THE first kite of the morning arrived shortly after breakfast, as Sam stood in his baggy boxer shorts and leaned through the bars with a cigarette. It was from Preacher Boy, and it brought bad news. It read:
Dear Sam:
The dream is finished. The Lord worked on me last night and finally showed me the rest of it. I wish he hadn't done it. There's a lot to it, and I'll explain it all if you want. Bottom line is that you'll be with him shortly. He told me to tell you to get things right with him. He's waiting. The journey will be rough, but the rewards will be worth it. I love you.
Brother Randy
Bon voyage, Sam mumbled to himself as he crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor. The kid was slowly deteriorating, and there was no way to help him. Sam had already prepared a series of motions to be filed at some uncertain point in the future when Brother Randy was thoroughly insane.
He saw Gullitt's hands come through the bars next door.
"How you doin', Sam?" Gullitt finally asked. "God's upset with me," Sam said.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Preacher Boy finished his dream last night."
"Thank God for that."
"It was more like a nightmare."
"I wouldn't worry too much about it. Crazy bastard has dreams when he's wide awake. They said yesterday he's been crying for a week."
"Can you hear him?"
"No. Thank God."
"Poor kid. I've done some motions for him, just in case I leave this place. I want to leave them with you."
"I don't know what to do with them."
"I'll leave instructions. They're to be sent to his lawyer."
Gullitt whistled softly. "Man oh man, Sam. What am I gonna do if you leave? I ain't talked to my lawyer in a year."
"Your lawyer is a moron."
"Then help me fire him, Sam. Please. You just fired yours. Help me fire mine. I don't know how to do it."
"Then who'll represent you?"
"Your grandson. Tell him he can have my case."
Sam smiled, then he chuckled. And then he laughed at the idea of rounding up his buddies on the Row and delivering their hopeless cases to Adam.
"What's-so damned funny?" Gullitt demanded.
"You. What makes you think he'll want your case?"
"Come on, Sam. Talk to the kid for me. He must be smart if he's your grandson."
"What if they gas me? Do you want a lawyer who's just lost his first death row client?"
"Hell, I can't be particular right now."
"Relax, J.B. You have years to go."
"How many years?"
"At least five, maybe more."
"You swear?"
"You have my word. I'll put it in writing. If I'm wrong, you can sue me."
"Real funny, Sam. Real funny."
A door clicked open at the end of the hall, and heavy footsteps came their way. It was Packer, and he stopped in front of number six. "Mornin', Sam," he said.
"Mornin', Packer."
"Put your reds on. You have a visitor."
"Who is it?"
"Somebody who wants to talk to you."
"Who is it?" Sam repeated as he quickly slipped into his red jumpsuit. He grabbed his cigarettes. He didn't care who the visitor was or what he wanted. A visit by anyone was a welcome relief from his cell.
"Hurry up, Sam," Packer said.
"Is it my lawyer?" Sam asked as he slid his feet into the rubber shower shoes.
"No." Packer handcuffed him through the bars, and the door to his cell opened. They left Tier A and headed for the same little room where the lawyers always waited.
Packer removed the handcuffs and slammed the door behind Sam, who focused on the heavy-set woman seated on the other side of the screen. He rubbed his wrists for her benefit and took a few steps to the seat opposite her. He did not recognize the woman. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and glared at her.
She scooted forward in her chair, and nervously said, "Mr. Cayhall, my name is Dr. Stegall." She slipped a business card through the opening. "I'm the psychiatrist for the State Department of Corrections."
Sam studied the card on the counter in front of him. He picked it up and examined it suspiciously. "Says here your name is N. Stegall. Dr. N. Stegall."
"That's correct."
"That's a strange name, N. I've never met a woman named N. before."
The small, anxious grin disappeared from her face, and her spine stiffened. "It's just an initial, okay. There are reasons for it."
"What's it stand for?"
"That's really none of your business."
"Nancy? Nelda? Nona?"
"If I wanted you to know, I would've put it on the card, now wouldn't I?"
"I don't know. Must be something horrible, whatever it is. Nick? Ned? I can't imagine hiding behind an initial."
"I'm not hiding, Mr. Cayhall."
"Just call me S., okay?"
Her jaws clenched and she scowled through the screen. "I'm here to help you."
"You're too late, N."
"Please call me Dr. Stegall."
"Oh, well, in that case you can call me Lawyer Cayhall."
"Lawyer Cayhall?"
"Yes. I know more law than most of the clowns who sit over there where you are."
