by John Grisham
The students devoured the doughnuts and newspapers. There was a brief but serious discussion about some obvious procedural deficiencies in Mississippi’s postconviction relief statutes. The third member of the shift, a first-year student from New Orleans, arrived at eight, and the calls started.
It was immediately apparent that the hotline was not as efficient as the day before. It was difficult to get through to an operator. No problem. They used alternate numbers—the switchboard at the governor’s mansion, the lines to the cute little regional offices he’d established, amid great fanfare, around the state so that he, a common man, could stay close to the people.
The people were calling.
Goodman left the office and walked along Congress Street to the capitol. He heard the sounds of a loudspeaker being tested, and then saw the Klansmen. They were organizing themselves, at least a dozen in full parade dress, around the monument to Confederate women at the base of the front steps to the capitol. Goodman walked by them, actually said hello to one, so that when he returned to Chicago he could say he talked to some real Kluckers.
The two reporters who’d waited for the governor were now on the front steps watching the scene below. A local television crew arrived as Goodman entered the capitol.
The governor was too busy to meet with him, Mona Stark explained gravely, but Mr. Larramore could spare a few minutes. She looked a bit frazzled, and this pleased Goodman greatly. He followed her to Larramore’s office where they found the lawyer on the phone. Goodman hoped it was one of his calls. He obediently took a seat. Mona closed the door and left them.
“Good morning,” Larramore said as he hung up.
Goodman nodded politely, and said, “Thanks for the hearing. We didn’t expect the governor to grant one, in light of what he said on Wednesday.”
“He’s under a lot of pressure. We all are. Is your client willing to talk about his accomplice?”
“No. There’s been no change.”
Larramore ran his fingers through his sticky hair and shook his head in frustration. “Then what’s the purpose of a clemency hearing? The governor is not going to budge on this, Mr. Goodman.”
“We’re working on Sam, okay. We’re talking to him. Let’s plan on going through with the hearing on Monday. Maybe Sam will change his mind.”
The phone rang and Larramore snatched it angrily. “No, this is not the governor’s office. Who is this?” He scribbled down a name and phone number. “This is the governor’s legal department.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you voted for the governor.” He listened some more. “Thank you, Mr. Hurt. I’ll tell the governor you called. Yes, thanks.”
He returned the receiver to the phone. “So, Mr. Gilbert Hurt from Dumas, Mississippi, is against the execution,” he said, staring at the phone, dazed. “The phones have gone crazy.”
“Lots of calls, huh?” Goodman asked, sympathetically.
“You wouldn’t believe.”
“For or against?”
“About fifty-fifty, I’d say,” Larramore said. He took the phone again and punched in the number for Mr. Gilbert Hurt of Dumas, Mississippi. No one answered. “This is strange,” he said, hanging up again. “The man just called me, left a legitimate number, now there’s no answer.”
“Probably just stepped out. Try again later.” Goodman hoped he wouldn’t have the time to try again later. In the first hour of the market analysis yesterday, Goodman had made a slight change in technique. He had instructed his callers to first check the phone numbers to make certain there was no answer. This prevented some curious type such as Larramore or perhaps a nosy hotline operator from calling back and finding the real person. Odds were the real person would greatly support the death penalty. It slowed things a bit for the market analysts, but Goodman felt safer with it.
“I’m working on an outline for the hearing,” Larramore said, “just in case. We’ll probably have it in the House Ways and Means Committee Room, just down the hall.”
“Will it be closed?”
“No. Is this a problem?”
“We have four days left, Mr. Larramore. Everything’s a problem. But the hearing belongs to the governor. We’re just thankful he’s granted one.”
“I have your numbers. Keep in touch.”
“I’m not leaving Jackson until this is over.”
They shook hands quickly and Goodman left the office. He sat on the front steps for half an hour and watched the Klansmen get organized and attract the curious.
Forty-two
Though he’d worn a white robe and a pointed hood as a much younger man, Donnie Cayhall kept his distance from the lines of Klansmen patrolling the grassy strip near the front gate of Parchman. Security was tight, with armed guards watching the protestors. Next to the canopy where the Klansmen gathered was a small group of skinheads in brown shirts. They held signs demanding freedom for Sam Cayhall.
Donnie watched the spectacle for a moment, then followed the directions of a security guard and parked along the highway. His name was checked at the guardhouse, and a few minutes later a prison van came for him. His brother had been at Parchman for nine and a half years, and Donnie had tried to visit at least once a year. But the last visit had been two years ago, he was ashamed to admit.
Donnie Cayhall was sixty-one, the youngest of the four Cayhall brothers. All had followed the teachings of their father and joined the Klan in their teens. It had been a simple decision with little thought given to it, one expected by the entire family. Later he had joined the Army, fought in Korea, and traveled the world. In the process, he had lost interest in wearing robes and burning crosses. He left Mississippi in 1961, and went to work for a furniture company in North Carolina. He now lived near Durham.
Every month for nine and a half years, he had shipped to Sam a box of cigarettes and a small amount of cash. He’d written a few letters, but neither he nor Sam were interested in correspondence. Few people in Durham knew he had a brother on death row.
