Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  “I want you to deliver that,” Sam said.

  “To whom?”

  “Quince Lincoln.”

  Adam placed it to his side on the desk, and watched Sam carefully. Sam, however, was lost in another world. His wrinkled eyes stared blankly at something on the wall across the room. “I’ve worked on it for a week,” he said, his voice almost hoarse, “but I’ve thought about it for forty years.”

  “What’s in the letter?” Adam asked slowly.

  “An apology. I’ve carried the guilt for many years, Adam. Joe Lincoln was a good and decent man, a good father. I lost my head and killed him for no reason. And I knew before I shot him that I could get by with it. I’ve always felt bad about it. Real bad. There’s nothing I can do now except say that I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure it’ll mean something to the Lincolns.”

  “Maybe. In the letter I ask them for forgiveness, which I believe is the Christian way of doing things. When I die, I’d like to have the knowledge that I tried to say I’m sorry.”

  “Any idea where I might find him?”

  “That’s the hard part. I’ve heard through family that the Lincolns are still in Ford County. Ruby, his widow, is probably still alive. I’m afraid you’ll just have to go to Clanton and start asking questions. They have an African sheriff, so I’d start with him. He probably knows all the Africans in the county.”

  “And if I find Quince?”

  “Tell him who you are. Give him the letter. Tell him that I died with a lot of guilt. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll be happy to. I’m not sure when I can do it.”

  “Wait until I’m dead. You’ll have plenty of time once this is over.”

  Sam again walked to the chair, and this time picked up two envelopes. He handed them to Adam, and began pacing slowly, back and forth across the room. The name of Ruth Kramer was typed on one, no address, and Elliot Kramer on the other. “Those are for the Kramers. Deliver them, but wait until the execution is over.”

  “Why wait?”

  “Because my motives are pure. I don’t want them to think I’m doing this to arouse sympathy in my dying hours.”

  Adam placed the Kramer letters next to Quince Lincoln’s—three letters, three dead bodies. How many more letters would Sam crank out over the weekend? How many more victims were out there?

  “You’re sure you’re about to die, aren’t you, Sam?”

  He stopped by the door and pondered this for a moment. “The odds are against us. I’m getting prepared.”

  “We still have a chance.”

  “Sure we do. But I’m getting ready, just in case. I’ve hurt a lot of people, Adam, and I haven’t always stopped to think about it. But when you have a date with the grim reaper, you think about the damage you’ve done.”

  Adam picked up the three envelopes and looked at them. “Are there others?”

  Sam grimaced and looked at the floor. “That’s all, for now.”

  ______

  The Jackson Paper on Friday morning carried a front-page story about Sam Cayhall’s request for a clemency hearing. The story included a slick photo of Governor David McAllister, a bad one of Sam, and lots of self-serving comments by Mona Stark, the governor’s chief of staff, all to the effect that the governor was struggling with the decision.

  Since he was a real man of the people, a regular servant to all Mississippians, McAllister had installed an expensive telephone hotline system shortly after he was elected. The toll-free number was plastered all over the state, and his constituents were constantly barraged with public service ads to use the People’s Hotline. Call the governor. He cared about your opinions. Democracy at its finest. Operators were standing by.

  And because he had more ambition than fortitude, McAllister and his staff tracked the phone calls on a daily basis. He was a follower, not a leader. He spent serious money on polls, and had proven adept at quietly discovering the issues that bothered people, then jumping out front to lead the parade.

  Both Goodman and Adam suspected this. McAllister seemed too obsessed with his destiny to launch new initiatives. The man was a shameless vote-counter, so they had decided to give him something to count.

  Goodman read the story early, over coffee and fruit, and by seven-thirty was on the phone with Professor John Bryan Glass and Hez Kerry. By eight, three of Glass’ students were sipping coffee from paper cups in the grungy, temporary office. The marketing analysis was about to begin.

