The Chamber

THE law firm of Kravitz & Bane had almost three hundred lawyers peacefully coexisting under the same roof in Chicago. Two hundred and eighty-six to be exact, though it was difficult for anyone to keep score because at any given moment there were a dozen or so leaving for a multitude of reasons, and there were always two dozen or so shiny, fresh new recruits trained and polished and just itching for combat. And though it was huge, Kravitz & Bane had failed to play the expansion game as quickly as others, had failed to gobble up weaker firms in other cities, had been slow to raid clients from its competitors, and thus had to suffer the distinction of being only the third largest firm in Chicago. It had offices in six cities, but, much to the embarrassment of the younger partners, there was no London address on the letterhead.



Though it had mellowed some, Kravitz & Bane was still known as a vicious litigation firm. It had tamer departments for real estate, tax, and antitrust, but its money was made in litigation. When the firm recruited it sought the brightest third-year students with the highest marks in mock trials and debate. It wanted young men (a token female here and there) who could be instantly trained in the slash-and-attack style perfected long ago by Kravitz & Bane litigators.



There was a nice though small unit for plaintiffs' personal injury work, good stuff from which they took 50 percent and allowed their clients the remainder. There was a sizable section for white-collar criminal defense, but the white-collar defendant needed a sizable net worth to strap on Kravitz & Bane. Then there were the two largest sections, one for commercial litigation and one for insurance defense. With the exception of the plaintiffs' work, and as a percentage of gross it was almost insignificant, the firm's money was earned by billable hours. Two hundred bucks per hour for insurance work; more if the traffic could stand it. Three hundred bucks for criminal defense. Four hundred for a big bank. Even five hundred dollars an hour for a rich corporate client with lazy in-house lawyers who were asleep at the wheel.



Kravitz & Bane printed money by the hour and built a dynasty in Chicago. Its offices were fashionable but not plush. They filled the top floors of, fittingly, the third-tallest building downtown.



Like most large firms, it made so much money it felt obligated to establish a small pro bono section to fulfill its moral responsibility to society. It was quite proud of the fact that it had a full-time pro bono partner, an eccentric do-gooder named E. Garner Goodman, who had a spacious office with two secretaries on the sixty-first floor. He shared a paralegal with a litigation partner. The firm's gold-embossed brochure made much of the fact that its lawyers were encouraged to pursue pro bono projects. The brochure proclaimed that last year, 1989, Kravitz & Bane lawyers donated almost sixty thousand hours of their precious time to clients who couldn't pay. Housing project kids, death row inmates, illegal aliens, drug addicts, and, of course, the firm was deeply concerned with the plight of the homeless. The brochure even had a photograph of two young lawyers, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened about the neck, sweat in the armpits, eyes filled with compassion, as they performed some menial chore in the midst of a group of minority children in what appeared to be an urban landfill. Lawyers saving society.



Adam Hall had one of the brochures in his thin file as he eased slowly along the hallway on floor sixty-one, headed in the general direction of the office of E. Garner Goodman. He nodded and spoke to another young lawyer, one he'd never seen before. At the firm Christmas party name tags were distributed at the door. Some of the partners barely knew each other. Some of the associates saw each other once or twice a year. He opened a door and entered a small room where a secretary stopped typing and almost smiled. He asked for Mr. Goodman, and she nodded properly to a row of chairs where he was to wait. He was five minutes early for a 10 A.m. appointment, as if it mattered. This was pro bono now. Forget the clock. Forget billable hours. Forget performance bonuses. In defiance of the rest of the firm, Goodman allowed no clocks on his walls.



Adam flipped through his file. He chuckled at the brochure. He read again his own little resume - college at Pepperdine, law school at Michigan, editor of the law review, case note on cruel and unusual punishment, comments on recent death penalty cases. A rather short resume, but then he was only twenty-six. He'd been employed at Kravitz & Bane for all of nine months now.



He read and made notes from two lengthy U.S. Supreme Court decisions dealing with executions in California. He checked his watch, and read some more. The secretary eventually offered coffee, which he politely declined.



