The Chamber

PHILLIP NAIFEH awoke in the early hours of Sunday morning with severe chest pains, and was rushed to the hospital in Cleveland. He lived in a modern home on the grounds at Parchman with his wife of forty-one years. The ambulance ride took twenty minutes, and he was stable by the time he entered the emergency room on a gurney.



His wife waited anxiously in the corridor as the nurses scurried about. She had waited there before, three years earlier with the first heart attack. A somber-faced young doctor explained that it was a mild one, that he was quite steady and secure and resting comfortably with the aid of medication. He would be monitored diligently for the next twenty-four hours, and if things went as expected he'd be home in less than a week.



He was absolutely forbidden from getting near Parchman, and could have nothing to do with the Cayhall execution. Not even a phone call from his bed.



Sleep was becoming a battle. Adam habitually read for an hour or so in bed, and had learned in law school that legal publications were marvelous sleeping aids. Now, however, the more he read the more he worried. His mind was burdened with the events of the past two weeks - the people he'd met, the things he'd learned, the places he'd been. And his mind raced wildly with what was to come.



He slept fitfully Saturday night, and was awake for long stretches of time. When he finally awoke for the last time, the sun was up. It was almost eight o'clock. Lee had mentioned the possibility of another foray into the kitchen. She had once been quite good with sausage and eggs, she'd said, and anybody could handle canned biscuits, but as he pulled up his jeans and slipped on a tee shirt, he could smell nothing.



The kitchen was quiet. He called her name as he examined the coffee pot - half full. Her bedroom door was open and the lights were off. He quickly checked every room. She was not on the patio sipping coffee and reading the paper. A sick feeling came over him and grew worse with each empty room. He ran to the parking lot - no sign of her car. He stepped barefoot across the hot asphalt and asked the security guard when she'd left. He checked a clipboard, and said it had been almost two hours ago. She appeared to be fine, he said.



He found it on a sofa in the den, a three-inch stack of news and ads known as the Sunday edition of the Memphis Press. It had been left in a neat pile with the Metro section on top. Lee's face was on the front of this section, in a photo taken at a charity ball years earlier. It was a close-up of Mr. and Mrs. Phelps Booth, all smiles for the camera. Lee was smashing in a strapless black dress. Phelps was decorated fashionably in black tie. They seemed to be a wonderfully happy couple.



The story was Todd Marks' latest exploitation of the Cayhall mess, and with each report the series was becoming more tabloid-like. It started friendly enough, with a weekly summary of the events swirling around the execution. The same voices were heard - McAllister's, Roxburgh's, Lucas Mann's, and Naifeh's steady "no comments." Then it turned mean-spirited quickly as it gleefully exposed Lee Cayhall Booth: prominent Memphis socialite, wife of important banker Phelps Booth of the renowned and rich Booth family, community volunteer, aunt of Adam Hall, and, believe it or not, daughter of the infamous Sam Cayhall!



The story was written as if Lee herself were guilty of a terrible crime. It quoted alleged friends, unnamed of course, as being shocked to learn her true identity. It talked about the Booth family and its money, and pondered how a blue blood such as Phelps could stoop to marry into a clan such as the Cayhalls. It mentioned their son Walt, and again quoted unnamed sources who speculated about his refusal to return to Memphis. Walt had never married, it reported breathlessly, and lived in Amsterdam.



And then, worst of all, it quoted another nameless source and told the story of a charity event not too many years ago at which Lee and Phelps Booth were present and sat at a table near Ruth Kramer. The source had also been at the dinner, and distinctly remembered where these people had sat. The source was a friend of Ruth's and an acquaintance of Lee's, and was just plain shocked to learn that Lee had such a father.



A smaller photo of Ruth Kramer accompanied the story. She was an attractive woman in her early fifties.



After the sensational uncovering of Lee, the story went on to summarize Friday's oral argument in New Orleans and the latest maneuverings of the Cayhall defense.



Taken as a whole, it was sleazy narrative that accomplished nothing except that it pushed the daily murder summaries onto the second page.



Adam threw the paper on the floor and sipped coffee. She had awakened on this warm Sunday, clean and sober for the first time in days, probably in much better spirits, and had settled on the sofa with a fresh cup of coffee and the paper. Within minutes she'd been slapped in the face and kicked in the stomach, and now she'd left again. Where did she go during these times? Where was her sanctuary? Certainly she stayed away from Phelps. Maybe she had a boyfriend somewhere who took her in and gave her comfort, but that was doubtful. He prayed she wasn't driving the streets aimlessly with a bottle in her hand.



