The Chamber

THE rolling wheat fields stretched for miles then grew steeper as the foothills began. The majestic mountains lined the farmland in the distance. In a sweeping valley above the fields, with a view for miles in front and with the mountains as a barrier to the rear, the Nazi compound lay sprawled over a hundred acres. Its barbed-wire fences were camouflaged with hedgerows and underbrush. Its firing ranges and combat grounds were likewise screened to prevent detection from the air. Only two innocuous log cabins sat above the ground, and if seen from the outside would appear only to be fishing lodges. But below them, deep in the hills, were two shafts with elevators which dropped into a maze of natural caverns and man-made caves. Large tunnels, wide enough for golf carts, ran in all directions and connected a dozen different rooms. One room had a printing press. Two stored weapons, and ammunition. Three large ones were living quarters. One was a small library. The largest room, a cavern forty feet from top to bottom, was the central hall where the members gathered for speeches and films and rallies.



It was a state-of-the-art compound, with satellite dishes feeding televisions with news from around the world, and computers linked to other compounds for the quick flow of information, and fax machines, cellular phones, and every current electronic device in vogue.



No less than ten newspapers were received into the compound each day, and they were taken to a table in a room next to the library where they were first read by a man named Roland. He lived in the compound most of the time, along with several other members who maintained the place. When the newspapers arrived from the city, usually around nine in the morning, Roland poured himself a large cup of coffee and started reading. It was not a chore. He had traveled the world many times, spoke four languages, and had a voracious appetite for knowledge. If a story caught his attention, he would mark it, and later he would make a copy of it and give it to the computer desk.



His interests were varied. He barely scanned the sports, and never looked at the want ads. Fashion, style, living, fanfare, and related sections were browsed with little curiosity. He collected stories about groups similar to his - Aryans, Nazis, the KKK. Lately, he'd been flagging many stories from Germany and Eastern Europe, and was quite thrilled with the rise of fascism there. He spoke fluent German and spent at least one month a year in that great country. He watched the politicians, with their deep concern about hate crimes and their desire to restrict the rights of groups such as his. He watched the Supreme Court. He followed the trials of skinheads in the United States. He followed the tribulations of the KKK.



He normally spent two hours each morning absorbing the latest news and deciding which stories should be kept for future reference. It was routine, but he enjoyed it immensely.



This particular morning would be different. The first glimpse of trouble was a picture of Sam Cayhall buried deep in the front section of a San Francisco daily. The story had but three paragraphs, but sufficiently covered the hot news that the oldest man on death row in America would now be represented by his grandson. Roland read it three times before he believed it, then marked the story to be saved. After an hour, he'd read the same story five or six times. Two papers had the snapshot of young Adam Hall that appeared on the front page of the Memphis paper the day before.



Roland had followed the case of Sam Cayhall for many years, and for several reasons. First, it was normally the type of case that would interest their computers - an aging Klan terrorist from the sixties biding his time on death row. The Cayhall printout was already a foot thick. Though he was certainly no lawyer, Roland shared the prevailing opinion that Sam's appeals had run their course and he was about to die. This suited Roland just fine, but he kept his opinion to himself. Sam Cayhall was a hero to white supremacists, and Roland's own little band of Nazis had already been asked to participate in demonstrations before the execution. They had no direct contact with Cayhall because he had never answered their letters, but he was a symbol and they wanted to make the most of his death.



Roland's last name, Forchin, was of Cajun extraction from down around Thibodaux. He had no Social Security number; never filed tax returns; did not exist, as far as the government was concerned. He had three beautifully forged passports, one of which was German, and one allegedly issued by the Republic of Ireland. Roland crossed borders and cleared immigration with no worries.



One of Roland's other names, known only to himself and never divulged to a breathing soul, was Rollie Wedge. He had fled the United States in 1967 after the Kramer bombing, and had lived in Northern Ireland. He had also lived in Libya, Munich, Belfast, and Lebanon. He had returned to the United States briefly in 1967 and 1968 to observe the two trials of Sam Cayhall and Jeremiah Dogan. By then, he was traveling effortlessly with perfect papers.



There had been a few other quick trips back to the United States, all required because of the Cayhall mess. But as time passed, he worried about it less. He had moved to this bunker three years earlier to spread the message of Nazism. He no longer considered himself a Klansman. Now, he was a proud fascist.



