BY noon judge Slattery had fully embraced the gravity of the moment, and though he tried hard to conceal it, he was enjoying immensely this brief interval in the center of the storm. First, he had dismissed the jury and lawyers in the civil trial pending before him. He had twice talked to the clerk of the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans, then to justice McNeely himself. The big moment had come a few minutes after eleven when Supreme Court Justice Edward F. Allbright called from Washington to get an update. Allbright was monitoring the case by the hour. They talked law and theory. Neither man was opposed to the death penalty, and both had particular problems with the Mississippi statute in question. They were concerned that it could be abused by any death row inmate who could pretend to be insane and find a wacky doctor to play along.
The reporters quickly learned that a hearing of some type was scheduled, and they not only flooded Slattery's office with calls, but parked themselves in his receptionist's office. The U.S. marshall was called to disperse the reporters.
The secretary brought messages by the minute. Breck Jefferson dug through countless law books and scattered research over the long conference table. Slattery talked to the governor, the Attorney General, Garner Goodman, dozens of others. His shoes were under his massive desk. He walked around it, holding the receiver with a long cord, thoroughly enjoying the madness.
If Slattery's office was hectic, then the Attorney General's was pure chaos. Roxburgh had gone ballistic with the news that one of Cayhall's shots in the dark had hit a target. You fight these bears for ten years, up and down the appellate ladders, out of one courtroom and into another, battling the creative legal minds of the ACLU and similar outfits, producing along the way enough paperwork to destroy a rain forest, and right when you've got him in your sights, he files a ton of gangplank appeals and one of them gets noticed by a judge somewhere who just happens to be in a tender mood.
He had stormed down the hall to the office of Morris Henry, Dr. Death himself, and together they hastily had assembled a team of their best criminal boys. They met in a large library with rows and stacks of the latest books. They reviewed the Cayhall petition and the applicable law, and they plotted strategy. Witnesses were needed. Who had seen Cayhall in the last month? Who could testify about the things he said and did? There was no time for one of their doctors to examine him. He had a doctor, but they didn't. This was a significant problem. To get their hands on him with a reputable doctor, the state would be forced to ask for time. And time meant a stay of execution. A stay was out of the question.
The guards saw him every day. Who else? Roxburgh called Lucas Mann, who suggested that he talk to Colonel Nugent. Nugent said he'd seen Sam just hours earlier, and, yes, of course, he would be happy to testify. Son of a bitch wasn't crazy. He was just mean. And Sergeant Packer saw him every day. And the prison psychiatrist, Dr. N. Stegall, had met with Sam, and she could testify. Nugent was anxious to help. He also suggested the prison chaplain. And he would think about others.
Morris Henry organized a hit squad of four lawyers to do nothing but dig for dirt on Dr. Anson Swinn. Find other cases he'd been involved in. Talk to other lawyers around the country. Locate transcripts of his testimony. The guy was nothing but a hired mouthpiece, a professional testifier. Get the goods to discredit him.
Once Roxburgh had the attack planned and others doing the work, he rode the elevator to the lobby of the building to chat with the press.
Adam parked in a vacant spot on the grounds of the state capitol. Goodman was waiting under a shade tree with his jacket off and sleeves rolled up, his paisley bow tie perfect. Adam quickly introduced Carmen to Mr. Goodman.
"The governor wants to see you at two. I just left his office, for the third time this morning. Let's walk to our place," he said, waving toward downtown. "It's just a coupla blocks."
"Did you meet Sam?" Goodman asked Carmen.
"Yes. This morning."
"I'm glad you did."
"What's on the governor's mind?" Adam asked. They were walking much too slow to suit him. Relax, he told himself. Just relax.
"Who knows? He wants to meet with you privately. Maybe the market analysis is getting to him. Maybe he's planning a media stunt. Maybe he's sincere. I can't read him. He does look tired, though."
"The phone calls are getting through?"
"Splendidly."
"No one's suspicious?"
"Not yet. Frankly, we're hitting them so fast and so hard I doubt they have time to trace calls."
