Perhaps he won’t be as burdened when he’s dead.”
“Perhaps. But why don’t we stop the killing?”
“How do you expect me to stop it?”
“I read somewhere that you and the governor are old friends.”
“Why is it any of your business?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“He’s a local boy. I’ve known him for many years.”
“I met him last week for the first time. He has the power to grant clemency, you know.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.”
“I’m not. I’m desperate, Mr. Kramer. I have nothing to lose at this point, except my grandfather. If you and your family are hell-bent on pushing for the execution, then the governor will certainly listen to you.”
“You’re right.”
“And if you decided you didn’t want an execution, I think the governor might listen to that as well.”
“So it’s all up to me,” he said, finally moving. He walked in front of Adam and stopped near the window. “You’re not only desperate, Mr. Hall, you’re also naive.”
“I won’t argue that.”
“It’s nice to know I have so much power. If I had known this before now, your grandfather would’ve been dead years ago.”
“He doesn’t deserve to die, Mr. Kramer,” Adam said as he walked to the door. He hadn’t expected to find sympathy. It was important only for Mr. Kramer to see him and know that other lives were being affected.
“Neither did my grandsons. Neither did my son.”
Adam opened the door, and said, “I’m sorry for the intrusion, and I thank you for your time. I have a sister, a cousin, and an aunt, Sam’s daughter. I just wanted you to know that Sam has a family, such as it is. We will suffer if he dies. If he’s not executed, he’ll never leave prison. He’ll simply wilt away and die some day very soon of natural causes.”
“You will suffer?”
“Yes sir. It’s a pathetic family, Mr. Kramer, filled with tragedy. I’m trying to avoid another one.”
Mr. Kramer turned and looked at him. His face bore no expression. “Then I feel sorry for you.”
“Thanks again,” Adam said.
<
br /> “Good day, sir,” Mr. Kramer said without a smile.
Adam left the building and walked along a shaded street until he was in the center of town. He found the memorial park, and sat on the same bench not far from the bronze statue of the little boys. After a few minutes, though, he was tired of the guilt and memories, and he walked away.
He went to the same café a block away, drank coffee, and toyed with a grilled cheese. He heard a Sam Cayhall conversation several tables away, but couldn’t discern what exactly was being said.
He checked into a motel and called Lee. She sounded sober, and maybe a bit relieved that he would not be there tonight. He promised to return tomorrow evening. By the time it was dark, Adam had been asleep for half an hour.
Thirty-one
Adam drove through downtown Memphis in the predawn hours, and was locked in his office by 7 a.m. By eight, he’d talked to E. Garner Goodman three times. Goodman, it seemed, was wired and also having trouble sleeping. They discussed at length the issue of Keyes’ representation at trial. The Cayhall file was filled with memos and research about what went wrong at trial, but little of it placed blame on Benjamin Keyes.
But that had been many years ago, when the gas chamber seemed too distant to worry about. Goodman was pleased to hear that Sam now felt he should’ve testified at trial, and that Keyes had stopped him. Goodman was skeptical of the truth at this point, but he would take Sam’s word for it.
Both Goodman and Adam knew the issue should’ve been raised years ago, and that to do so now was a long shot at best. Law books were getting thicker by the week with Supreme Court decisions barring legitimate claims because they weren’t timely filed. But it was a real issue, one always examined by the courts, and Adam got excited as he drafted and redrafted the claim and swapped faxes with Goodman.
Again, the claim would first be filed under the postconviction relief statutes in state court. He hoped for a quick denial there so he could immediately run to federal court.
At ten, he faxed his final draft to the clerk of the Mississippi Supreme Court, and also faxed a copy of it to the attention of Breck Jefferson in Slattery’s office. Faxes also went to the clerk of the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans. Then he called the Death Clerk at the Supreme Court, and told Mr. Olander what he was doing. Mr. Olander instructed him to immediately fax a copy to Washington.
Darlene knocked on the door, and Adam unlocked it. He had a visitor waiting in the reception area, a Mr. Wyn Lettner. Adam thanked her, and a few minutes later walked down the hall and greeted Lettner, who was alone and dressed like a man who owned a trout dock. Deck shoes, fishing cap. They exchanged pleasantries: fish were biting, Irene was fine, when was he coming back to Calico Rock?
“I’m in town on business, and I just wanted to see you for a few minutes,” he said in a low whisper with his back to the receptionist.
“Sure,” Adam whispered. “My office is down the hall.”
“No. Let’s take a walk.”
They rode the elevator to the lobby, and stepped from the building onto the pedestrian mall. Lettner bought a bag of roasted peanuts from a pushcart vendor, and offered Adam a handful. He declined. They walked slowly north toward city hall and the federal building. Lettner alternately ate the peanuts and tossed them to the pigeons.
“How’s Sam?” he finally asked.
“He has two weeks. How would you feel if you had two weeks?”
“Guess I’d be praying a lot.”
“He’s not at that point yet, but it won’t be long.”
“Is it gonna happen?”
“It’s certainly being planned. There’s nothing in writing to stop it.”
Lettner threw a handful of peanuts into his mouth. “Well, good luck to you. Since you came to see me, I’ve found myself pulling for you and ol’ Sam.”
