Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  “You have my permission to file it. Sue them!”

  The smiles slowly disappeared and the humor was gone. Adam found something else on his checklist. “Just a couple more items. Lucas Mann asked me to ask you about your witnesses. You’re entitled to have two people in the witness room, in case this gets that far.”

  “Donnie doesn’t want to do it. I will not allow you to be there. I can’t imagine anybody else who’d want to see it.”

  “Fine. Speaking of them, I have at least thirty requests for interviews. Virtually every major paper and news magazine wants access.”

  “No.”

  “Fine. Remember that writer we discussed last time, Wendall Sherman? The one who wants to record your story on tape and—”

  “Yeah. For fifty thousand bucks.”

  “Now it’s a hundred thousand. His publisher will put up the money. He wants to get everything on tape, watch the execution, do extensive research, then write a big book about it.”

  “No.”

  “Fine.”

  “I don’t want to spend the next three days talking about my life. I don’t want some stranger poking his nose around Ford County. And I don’t particularly need a hundred thousand dollars at this point in my life.”

  “Fine with me. You once mentioned the clothing you wanted to wear—”

  “Donnie’s taking care of it.”

  “Okay. Moving right along. Barring a stay, you’re allowed to have two people with you during your final hours. Typically, the prison has a form for you to sign designating these people.”

  “It’s always the lawyer and the minister, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then it’s you, and Ralph Griffin, I guess.”

  Adam filled the names in on a form. “Who’s Ralph Griffin?”

  “The new minister here. He’s opposed to the death penalty, can you believe it? His predecessor thought we should all be gassed, in the name of Jesus, of course.”

  Adam handed the form to Sam. “Sign here.”

  Sam scribbled his name and handed it back.

  “You’re entitled to a last conjugal visit.”

  Sam laughed loudly. “Come on, son. I’m an old man.”

  “It’s on the checklist, okay. Lucas Mann whispered to me the other day that I should mention it to you.”

  “Okay. You’ve mentioned it.”

  “I have another form here for your personal effects. Who gets them?”

  “You mean my estate?”

  “Sort of.”

  “This is morbid as hell, Adam. Why are we doing this now?”

  “I’m a lawyer, Sam. We get paid to sweat the details. It’s just paperwork.”

  “Do you want my things?”

  Adam thought about this for a moment. He didn’t want to hurt Sam’s feelings, but at the same time he couldn’t imagine what he’d do with a few ragged old garments, worn books, portable television, and rubber shower shoes. “Sure,” he said.

  “Then they’re yours. Take them and burn them.”

  “Sign here,” Adam said, shoving the form under his face. Sam signed it, then jumped to his feet and started pacing again. “I really want you to meet Donnie.”

  “Sure. Whatever you want,” Adam said, stuffing his legal pad and the forms into his briefcase. The nitpicking details were now complete. The briefcase seemed much heavier.

  “I’ll be back in the morning,” he said to Sam.

  “Bring me some good news, okay.”

  ______

  Colonel Nugent strutted along the edge of the highway with a dozen armed prison guards behind him. He glared at the Klansmen, twenty-six at last count, and he scowled at the brown-shirted Nazis, ten in all. He stopped and stared at the group of skinheads mingling next to the Nazis. He swaggered around the edge of the grassy protest strip, pausing for a moment to speak to two Catholic nuns sitting under a large umbrella, as far away from the other demonstrators as possible. The temperature was one hundred degrees, and the nuns were broiling under the shade. They sipped ice water, their posters resting on their knees and facing the highway.

  The nuns asked him who he was and what he wanted. He explained that he was the acting warden for the prison, and that he was simply making sure the demonstration was orderly.

  They asked him to leave.

  Forty-three

  Perhaps it was because it was Sunday, or maybe it was the rain, but Adam drank his morning coffee in unexpected serenity. It was still dark outside, and the gentle dripping of a warm, summer shower on the patio was mesmerizing. He stood in the open door and listened to the splashing of the raindrops. It was too early for traffic on Riverside Drive below. There were no noises from the tugboats on the river. All was quiet and peaceful.

