The Chamber

MONDAY, August 6, 6 A.m. Forty-two hours to go. Adam entered his office and locked the door.



He waited until seven, then called Slattery's office in Jackson. There was no answer, of course, but he was hoping for a recorded message that might direct him to another number that might lead to someone down there who could tell him something. Slattery was sitting on the mental claim; just ignoring it as if it was simply another little lawsuit.



He called information and received the home number for F. Flynn Slattery, but decided not to bother him. He could wait until nine.



Adam had slept less than three hours. His pulse was pounding, his adrenaline was pumping. His client was now down to the last forty-two hours, and dammit, Slattery should quickly rule one way or the other. It wasn't fair to sit on the damned petition when he could be racing off to other courts with it.



The phone rang and he lunged for it. The Death Clerk from the Fifth Circuit informed him that the court was denying the appeal of Sam's claim of ineffective assistance of counsel. It was the opinion of the court that the claim was procedurally barred. It should've been filed years ago. The court did not get to the merits of the issue.



"Then why'd the court sit on it for a week?" Adam demanded. "They could've reached this nitpicking decision ten days ago."



"I'll fax you a copy right now," the clerk said.



"Thanks. I'm sorry, okay."



"Keep in touch, Mr. Hall. We'll be right here waiting on you."



Adam hung up, and went to find coffee. Darlene arrived, tired, haggard, and early, at seven-thirty. She brought the fax from the Fifth Circuit, along with a raisin bagel. Adam asked her to fax to the U.S. Supreme Court the petition for cert on the ineffectiveness claim. It had been prepared for three days, and Mr. Olander in Washington had told Darlene that the Court was already reviewing it.



Darlene then brought two aspirin and a glass of water. His head was splitting as he packed most of the Cayhall file into a large briefcase and a cardboard box. He gave Darlene a list of instructions.



Then he left the office, the Memphis branch of Kravitz & Bane, never to return.



Colonel Nugent waited impatiently for the tier door to open, then rushed into the hallway with eight members of his select execution team behind him. They swarmed into the quietness of Tier A with all the finesse of a Gestapo squad - eight large men, half in uniform, half plainclothed, following a strutting little rooster.



He stopped at cell six, where Sam was lying on his bed, minding his own business. The other inmates were instantly watching and listening, their arms hanging through the bars.



"Sam, it's time to go to the Observation Cell," Nugent said as if he was truly bothered by this. His men lined the wall behind him, under the row of windows.



Sam slowly eased himself from the bed, and walked to the bars. He glared at Nugent, and asked, "Why?"



"Because I said so."



"But why move me eight doors down the tier? What purpose does it serve?"



"It's procedure, Sam. It's in the book."



"So you don't have a good reason, do you?"



"I don't need one. Turn around."



Sam walked to his sink and brushed his teeth for a long time. Then he stood over his toilet and urinated with his hands on his hips. Then he washed his hands, as Nugent and his boys watched and fumed. Then he lit a cigarette, stuck it between his teeth, and eased his hands behind his back and through the narrow opening in the door. Nugent slapped the cuffs on his wrists, and nodded at the end of the tier for the door to be opened. Sam stepped onto the tier. He nodded at J. B. Gullitt, who was watching in horror and ready to cry. He winked at Hank Henshaw.



Nugent .took his arm and walked him to the end of the hall, past Gullitt and Loyd Eaton and Stock Turner and Harry Ross Scott and Buddy Lee Harris, and, finally, past Preacher Boy, who at the moment was lying on his bed, face down, crying. The tier ran to a wall of iron bars, identical to those on the front of the cells, and the wall had a heavy door in the center of it. On the other side was another group of Nugent's goons, all watching quietly and loving every moment of it. Behind them was a short, narrow hallway which led to the Isolation Room. And then to the chamber.



Sam was being moved forty-eight feet closer to death. He leaned against the wall, puffing, watching in stoic silence. This was nothing personal, just part of the routine.



Nugent walked back to cell six and barked orders. Four of the guards entered Sam's cell and began grabbing his possessions. Books, typewriter, fan, television, toiletries, clothing. They held the items as if they were contaminated and carried them to the Observation Cell. The mattress and bedding were rolled up and moved by a burly plainclothed guard who accidentally stepped on a dragging sheet and ripped it.