No doubt, things were hopping around the Booth estates this morning. Their dirty little secret was out, plastered on the front page for the world to see. How would they cope with the humiliation? Imagine, a Booth marrying and producing offspring with such white trash, and now everyone knew. The family might never recover. Madame Booth was certainly distressed, and probably bedridden by now.



Good for them, Adam thought. He showered and changed clothes, then lowered the top on the Saab. He didn't expect to see Lee's maroon Jaguar on the deserted streets of Memphis, but he drove around anyway. He started at Front Street near the river, and with Springsteen blaring from the speakers he randomly made his way east, past the hospitals on Union, through the stately homes of midtown, and back to the projects near Auburn House. Of course he didn't find her, but the drive was refreshing. By noon, the traffic had resumed, and Adam went to the office.



Sam's only guest on Sunday was again an unexpected one. He rubbed his wrists when the handcuffs were removed, and sat across the screen from the gray-haired man with a jolly face and a warm smile.



"Mr. Cayhall, my name is Ralph Griffin, and I'm the chaplain here at Parchman: I'm new, so we -haven't met."



Sam nodded, and said, "Nice to meet you.



"My pleasure. I'm sure you knew my predecessor."



"Ah yes, the Right Reverend Rucker. Where is he now?"



"Retired."



"Good. I never cared for him. I doubt if he makes it to heaven."



"Yes, I've heard he wasn't too popular."



"Popular? He was despised by everyone here. For some reason we didn't trust him. Don't know why. Could be because he was in favor of the death penalty. Can you imagine? He was called by God to minister to us, yet he believed we should die. Said it was in the Scriptures. You know, the eye for an eye routine."



"I've heard that before."



"I'm sure you have. What kind of preacher are-you? What denomination?"



"I was ordained in a Baptist church, but I'm sort of nondenominational now. I think the Lord's probably frustrated with all this sectarianism."



"He's frustrated with me too, you know."



"How's that?"



"You're familiar with Randy Dupree, an inmate here. Just down the tier from me. Rape and murder."



"Yes. I've read his file. He was a preacher at one-time."



"We call him Preacher Boy, and he's recently acquired the spiritual gift of interpreting dreams. He also sings and heals. He'd probably play with snakes if they allowed it. You know, take up the serpents, from the book of Mark, sixteenth chapter, eighteenth verse. Anyway, he just finished this long dream, took over a month, sort of like a mini-series, and it eventually was revealed to him that I will in fact be executed, and that God is waiting for me to clean up my act."



"It wouldn't be a bad idea, you know. To get things in order."



"What's the rush? I have ten days."



"So you believe in God?"



"Yes, I do. Do you believe in the death penalty?"



"No, I don't."



Sam studied him for a while, then said, "Are you serious?"



"Killing is wrong, Mr. Cayhall. If in fact you are guilty of your crime, then you were wrong to kill. It's also wrong for the government to kill you."



"Hallelujah, brother."



"I've never been convinced that Jesus wanted us to kill as a punishment. He didn't teach that. He taught love and forgiveness."



"That's the way I read the Bible. How in hell did you get a job here?"



"I have a cousin in the state senate."



Sam smiled and chuckled at this response. "You won't last long. You're too honest."



"No. My cousin is the chairman of the Committee on Corrections, and rather powerful."



"Then you'd better pray he gets reelected."



"I do every morning. I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself. I'd like to talk to you during the next few days. I'd like to pray with you if you want. I've never been through an execution before."



"Neither have L"



"Does it scare you?"



"I'm an old man, Reverend. I'll be seventy in a few months, if I make it. At times, the thought of dying is quite pleasant. Leaving this godforsaken place will be a relief."



"But you're still fighting."



"Sure, though sometimes I don't know why. It's like a long bout with cancer. You gradually decline and grow weak. You die a little each day, and you reach the point where death would be welcome. But no one really wants to die. Not even me."



"I've read about your grandson. That must be heartwarming. I know you're proud of him."



Sam smiled and looked at the floor.



"Anyway," the reverend continued, "I'll be around. Would you like for me to come back tomorrow?"