  And there wasn’t a heckuva lot to be done this day, Day Three before the execution. He would start at the office, where another last minute petition had to be organized. The issue was so ridiculous Adam was almost embarrassed to file it. Then he would drive to Parchman and sit with Sam for a spell.

  It was unlikely there would be movement by any court on Sunday. It was certainly possible since the death clerks and their staffs were on call when an execution was looming. But Friday and Saturday had passed without rulings coming down, and he expected the same inactivity today. Tomorrow would be much different, in his untrained and untested opinion.

  Tomorrow would be nothing but frenzy. And Tuesday, which of course was scheduled to be Sam’s last day as a breathing soul, would be a nightmare of stress.

  But this Sunday morning was remarkably calm. He had slept almost seven hours, another recent record. His head was clear, his pulse normal, his breathing relaxed. His mind was uncluttered and composed.

  He flipped through the Sunday paper, scanning the headlines but reading nothing. There were at least two stories about the Cayhall execution, one with more pictures of the growing circus outside the prison gate. The rain stopped when the sun came up, and he sat in a wet rocker for an hour scanning Lee’s architectural magazines. After a couple of hours of peace and tranquility, Adam was bored and ready for action.

  There was unfinished business in Lee’s bedroom, a matter Adam had tried to forget but couldn’t. For ten days now, a silent battle had raged in his soul over the book in her drawer. She’d been drunk when she told him about the lynching photo, but it was not the delirious talk of an addict. Adam knew the book existed. There was a real book with a real photo of a young black man hanging by a rope, and somewhere under his feet was a crowd of proud white people, mugging for the camera, immune from prosecution. Adam had mentally pieced the picture together, adding faces, sketching the tree, drawing the rope, adding titles to the space under it. But there were some things he didn’t know, he couldn’t visualize. Was the dead man’s face perceptible? Was he wearing shoes, or barefoot? Was a very young Sam easily recognizable? How many white faces were in the photo? And how old were they? Any women? Any guns? Blood? Lee said he’d been bullwhipped. Was the whip in the photo? He had imagined the picture for days now, and it was time to finally look in the book. He couldn’t wait until later. Lee might make a triumphant return. She might move the book, hide it again. He planned to spend the next two or three nights here, but that could change with one phone call. He could be forced to rush to Jackson or sleep in his car at Parchman. Such routine matters as lunch and dinner and sleeping were suddenly unpredictable when your client had less than a week to live.

  This was the perfect moment, and he decided that he was now ready to face the lynch mob. He walked to the front door and scanned the parking lot, just to make sure she hadn’t decided to drop in. He actually locked the door to her bedroom, and pulled open the top drawer. It was filled with her lingerie, and he was embarrassed for this intrusion.

  The book was in the third drawer, lying on top of a faded sweatshirt. It was thick and bound in green fabric—Southern Negroes and the Great Depression. Published in 1947 by Toffler Press, Pittsburgh. Adam clutched it and sat on the
edge of her bed. The pages were immaculate and pristine, as if the book had never been handled or read. Who in the Deep South would read such a book anyway? And if the book had been in the Cayhall family for several decades, then Adam was positive it had never been read. He studied the binder and pondered what set of circumstances brought this particular book into the custody of the Sam Cayhall family.

  The book had three sections of photos. The first was a series of pictures of shotgun houses and ramshackle sheds where blacks were forced to live on plantations. There were family portraits on front porches with dozens of children, and there were the obligatory shots of farm workers stooped low in the fields picking cotton.

  The second section was in the center of the book, and ran for twenty pages. There were actually two lynching photos, the first a horribly gruesome scene with two robed and hooded Kluckers holding rifles and posing for the camera. A badly beaten black man swung from a rope behind them, his eyes half open, his face pulverized and bloody. KKK lynching, Central Mississippi, 1939, explained the caption under it, as if these rituals could be defined simply by locale and time.