The inmates watched this sudden flurry of activity with a saddened curiosity. Their cramped little cells were like additional layers of skin, and to see one so unmercifully violated was painful. It could happen to them. The reality of an execution was crashing in; they could hear it in the heavy boots shuffling along the tier, and in the stern muted voices of the death team. The distant slamming of a door would've barely been noticed a week ago. Now, it was a jolting shock that rattled the nerves.



The officers trooped back and forth with Sam's assets until cell six was bare. It was quick work, They arranged things in his new home without the slightest care.



None of the eight worked on the Row. Nugent had read somewhere in Naifeh's haphazard notes that the members of the execution team should be total strangers to the inmate. They should be pulled from the other camps. Thirty-one officers and guards had volunteered for this duty. Nugent had chosen only the best.



"Is everything in?" he snapped at one of his men.



"Yes sir."



"Very well. It's all yours, Sam."



"Oh thank you, sir," Sam sneered as he entered the cell. Nugent nodded to the far end of the hall, and the door closed. He walked forward and grabbed the bars with both hands. "Now, listen, Sam," he said gravely. Sam was leaning with his back to the wall, looking away from Nugent. "We'll be right here if you need anything, okay. We moved you down here to the end so we can watch you better. All right? Is there anything I can do for you?"



Sam continued to look away, thoroughly ignoring him.



"Very well." He backed away, and looked at his men. "Let's go," he said to them. The tier door opened less than ten feet from Sam, and the death team filed out. Sam waited. Nugent glanced up and down the hall, then stepped from the tier.



"Hey, Nugent!" Sam suddenly yelled. "How 'bout taking these handcuffs off!"



Nugent froze and the death team stopped.



"You dumbass!" Sam yelled again, as Nugent scurried backward, fumbling for keys, barking orders. Laughter erupted along the tier, loud horselaughs and guffaws and boisterous catcalls. "You can't leave me handcuffed!" Sam screamed into the hallway.



Nugent was at Sam's door, gritting his teeth, cursing, finally getting the right key. "Turn around," he demanded.



"You ignorant sonofabitch!" Sam yelled through the bars directly into the colonel's red face, which was less than two feet away. The laughter roared even louder.



"And you're in charge of my execution!" Sam said angrily, and rather loudly for the benefit of others. "You'll probably gas yourself!"



"Don't bet on it," Nugent said tersely. "Now turn around."



Someone, either Hank Henshaw or Harry Ross Scott, yelled out, "Barney Fife!" and instantly the chant reverberated along the tier:



"Barney Fife! Barney Fife! Barney Fife!"



"Shut up!" Nugent yelled back.



"Barney Fife! Barney Fife!"



"Shut up!"



Sam finally turned around and stuck out his hands so Nugent could reach them. The cuffs came off, and the colonel quick-stepped it through the tier door.



"Barney Fife! Barney Fife! Barney Fife!" they chanted in perfect unison until the door clanged shut and the hallway was empty again. Their voices died suddenly, the laughter was gone.



Slowly, their arms disappeared from the bars.



Sam stood facing the hall and glared at the two guards who were watching him from the other side of the tier door. He spent a few minutes organizing the place - plugging in the fan and television, stacking his books neatly as if they would be used, checking to see if the toilet flushed and the water ran. He sat on the bed and inspected the torn sheet.



This was his fourth cell on the Row, and undoubtedly the one he would occupy for the briefest period of time. He reminisced about the first two, especially the second, on Tier B, where his close friend Buster Moac had lived next door. One day they came for Buster and brought him here, to the Observation Cell, where they watched him around the clock so he wouldn't commit suicide. Sam had cried when they took Buster away.



Virtually every inmate who made it this far also made it to the next stop. And then to the last.



Garner Goodman was the first guest of the day in the splendid foyer of the governor's office. He actually signed the guestbook, chatted amiably with the pretty receptionist, and just wanted the governor to know that he was available. She was about to say something else when the phone buzzed on her switchboard. She punched a button, grimaced, listened, frowned at Goodman who looked away, then thanked the caller. "These people," she sighed.



"Beg your pardon," Goodman offered, ever the innocent.



"We've been swamped with calls about your client's execution."



"Yes, it's a very emotional case. Seems as if most people down here are in favor of the death penalty."



"Not this one," she said, recording the call on a pink form. "Almost all of these calls are opposed to his execution."



"You don't say. What a surprise."



"I'll inform Ms. Stark you're here."