She managed a slight, patronizing smile, then said, "I'm supposed to consult you at this stage of the proceedings to see if I can be of any assistance. You don't have to cooperate if you don't want."
"Thank you so much."
"If you need to talk to me, or if you need any medication now or later, just let me know."
"How about some whiskey?"
"I can't prescribe that."
"Why not?"
"Prison regulations, I guess."
"What can you prescribe?"
"Tranquilizers, Valium, sleeping pills, things like that."
"For what?"
"For your nerves."
"My nerves are fine."
"Are you able to sleep?"
Sam thought for a long moment. "Well, to be honest, I am having a little trouble. Yesterday I slept off and on for mo more than twelve hours. Usually I'm good for fifteen or sixteen."
"Twelve hours?"
"Yeah. How often do you get over here to death row?"
"Not very often."
"That's what I thought. If you knew what you were doing, you'd know that we average about sixteen hours a day."
"I see. And what else might I learn?"
"Oh, lots of things. You'd know that Randy Dupree is slowly going insane, and no one around here cares about him. Why haven't you been to see him?"
"There are five thousand inmates here, Mr. Cayhall. I - "
"Then leave. Go away. Go tend to the rest of them. I've been here for nine and a half years and never met you. Now that y'all are about to gas me, you come running over with a bag full of drugs to calm my nerves so I'll be sweet and gentle when you kill me. Why should you care about my nerves and my sleeping habits? You're working for the state and the state is working like hell to execute me."
"I'm doing my job, Mr. Cayhall."
"Your job stinks, Ned. Get a real job where you can help people. You're here right now because I've got thirteen days and you want me to go in peace. You're just another flunkie for the state."
"I didn't come here to be abused."
"Then get your big ass out of here. Leave. Go and sin no more."
She jumped to her feet and grabbed her briefcase. "You have my card. If you need anything, let me know."
"Sure, Ned. Don't sit by the phone." Sam stood and walked to the door on his side. He banged it twice with the palm of his hand, and waited with his back to her until Packer opened it.
Adam was packing his briefcase in preparation for a quick trip to Parchman when the phone rang. Darlene said it was urgent. She was right.
The caller identified himself as the clerk of the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals in New Orleans, and was remarkably friendly. He said the Cayhall petition attacking the constitutionality of the gas chamber had been received on Monday, had been assigned to a three-judge panel, and that the panel wanted to hear oral argument from both sides. Could he be in New Orleans at 1 P.m. tomorrow, Friday, for the oral argument?
Adam almost dropped the phone. Tomorrow? Of course, he said after a slight hesitation. One o'clock sharp, the clerk said, then explained that the court did not normally hear oral argument in the afternoon. But because of the urgency of this matter, the court had scheduled a special hearing. He asked Adam if he'd ever argued before the Fifth Circuit before.
Are you kidding, Adam thought. A year ago I was studying for the bar exam. He said no, in fact he had not, and the clerk said he would immediately fax to Adam a copy of the court's rules governing oral argument. Adam thanked him profusely, and hung up.
He sat on the edge of the table and tried to collect his thoughts. Darlene brought the fax to him, and he asked her to check the flights to New Orleans.
Had he caught the attention of the court with his issues? Was this good news, or just a formality? In his brief career as a lawyer, he had stood alone before the bench to argue a client's position on only one occasion. But Emmitt Wycoff had been seated nearby, just in case. And the judge had been a familiar one. And it had happened in downtown Chicago, not far from his office. Tomorrow he would walk into a strange courtroom in a strange city and try to defend an eleventh-hour plea before a panel of judges he'd never heard of.
He called E. Garner Goodman with the news. Goodman had been to the Fifth Circuit many times, and as he talked Adam relaxed. It was neither good news nor bad, in Goodman's opinion. The court was obviously interested in the lawsuit, but they'd heard it all before. Both Texas and Louisiana had sent similar constitutional claims to the Fifth Circuit in recent years.
Goodman assured him that he could handle the arguments. Just be prepared, he said. And try to relax. It might be possible for him to fly to New Orleans and be there, but Adam said no. He said he could do it alone. Keep in touch, Goodman said.
Adam checked with Darlene, then locked himself in his office. He memorized the rules for oral argument. He studied the lawsuit attacking the gas chamber. He read briefs and cases. He called Parchman and left word for Sam that he would not be there today.
He worked until dark, then made the dreaded trip to Lee's condo. The same note was sitting on the counter, untouched and still declaring that she was in bed with the flu. He eased around the apartment and saw no signs of movement or life during the day.