  Adam gaped at the horror of the picture, then turned the page to find the second lynching scene, this one almost tame compared to the first. The lifeless body at the end of the rope could be seen only from the chest down. The shirt appeared to be torn, probably by the bullwhip, if in fact one had been used. The black man was very thin, his oversized pants drawn tightly at the waist. He was barefoot. No blood was visible.

  The rope that held his body could be seen tied to a lower branch in the background. The tree was large with bulky limbs and a massive trunk.

  A festive group had gathered just inches under his dangling feet. Men, women, and boys clowned for the camera, some striking exaggerated poses of anger and manliness—hard frowns, fierce eyes, tight lips, as if they possessed unlimited power to protect their women from Negro aggression; others smiled and seemed to be giggling, especially the women, two of whom were quite pretty; a small boy held a pistol and aimed it menacingly at the camera; a young man held a bottle of liquor, twisted just so to reveal the label. Most of the group seemed quite joyous that this event had occurred. Adam counted seventeen people in the group, and every single one was staring at the camera without shame or worry, without the slightest hint a wrong had been committed. They were utterly immune from prosecution. They had just killed another human, and it was painfully obvious they had done so with no fear of the consequences.

  This was a party. It was at night, the weather was warm, liquor was present, pretty women. Surely they’d brought food in baskets and were about to throw quilts on the ground for a nice picnic around the tree.

  Lynching in rural Mississippi, 1936, read the caption.

  Sam was in the front row, crouched and resting on a knee between two other young men, all three posing hard for the camera. He was fifteen or sixteen, with a slender face that was trying desperately to appear dangerous—lip curled, eyebrows pinched, chin up. The cocky braggadocio of a boy trying to emulate the more mature thugs around him.

  He was easy to spot because someone had drawn, in faded blue ink, a line across the photo to the margin where the name Sam Cayhall was printed in block letters. The line crossed the bodies and faces of others and stopped at Sam’s left ear. Eddie. It had to be Eddie. Lee said that Eddie had found this book in the attic, and Adam could see his father hiding in the darkness, weeping over the photograph, identifying Sam by pointing the accusatory arrow at his head.

  Lee also had said that Sam’s father was the leader of this ragtag little mob, but Adam couldn’t distinguish him. Perhaps Eddie couldn’t either because there were no markings. There were at least seven men old enough to be Sam’s father. How many of these people were Cayhalls? She’d also said that his brothers were involved, and perhaps one of the younger men resembled Sam, but it was impossible to tell for certain.

  He studied the clear, beautiful eyes of his grandfather, and his heart ached. He was just a boy, born and reared in a household where hatred of blacks and others was simply a way of life. How much of it could be blamed on him? Look at those around him, his father, family, friends and neighbors, all probably honest, poor, hardworking people caught for the moment at the end of a cruel ceremony that was commonplace in their society. Sam didn’t have a chance. This was the only world he knew.

  How would Adam ever reconcile the past with the present? How could he fairly judge these people and their horrible deed when, but for a quirk of fate, he would’ve been right there in the middle of them had he been born forty years earlier?

  As he looked at their faces, an odd comfort engulfed him. Though Sam was obviously a willing participant, he was only one member of the mob, only partly guilty. Clearly, the older men with the stern faces had instigated the lynching, and the rest had come along for the occasion. Looking at the photo, it was inconceivable to think that Sam and his younger buddies had initiated this brutality. Sam had done nothing to stop it. But maybe he had done nothing to encourage it.

  The scene produced a hundred unanswered questions. Who was the photographer, and how did he happen to be there with his camera? Who was the young black man? Where was his family, his mother? How’d they catch him? Had he been in jail and released by the authorities to the mob? What did they do with his body when it was over? Was the alleged rape victim one of the young women smiling at the camera? Was her father one of the men? Her brothers?

  If Sam was lynching at such an early age, what could be expected of him as an adult? How often did these folks gather and celebrate like this in rural Mississippi?

  How in God’s world could Sam Cayhall have become anything other than himself? He never had a chance.