* * *



The office of E. Garner Goodman was a stunning study in disorganization. It was large but cramped, with sagging bookshelves on every wall and stacks of dusty files covering the floor. Little piles of papers of all sorts and sizes covered the desk in the center of the office. Refuse, rubbish, and lost letters covered the rug under the desk. If not for the closed wooden blinds, the large window could have provided a splendid view of Lake Michigan, but it was obvious Mr. Goodman spent no, time at his window.



He was an old man with a neat gray beard and bushy gray hair. His white shirt was painfully starched. A green paisley bow tie, his trademark, was tied precisely under his chin. Adam entered the room and cautiously weaved around the piles of papers. Goodman did not stand but offered his hand with a cold greeting.



Adam handed the file to Goodman, and sat in the only empty chair in the room. He waited nervously while the file was studied, the beard was gently stroked, the bow tie was tinkered with.



"Why do you want to do pro bono work?" Goodman mumbled after a long silence. He did not look up from the file. Classical guitar music drifted softly from recessed speakers in the ceiling.



Adam shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, different reasons."



"Let me guess. You want to serve humanity, give something back to your community, or, perhaps, you feel guilty because you spend so much time here in this sweatshop billing by the hour that you want to cleanse your soul, get your hands dirty, do some honest work, and help other people." Goodman's beady blue eyes darted at Adam from above the black-framed reading spectacles perched on the tip of his rather pointed nose. "Any of the above?"



"Not really."



Goodman continued scanning the file. "So you've been assigned to Emmitt Wycoff?" He was reading a letter from Wycoff, Adam's supervising partner.



"Yes sir."



"He's a fine lawyer. I don't particularly care for him, but he's got a great criminal mind, you know. Probably one of our top three whitecollar boys. Pretty abrasive, though, don't you think?"



"He's okay."



"How long have you been under him?"



"Since I started. Nine months ago."



"So you've been here for nine months?"



"Yes sir."



"What do you think of it?" Goodman closed the file and stared at Adam. He slowly removed the reading glasses and stuck one stem in his mouth.



"I like it, so far. It's challenging."



"Of course. Why did you pick Kravitz & Bane? I mean, surely with your credentials you could've gone anywhere. Why here?"



"Criminal litigation. That's what I want, and this firm has a reputation."



"How many offers did you have? Come on, I'm just being curious."



"Several."



"And where were they?"



"D.C. mainly. One in Denver. I didn't interview with New York firms."



"How much money did we offer you?"



Adam shifted again. Goodman was, after all, a partner. Surely he knew what the firm was paying new associates. "Sixty or so. What are we paying you?"



This amused the old man, and he smiled for the first time. "They pay me four hundred thousand dollars a year to give away their time so they can pat themselves on the back and preach about lawyers and about social responsibility. Four hundred thousand, can you believe it?"



Adam had heard the rumors. "You're not complaining, are you?"



"No. I'm the luckiest lawyer in town, Mr. Hall. I get paid a truckload of money for doing work I enjoy, and I punch no clock and don't worry about billing. It's a lawyer's dream. That's why I still bust my ass sixty hours a week. I'm almost seventy, you know."



The legend around the firm was that Goodman, as a younger man, succumbed to the pressure and almost killed himself with liquor and pills. He dried out for a year while his wife took the kids and left him, then he convinced the partners he was worth saving. He just needed an office where life did not revolve around a clock.



"What kind of work are you doing for Emmitt Wycoff?" Goodman asked.



"Lot of research. Right now he's defending a bunch of defense contractors, and that takes most of my time, I argued a motion in court last week." Adam said this with a touch of pride. Rookies were usually kept chained to their desks for the first twelve months.



"A real motion?" Goodman asked, in awe.



"Yes sir."



"In a real courtroom?"



"Yes sir."



"Before a real judge?"



"You got it."



"Who won?"



"Judge ruled for the prosecution, but it was close. I really tied him in knots." Goodman smiled at this, but the game was quickly over. He opened the file again.



"Wycoff sends along a pretty strong letter of recommendation. That's out of character for him."



"He recognizes talent," Adam said with a smile.



"I assume this is a rather significant request, Mr. Hall. Just what is it you have in mind?"