He was frisked inside the front door, and shown to the front office. Sam was brought in a few minutes later, and they were left alone. Donnie hugged him for a long time, and when they released each other both had moist eyes. They were of similar height and build, though Sam looked twenty years older. He sat on the edge of the desk and Donnie took a chair nearby.
Both lit cigarettes and stared into space.
“Any good news?” Donnie finally asked, certain of the answer.
“No. None. The courts are turning everything down. They’re gonna do it, Donnie. They’re gonna kill me. They’ll walk me to the chamber and gas me like an animal.”
Donnie’s face fell to his chest. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
“I’m sorry too, but, dammit, I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I mean it. I’m tired of living in a cage. I’m an old man and my time has come.”
“But you don’t deserve to be killed, Sam.”
“That’s the hardest part, you know. It’s not that I’m gonna die, hell, we’re all dying. I just can’t stand the thought of these jackasses getting the best of me. They’re gonna win. And their reward is to strap me in and watch me choke. It’s sick.”
“Can’t your lawyer do something?”
“He’s trying everything, but it looks hopeless. I want you to meet him.”
“I saw his picture in the paper. He doesn’t resemble our people.”
“He’s lucky. He looks more like his mother.”
“Sharp kid?”
Sam managed a smile. “Yeah, he’s pretty terrific. He’s really grieving over this.”
“Will he be here today?”
“Probably. I haven’t heard from him. He’s staying with Lee in Memphis,” Sam said with a touch of pride. Because of him, his daughter and his grandson had become close and were actually living together peacefully.
“I talked to Albert this morning,” Donnie said. “He says he’s too sick to com
e over.”
“Good. I don’t want him here. And I don’t want his kids and grandkids here either.”
“He wants to pay his respects, but he can’t.”
“Tell him to save it for the funeral.”
“Come on, Sam.”
“Look, no one’s gonna cry for me when I’m dead. I don’t want a lot of false pity before then.
“I need something from you, Donnie. And it’ll cost a little money.”
“Sure. Anything.”
Sam pulled at the waist of his red jumpsuit. “You see this damned thing. They’re called reds, and I’ve worn them every day for almost ten years. This is what the State of Mississippi expects me to wear when it kills me. But, you see, I have the right to wear anything I want. It would mean a lot if I die in some nice clothes.”
Donnie was suddenly hit with emotion. He tried to speak, but words didn’t come. His eyes were wet and his lip quivered. He nodded, and managed to say, “Sure, Sam.”
“You know those work pants called Dickies? I wore them for years. Sort of like khakis.”
Donnie was still nodding.
“A pair of them would be nice, with a white shirt of some sort, not a pullover but one with buttons on it. Small shirt, small pants, thirty-two in the waist. A pair of white socks, and some kind of cheap shoes. Hell, I’ll just wear them once, won’t I? Go to Wal-Mart or some place and you can probably get the whole thing for less than thirty bucks. Do you mind?”
Donnie wiped his eyes and tried to smile. “No, Sam.”
“I’ll be a dude, won’t I?”
“Where will you be buried?”
“Clanton, next to Anna. I’m sure that’ll upset her peaceful rest. Adam’s taking care of the arrangements.”
“What else can I do?”
“Nothing. If you’ll just get me a change of clothes.”
“I’ll do it today.”
“You’re the only person in the world who’s cared about me all these years, do you know that? Aunt Barb wrote me for years before she died, but her letters were always stiff and dry, and I figured she was doing it so she could tell her neighbors.”
“Who the hell was Aunt Barb?”
“Hubert Cain’s mother. I’m not even sure she’s related to us. I hardly knew her until I arrived here, then she started this awful correspondence. She was just all tore up by the fact that one of her own had been sent to Parchman.”
“May she rest in peace.”
Sam chuckled, and was reminded of an ancient childhood story. He told it with great enthusiasm, and minutes later both brothers were laughing loudly. Donnie was reminded of another tale, and so it went for an hour.
______
By the time Adam arrived late Saturday afternoon, Donnie had been gone for hours. He was taken to the front office, where he spread some papers on the desk. Sam was brought in, his handcuffs removed, and the door was closed behind them. He held more envelopes, which Adam noticed immediately.
“More errands for me?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yeah, but they can wait until it’s over.”
“To whom?”
“One is to the Pinder family I bombed in Vicksburg. One is to the Jewish synagogue I bombed in Jackson. One is to the Jewish real estate agent, also in Jackson. There may be others. No hurry, since I know you’re busy right now. But after I’m gone, I’d appreciate it if you’d take care of them.”
“What do these letters say?”
“What do you think they say?”
“I don’t know. That you’re sorry, I guess.”
“Smart boy. I apologize for my deeds, repent of my sins, and ask them to forgive me.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Sam stopped and leaned on a file cabinet. “Because I sit in a little cage all day. Because I have a typewriter and plenty of paper. I’m bored as hell, okay, so maybe I want to write. Because I have a conscience, not much of one, but it’s there, and the closer I get to death the guiltier I feel about the things I’ve done.”