"Thank you." Goodman took his familiar seat in the foyer. He glanced through the morning papers again. On Saturday, the daily paper in Tupelo made the mistake of beginning a telephone survey to gauge public opinion on the Cayhall execution. A toll-free number was given on the front page with instructions, and, of course, Goodman and his team of market analysts had bombarded the number over the weekend. The Monday edition ran the results for the first time, and they were astounding. Of three hundred and twenty calls, three hundred and two were opposed to the execution. Goodman smiled to himself as he scanned the paper.



Not too far away, the governor was sitting at the long table in his office and scanning the same papers. His face was troubled. His eyes were sad and worried.



Mona Stark walked across the marbled floor with a cup of coffee. "Garner Goodman's here. Waiting in the foyer."



"Let him wait."



"The hotline's already flooded."



McAllister calmly looked at his watch. Eleven minutes before nine. He scratched his chin with his knuckles. From 3 P.m. Saturday until 8 P.m. Sunday, his pollster had called over two hundred Mississippians. Seventy-eight percent favored the death penalty, which was not surprising. However, of the same sample polled, fifty-one percent believed Sam Cayhall should not be executed. Their reasons varied. Many felt he was simply too old to face it. His crime had been committed twenty-three years ago, in a generation different from today's. He would die in Parchman soon enough anyway, so leave him alone. He was being persecuted for political reasons. Plus, he was white, and McAllister and his pollsters knew that factor was very important, if unspoken.



That was the good news. The bad news was contained in a printout next to the newspapers. Working with only one operator, the hotline received two hundred and thirty-one calls on Saturday, and one hundred and eighty on Sunday. A total of four hundred and eleven. Over ninety-five percent opposed the execution. Since Friday morning, the hotline had officially recorded eight hundred and ninety-seven calls about old Sam, with a strong ninety percent plus opposed to his execution. And now the hotline was hopping again.



There was more. The regional offices were reporting an avalanche of calls, almost all opposed to Sam dying. Staff members were coming to work with stories of long weekends with the phones. Roxburgh had called to say his lines had been flooded.



The governor was already tired. "There's something at ten this morning," he said to Mona without looking at her.



"Yes, a meeting with a group of Boy Scouts."



"Cancel it. Give my apologies. Reschedule it. I'm not in the mood for any photographs this morning. It's best if I stay here. Lunch?"



"With Senator Pressgrove. You're supposed to discuss the lawsuit against the universities."



"I can't stand Pressgrove. Cancel it, and order some chicken. And, on second thought, bring in Goodman."



She walked to the door, disappeared for a minute, and returned with Garner Goodman. McAllister was standing by the window, staring at the buildings downtown. He turned and flashed a weary smile. "Good morning, Mr. Goodman."



They shook hands and took seats. Late Sunday afternoon, Goodman had delivered to Larramore a written request to cancel the clemency hearing, pursuant to their client's rather strident demands.



"Still don't want a hearing, huh?" the governor said with another tired smile.



"Our client says no. He has nothing else to add. We've tried everything." Mona handed Goodman a cup of black coffee.



"He has a very hard head. Always has, I guess.



Where are the appeals right now?" McAllister was so sincere.



"Proceeding as expected."



"You've been through this before, Mr. Goodman. I haven't. What's your prediction, as of right now?"



Goodman stirred his coffee and pondered the question. There was no harm in being honest with the governor, not at this point. "I'm one of his lawyers, so I lean toward optimism. I'd say seventy percent chance of it happening."



The governor thought about this for a while. He could almost hear the phones ringing off the walls. Even his own people were getting skittish."Do you know what I want, Mr. Goodman?" he asked sincerely.



Yeah, you want those damned phones to stop ringing, Goodman thought to himself. "What?"



"I'd really like to talk to Adam Hall. Where is he?"



"Probably at Parchman. I talked to him an hour ago."



"Can he come here today?"



"Yes, in fact he was planning on arriving in Jackson this afternoon."



"Good. I'll wait for him."



Goodman suppressed a smile. Perhaps a small hole had ruptured in the dam.



Oddly, though, it was on a different, far more unlikely front where the first hint of relief surfaced.



Six blocks away in the federal courthouse, Breck Jefferson entered the office of his boss, the Honorable F. Flynn Slattery, who was on the phone and rather perturbed at a lawyer. Breck held a thick petition for writ of habeas corpus, and a legal pad filled with notes.



"Yes?" Slattery barked, slamming down the phone.



"We need to talk about Cayhall," Breck said somberly. "You know we've got his petition alleging mental incompetence."



"Let's deny it and get it outta here. I'm too busy to worry with it. Let Cayhall take it to the Fifth Circuit. I don't want that damned thing lying around here."