When he finished his morning reading, he had found the Cayhall story in seven of the ten papers. He placed them in a metal basket, and decided to see the sun. He poured more coffee in his Styrofoam cup, and rode an elevator eighty feet to a foyer in a log cabin. It was a beautiful day, cool and sunny, not a cloud to be seen. He walked upward along a narrow trail toward the mountains, and within ten minutes was looking at the valley below him. The wheat fields were in the distance.



Roland had been dreaming of Cayhall's death for twenty-three years. They shared a secret, a heavy burden which would be lifted only when Sam was executed. He admired the man greatly. Unlike Jeremiah Dogan, Sam had honored his oath and never talked. Through three trials, several lawyers, countless appeals, and millions of inquiries, Sam Cayhall had never yielded. He was an honorable man, and Roland wanted him dead. Oh sure, he'd been forced to deliver a few threats to Cayhall and Dogan during the first two trials, but that was so long ago. Dogan cracked under pressure, and he talked and testified against Sam. And Dogan died.



This kid worried him. Like everyone else, Roland had lost track of Sam's son and his family. He knew about the daughter in Memphis, but the son had disappeared. And now this - this nice-looking, well-educated young lawyer from a big, rich Jewish law firm had popped up from nowhere and was primed to save his grandfather. Roland knew enough about executions to understand that in the waning hours the lawyers try everything. If Sam was going to crack, he would do it now, and he would do it in the presence of his grandson.



He tossed a rock down the hillside and watched it bounce out of sight. He'd have to go to Memphis.



* *



Saturday was typically just another day of hard labor at Kravitz & Bane in Chicago, but things were a bit more laid-back at the Memphis branch. Adam arrived at the office at nine and found only two other attorneys and one paralegal at work. He locked himself in his room and closed the blinds.



He and Sam had worked for two hours yesterday, and by the time Packer returned to the law library with the handcuffs and the shackles they had managed to cover the table with dozens of law books and legal pads. Packer had waited impatiently as Sam slowly reshelved the books.



Adam reviewed their notes. He entered his own research into the computer, and revised the petition for the third time. He had already faxed a copy of it to Garner Goodman, who in turn had revised it and sent it back.



Goodman was not optimistic about a fair hearing on the suit, but at this stage of the proceedings there was nothing to lose. If by chance an expedited hearing was held in federal court, Goodman was ready to testify about the Maynard Tole execution. He and Peter Wiesenberg had witnessed it. In fact, Wiesenberg had been so sickened by the sight of a living person being gassed that he resigned from the firm and took a job teaching. His grandfather had survived the Holocaust; his grandmother had not. Goodman promised to contact Wiesenberg, and felt confident he too would testify.



By noon, Adam was tired of the office. He unlocked his door and heard no sounds on the floor. The other lawyers were gone. He left the building.



He drove west, over the river into Arkansas, past the truck stops and dog track in West Memphis, and finally through the congestion and into the farm country. He passed the hamlets of Earle and Parkin and Wynne, where the hills began. He stopped for a Coke at a country grocery where three old men in faded overalls sat on the porch swatting flies and suffering in the heat. He lowered the convertible top and sped away.



Two hours later he stopped again, this time in the town of Mountain View to get a sandwich and ask directions. Calico Rock was not far up the road, he was told, just follow the White River. It was a lovely road, winding through the foothills of the Ozarks, through heavy woods and across mountain streams. The White River snaked its way along to the left, and it was dotted with trout fishermen in jon boats.



Calico Rock was a small town on a bluff above the river. Three trout docks lined the east bank near the bridge. Adam parked by the river and walked to the first one, an outfitter called Calico Marina. The building floated on pontoons, and was held close to the bank by thick cables. A row of empty rental boats was strung together next to the pier. The pungent smell of gasoline and oil emanated from a solitary gas pump. A sign listed the rates for boats, guides, gear, and fishing licenses.



Adam walked onto the covered dock and admired the river a few feet away. A young man with dirty hands emerged from a back room and asked if he could be of assistance. He examined Adam from top to bottom, and apparently decided that he was no fisherman.



"I'm looking for Wyn Lettner."



The name Ron was stitched above the shirt pocket and slightly covered with a smudge of grease. Ron walked back to his room and yelled, "Mr. Lettner!" in the direction of a screen door that led to a small shop. Ron disappeared.