  Goodman explained the scheme and the need for secrecy. They were breaking no laws, he assured them, just manipulating public opinion. The cellular phones were on the tables, along with pages of phone numbers Goodman had copied on Wednesday. The students were a little apprehensive, but nonetheless anxious to begin. They would be paid well. Goodman demonstrated the technique with the first call. He dialed the number.

  “People’s Hotline,” a pleasant voice answered.

  “Yes, I’m calling about the story in this morning’s paper, the one about Sam Cayhall,” Goodman said slowly in his best imitation of a drawl. It left a lot to be desired. The students were very amused.

  “And your name is?”

  “Yes, I’m Ned Lancaster, from Biloxi, Mississippi,” Goodman replied, reading from the phone lists. “And I voted for the governor, a fine man,” he threw in for good measure.

  “And how do you feel about Sam Cayhall?”

  “I don’t think he should be executed. He’s an old man who’s suffered a lot, and I want the governor to give him a pardon. Let him die in peace up there at Parchman.”

  “Okay. I’ll make sure the governor knows about your call.”

  “Thank you.”

  Goodman pushed a button on the phone, and took a bow before his audience. “Nothing to it. Let’s get started.”

  The white male selected a phone number. His conversation went something like this: “Hello, this is Lester Crosby, from Bude, Mississippi. I’m calling about the execution of Sam Cayhall. Yes ma’am. My number? It’s 555-9084. Yes, that’s right, Bude, Mississippi, down here in Franklin County. That’s right. Well, I don’t think Sam Cayhall ought to be sent to the gas chamber. I’m just opposed to it. I think the governor should step in and stop this thing. Yes ma’am, that’s right. Thank you.” He smiled at Goodman, who was punching another number.

  The white female was a middle-aged student. She was from a small town in a rural section of the state, and her accent was naturally twangy. “Hello, is this the governor’s office? Good. I’m calling about the Cayhall story in today’s paper. Susan Barnes. Decatur, Mississippi. That’s right. Well, he’s an old man who’ll probably die in a few years anyway. What good will it do for the state to kill him now? Give the guy a break. What? Yes, I want the governor to stop it. I voted for the governor, and I think he’s a fine man. Yes. Thank you too.”

  The black male was in his late twenties. He simply informed the hotline operator that he was a black Mississippian, very much opposed to the ideas Sam Cayhall and the Klan promoted, but nonetheless opposed to the execution. “The government does not have the right to determine if someone lives or dies,” he said. He did not favor the death penalty under any circumstances.

  And so it went. The calls poured in from all over the state, one after the other, each from a different person with a different logic for stopping the execution. The students became creative, trying assorted accents and novel reasonings. Occasionally, their calls would hit busy signals, and it was amusing to know that they had jammed the hotline. Because of his crisp accent, Goodman assumed the role of the outsider, sort of a traveling death penalty abolitionist who bounced in from all over the country with a dazzling array of ethnic aliases and strange locales.

  Goodman had worried that McAllister might be paranoid enough to trace the calls to his hotline, but had decided that the operators would be too busy.

  And busy they were. Across town, John Bryan Glass canceled a class and locked the door to his office. He had a delightful time making repea
ted calls under all sorts of names. Not far from him, Hez Kerry and one of his staff attorneys were also bombarding the hotline with the same messages.

  ______

  Adam hurried to Memphis. Darlene was in his office, trying vainly to organize the mountain of paperwork. She pointed to a stack nearest his computer. “The decision denying cert is on top, then the decision from the Mississippi Supreme Court. Next to it is the petition for writ of habeas corpus to be filed in federal district court. I’ve already faxed everything.”

  Adam removed his jacket and threw it on a chair. He looked at a row of pink telephone messages tacked to a bookshelf. “Who are these people?”

  “Reporters, writers, quacks, a couple are other lawyers offering their assistance. One is from Garner Goodman in Jackson. He said the market analysis is going fine, don’t call. What is the market analysis?”

  “Don’t ask. No word from the Fifth Circuit?”

  “No.”