“Thanks. And you came to Memphis to wish me luck?”
“Not exactly. After you left, I thought a lot about Sam and the Kramer bombing. I looked at my personal files and records—stuff I haven’t thought about in years. It brought back a lot of memories. I called a few of my old buddies and we told war stories about the Klan. Those were the days.”
“I’m sorry that I missed them.”
“Anyway, I thought of a few things that maybe I should’ve told you.”
“Such as.”
“There’s more to the Dogan story. You know he died a year after he testified.”
“Sam told me.”
“He and his wife were killed when their house blew up. Some kind of propane leak in the heater. House filled up with gas, and something ignited it. Went off like a bomb, a huge fireball. Buried them in sandwich bags.”
“Sad, but so what?”
“We never believed it was an accident. The crime lab boys down there tried to reconstruct the heater. A lot of it was destroyed, but they were of the opinion it had been rigged to leak.”
“How does this affect Sam?”
“It doesn’t affect Sam.”
“Then why are we talking about it?”
“It might affect you.”
“I really don’t follow.”
“Dogan had a son, a kid who joined the Army in 1979 and was sent to Germany. At some point in the summer of 1980, Dogan and Sam were indicted again by the circuit court in Greenville, and shortly thereafter it became widely known that Dogan had agreed to testify against Sam. It was a big story. In October of 1980, Dogan’s son went AWOL in Germany. Vanished.” He crunched on some peanuts and tossed the hulls to a covey of pigeons. “Never found him either. Army searched high and low. Months went by. Then a year. Dogan died not knowing what happened to the kid.”
“What happened to him?”
“Don’t know. To this day, he’s never turned up.”
“He died?”
“Probably. There was no sign of him.”
“Who killed him?”
“Maybe the same person who killed his parents.”
“And who might that be?”
“We had a theory, but no suspect. We thought at the time that the son was grabbed before the trial as a warning to Dogan. Perhaps Dogan knew secrets.”
“Then why kill Dogan after the trial?”
They stopped under a shade tree and sat on a bench in Court Square. Adam finally took some peanuts.
“Who knew the details of the bombing?” Lettner asked. “All the details.”
“Sam. Jeremiah Dogan.”
“Right. And who was their lawyer in the first two trials?”
“Clovis Brazelton.”
“Would it be safe to assume Brazelton knew the details?”
“I suppose. He was active in the Klan, wasn’t he?”
“Yep, he was a Klucker. That makes three—Sam, Dogan, and Brazelton. Anybody else?”
Adam thought for a second. “Perhaps the mysterious accomplice.”
“Perhaps. Dogan’s dead. Sam wouldn’t talk. And Brazelton died many years ago.”
“How’d he die?”
“Plane crash. The Kramer case made him a hero down there, and he was able to parlay his fame into a very successful law practice. He liked to fly, so he bought himself a plane and buzzed around everywhere trying lawsuits. A real big shot. He was flying back from the Coast one night when the plane disappeared from radar. They found his body in a tree. The weather was clear. The FAA said there’d been some type of engine failure.”
“Another mysterious death.”
“Yep. So everybody’s dead but Sam, and he’s getting close.”
“Any link between Dogan’s death and Brazelton’s?”
“No. They were years apart. But the theory includes the scenario that the deaths were the work of the same person.”
“So who’s at work here?”
“Someone who’s very concerned about secrets. Could be Sam’s mysterious accomplice, John Doe.”
“That’s a pretty wild theory.”
“Yes, it is. And it’s one with absolutely no proof to support it. But I told yo
u in Calico Rock that we always suspected Sam had help. Or perhaps Sam was merely a helper for John Doe. At any rate, when Sam screwed up and got caught, John Doe vanished. Perhaps he’s been at work eliminating witnesses.”
“Why would he kill Dogan’s wife?”
“Because she happened to be in bed with him when the house blew up.”
“Why would he kill Dogan’s son?”
“To keep Dogan quiet. Remember, when Dogan testified his son had been missing for four months.”
“I’ve never read anything about the son.”
“It was not well known. It happened in Germany. We advised Dogan to keep it quiet.”
“I’m confused. Dogan didn’t finger anybody else at trial. Only Sam. Why would John Doe kill him afterward?”
“Because he still knew secrets. And because he testified against another Klansman.”
Adam cracked two shells and dropped the peanuts in front of a single, fat pigeon. Lettner finished the bag and threw another handful of hulls on the sidewalk near a water fountain. It was almost noon, and dozens of office workers hurried through the park in pursuit of the perfect thirty-minute lunch.
“You hungry?” Lettner asked, glancing at his watch.
“No.”
“Thirsty? I need a beer.”
“No. How does John Doe affect me?”
“Sam’s the only witness left, and he’s scheduled to be silenced in two weeks. If he dies without talking, then John Doe can live in peace. If Sam doesn’t die in two weeks, then John Doe is still anxious. But if Sam starts talking, then somebody might get hurt.”
“Me?”
“You’re the one trying to find the truth.”
“You think he’s out there?”
“Could be. Or he might be driving a cab in Montreal. Or maybe he never existed.”
Adam glanced over both shoulders with exaggerated looks of fear.
“I know it sounds crazy,” Lettner said.