Wyn Lettner was a huge man, well over six feet tall with a large frame that was quite overloaded. Garner had described him as a beer drinker, and Adam remembered this as he glanced at the large stomach. He was in his late sixties, with thinning gray hair tucked neatly under an EVINRUDE cap. There were at least three newspaper photographs of Special Agent Lettner indexed away somewhere in Adam's files, and in each he was the standard G-Man - dark suit, white shirt, narrow tie, military haircut. And he was much trimmer in those days.



"Yes sir," he said loudly as he walked through the screen door, wiping crumbs from his lips. "I'm Wyn Lettner." He had a deep voice and a pleasant smile.



Adam pushed forward a hand, and said, "I'm Adam Hall. Nice to meet you."



Lettner took his hand and shook it furiously. His forearms were massive and his biceps bulged. "Yes sir," he boomed. "What can I do for you?"



Thankfully the dock was deserted, with the exception of Ron, who was out of sight but making noises with a tool in his room. Adam fidgeted a bit, and said, "Well, I'm a lawyer, and I represent Sam Cayhall."



The smile grew and revealed two rows of strong yellow teeth. "Got your work cut out for you, don't you?" he said with a laugh and slapped Adam on the back.



"I guess so," Adam said awkwardly as he waited for another assault. "I'd like to talk about Sam."



Lettner was suddenly serious. He stroked his chin with a beefy hand and studied Adam with narrow eyes. "I saw it in the papers, son. I know Sam's your grandfather. Must be tough on you. Gonna get tougher, too." Then he smiled again. "Tougher on Sam as well." His eyes twinkled as if he'd just delivered a side-splitting punch line and he wanted Adam to double over with laughter.



Adam missed the humor. "Sam has less than a month, you know," he said, certain that Lettner had also read about the execution date.



A heavy hand was suddenly on Adam's shoulder and was shoving him in the direction of the shop. "Step in here, son. We'll talk about Sam. You wanna beer?"



"No. Thanks." They entered a narrow room with fishing gear hanging from the walls and ceilings, with rickety wooden shelves covered with food - crackers, sardines, canned sausages, bread, pork and beans, cupcakes - all the necessities for a day on the river. A soft drink cooler sat in one corner.



"Take a seat," Lettner said, waving to a corner near the cash register. Adam sat in a shaky wooden chair as Lettner fished through an ice chest and found a bottle of beer. "Sure you don't want one?"



"Maybe later." It was almost five o'clock.



He twisted the top, drained at least a third of the bottle with the first gulp, smacked his lips, then sat in a beaten leather captain's chair which had no doubt been removed from a customized van. "Are they finally gonna get old Sam?" he asked.



"They're trying awfully hard."



"What're the odds?"



"Not good. We have the usual assortment of last minute appeals, but the clock's ticking."



"Sam's not a bad guy," Lettner said with a trace of remorse, then washed it away with another long drink. The floor creaked quietly as the dock shifted with the river.



"How long were you in Mississippi?" Adam asked.



"Five years. Hoover called me after the three civil rights workers disappeared. Nineteen sixtyfour. We set up a special unit and went to work. After Kramer, the Klan sort of ran out of gas."



"And you were in charge of what?"



"Mr. Hoover was very specific. He told me to infiltrate the Klan at all costs. He wanted it busted up. To be truthful, we were slow getting started in Mississippi. Bunch of reasons for it. Hoover hated the Kennedys and they were pushing him hard, so he dragged his feet. But when those three boys disappeared, we got off our asses. Nineteen sixty-four was a helluva year in Mississippi."



"I was born that year."



"Yeah, paper said you were born in Clanton."



Adam nodded. "I didn't know it for a long time. My parents told me I was born in Memphis."



The door jingled and Ron entered the shop. He looked at them, then studied the crackers and sardines. They watched him and waited. He glanced at Adam as if to say, "Keep talking. I'm not listening."



"What do you want?" Lettner snapped at him.



He grabbed a can of Vienna sausage with his dirty hand and showed it to them. Lettner nodded and waved at the door. Ron ambled toward it, checking the cupcakes and potato chips as he went.



"He's nosy as hell," Lettner said after he was gone. "I talked to Garner Goodman a few times. It was years ago. Now, that's a weird bird."



"He's my boss. He gave me your name, said you'd talk to me."



"Talk about what?" Lettner asked, then took another drink.



"The Kramer case."



"The Kramer case is closed. The only thing left is Sam and his date with the gas chamber."



"Do you want him executed?"