  Adam took a deep breath and eased into his chair.

  “Lunch?” she asked.

  “Just a sandwich, if you don’t mind. Can you work tomorrow and Sunday?”

  “Of course.”

  “I need for you to stay here all weekend, by the phone and the fax. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ll get a sandwich.”

  She left, closing the door behind her. Adam called Lee’s condo, and there was no answer. He called the Auburn House, but no one had heard from her. He called Phelps Booth, who was in a board meeting. He called Carmen in Berkeley and told her to make arrangements to fly to Memphis on Sunday.

  He looked at the phone messages, and decided none were worth returning.

  ______

  At one o’clock Mona Stark spoke to the press loitering around the governor’s office in the capitol. She said that after much deliberation, the governor had decided to grant a clemency hearing on Monday at 10 a.m., at which time the governor would listen to the issues and appeals, and make a fair decision. It was an awesome responsibility, she explained, this weighing of life or death. But David McAllister would do what was just and right.

  Forty-one

  Packer went to the cell at five-thirty Saturday morning, and didn’t bother with the handcuffs. Sam was waiting, and they quietly left Tier A. They walked through the kitchen where the trustees were scrambling eggs and frying bacon. Sam had never seen the kitchen, and he walked slowly, counting his steps, checking the dimensions. Packer opened a door and motioned for Sam to hurry and follow. They stepped outside, into the darkness. Sam stopped and looked at the square brick room to his right, the little building that housed the gas chamber. Packer pulled his elbow, and they walked together to the east end of the row where another guard was watching and waiting. The guard handed Sam a large cup of coffee, and led him through a gate into a recreation yard similar to the bullpens on the west end of the Row. It was fenced and wired, with a basketball goal and two benches. Packer said he would return in an hour, and left with the guard.

  Sam stood in place for a long time, sipping the hot coffee and absorbing the landscape. His first cell had been on Tier D, on the east wing, and he’d been here many times before. He knew the exact dimensions—fifty-one feet by thirty-six. He saw the guard in the tower sitting under a light and watching him. Through the fences and over the tops of the rows of cotton, he could see the lights of other buildings. He slowly walked to a bench and sat down.

  How thoughtful of these kind people to grant his request to see one final sunrise. He hadn’t seen one in nine and a half years, and at first Nugent said no. Then Packer intervened, and explained to the colonel that it was okay, no security risk at all, and what the hell, the man was supposed to die in four days. Packer would take responsibility for it.

  Sam stared at the eastern sky, where a hint of orange was peeking through scattered clouds. During his early days on the Row, when his appeals were fresh and unresolved, he had spent hours remembering the glorious humdrum of everyday life, the little things like a warm shower every day, the companionship of his dog, extra honey on his biscuits. He actually believed back then that one day he would again be able to hunt squirrels and quail, to fish for bass and bream, to sit on the porch and watch the sun come up, to drink coffee in town, and drive his old pickup wherever he wanted. His goal during those early fantasies on the Row had been to fly to California and find his grandchildren. He had never flown.

  But the dreams of freedom had died long ago, driven away by the tedious monotony of life in a cell, and killed by the harsh opinions of many judges.

  This would be his final sunrise, he truly believed that. Too many people wanted him dead. The gas chamber was not being used often enough. It was time for an execution, dammit, and he was next in line.

  The sky grew brighter and the clouds dissipated. Though he was forced to watch this magnificent act of nature through a chain-link fence, it was satisfying nonetheless. Just a few more days and the fences would be gone. The bars and razor wire and prison cells would be left for someone else.

  ______

  Two reporters smoked cigarettes and drank machine coffee as they waited by the south entrance to the capitol early Saturday morning. Word had been leaked that the governor would spend a long day at the office, struggling with the Cayhall thing.

  At seven-thirty, his black Lincoln rolled to a stop nearby, and he made a quick exit from it. Two well-dressed bodyguards escorted him to the entrance, with Mona Stark a few steps behind.