  ______

  Sam waited patiently in the front office, sipping coffee from a different pot. It was strong and rich, unlike the watered-down brew they served the inmates each morning. Packer had given it to him in a large paper cup. Sam sat on the desk with his feet on a chair.

  The door opened and Colonel Nugent marched inside with Packer behind. The door was closed. Sam stiffened and snapped off a smart salute.

  “Good morning, Sam,” Nugent said somberly. “How you doing?”

  “Fabulous. You?”

  “Getting by.”

  “Yeah, I know you gotta lot on your mind. This is tough on you, trying to arrange my execution and making sure it goes real smooth. Tough job. My hat’s off to you.”

  Nugent ignored the sarcasm. “Need to talk to you about a few things. Your lawyers now say you’re crazy, and I just wanted to see for myself how you’re doing.”

  “I feel like a million bucks.”

  “Well, you certainly look fine.”

  “Gee thanks. You look right spiffy yourself. Nice boots.”

  The black combat boots were sparkling, as usual. Packer glanced down at them and grinned.

  “Yes,” Nugent said, sitting in a chair and looking at a sheet of paper. “The psychiatrist said you’re uncooperative.”

  “Who? N.?”

  “Dr. Stegall.”

  “That big lard-ass gal with an incomplete first name? I’ve only talked to her once.”

  “Were you uncooperative?”

  “I certainly hope so. I’ve been here for almost ten years, and she finally trots her big ass over here when I’ve got one foot in the grave to see how I’m getting along. All she wanted to do was give me some dope so I’ll be stoned when you clowns come after me. Makes your job easier, doesn’t it.”

  “She was only trying to help.”

  “Then God bless her. Tell her I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again. Write me up with an RVR. Put it in my file.”

  “We need to talk about your last meal.”

  “Why is Packer in here?”

  Nugent glanced at Packer, then looked at Sam. “Because it’s procedure.”

  “He’s here to protect you, isn’t he? You’re afraid of me. You’re scared to be left alone with me in this room, aren’t you, Nug
ent? I’m almost seventy years old, feeble as hell, half dead from cigarettes, and you’re afraid of me, a convicted murderer.”

  “Not in the least.”

  “I’d stomp your ass all over this room, Nugent, if I wanted to.”

  “I’m terrified. Look, Sam, let’s get down to business. What would you like for your last meal?”

  “This is Sunday. My last meal is scheduled for Tuesday night. Why are you bothering me with it now?”

  “We have to make plans. You can have anything, within reason.”

  “Who’s gonna cook it?”

  “It’ll be prepared in the kitchen here.”

  “Oh, wonderful! By the same talented chefs who’ve been feeding me hogslop for nine and a half years. What a way to go!”

  “What would you like, Sam? I’m trying to be reasonable.”

  “How about toast and boiled carrots? I’d hate to burden them with something new.”

  “Fine, Sam. When you decide, tell Packer here and he’ll notify the kitchen.”

  “There won’t be a last meal, Nugent. My lawyer will unload the heavy artillery tomorrow. You clowns won’t know what hit you.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “You’re a lying sonofabitch. You can’t wait to walk me in there and strap me down. You’re giddy with the thought of asking me if I have any last words, then nodding at one of your gophers to lock the door. And when it’s all over, you’ll face the press with a sad face and announce that ‘As of twelve-fifteen, this morning, August 8, Sam Cayhall was executed in the gas chamber here at Parchman, pursuant to an order of the Circuit Court of Lakehead County, Mississippi.’ It’ll be your finest hour, Nugent. Don’t lie to me.”

  The colonel never looked from the sheet of paper. “We need your list of witnesses.”

  “See my lawyer.”

  “And we need to know what to do with your things.”

  “See my lawyer.”

  “Okay. We have numerous requests for interviews from the press.”

  “See my lawyer.”

  Nugent jumped to his feet and stormed from the office. Packer caught the door, waited a few seconds, then calmly said, “Sit tight, Sam, there’s someone else to see you.”