Voices followed footsteps, then the door opened again. A man and a boy entered and Lettner got to his feet. They needed food and supplies, and for ten minutes they shopped and talked and decided where the fish were biting. Lettner was careful to place his beer under the counter while his customers were present.



Adam removed a soft drink from the cooler and left the shop. He walked along the edge of the wooden dock next to the river, and stopped by the gas pump. Two teenagers in a boat were casting near the bridge, and it struck Adam that he'd never been fishing in his life. His father had not been a man of hobbies and leisure. Nor had he been able to keep a job. At the moment, Adam could not remember exactly what his father had done with his time.



The customers left and the door slammed. Lettner lumbered to the gas pump. "You like to trout fish?" he asked, admiring the river.



"No. Never been."



"Let's go for a ride. I need to check out a spot two miles downriver. The fish are supposed to be thick."



Lettner was carrying his ice chest which he dropped carefully into a boat. He stepped down from the dock, and the boat rocked violently from side to side as he grabbed the motor. "Come on," he yelled at Adam, who was studying the thirty-inch gap between himself and the boat. "And grab that rope," Lettner yelled again, pointing to a thin cord hooked to a grapple..



Adam unhitched the rope and stepped nervously into the boat, which rocked just as his foot touched it. He slipped and landed on his head and came within inches of taking a swim. Lettner howled with laughter as he pulled the starter rope. Ron, of course, had watched this and was grinning stupidly on the dock. Adam was embarrassed but laughed as if it was all very funny. Lettner gunned the engine, the front of the boat jerked upward, and they were off.



Adam clutched the handles on both sides as they sped through the water and under the bridge. Calico Rock was soon behind them. The river turned and twisted its way through scenic hills and around rocky bluffs. Lettner navigated with one hand and sipped a fresh beer with the other. After a few minutes, Adam relaxed somewhat and managed to pull a beer from the cooler without losing his balance. The bottle was ice cold. He held it with his right hand and clutched the boat with his left. Lettner was humming or singing something behind him. The high-pitched roar of the motor prevented conversation.



They passed a small trout dock where a group of clean-cut city slickers were counting fish and drinking beer, and they passed a flotilla of rubber rafts filled with mangy teenagers smoking something and absorbing the sun. They waved at other fishermen who were hard at work.



The boat slowed finally and Lettner maneuvered it carefully through a bend as if he could see the fish below and had to position himself perfectly. He turned off the engine. "You gonna fish or drink beer?" he asked, staring at the water.



"Drink beer."



"Figures." His bottle was suddenly of secondary importance as he took the rod and cast to a spot toward the bank. Adam watched for a second, and when there was no immediate result he reclined and hung his feet over the water. The boat was not comfortable.



"How often do you fish?" he asked.



"Every day. It's part of my job, you know, part of my service to my customers. I have to know where the fish are biting."



"Tough job."



"Somebody has to do it."



"What brought you to Calico Rock?"



"Had a heart attack in '75, so I had to retire from the Bureau. Had a nice pension and all, but, hell, you get bored just sitting around. The wife and I found this place and found the marina for sale. One mistake led to another, and here I am. Hand me a beer."



He cast again as Adam dispensed the beer. He quickly counted fourteen bottles remaining in the ice. The boat drifted with the river, and Lettner grabbed a paddle. He fished with one hand, sculled the boat with the other, and somehow balanced a fresh beer between his knees. The life of a fishing guide.



They slowed under some trees, and the sun was mercifully shielded for a while. He made the casting look easy. He whipped the rod with a smooth wrist action, and sent the lure anywhere he wanted. But the fish weren't biting. He cast toward the middle of the river.



"Sam's not a bad guy." He'd already said this once.



"Do you think he should be executed?"



"That's not up to me, son. The people of the state want the death penalty, so it's on the books. The people said Sam was guilty and then said he should be executed, so who am I?"



"But you have an opinion."



"What good is it? My thoughts are completely worthless."



"Why do you say Sam's not a bad guy?"



"It's a long story."



"We have fourteen beers left."