Adam stopped smiling and cleared his throat. He was suddenly nervous, and decided to recross his legs. "It's, uh, well, it's a death penalty case."



"A death penalty case?" Goodman repeated.



"Yes sir."



"Why?"



"I'm opposed to the death penalty."



"Aren't we all, Mr. Hall? I've written books about it. I've handled two dozen of these damned things. Why do you want to get involved?"



"I've read your books. I just want to help."



Goodman closed the file again and leaned on his desk. Two pieces of paper slid off and fluttered to the floor. "You're too young and you're too green."



"You might be surprised."



"Look, Mr. Hall, this is not the same as counseling winos at a soup kitchen. This is life and death. This is high pressure stuff, son. It's not a lot of fun."



Adam nodded but said nothing. His eyes were locked onto Goodman's, and he refused to blink. A phone rang somewhere in the distance, but they both ignored it.



"Any particular case, or do you have a new client for Kravitz & Bane?" Goodman asked.



"The Cayhall case," Adam said slowly.



Goodman shook his head and tugged at the edges of his bow tie. "Sam Cayhall just fired us. The Fifth Circuit ruled last week that he does indeed have the right to terminate our representation."



"I've read the opinion. I know what the Fifth Circuit said. The man needs a lawyer."



"No he doesn't. He'll be dead in three months with or without one. Frankly, I'm relieved to have him out of my life."



"He needs a lawyer," Adam repeated.



"He's representing himself, and he's pretty damned good, to be perfectly honest. Types his own motions and briefs, handles his own research. I hear he's been giving advice to some of his buddies on death row, just the white ones though."



"I've studied his entire file."



E. Garner Goodman twirled his spectacles slowly and thought about this. "That's a half a ton of paper. Why'd you do it?"



"I'm intrigued by the case. I've watched it for years, read everything about the man. You asked me earlier why I chose Kravitz & Bane. Well, the truth is that I wanted to work on the Cayhall case, and I think this firm has handled it pro bono for, what, eight years now?"



"Seven, but it seems like twenty. Mr. Cayhall is not the most pleasant man to deal with."



"Understandable, isn't it? I mean, he's been in solitary for almost ten years."



"Don't lecture me about prison life, Mr. Hall. Have you ever seen the inside of a prison?"



"No."



"Well I have. I've been to death row in six states. I've been cursed by Sam Cayhall when he was chained to his chair. He's not a nice man. He's an incorrigible racist who hates just about everybody, and he'd hate you if you met him."



"I don't think so."



"You're a lawyer, Mr. Hall. He hates lawyers worse than he hates blacks and Jews. He's been facing death for almost ten years, and he's convinced he's the victim of a lawyer conspiracy. Hell, he tried to fire us for two years. This firm spent in excess of two million dollars in billable time trying to keep him alive, and he was more concerned with firing us. I lost count of the number of times he refused to meet with us after we traveled all the way to Parchman. He's crazy, Mr. Hall. Find yourself another project. How about abused kids or something?"



"No thanks. My interest is in death penalty cases, and I'm somewhat obsessed with the story of Sam Cayhall."



Goodman carefully returned the spectacles to the tip of his nose, then slowly swung his feet onto the corner of the desk. He folded his hands across the starched shirt. "Why, may I ask, are you so obsessed with Sam Cayhall?"



"Well, it's a fascinating case, don't you think? The Klan, the civil rights movement, the bombings, the tortured locale. The backdrop is such a rich period in American history. Seems ancient, but it was only twenty-five years ago. It's a riveting story."



A ceiling fan spun slowly above him. A minute passed.



Goodman lowered his feet to the floor and rested on his elbows. "Mr. Hall, I appreciate your interest in pro bono, and I assure you there's much to do. But you need to find another project. This is not a mock trial competition."



"And I'm not a law student."



"Sam Cayhall has effectively terminated our services, Mr. Hall. You don't seem to realize this."



"I want the chance to meet with him."



"For what?"



"I think I can convince him to allow me to represent him."



"Oh really."



Adam took a deep breath, then stood and walked deftly around the stacks of files to the window. Another deep breath. Goodman watched, and waited.