Carmen shot a blank look at her brother, who was too preoccupied to see it.
"What's the latest from Slattery?" Adam asked as they crossed a street, pausing for a minute in silence to watch the demonstration under way on the front steps of the capitol.
"Nothing since ten this morning. His clerk called you in Memphis, and your secretary gave him my number here. That's how they found me. He told me about the hearing, and said Slattery wants the lawyers in his chamber at three to plan things."
"What does this mean?" Adam asked, desperate for his mentor to say that they were on the brink of a major victory.
Goodman sensed Adam's anxiety. "I honestly don't know. It's good news, but no one knows how permanent it is. Hearings at this stage are not unusual."
They crossed another street and entered the building. Upstairs, the temporary office was buzzing as four law students rattled away on cordless phones. Two were sitting with their feet on the table. One stood in the window and talked earnestly. One was pacing along the far wall, phone stuck to her head. Adam stood by the door and tried to absorb the scene. Carmen was hopelessly confused.
Goodman explained things in a loud whisper. "We're averaging about sixty calls an hour. We dial more than that, but the lines stay jammed, obviously. We're responsible for the jamming, and this keeps other people from getting through. It was much slower over the weekend. The hotline used only one operator." He delivered this summary like a proud plant manager showing off the latest in automated machinery.
"Who are they calling?" Carmen asked.
A law student stepped forward and introduced himself to Adam, and then to Carmen. He was having a ball, he said.
"Would you like something to eat?" Goodman asked. "We have some sandwiches." Adam declined.
"Who are they calling?" Carmen asked again.
"The governor's hotline," Adam replied, without explanation. They listened to the nearest caller as he changed his voice and read a name from a phone list. He was now Benny Chase from Hickory Flat, Mississippi, and he had voted for the governor and didn't think Sam Cayhall should be executed. It was time for the governor to step forward and take care of this situation.
Carmen cut her eyes at her brother, but he ignored her.
"These four are law students at Mississippi College," Goodman explained further. "We've used about a dozen students since Friday, different ages, whites and blacks, male and female. Professor Glass has been most helpful in finding these people. He's made calls too. So have Hez Kerry and his boys at the Defense Group. We've had at least twenty people calling."
They pulled three chairs to the end of a table and sat down. Goodman found soft drinks in a plastic cooler, and sat them on the table. He continued talking in a low voice. "John Bryan Glass is doing some research as we speak. He'll have a brief prepared by four. Hez Kerry is also at work. He's checking with his counterparts in other death states to see if similar statutes have been used recently."
"Kerry is the black guy?" Adam said.
"Yeah, he's the director of the Southern Capital Defense Group. Very sharp."
"A black lawyer busting his butt to save Sam."
"It makes no difference to Hez. It's just another death case."
"I'd like to meet him."
"You will. All these guys will be at the hearing."
"And they're working for free?" Carmen asked.
"Sort of. Kerry is on salary. Part of his job is to monitor every death case in this state, but since Sam has private lawyers Kerry is off the hook. He's donating his time, but it's something he wants to do. Professor Glass is on salary at the law school, but this is definitely outside the scope of his employment there. We're paying these students five bucks an hour."
"Who's paying them?" she asked.
"Dear old Kravitz & Bane."
Adam grabbed a nearby phonebook. "Carmen needs to get a flight out of here this afternoon," he said, flipping to the yellow pages.
"I'll take care of it," Goodman said, taking the phonebook. "Where to?"
"San Francisco."
"I'll see what's available. Look, there's a little deli around the corner. Why don't you two get something to eat? We'll walk to the governor's office at two."
"I need to get to a library," Adam said, looking at his watch. It was almost one o'clock.
"Go eat, Adam. And try to relax. We'll have time later to sit down with the brain trust and talk strategy. Right now, you need to relax and eat."
"I'm hungry," Carmen said, anxious to be alone with her brother for a few minutes. They eased from the room, and closed the door behind them.