Breck looked troubled, and his words came slower. "But there's something you need to take a look at."



"Aw, come on, Breck. What is it?"



"He may have a valid claim."



Slattery's face fell and his shoulders slumped. "Come on. Are you kidding? What is it? We have a trial starting in thirty minutes. There's a jury waiting out there."



Breck Jefferson had been the number-two student in his law class at Emory. Slattery trusted him implicitly. "They're claiming Sam lacks the mental competence to face an execution, pursuant to a rather broad Mississippi statute."



"Everybody knows he's crazy."



"They have an expert who's willing to testify. It's not something we can ignore."



"I don't believe this."



"You'd better look at it."



His Honor massaged his forehead with his fingertips. "Sit down. Let me see it."



"Just a few more miles," Adam said as they sped toward the prison. "How you doing?"



Carmen had said little since they left Memphis. Her first journey into Mississippi had been spent looking at the vastness of the Delta, admiring the lushness of its miles of cotton and beans, watching in amazement as crop dusters bounced along the tops of the fields, shaking her head at the clusters of impoverished shacks. "I'm nervous," she admitted, not for the first time. They had talked briefly about Berkeley and Chicago and what the next years might bring. They had said nothing about their mother or father. Sam and his family were likewise neglected.



"He's nervous too."



"This is bizarre, Adam. Rushing along this highway in this wilderness, hurrying to meet a grandfather who's about to be executed."



He patted her firmly on the knee. "You're doing the right thing." She wore oversized chinos, hiking boots, a faded red denim shirt. Very much the grad student in psychology.



"There it is." He suddenly pointed ahead. On both sides of the highway, cars had parked bumper to bumper. Traffic was slow as people walked toward the prison.



"What's all this?" she asked.



"This is a circus."



They passed three Klansmen walking on the edge of the pavement. Carmen stared at them, then shook her head in disbelief. They inched forward, going slightly faster than the people hurrying to the demonstrations. In the middle of the highway in front of the entrance, two state troopers directed traffic. They motioned for Adam to turn right, which he did. A Parchman guard pointed to an area along a shallow road ditch.



They held hands and walked to the front gate, pausing for a moment to stare at the dozens of robed Klansmen milling about in front of the prison. A fiery speech was being delivered into a megaphone that malfunctioned every few seconds. A group of brownshirts stood shoulder to shoulder, holding signs and facing the traffic. No less than five television vans were parked on the other side of the highway. Cameras were everywhere. A news helicopter circled above.



At the front gate, Adam introduced Carmen to his new pal Louise, the guard who took care of the paperwork. She was nervous and frazzled. There'd been an altercation or two between the Kluckers and the press and the guards. Things were dicey at the moment, and not likely to improve, in her opinion.



A uniformed guard escorted them to a prison van, and they hurriedly left the front entrance.



"Unbelievable," Carmen said.



"It gets worse each day. Wait till tomorrow."



The van slowed as they eased along the main drive, under the large shade trees and in front of the neat, white houses. Carmen watched everything.



"This doesn't look like a prison," she said.



"It's a farm. Seventeen thousand acres. Prison employees live in those houses."



"With children," she said, looking at bicycles and scooters lying in the front yards. "It's so peaceful. Where are the prisoners?"



"Just wait."



The van turned to the left. The pavement stopped and the dirt road began. Just ahead was the Row.



"See the towers there?" Adam pointed. "The fences and the razor wire?" She nodded.



"That's the Maximum Security Unit. Sam's home for the past nine and a half years."



"Where's the gas chamber?"



"In there."



Two guards looked inside the van, then waved it through the double gates. It stopped near the front door where Packer was waiting. Adam introduced him to Carmen, who by now was barely able to speak. They stepped inside, where Packer frisked them gently. Three other guards watched. "Sam's already in there," Packer said nodding to the front office. "Go on in."



Adam took her hand and clenched it tightly. She nodded and they walked to the door. He opened it.



Sam was sitting on the edge of the desk, as usual. His feet were swinging under him and he was not smoking. The air in the room was clear and cool. He glanced at Adam, then looked at Carmen. Packer closed the door behind them.



She released Adam's hand and walked to the desk, looking Sam squarely in the eyes. "I'm Carmen," she said softly. Sam eased from the desk. "I'm Sam, Carmen. Your wayward grandfather." He drew her to him and they embraced.