"I have a secret for you, Mr. Goodman. No one else knows but Emmitt Wycoff, and I was sort of forced to tell him. You must keep it confidential, okay?"



"I'm listening."



"Do I have your word?"



"Yes, you have my word," Goodman said slowly, biting a stem.



Adam peeked through a slit in the blinds and watched a sailboat on Lake Michigan. He spoke quietly. "I'm related to Sam Cayhall."



Goodman did not flinch. "I see. Related how?"



"He had a son, Eddie Cayhall. And Eddie Cayhall left Mississippi in disgrace after his father was arrested for the bombing. He fled to California, changed his name, and tried to forget his past. But he was tormented by his family's legacy. He committed suicide shortly after his father was convicted in 1981."



Goodman now sat with his rear on the edge of his chair.



"Eddie Cayhall was my father."



Goodman hesitated slightly. "Sam Cayhall is your grandfather?"



"Yes. I didn't know it until I was almost seventeen. My aunt told me after we buried my father."



"Wow."



"You promised not to tell."



"Of course." Goodman moved his butt to the edge of his desk, and placed his feet in the chair. He stared at the blinds. "Does Sam know - "



"No. I was born in Ford County, Mississippi, a town called Clanton, not Memphis. I was always told I was born in Memphis. My name then was Alan Cayhall, but I didn't know this until much later. I was three years old when we left Mississippi, and my parents never talked about the place. My mother believes that there was no contact between Eddie and Sam from the day we left until she wrote him in prison and told him his son was dead. He did not write back."



"Damn, damn, damn," Goodman mumbled to himself.



"There's a lot to it, Mr. Goodman. It's a pretty sick family."



"Not your fault."



"According to my mother, Sam's father was an active Klansman, took part in lynchings and all that. So I come from pretty weak stock."



"Your father was different."



"My father killed himself. I'll spare you the details, but I found his body, and I cleaned up the mess before my mother and sister returned home."



"And you were seventeen?"



"Almost seventeen. It was 1981. Nine years ago. After my aunt, Eddie's sister, told me the truth, I became fascinated with the sordid history of Sam Cayhall. I've spent hours in libraries digging up old newspaper and magazine stories; there are quite a lot of materials. I've read the transcripts of all three trials. I've studied the appellate decisions. In law school I began studying this firm's representation of Sam Cayhall. You and Wallace Tyner have done exemplary work."



"I'm glad you approve."



"I've read hundreds of books and thousands of articles on the Eighth Amendment and death penalty litigation. You've written four books, I believe. And a number of articles. I know I'm just a rookie, but my research is impeccable."



"And you think Sam will trust you as his lawyer?"



"I don't know. But he's my grandfather, like it or not, and I have to go see him."



"There's been no contact - "



"None. I was three when we left, and I certainly don't remember him. I've started a thousand times to write him, but it never happened. I can't tell you why."



"It's understandable."



"Nothing's understandable, Mr. Goodman. I do not understand how or why I'm standing here in this office at this moment. I always wanted to be a pilot, but I went to law school because I felt a vague calling to help society. Someone needed me, and I suppose I felt that someone was my demented grandfather. I had four job offers, and I picked this firm because it had the guts to represent him for free."



"You should've told someone up front about this, before we hired you."



"I know. But nobody asked if my grandfather was a client of this firm."



"You should've said something."



"They won't fire me, will they?"



"I doubt it. Where have you been for the past nine months?"



"Here, working ninety hours a week, sleeping on my desk, eating in the library, cramming for the bar exam, you know, the usual rookie boot camp you guys designed for us."



"Silly, isn't it?"



"I'm tough." Adam opened a slit in the blinds for a better view of the lake. Goodman watched him.



"Why don't you open these blinds?" Adam asked. "It's a great view."



"I've seen it before."



"I'd kill for a view like this. My little cubbyhole is a mile from any window."



"Work hard, bill even harder, and one day this will all be yours."



"Not me."



"Leaving us, Mr. Hall?"



"Probably, eventually. But that's another secret, okay? I plan to hit it hard for a couple of years, then move on. Maybe open my own office, one where life does not revolve around a clock. I want to do public interest work, you know, sort of like you."