She stopped him in the shabby hallway before they reached the stairs. "Please explain that to me," she insisted, grabbing his arm.
"What?"
"That little room in there."
"It's pretty obvious, isn't it?"
"Is it legal?"
"It's not illegal."
"Is it ethical?"
Adam took a deep breath and stared at the wall. "What are they planning to do with Sam?"
"Execute him."
"Execute, gas, exterminate, kill, call it what you want. But it's murder, Carmen. Legal murder. It's wrong, and I'm trying to stop it. It's a dirty business, and if I have to bend a few ethics, I don't care."
"It stinks."
"So does the gas chamber."
She shook her head and held her words. Twenty-four hours earlier she'd been eating lunch with her boyfriend at a sidewalk cafe in San Francisco. Now, she wasn't sure where she was.
"Don't condemn me for this, Carmen. These are desperate hours."
"Okay," she said, and headed down the stairs.
The Governor and the young lawyer were alone in the vast office, in the comfortable leather chairs, their legs crossed and feet almost touching. Goodman was rushing Carmen to the airport to catch a flight. Mona Stark was nowhere in sight.
"It's strange, you know, you're the grandson, and you've known him for less than a month." McAllister's words were calm, almost tired. "But I've known him for many years. In fact, he's been a part of my life for a long time. And I've always thought that I'd look forward to this day. I've wanted him to die, you know, to be punished for killing those boys." He flipped his bangs and gently rubbed his eyes. His words were so genuine, as if two old friends were catching up on the gossip. "But now I'm not so sure. I have to tell you, Adam, the pressure's getting to me."
He was either being brutally honest, or he was a talented actor. Adam couldn't tell. "What will the state prove if Sam dies?" Adam asked. "Will this be a better place to live when the sun comes up Wednesday morning and he's dead?"
"No. But then you don't believe in the death penalty. I do."
"Why?"
"Because there has to be an ultimate punishment for murder. Put yourself in Ruth Kramer's position, and you'd feel differently. The problem you have, Adam, and people like you, is that you forget about the victims."
"We could argue for hours about the death penalty."
"You're right. Let's skip it. Has Sam told you anything new about the bombing?"
"I can't divulge what Sam's told me. But the answer is no."
"Maybe he acted alone, I don't know."
"What difference would it make today, the day before the execution?"
"I'm not sure, to be honest. But if I knew that Sam was only an accomplice, that someone else was responsible for the killings, then it would be impossible for me to allow him to be executed. I could stop it, you know. I could do that. I'd catch hell for it. It would hurt me politically. The damage could be irreparable, but I wouldn't mind. I'm getting tired of politics. And I don't enjoy being placed in this position, the giver or taker of life. But I could pardon Sam, if I knew the truth."
"You believe he had help. You've told me that already. The FBI agent in charge of the investigation believes it too. Why don't you act on your beliefs and grant clemency?"
"Because we're not certain."
"So, one word from Sam, just one name thrown out here in the final hours, and, bingo, you take your pen and save his life?"
"No, but I might grant a reprieve so the name could be investigated."
"It won't happen, Governor. I've tried. I've asked so often, and he's denied so much, that it's not even discussed anymore."
"Who's he protecting?"
"Hell if I know."
"Perhaps we're wrong. Has he ever given you the details of the bombing?"
"Again, I can't talk about our conversations. But he takes full responsibility for it."
"Then why should I consider clemency? If the criminal himself claims he did the crime, and acted alone, how am I supposed to help him?"
"Help him because he's an old man who'll die soon enough anyway. Help him because it's the right thing to do, and deep down in your heart you want to do it. It'll take guts."
"He hates me, doesn't he?"
"Yes. But he could come around. Give him a pardon and he'll be your biggest fan."
McAllister smiled and unwrapped a peppermint. "Is he really insane?"
"Our expert says he is. We'll do our best to convince judge Slattery."
"I know, but really? You've spent hours with him. Does he know what's happening?"