Her bedroom door was slightly opened. He tapped on it while pushing. "Lee," he called out gently into the darkness. "Lee, are you all right?"
There was movement in the bed, though he couldn't see what it was. "Yes dear," she said. "Come in."
Adam slowly sat on the edge of the bed and tried to focus on her. The only light was a faint beam from the hallway. She pushed herself up and rested on the pillows. "I'm better," she said with a scratchy voice. "How are you, dear?"
"I'm fine, Lee. I'm worried about you."
"I'll be okay. It's a wicked little virus."
The first pungent vapor wafted from the bedsheets and covers, and Adam wanted to cry. It was the reeking odor of stale vodka or gin or sour mash, or maybe a combination of everything. He couldn't see her eyes in the murky shadows, only the vague outline of her face. She was wearing a dark shirt of some sort.
"What type of medication?" he asked.
"I don't know. Just some pills. The doctor said it'll last for a few days, then quickly disappear. I feel better already."
Adam started to say something about the oddity of a flu-like virus in late July, but let it pass. "Are you able to eat?"
"No appetite, really."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"No dear. How have you been? What day is it?"
"It's Thursday."
"I feel like I've been in a cave for a week."
Adam had two choices. He could play along with the wicked little virus act and hope she stopped the drinking before it got worse. Or he could confront her now and make her realize she was not fooling him. Maybe they would fight, and maybe this was what you were supposed to do with drunks who'd fallen off the wagon. How was he supposed to know what to do?
"Does your doctor know you're drinking?" he asked, holding his breath.
There was a long pause. "I haven't been drinking," she said, almost inaudible.
"Come on, Lee. I found the vodka bottle in the wastebasket. I know the other three bottles of beer disappeared last Saturday. You smell like a brewery right now. You're not fooling anyone, Lee. You're drinking heavily, and I want to help."
She sat straighter, and pulled her legs up to her chest. Then she was still for a long time. Adam glanced at her silhouette. Minutes passed. The apartment was deathly quiet.
"How's my dear father?" she muttered. Her words were sluggish, but still bitter.
"I didn't see him today."
"Don't you think we'll be better off when he's dead?"
Adam looked at her silhouette. "No, Lee, I don't. Do you?"
She was silent and still for at least a minute. "You feel sorry for him, don't you?" she finally asked.
"Yes, I do."
"Is he pitiful?"
"Yes, he is."
"What does he look like?"
"A very old man, with plenty of gray hair that's always oily and pulled back. He has a short gray beard. Lots of wrinkles. His skin is very pale."
"What does he wear?"
"A red jumpsuit. All death row inmates wear the same thing."
Another long pause as she thought about this. Then she said, "I guess it's easy to feel sorry for him."
"It is for me."
"But you see, Adam, I've never seen him the way you see him. I saw a different person."
"And what did you see?"
She adjusted the blanket around her legs, then grew still again. "My father was a person I despised."
"Do you still despise him?"
"Yes. Very much so. I think he should go ahead and die. God knows he deserves it."
"Why does he deserve it?"
This prompted another spell of silence. She moved slightly to her left and took a cup or glass from the nightstand. She sipped slowly, as Adam watched her shadows. He didn't ask what she was drinking.
"Does he talk to you about the past?"
"Only when I ask questions. We've talked about Eddie, but I promised we wouldn't do it again."
"He's the reason Eddie's dead. Does he realize this?"
"Maybe."
"Did you tell him? Did you blame him for Eddie?"
"No."
"You should have. You're too easy on him. He needs to know what he's done."
"I think he does. But you said yourself it's not fair to torment him at this point of his life."
"How about Joe Lincoln? Did you talk to him about Joe Lincoln?"
"I told Sam that you and I went to the old family place. He asked me if I knew about Joe Lincoln. I said that I did."
"Did he deny it?"
"No. He showed a lot of remorse."
"He's a liar."
"No. I think he was sincere."
Another long pause as she sat motionless. Then, "Has he told you about the lynching?"
Adam closed his eyes and rested his elbows on his knees. "No," he mumbled.
"I didn't think so."
"I don't want to hear it, Lee."
"Yes you do. You came down here full of questions about the family and about your past. Two weeks ago you just couldn't get enough of the Cayhall family misery. You wanted all the blood and gore."
"I've heard enough," he said.
"What day is it?" she asked.
"It's Thursday, Lee. You've already asked once."
"One of my girls was due today. Her second child. I didn't call the office. I guess it's the medication."
"And the alcohol."
"All right, dammit. So I'm an alcoholic. Who can blame me? Sometimes I wish I had the guts to do what Eddie did."