Lettner laughed and the vast smile returned. He gulped from the bottle and looked down the river, away from his line. "Sam was of no concern to us, you understand. He was not active in the really nasty stuff, at least not at first. When those civil rights workers disappeared, we went in with a fury. We spread money all over the place, and before long we had all sorts of Klan informants. These people were basically just ignorant rednecks who'd never had a dime, and we preyed on their craving for money. We'd have never found those three boys had we not dropped some cash. About thirty thousand, as I remember it, though I didn't deal directly with the informant. Hell, son, they were buried in a levee. We found them, and it made us look good, you understand. Finally, we'd accomplished something. Made a bunch of arrests, but the convictions were difficult. The violence continued. They bombed black churches and black homes so damned often we couldn't keep up. It was like a war down there. It got worse, and Mr. Hoover got madder, and we spread around more money.



"Listen, son, I'm not going to tell you anything useful, you understand?"



"Why not?"



"Some things I can talk about, some I can't."



"Sam wasn't alone when he bombed the Kramer office, was he?"



Lettner smiled again and studied his line. The rod was sitting in his lap. "Anyway, by late '65 and early '66, we had a helluva network of informants. It really wasn't that difficult. We'd learn that some guy was in the Klan, and so we'd trail him. We'd follow him home at night, flashing our lights behind him, parking in front of his house. It'd usually scare him to death. Then we'd follow him to work, sometimes we'd go talk to his boss, flash our badges around, act like we were about to shoot somebody. We'd go talk to his parents, show them our badges, let them see us in our dark suits, let them hear our Yankee accents, and these poor country people would literally crack up right in front of us. If the guy went to church, we'd follow him one Sunday, then the next day we'd go talk to his preacher. We'd tell him that we had heard a terrible rumor that Mr. Such and Such was an active member of the Klan, and did he know anything about it. We acted like it was a crime to be a member of the Klan. If the guy had teenage children, we'd follow them on dates, sit behind them at the movies, catch them parking in the woods. It was nothing but pure harassment, but it worked. Finally, we'd call the poor guy or catch him alone somewhere, and offer him some money. We'd promise to leave him alone, and it always worked. Usually, they were nervous wrecks by this time, they couldn't wait to cooperate. I saw them cry, son, if you can believe it. Actually cry when they finally came to the altar and confessed their sins." Lettner laughed in the direction of his line, which was quite inactive.



Adam sipped his beer. Perhaps if they drank it all it would eventually loosen his tongue.



"Had this guy one time, I'll never forget him. We caught him in bed with his black mistress, which was not unusual. I mean, these guys would go out burning crosses and shooting into black homes, then sneak around like crazy to meet their black girlfriends. Never could understand why the black women put up with it. Anyway, he had a little hunting lodge deep in the woods, and he used it for a love nest. He met her there one afternoon for a quickie, and when he was finished and ready to go, he opened the front door and we took his picture. Got her picture too, and then we talked to him. He was a deacon or an elder in some country church, a real pillar, you know, and we talked to him like he was a dog. We ran her off and sat him down inside the little lodge there, and before long he was crying. As it turned out, he was one of our best witnesses. But he later went to jail."



"Why?"



"Well, it seems that while he was sneaking around with his girlfriend, his wife was doing the same thing with a black kid who worked on their farm. Lady got pregnant, baby was half and half, so our informant goes to the hospital and kills mother and child. He spent fifteen years at Parchman."



"Good."



"We didn't get a lot of convictions back in those days, but harassed them to a point where they were afraid to do much. The violence had slowed considerably until Dogan decided to go after the Jews. That caught us off guard, I have to admit. We had no clue."



"Why not?"



"Because he got smart. He learned the hard way that his own people would talk to us, so he decided to operate with a small, quiet unit."



"Unit? As in more than one person?"



"Something like that."



"As in Sam and who else?"



Lettner snorted and chuckled at once, and decided the fish had moved elsewhere. He placed his rod and reel in the boat, and yanked on the starter cord. They were off, racing once again downstream. Adam left his feet over the side, and his leather moccasins and bare ankles were soon wet. He sipped the beer. The sun was finally beginning to disappear behind the hills, and he enjoyed the beauty of the river.



The next stop was a stretch of still water below a bluff with a rope hanging from it. Lettner cast and reeled, all to no effect, and assumed the role of interrogator. He asked a hundred questions about Adam and his family - the flight westward, the new identities, the suicide. He explained that while Sam was in jail they checked out his family and knew he had a son who had just left town, but since Eddie appeared to be harmless they did not pursue the investigation. Instead, they spent their time watching Sam's brothers and cousins. He was intrigued by Adam's youth, and how he was raised with virtually no knowledge of kinfolks.



Adam asked a few questions, but the answers were vague and immediately twisted into more questions about his past. Adam was sparring with a man who'd spent twenty-five years asking questions.