At this point, Adam decided against honesty. McAllister was not a friend, and not at all trustworthy. "He's pretty sad," Adam admitted. "Frankly, I'm surprised any person can keep his mind after a few months on death row. Sam was an old man when he got there, and he's slowly wasted away. That's one reason he's declined all interviews. He's quite pitiful."
Adam couldn't tell if the governor believed this, but he certainly absorbed it.
"What's your schedule tomorrow?" McAllister asked.
"I have no idea. It depends on what happens in Slattery's court. I had planned to spend most of the day with Sam, but I might be running around filing last minute appeals."
"I gave you my private number. Let's keep in touch tomorrow."
Sam took three bites of pinto beans and some of the corn bread, then placed the tray at the end of his bed. The same idiot guard with the blank face watched him through the bars of the tier door. Life was bad enough in these cramped cubicles, but living like an animal and being watched was unbearable.
It was six o'clock, time for the evening news. He was anxious to hear what the world was saying about him. The Jackson station began with the breaking story of a last minute hearing before federal judge F. Flynn Slattery. The report cut to the outside of the federal courthouse in Jackson where an anxious young man with a microphone explained that the hearing had been delayed a bit as the lawyers wrangled in Slattery's office. He tried his best to briefly explain the issue. The defense was now claiming that Mr. Cayhall lacked sufficient mental capacity to understand why he was being executed. He was senile and insane, claimed the defense, which would call a noted psychiatrist in this last ditch effort to stop the execution. The hearing was expected to get under way at any moment, and no one knew when a decision might be reached by judge Slattery. Back to the anchorwoman, who said that, meanwhile, up at the state penitentiary at Parchman, all systems were go for the execution. Another young man with a microphone was suddenly on the screen, standing somewhere near the front gate of the prison, describing the increased security. He pointed to his right, and the camera panned the area near the highway where a regular carnival was happening. The highway patrol was out in force, directing traffic and keeping a wary eye on an assemblage of several dozen Ku Klux Klansmen. Other protestors included various groups of white supremacists and the usual death penalty abolitionists, he said.
The camera swung back to the reporter, who now had with him Colonel George Nugent, acting superintendent for Parchman, and the man in charge of the execution. Nugent grimly answered a few questions, said things were very much under control, and if the courts gave the green light then the execution would be carried out according to the law.
Sam turned off the television. Adam had called two hours earlier and explained the hearing, so he was prepared to hear that he was senile and insane and God knows what else. Still, he didn't like it. It was bad enough waiting to be executed, but to have his sanity slandered so nonchalantly seemed like a cruel invasion of privacy.
The tier was hot and quiet. The televisions and radios were turned down. Next door, Preacher Boy softly sang `The Old Rugged Cross', and it was not unpleasant.
In a neat pile on the floor against the wall was his new outfit - a plain white cotton shirt, Dickies, white socks, and a pair of brown loafers. Donnie had spent an hour with him during the afternoon.
He turned off the light and relaxed on the bed. Thirty hours to live.
The main courtroom in the federal building was packed when Slattery finally released the lawyers from his chamber for the third time. It was the last of a series of heated conferences that had dragged on for most of the afternoon. It was now almost seven.
They filed into the courtroom and took their places behind the appropriate tables. Adam sat with Garner Goodman. In a row of chairs behind them were Hez Kerry, John Bryan Glass, and three of his law students. Roxburgh, Morris Henry, and a half dozen assistants crowded around the state's table. Two rows behind them, behind the bar, sat the governor with Mona Stark on one side and Larramore on the other.
The rest of the crowd was primarily reporters - no cameras were allowed. There were curious spectators, law students, other lawyers. It was open to the public. In the back row, dressed comfortably in a sports coat and tie, was Rollie Wedge.
Slattery made his entrance and everyone stood for a moment. "Be seated," he said into his microphone. "Let's go on the record," he said to the court reporter. He gave a succinct review of the petition and the applicable law, and outlined the parameters of the hearing. He was not in the mood for lengthy arguments and pointless questions, so move it along, he told the lawyers.