"So after nine months you're already disillusioned with Kravitz & Bane."



"No. But I can see it coming. I don't want to spend my career representing wealthy crooks and wayward corporations."



"Then you're certainly in the wrong place."



Adam left the window and walked to the edge of the desk. He looked down at Goodman. "I am in the wrong place, and I want a transfer. Wycoff will agree to send me to our little office in Memphis for the next few months so I can work on the Cayhall case. Sort of a leave of absence, with full pay of course."



"Anything else?"



"That's about it. It'll work. I'm just a lowly rookie, expendable around here. No one will miss me. Hell, there are plenty of young cutthroats just eager to work eighteen hours a day and bill twenty."



Goodman's face relaxed, and a warm smile appeared. He shook his head as if this impressed him. "You planned this, didn't you? I mean, you picked this firm because it represented Sam Cayhall, and because it has an office in Memphis."



Adam nodded without a smile. "Things have worked out. I didn't know how or when this moment would arrive, but, yes, I sort of planned it. Don't ask me what happens next."



"He'll be dead in three months, if not sooner."



"But I have to do something, Mr. Goodman. If the firm won't allow me to handle the case, then I'll probably resign and try it on my own."



Goodman shook his head and jumped to his feet. "Don't do that, Mr. Hall. We'll work something out. I'll need to present this to Daniel Rosen, the managing partner. I think he'll approve."



"He has a horrible reputation."



"Well deserved. But I can talk to him."



"He'll do it if you and Wycoff recommend it, won't he?"



"Of course. Are you hungry?" Goodman was reaching for his jacket.



"A little."



"Let's go out for a sandwich."



* * *



The lunch crowd at the corner deli had not arrived. The partner and the rookie took a small table in the front window overlooking the sidewalk. Traffic was slow and hundreds of pedestrians scurried along, just a few feet away. The waiter delivered a greasy Reuben for Goodman and a bowl of chicken soup for Adam.



"How many inmates are on death row in Mississippi?" Goodman asked.



"Forty-eight, as of last month. Twenty-five black, twenty-three white. The last execution was two years ago, Willie Parris. Sam Cayhall will probably be next, barring a small miracle."



Goodman chewed quickly on a large bite. He wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. "A large miracle, I would say. There's not much left to do legally."



"There are the usual assortment of last ditch motions."



"Let's save the strategy talks for later. I don't suppose you've ever been to Parchman."



"No. Since I learned the truth, I've been tempted to return to Mississippi, but it hasn't happened."



"It's a massive farm in the middle of the Mississippi Delta, not too far from Greenville, ironically. Something like seventeen thousand acres. Probably the hottest place in the world. It sits on Highway 49, just like a little hamlet off to the west. Lots of buildings and houses. The front part is administration, and it's not enclosed by fencing. There are about thirty different camps scattered around the farm, all fenced and secured. Each camp is completely separate. Some are miles apart. You drive past various camps, all enclosed by chain link and barbed wire, all with hundreds of prisoners hanging around, doing nothing. They wear different colors, depending on their classification. It seemed as if they were all young black kids, just loitering about, some playing basketball, some just sitting on the porches of the buildings. An occasional white face. You drive in your car, alone and very slowly, down a gravel road, past the camps and the barbed wire until you come to a seemingly innocuous little building with a flat roof. It has tall fences around it with guards watching from the towers. It's a fairly modern facility. It has an official name of some sort, but everyone refers to it simply as the Row."



"Sounds like a wonderful place."



"I thought it would be a dungeon, you know, dark and cold with water dripping from above. But it's just a little flat building out in the middle of a cotton field. Actually, it's not as bad as death rows in other states."



"I'd like to see the Row."



"You're not ready to see it. It's a horrible place filled with depressing people waiting to die. I was sixty years old before I saw it, and I didn't sleep for a week afterward." He took a sip of coffee. "I can't imagine how you'll feel when you go there. The Row is bad enough when you're representing a complete stranger."



"He is a complete stranger."



"How do you intend to tell him - "



"I don't know. I'll think of something. I'm sure it'll just happen."



Goodman shook his head. "This is bizarre."