"That would be nice. Let me do some thinking, okay?"



"Sure. You know the procedures around here, don't you? During your last few hours you're allowed to have only two people present. Your lawyer and your spiritual adviser. I'll be honored to stay with you."



"Thanks. And can you find the time to talk to Randy Dupree? The poor kid is cracking up, and he really needs help."



"I'll do it tomorrow."



"Thanks."



Adam watched a rented movie by himself, with the phone nearby. There had been no word from Lee. At ten, he made two calls to the West Coast. The first was to his mother in Portland. She was subdued, but glad to hear from him, she said. She did not ask about Sam, and Adam did not offer. He reported that he was working hard, that he was hopeful, and that he would, in all likelihood, return to Chicago in a couple of weeks. She'd seen a few stories in the papers, and she was thinking about him. Lee was fine, Adam said.



The second call was to his younger sister, Carmen, in Berkeley. A male voice answered the phone in her apartment, Kevin somebody if Adam remembered correctly, a steady companion for several years now. Carmen was soon on the phone, and seemed anxious to hear about events in Mississippi. She too had followed the news closely, and Adam put an optimistic spin on things. She was worried about him down there in the midst of all those horrible Kluckers and racists. Adam insisted he was safe, things were quite peaceful, actually. The people were surprisingly gentle and laid-back. He was staying at Lee's and they were making the best of it. To Adam's surprise, she wanted to know about Sam - what was he like, his appearance, his attitude, his willingness to talk about Eddie. She asked if she should fly down and see Sam before August 8, a meeting Adam had not contemplated. Adam said he would think about it, and that he would ask Sam.



He fell asleep on the sofa, with the television on.



At three-thirty Monday morning, he was awakened by the phone. A voice he'd never heard before crisply identified himself as Phelps Booth. "You must be Adam," he said.



Adam sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Yes, that's me."



"Have you seen Lee?" Phelps asked, neither calm nor urgent.



Adam glanced at a clock on the wall above the television. "No. What's the matter?"



"Well, she's in trouble. The police called me about an hour ago. They picked her up for drunk driving at eight-twenty last night, and took her to jail."



"Oh no," Adam said.



"This is not the first time. She was taken in, refused the breath test of course, and was put in the drunk tank for five hours. She listed my name on the paperwork, so the cops called me. I ran downtown to the jail, and she had already posted bail and walked out. I thought maybe she'd called you."



"No. She was not here when I woke up yesterday morning, and this is the first thing I've heard. Who would she call?"



"Who knows? I hate to start calling her friends and waking them up. Maybe we should just wait."



Adam was uncomfortable with his sudden inclusion into the decision making. These people had been married, for better or for worse, for almost thirty years, and they had obviously been through this before. How was he supposed to know what to do? "She didn't drive away from the jail, did she?" he asked timidly, certain of the answer.



"Of course not. Someone picked her up. Which brings up another problem. We need to get her car. It's in a lot by the jail. I've already paid the towing charges."



"Do you have a key?"



"Yes. Can you help me get it?"



Adam suddenly remembered the newspaper story with the smiling photo of Phelps and Lee, and he also remembered his speculation about the Booth family's reaction to it. He was certain most of the blame and venom had been directed at him. If he'd stayed in Chicago, none of this would've happened.



"Sure. Just tell me what - "



"Go wait by the guardhouse. I'll be there in ten minutes."



Adam brushed his teeth and laced up his Nikes, and spent fifteen minutes chatting about this and that with Willis, the guard, at the gate. A black Mercedes, the longest model in history, approached and stopped. Adam said good-bye to Willis, and got in the car.



They shook hands because it was the polite thing to do. Phelps was dressed in a white jogging suit and wore a Cubs cap. He drove slowly on the empty street. "I guess Lee has told you some things about me," he said, without a trace of concern or regret.



"A few things," Adam said carefully.



"Well, there's a lot to tell, so I'm not going to ask what subjects she's covered."



A very good idea, Adam thought. "It's probably best if we just talk about baseball or something. I take it you're a Cubs fan."



"Always a Cubs fan. You?"



"Sure. This is my first season in Chicago, and I've been to Wrigley a dozen times. I live pretty close to the park."



"Really. I go up three or four times a year. I have a friend with a box. Been doing it for years. Who's your favorite player?"



"Sandberg, I guess. How about you?"