The third and final hot spot was not far from Calico Rock, and they fished until it was dark. After five beers, Adam mustered the courage to wet a hook. Lettner was a patient instructor, and within minutes Adam had caught an impressive trout. For a brief interlude, they forgot about Sam and the Klan and other nightmares from the past, and they simply fished. They drank and fished.



Mrs. Lettner's first name was Irene, and she welcomed her husband and his unexpected guest with grace and nonchalance. Wyn had explained, as Ron drove them home, that Irene was accustomed to drop-ins. She certainly seemed to be unruffled as they staggered through the front door and handed her a string of trout.



The Lettner home was a cottage on the river a mile north of town. The rear porch was screened to protect it from insects, and not far below it was a splendid view of the river. They sat in wicker rockers on the porch, and opened another round of brew as Irene fried the fish.



Putting food on the table was a new experience for Adam, and he ate the fish he'd caught with great gusto. It always tastes better, Wyn assured him as he chomped and drank, when you catch it yourself. About halfway through the meal, Wyn switched to Scotch. Adam declined. He wanted a simple glass of water, but machismo drove him to continue with the beer. He couldn't wimp out at this point. Lettner would certainly chastise him.



Irene sipped wine and told stories about Mississippi. She had been threatened on several occasions, and their children refused to visit them. They were both from Ohio, and their families worried constantly about their safety. Those were the days, she said more than once with a certain longing for excitement. She was extremely proud of her husband and his performance during the war for civil rights.



She left them after dinner and disappeared somewhere in the cottage. It was almost ten o'clock, and Adam was ready for sleep. Wyn rose to his feet while holding onto a wooden beam, and excused himself for a visit to the bathroom. He returned in due course with two fresh Scotches in tall glasses. He handed one to Adam, and returned to his rocker.



They rocked and sipped in silence for a moment, then Lettner said, "So you're convinced Sam had some help."



"Of course he had some help." Adam was very much aware that his tongue was thick and his words were slow. Lettner's speech was remarkably articulate.



"And what makes you so certain?"



Adam lowered the heavy glass and vowed not to take another drink. "The FBI searched Sam's house after the bombing, right?"



"Right. "



"Sam was in jail in Greenville, and you guys got a warrant."



"I was there, son. We went in with a dozen agents and spent three days."



"And found nothing."



"You could say that."



"No trace of dynamite. No trace of blasting caps, fuses, detonators. No trace of any device or substance used in any of the bombings. Correct?"



"That's correct. So what's your point?"



"Sam had no knowledge of explosives, nor did he have a history of using them."



"No, I'd say he had quite a history of using them. Kramer was the sixth bombing, as I recall. Those crazy bastards were bombing like hell, son, and we couldn't stop them. You weren't there. I was in the middle of it. We had harassed the Klan and infiltrated to a point where they were afraid to move, then all of a sudden another war erupted and bombs were falling everywhere. We listened where we were supposed to listen. We twisted familiar arms until they broke. And we were clueless. Our informants were clueless.



It was like another branch of the Klan had suddenly invaded Mississippi without telling the old one."



"Did you know about Sam?"



"His name was in our records. As I recall, his father had been a Klucker, and maybe a brother or two. So we had their names. But they seemed harmless. They lived in the northern part of the state, in an area not known for serious Klan violence. They probably burned some crosses, maybe shot up a few houses, but nothing compared to Dogan and his gang. We had our hands full with murderers. We didn't have time to investigate every possible Klucker in the state."



"Then how do you explain Sam's sudden shift to violence?"



"Can't explain it. He was no choirboy, okay? He had killed before."



"Are you sure?"



"You heard me. He shot and killed one of his black employees in the early fifties. Never spent a day in jail for it. In fact, I'm not sure, but I don't think he was ever arrested for it. There may have been another killing, too. Another black victim."



"I'd rather not hear it."



"Ask him. See if the old bastard has guts enough to admit it to his grandson." He took another sip. "He was a violent man, son, and he certainly had the capability to plant bombs and kill people. Don't be naive."



"I'm not naive. I'm just trying to save his life."



"Why? He killed two very innocent little boys. Two children. Do you realize this?"



"He was convicted of the murders. But if the killings were wrong, then it's wrong for the state to kill him."



"I don't buy that crap. The death penalty is too good for these people. It's too clean and sterile. They know they're about to die, so they have time to say their prayers and say good-bye. What about the victims? How much time did they have to prepare?"