"The whole family is bizarre."



"I remember now that Sam had two children, seems like one is a daughter. It's been a long time. Tyner did most of the work, you know."



"His daughter is my aunt, Lee Cayhall Booth, but she tries to forget her maiden name. She married into old Memphis money. Her husband owns a bank or two, and they tell no one about her father."



"Where's your mother?"



"Portland. She remarried a few years ago, and we talk about twice a year. Dysfunctional would be a mild term."



"How'd you afford Pepperdine?"



"Life insurance. My father had trouble keeping a job, but he was wise enough to carry life insurance. The waiting period had expired years before he killed himself."



"Sam never talked about his family."



"And his family never talks about him. His wife, my grandmother, died a few years before he was convicted. I didn't know this, of course. Most of my genealogical research has been extracted from my mother, who's done a great job of forgetting the past. I don't know how it works. in normal families, Mr. Goodman, but my family seldom gets together, and when two or more of us happen to meet the last thing we discuss is the past. There are many dark secrets."



Goodman was nibbling on a chip and listening closely. "You mentioned a sister."



"Yes, I have a sister, Carmen. She's twentythree, a bright and beautiful girl, in graduate school at Berkeley. She was born in L.A., so she didn't go through the name change like the rest of us. We keep in touch."



"She knows?"



"Yes, she knows. My aunt Lee told me first, just after my father's funeral, then, typically, my mother asked me to tell Carmen. She was only fourteen at the time. She's never expressed any interest in Sam Cayhall. Frankly, the rest of the family wishes he would quietly just go away."



"They're about to get their wish."



"But it won't be quietly, will it, Mr. Goodman?"



"No. It never is. For one brief but terrible moment, Sam Cayhall will be the most talked about man in the country. We'll see the same old footage from the bomb blast, and the trials with the Klan marching around the courthouses. The same old debate about the death penalty will erupt. The press will descend upon Parchman. Then, they'll kill him, and two days later it'll all be forgotten. Happens every time."



Adam stirred his soup and carefully picked out a sliver of chicken. He examined it for a second, then returned it to the broth. He was not hungry. Goodman finished another chip, and touched the corners of his mouth with the napkin.



"I don't suppose, Mr. Hall, that you're thinking you can keep this quiet."



"I had given it some thought."



"Forget it."



"My mother begged me not to do it. My sister wouldn't discuss it. And my aunt in Memphis is rigid with the remote possibility that we'll all be identified as Cayhalls and forever ruined."



"The possibility is not remote. When the press finishes with you, they'll have old blackand-whites of you sitting on your granddaddy's knee. It'll make great print, Mr. Hall. Just think of it. The forgotten grandson charging in at the last moment, making a heroic effort to save his wretched old grandfather as the clock ticks down."



"I sort of like it myself."



"Not bad, really. It'll bring a lot of attention to our beloved little law firm."



"Which brings up another unpleasant issue."



"I don't think so. There are no cowards at Kravitz & Bane, Adam. We have survived and prospered in the rough and tumble world of Chicago law. We're known as the meanest bastards in town. We have the thickest skins. Don't worry about the firm."



"So you'll agree to it."



Goodman placed his napkin on the table and took another sip of coffee. "Oh, it's a wonderful idea, assuming your gramps will agree to it. If you can sign him up, or re-sign him I should say, then we're back in business. You'll be the front man. We can feed you what you need from up here. I'll always be in your shadow. It'll work. Then, they'll kill him and you'll never get over it. I've watched three of my clients die, Mr. Hall, including one in Mississippi. You'll never be the same."



Adam nodded and smiled and looked at the pedestrians on the sidewalk.



Goodman continued. "We'll be around to support you when they kill him. You won't have to bear it alone."



"It's not hopeless, is it?"



"Almost. We'll talk strategy later. First, I'll meet with Daniel Rosen. He'll probably want a long conference with you. Second, you'll have to see Sam and have a little reunion, so to speak. That's the hard part. Third, if he agrees to it, then we'll get to work."



"Thanks."



"Don't thank me, Adam. I doubt if we'll be on speaking terms when this is over."



"Thanks anyway."