"Come on, Lee. Let me help you."
"Oh, you've already helped a great deal, Adam. I was fine, nice and sober until you arrived."
"Okay. I was wrong. I'm sorry. I just didn't realize - " His words trailed off, then quit.
She moved slightly and Adam watched as she took another sip. A heavy silence engulfed them as minutes passed. The rancid smell emanated from her end of the bed.
"Mother told me the story," she said quietly, almost whispering. "She said she'd heard rumors about it for years. Long before they married she knew he'd helped lynch a young black man."
"Please, Lee."
"I never asked him about it, but Eddie did. We had whispered about it for many years, and finally one day Eddie just up and confronted him with the story. They had a nasty fight, but Sam admitted it was true. It really didn't bother him, he said. The black kid had allegedly raped a white girl, but she was white trash and many people doubted if it was really a rape. This is according to Mother's version. Sam was fifteen or so at the time, and a bunch of men went down to the jail, got the black kid, and took him out in the woods. Sam's father, of course, was the ringleader, and his brothers were involved."
"That's enough, Lee."
"They beat him with a bullwhip, then hung him from a tree. My dear father was right in the middle of it. He couldn't really deny it, you know, because somebody took a picture of it."
"A photograph?"
"Yeah. A few years later the photo found its way into a book about the plight of Negroes in the Deep South. It was published in 1947. My mother had a copy of it for years. Eddie found it in the attic."
"And Sam's in the photograph."
"Sure. Smiling from ear to ear. They're standing under the tree and the black guy's feet are dangling just above their heads. Everybody's having a ball. Just another nigger lynching. There are no credits with the photo, no names. The picture speaks for itself. It's described as a lynching in rural Mississippi, 1936."
"Where's the book?"
"Over there in the drawer. I've kept it in storage with other family treasures since the foreclosure. I got it out the other day. I thought you might want to see it."
"No. I do not want to see it."
"Go ahead. You wanted to know about your family. Well, there they are. Grandfather, greatgrandfather, and all sorts of Cayhalls at their very best. Caught in the act, and quite proud of it."
"Stop it, Lee."
"There were other lynchings, you know."
"Shut up, Lee. Okay? I don't want to hear any more."
She leaned to her side and reached for the nightstand.
"What are you drinking, Lee?"
"Cough syrup."
"Bullshit!" Adam jumped to his feet and walked through the darkness to the nightstand. Lee quickly gulped the last of the liquid. He grabbed the glass from her hand and sniffed the top of it. "This is bourbon."
"There's more in the pantry. Would you get it for me?"
"No! You've had more than enough."
"If I want it, I'll get it."
"No you won't, Lee. You're not drinking any more tonight. Tomorrow I'll take you to the doctor, and we'll get some help."
"I don't need help. I need a gun."
Adam placed the glass on the dresser and switched on a lamp. She shielded her eyes for a few seconds, then looked at him. They were red and puffy. Her hair was wild, dirty, and unkempt.
"Not a pretty sight, huh," she said, slurring her words, and looking away.
"No. But we'll get help, Lee. We'll do it tomorrow."
"Get me a drink, Adam. Please."
"No."
"Then leave me alone. This is all your fault, you know. Now, leave, please. Go on to bed."
Adam grabbed a pillow from the center of the bed and threw it against the door. "I'm sleeping here tonight," he said, pointing at the pillow. "I'm locking the door, and you're not leaving this room."
She glared at him, but said nothing. He switched off the lamp, and the room was completely dark. He pressed the lock on the knob and stretched out on the carpet against the door. "Now sleep it off, Lee."
"Go to bed, Adam. I promise I won't leave the room."
"No. You're drunk, and I'm not moving. If you try to open this door, I'll physically put you back in the bed."
"That sounds sort of romantic."
"Knock it off, Lee. Go to sleep."
"I can't sleep."
"Try it."
"Let's tell Cayhall stories, okay, Adam? I know a few more lynching stories."
"Shut up, Lee!" Adam screamed, and she was suddenly quiet. The bed squeaked as she wiggled and flipped and got herself situated. After fifteen minutes, she was subdued. After thirty minutes, the floor became uncomfortable and Adam rolled from side to side.
Sleep came in brief naps, interrupted by long periods of staring at the ceiling and worrying about her, and about the Fifth Circuit. At one point during the night he sat with his back to the door and stared through the darkness in the direction of the drawer. Was the book really there? He was tempted to sneak over and get it, then ease into the bathroom to look for the picture. But he couldn't risk waking her. And he didn't want to see it.