  “Governor, do you plan to attend the execution?” the first reporter asked hurriedly. McAllister smiled and raised his hands as if he’d love to stop and chat but things were much too critical for that. Then he saw a camera hanging from the other reporter’s neck.

  “I haven’t made a decision yet,” he answered, stopping just for a second.

  “Will Ruth Kramer testify at the clemency hearing on Monday?”

  The camera was raised and ready. “I can’t say right now,” he answered, smiling into the lens. “Sorry, guys, I can’t talk now.”

  He entered the building and rode the elevator to his office on the second floor. The bodyguards assumed their positions in the foyer, behind morning newspapers.

  Lawyer Larramore was waiting with his updates. He explained to the governor and Ms. Stark that there had been no changes in the various Cayhall petitions and appeals since 5 p.m. yesterday. Nothing had happened overnight. The appeals were becoming more desperate, and the courts would deny them more quickly, in his opinion. He had already spoken with Morris Henry at the AG’s office, and, in the learned judgment of Dr. Death, there was now an 80 percent chance that the execution would take place.

  “What about the clemency hearing on Monday? Any word from Cayhall’s lawyers?” McAllister asked.

  “No. I asked Garner Goodman to stop by at nine this morning. Thought we’d talk to him about it. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  Larramore excused himself. Ms. Stark was performing her morning ritual of scanning the dailies from around the state and placing them on the conference table. Of the nine papers she monitored, the Cayhall story was on the front page of eight. The announcement of a clemency hearing was of special interest Saturday morning. Three of the papers carried the same AP photo of the Klansmen roasting idly under the fierce August sun outside of Parchman.

  McAllister removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began peering over the papers. “Get the numbers,” he said tersely.

  Mona left the office, and returned in less than a minute. She carried a computer printout, which obviously bore dreadful news.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “The calls stopped around nine last night, last one was at nine-o-seven. The total for the day was four hundred and eighty-six, and at least ninety percent voiced strong opposition to the execution.”

  “Ninety percent,” McAllister said in disbelief. He was no longer in shock, though. By noon yesterday, the hotline operators had reported an unusual number of calls, and by on
e Mona was analyzing printouts. They had spent much of yesterday afternoon staring at the numbers, contemplating the next move. He had slept little.

  “Who are these people?” he said, staring through a window.

  “Your constituents. The calls are coming from all over the state. The names and numbers appear to be legitimate.”

  “What was the old record?”

  “I don’t know. Seems like we had around a hundred one day when the legislature gave itself another pay raise. But nothing like this.”

  “Ninety percent,” he mumbled again.

  “And there’s something else. There were lots of other calls to various numbers in this office. My secretary took a dozen or so.”

  “All for Sam, right?”

  “Yes, all opposed to the execution. I’ve talked to some of our people, and everybody got nailed yesterday. And Roxburgh called me at home last night and said that his office had been besieged with calls against the execution.”

  “Good. I want him to sweat too.”

  “Do we close the hotline?”

  “How many operators work on Saturday and Sunday?”

  “Only one.”

  “No. Leave it open today. Let’s see what happens today and tomorrow.” He walked to another window and loosened his tie. “When does the polling start?”

  “Three this afternoon.”

  “I’m anxious to see those numbers.”

  “They could be just as bad.”

  “Ninety percent,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Over ninety percent,” Mona corrected him.

  ______

  The war room was littered with pizza boxes and beer cans, evidence of a long day of market analysis. A tray of fresh doughnuts and a row of tall paper coffee cups now awaited the analysts, two of whom had just arrived with newspapers. Garner Goodman stood at the window with a new pair of binoculars, watching the capitol three blocks away, and paying particular attention to the windows of the governor’s office. During a moment of boredom yesterday, he’d gone to a mall in search of a bookstore. He’d found the binoculars in the window of a leather shop, and throughout the afternoon they’d had great fun trying to catch the governor pondering through his windows, no doubt wondering where all those damned calls were coming from.