“I’m sorry. They’ll be delivered.” Adam circled something on his checklist. “We have two appeals left. The Fifth Circuit is sitting on the ineffectiveness claim. I expected something by now, but there’s been no movement for two days. The district court has the mental claim.”
“It’s all hopeless, Adam.”
“Maybe, but I’m not quitting. I’ll file a dozen more petitions if I have to.”
“I’m not signing anything else. You can’t file them if I don’t sign them.”
“Yes, I can. There are ways.”
“Then you’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me, Sam. I’m your grandson.”
“We have an agreement saying I can fire you whenever I want. We put it in writing.”
“It’s a flawed document, drafted by a decent jailhouse lawyer, but fatally defective nonetheless.”
Sam huffed and puffed and began striding again on his row of tiles. He made half a dozen passes in front of Adam, his lawyer now, tomorrow, and for the remainder of his life. He knew he couldn’t fire him.
“We have a clemency hearing scheduled for Monday,” Adam said, looking at his legal pad and waiting for the explosion. But Sam took it well and never missed a step.
“What’s the purpose of the clemency hearing?” he asked.
“To appeal for clemency.”
“Appeal to whom?”
“The governor.”
“And you think the governor will consider granting me clemency?”
“What’s there to lose?”
“Answer the question, smartass. Do you, with all your training, experience, and judicial brilliance, seriously expect this governor to entertain ideas of granting me clemency?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe my ass. You’re stupid.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
“Don’t mention it.” He stopped directly in front of Adam and pointed a crooked finger at him. “I’ve told you from the very beginning that I, as the client and as such certainly entitled to some consideration, will have nothing to do with David McAllister. I will not appeal to that fool for clemency. I will not ask him for a pardon. I will have no contact with him, whatsoever. Those are my wishes, and I made this very plain to you, young man, from day one. You, on the other hand, as the lawyer, have ignored my wishes and gone about your merry business doing whatever the hell you wanted. You are the lawyer, nothing more or less. I, on the other hand, am the client, and I don’t know what they taught you in your fancy law school, but I make the decisions.”
Sam walked to an empty chair and picked up another envelope. He handed it to Adam, and said, “This is a letter to the governor requesting him to cancel the clemency hearing on Monday. If you refuse to get it canceled, then I will make copies of this and give it to the press. I will embarrass you, Garner Goodman, and the governor. Do you understand?”
“Plain enough.”
Sam returned the envelope to the chair, and lit another cigarette.
Adam made another circle on his list. “Carmen will be here Monday. I’m not sure about Lee.”
Sam eased to a chair and sat down. He did not look at Adam. “Is she still in rehab?”
“Yes, and I’m not sure when she’ll get out. Do you want her to visit?”
“Let me think about it.”
“Think fast, okay.”
“Funny, real funny. My brother Donnie stopped by earlier. He’s my youngest brother, you know. He wants to meet you.”
“Was he in the Klan?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“It’s a simple yes or no question.”
“Yes. He was in the Klan.”
“Then I don’t want to meet him.”
“He’s not a bad guy.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“He’s my brother, Adam. I want you to meet my brother.”
“I have no desire to meet new Cayhalls, Sam, especially ones who wore robes and hoods.”
<
br /> “Oh, really. Three weeks ago you wanted to know everything about the family. Just couldn’t get enough of it.”
“I surrender, okay? I’ve heard enough.”
“Oh, there’s lots more.”
“Enough, enough. Spare me.”
Sam grunted and smiled smugly to himself. Adam glanced at his legal pad, and said, “You’ll be happy to know that the Kluckers outside have now been joined by some Nazis and Aryans and skinheads and other hate groups. They’re all lined along the highway, waving posters at cars passing by. The posters, of course, demand the freedom of Sam Cayhall, their hero. It’s a regular circus.”
“I saw it on television.”
“They’re also marching in Jackson around the state capitol.”
“This is my fault?”
“No. It’s your execution. You’re a symbol now. About to become a martyr.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Nothing. Just go ahead and die, and they’ll all be happy.”
“Aren’t you an asshole today?”
“Sorry, Sam. The pressure’s getting to me.”
“Throw in the towel. I have. I highly recommend it.”
“Forget it. I’ve got these clowns on the run, Sam. I have not yet begun to fight.”
“Yeah, you’ve filed three petitions, and a total of seven courts have turned you down. Zero for seven. I hate to see what’ll happen when you really get cranked up.” Sam said this with a wicked smile, and the humor found its mark. Adam laughed at it, and both breathed a bit easier. “I have this great idea for a lawsuit after you’re gone,” he said, feigning excitement.
“After I’m gone?”
“Sure. We’ll sue them for wrongful death. We’ll name McAllister, Nugent, Roxburgh, the State of Mississippi. We’ll bring in everybody.”
“It’s never been done,” Sam said, stroking his beard, as if deep in thought.
“Yeah, I know. Thought of it all by myself. We might not win a dime, but think of the fun I’ll have harassing those bastards for the next five years.”