"So you want Sam executed?"



"Yeah. I want 'em all executed."



"I thought you said he wasn't a bad guy."



"I lied. Sam Cayhall is a cold-blooded killer. And he's guilty as hell. How else can you explain the fact that the bombings stopped as soon as he was in custody?"



"Maybe they were scared after Kramer?"



"They? Who the hell is they?"



"Sam and his partner. And Dogan."



"Okay. I'll play along. Let's assume Sam had an accomplice."



"No. Let's assume Sam was the accomplice. Let's assume the other guy was the explosives expert."



"Expert? These were very crude bombs, son. The first five were nothing more than a few sticks wrapped together with a fuse. You light the match, run like hell, and fifteen minutes later, Boom! The Kramer bomb was nothing but a half-ass rig with an alarm clock wired to it. They were lucky it didn't go off while they were playing with it."



"Do you think it was deliberately set to go off when it did?"



"The jury thought so. Dogan said they planned to kill Marvin Kramer."



"Then why was Sam hanging around? Why was he close enough to the bomb to get hit with debris?"



"You'll have to ask Sam, which I'm sure you've already done. Does he claim he had an accomplice?"



"No."



"Then that settles it. If your own client says no, what the hell are you digging for?"



"Because I think my client is lying."



"Too bad for your client, then. If he wants to lie and protect the identity of someone, then why should you care?"



"Why would he lie to me?"



Lettner shook his head in frustration, then mumbled something and took a drink. "How the hell am I supposed to know? I don't want to know, okay? I honestly don't care if Sam's lying or if Sam's telling the truth. But if he won't level with you, his lawyer and his own grandson, then I say gas him."



Adam took a long drink and stared into the darkness. He actually felt silly at times digging around trying to prove his own client was lying to him. He'd give this another shot, then talk about something else. "You don't believe the witnesses who saw Sam with another person?"



"No. They were pretty shaky, as I recall. The guy at the truck stop didn't come forward for a long time. The other guy had just left a honky-tonk. They weren't credible."



"Do you believe Dogan?"



"The jury did."



"I didn't ask about the jury."



Lettner's breathing was finally getting heavy, and he appeared to be fading. "Dogan was crazy, and Dogan was a genius. He said the bomb was intended to kill, and I believe him. Keep in mind, Adam, they almost wiped out an entire family in Vicksburg. I can't remember the name - "



"Pinder. And you keep saying they did this and that."



"I'm just playing along, okay. We're assuming Sam had a buddy with him. They planted a bomb at the Pinder house in the middle of the night. An entire family could've been killed."



"Sam said he placed the bomb in the garage so no one would get hurt."



"Sam told you this? Sam admitted he did it? Then why in the hell are you asking me about an accomplice? Sounds like you need to listen to your client. Son of a bitch is guilty, Adam. Listen to him."



Adam took another drink and his eyelids grew heavier. He looked at his watch, but couldn't see it. "Tell me about the tapes," he said, yawning.



"What tapes?" Lettner asked, yawning.



"The FBI tapes they played at Sam's trial. The ones with Dogan talking to Wayne Graves about bombing Kramer."



"We had lots of tapes. And they had lots of targets. Framer was just one of many. Hell, we had a tape with two Kluckers talking about bombing a synagogue while a wedding was in progress. They wanted to bolt the doors and shoot some gas through the heating ducts so the entire congregation would be wiped out. Sick bastards, man. It wasn't Dogan, just a couple of his idiots talking trash, and so we dismissed it. Wayne Graves was a Klucker who was also on our payroll, and he allowed us to tap his phones. He called Dogan one night, said he was on a pay phone, and they got to talking about hitting Kramer. They also talked about other targets. It was very effective at Sam's trial. But the tapes did not help us stop a single bombing. Nor did they help us identify Sam."



"You had no idea Sam Cayhall was involved?"



"None whatsoever. If the fool had left Greenville when he should have, he'd probably still be a free man."



"Did Kramer know he was a target?"



"We told him. But by then he was accustomed to threats. He kept a guard at his house." His words were starting to slur a bit, and his chin had dropped an inch or two.



Adam excused himself and cautiously made his way to the bathroom. As he returned to the porch, he heard heavy snoring. Lettner had slumped in his chair and collapsed with the drink in his hand. Adam removed it, then left in search of a sofa.