"I like the old guys. Ernie Banks and Ron Santo. Those were the good days of baseball, when the players had loyalty and you knew who'd be on your team from one year to the next. Now, you never know. I love the game, but greed's corrupted it."



It struck Adam as odd that Phelps Booth would denounce greed. "Maybe, but the owners wrote the book on greed for the first hundred years. of baseball. What's wrong with the players asking for all the money they can get?"



"Who's worth five million a year?"



"Nobody. But if rock stars make fifty, what's wrong with baseball players making a few million? It's entertainment. The players are the game, not the owners. I go to Wrigley to see the players, not because the Tribune happens to be the current owner."



"Yeah, but look at ticket prices. Fifteen bucks to watch a game."



"Attendance is up. The fans don't seem to mind."



They drove through downtown, deserted at four in the morning, and within minutes were near the jail. "Listen, Adam, I don't know how much Lee has told you about her drinking problem."



"She told me she's an alcoholic."



"Definitely. This is the second drunk driving charge. I was able to keep the first out of the papers, but I don't know about this. She's suddenly become an item around town. Thank heaven she hasn't hurt anybody." Phelps stopped the car at a curb near a fenced lot. "She's been in and out of recovery half a dozen times."



"Half a dozen. She told me she'd been through treatment three times."



"You can't believe alcoholics. I know of at least five times in the past fifteen years. Her favorite place is a swanky little abuse center called Spring Creek. It's on a river a few miles north of the city, real nice and peaceful. It's for the wealthy only. They get dried out and pampered. Good food, exercise, saunas, you know, all the bells and whistles. It's so damned nice I think people want to go there. Anyway, I have a hunch she'll turn up there later today. She has some friends who'll help her get checked in. She's well known around the place. Sort of a second home."



"How long will she stay there?"



"It varies. The minimum is a week. She has stayed as long as a month. Costs two thousand bucks a day, and of course they send me the bills. But I don't mind. I'll pay any amount to help her."



"What am I supposed to do?"



"First, we try to find her. I'll get my secretaries on the phones in a few hours, and we'll track her down. She's fairly predictable at this point, and I'm sure she'll turn up in a detox ward, probably at Spring Creek. I'll start pulling strings in a few hours and try to keep it out of the paper. It won't be easy, in light of everything else that's been printed recently."



"1'm sorry."



"Once we find her, you need to go see her. Take some flowers and candy. I know you're busy, and I know what's ahead for the next, uh-"



"Nine days."



"Nine days. Right. Well, try to see her. And, when the thing down at Parchman is over, I suggest you go back to Chicago, and leave her alone."



"Leave her alone?"



"Yeah. It sounds harsh, but it's necessary. There are many reasons for her many problems. I'll admit I'm one of the reasons, but there's lots of stuff you don't know. Her family is another reason. She adores you, but you also bring back nightmares and a lot of suffering. Don't think bad of me for saying this. I know it hurts, but it's the truth."



Adam stared at the chain-link fence across the sidewalk next to his door.



"She was sober once for five years," Phelps continued. "And we thought she'd stay that way forever. Then Sam was convicted, and then Eddie died. When she returned from his funeral, she fell into the black hole, and I thought many times that she'd never get out. It's best for her if you stay away."



"But I love Lee."



"And she loves you. But you need to adore her from a distance. Send her letters and cards from Chicago. Flowers for her birthday. Call once a month and talk about movies and books, but stay away from the family stuff."



"Who'll take care of her?"



"She's almost fifty years old, Adam, and for the most part she's very independent. She's been an alcoholic for many years, and there's nothing you or I can do to help her. She knows the disease. She'll stay sober when she wants to stay sober. You're not a good influence. Nor am I. I'm sorry."



Adam breathed deeply and grabbed the door latch. "I'm sorry, Phelps, if I've embarrassed you and your family. It was not intentional."



Phelps smiled and placed a hand on Adam's shoulder. "Believe it or not, my family is in many ways more dysfunctional than yours. We've been through worse."



"That, sir, is difficult to believe."



"It's true." Phelps handed him a key ring and pointed to a small building inside the fence. "Check in there, and they'll show you the car."



Adam opened the door and got out. He watched the Mercedes ease away and disappear. As Adam walked through a gate in the fence, he couldn't shake the unmistakable feeling that Phelps Booth actually still loved his wife.