It took a second or two for Adam to realize Sam had shaved his beard. His hair was shorter and looked much neater. His jumpsuit was zipped to the neck.



Sam squeezed her shoulders and examined her face. "You're as pretty as your mother," he said hoarsely. His eyes were moist and Carmen was fighting back tears.



She bit her lip and tried to smile.



"Thanks for coming," he said, trying to grin. "I'm sorry you had to find me like this."



"You look great," she said.



"Don't start lying, Carmen," Adam said, breaking the ice. "And let's stop the crying before it gets outta hand."



"Sit down," Sam said to her, pointing to a chair. He sat next to her, holding her hand.



"Business first, Sam," Adam said as he leaned on the desk. "Fifth Circuit turned us down early this morning. So we're off to greener pastures."



"Your brother here is quite a lawyer," Sam said to Carmen. "He gives me this same news every day."



"Of course, I don't have much to work with," Adam said.



"How's your mother?" Sam asked her.



"She's fine."



"Tell her I asked about her. I remember her as a fine person."



"I will."



"Any word on Lee?" Sam asked him.



"No. Do you want to see her?"



"I think so. But if she can't make it, I'll understand."



"I'll see what I can do," Adam said confidently. His last two phone calls to Phelps had not been returned. Frankly, he didn't have time at the moment to look for Lee.



Sam leaned closer to her. "Adam tells me you're studying psychology."



"That's right. I'm in grad school at Cal Berkeley. I'll - "



A sharp knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Adam opened it slightly, and saw the anxious face of Lucas Mann. "Excuse me for a minute," he said to Sam and Carmen, and stepped into the hall.



"What's up?" he asked.



"Garner Goodman's looking for you," Mann said, almost in a whisper. "He wants you in Jackson immediately."



"Why? What's going on?"



"Looks like one of your claims has found its mark"



Adam's heart stopped. "Which one?"



"Judge Slattery wants to talk about the mental incompetence. He's scheduled a hearing for five this afternoon. Don't say anything to me, because I might be a witness for the state."



Adam closed his eyes and gently tapped his head against the wall. A thousand thoughts swirled wildly through his brain. "Five this afternoon. Slattery?"



"Hard to believe. Look, you need to move fast."



"I need a phone."



"There's one in there," Mann said, nodding to the door behind Adam. "Look, Adam, it's none of my business, but I wouldn't tell Sam. This is still a long shot, and there's no sense getting his hopes up. If it was my decision, I'd wait until the hearing is over."



"You're right. Thanks, Lucas."



"Sure. I'll see you in Jackson."



Adam returned to the room, where the cussion had drifted to life in the Bay Area. "It's nothing," Adam said with a frown and went casually to the phone. He ignored their quiet talk as he punched the numbers.



"Garner, it's Adam. I'm here with Sam. What's up?"



"Get your ass down here, old boy," Goodman said calmly. "Things are moving."



"I'm listening." Sam was describing his first and only trip to San Francisco, decades ago.



"First, the governor wants to talk privately with you. He seems to be suffering. We're wearing his ass out with the phones, and he's feeling the heat. More importantly, Slattery, of all people, is hung up on the mental claim. I talked with him thirty minutes ago, and he's just thoroughly confused. I didn't help matters. He wants a hearing at five this afternoon. I've already talked to Dr. Swinn, and he's on standby. He'll land in Jackson at three-thirty and be ready to testify."



"I'm on my way," Adam said with his back to Sam and Carmen.



"Meet me at the governor's office."



Adam hung up. "Just getting the appeals filed," he explained to Sam, who at the moment was totally indifferent. "I need to get to Jackson."



"What's the hurry?" Sam asked, like a man with years to live and nothing to do.



"Hurry? Did you say hurry? It's ten o'clock, Sam, on Monday. We have exactly thirty-eight hours to find a miracle."



"There won't be any miracles, Adam." He turned to Carmen, still holding her hand. "Don't get your hopes up, dear."



"Maybe - "



"No. It's my time, okay. And I'm very ready. I don't want you to be sad when it's over."



"We need to go, Sam," Adam said, touching his shoulder. "I'll be back either late tonight or early in the morning."



Carmen leaned over and kissed Sam on the cheek. "My heart is with you, Sam," she whispered.



He hugged her for a second, then stood by the desk. "You take care, kid. Study hard and all that. And don't think badly of me, okay? I'm here for a reason. It's nobody's fault but mine. There's a better life waiting on me outside this place."



Carmen stood and hugged him again. She was crying as they left the room.