"Is the petitioner ready?" he asked in Adam's direction. Adam stood nervously, and said, "Yes sir. The petitioner calls Dr. Anson Swinn."
Swinn stood from the first row and walked to the witness stand where he was sworn in. Adam walked to the podium in the center of the courtroom, holding his notes and pushing himself to be strong. His notes were typed and meticulous, the result of some superb research and preparation by Hez Kerry and John Bryan Glass. The two, along with Kerry's staff, had devoted the entire day to Sam Cayhall and this hearing. And they were ready to work all night and throughout tomorrow.
Adam began by asking Swinn some basic questions about his education and training. Swinn's answers were accented with the crispness of the upper Midwest, and this was fine. Experts should talk differently and travel great distances in order to be highly regarded. With his black hair, black beard, black glasses, and black suit, he indeed gave the appearance of an ominously brilliant master of his field. The preliminary questions were short and to the point, but only because Slattery had already reviewed Swinn's qualifications and ruled that he could in fact testify as an expert. The state could attack his credentials on cross-examination, but his testimony would go into the record.
With Adam leading the way, Swinn talked about his two hours with Sam Cayhall on the previous Tuesday. He described his physical condition, and did so with such relish that Sam sounded like a corpse. He was quite probably insane, though insanity was a legal term, not medical. He had difficulty answering even basic questions like What did you eat for breakfast? Who is in the cell next to you? When did your wife die? Who was your lawyer during the first trial? And on and on.
Swinn very carefully covered his tracks by repeatedly telling the court that two hours simply was not enough time to thoroughly diagnose Mr. Cayhall. More time was needed.
In his opinion, Sam Cayhall did not appreciate the fact that he was about to die, did not understand why he was being executed, and certainly didn't realize he was being punished for a crime. Adam gritted his teeth to keep from wincing at times, but Swinn was certainly convincing. Mr. Cayhall was completely calm and at ease, clueless about his fate, wasting away his days in a six-by-nine cell. It was quite sad. One of the worst cases he'd encountered.
Under different circumstances, Adam would've been horrified to place on the stand a witness so obviously full of bull. But at this moment, he was mighty proud of this bizarre little man. Human life was at stake.
Slattery was not about to cut short the testimony of Dr. Swinn. This case would be reviewed instantly by the Fifth Circuit and perhaps the U.S. Supreme Court, and he wanted no one from above second-guessing him. Goodman suspected this, and Swinn had been prepped to ramble. So with the court's indulgence, Swinn launched into the likely causes of Sam's problems. He described the horrors of living in a cell twenty-three hours a day; of knowing the gas chamber is a stone's throw away; of being denied companionship, decent food, sex, movement, plenty of exercise, fresh air. He'd worked with many death row inmates around the country and knew their problems well. Sam, of course, was much different because of his age. The average death row inmate is thirty-one years old, and has spent four years waiting to die. Sam was sixty when he first arrived at Parchman. Physically and mentally, he was not suited for it. It was inevitable he would deteriorate.
Swinn was under Adam's direct examination for forty-five minutes. When Adam had exhausted his questions, he sat down. Steve Roxburgh strutted to the podium, and stared at Swinn.
Swinn knew what was coming, and he was not the least bit concerned. Roxburgh began by asking who was paying for his services, and how much he was charging. Swinn said Kravitz & Bane was paying him two hundred dollars an hour. Big deal. There was no jury in the box. Slattery knew that all experts get paid, or they couldn't testify. Roxburgh tried to chip away at Swinn's professional qualifications, but got nowhere. The man was a well-educated, well-trained, experienced psychiatrist. So what if he decided years ago he could make more money as an expert witness. His qualifications weren't diminished. And Roxburgh was not about to argue medicine with a doctor.
The questions grew even stranger as Roxburgh began asking about other lawsuits in which Swinn had testified. There was a kid who was burned in a car wreck in Ohio, and Swinn had given his opinion that the child was completely, mentally disabled. Hardly an extreme opinion.
"Where are you going with this?" Slattery interrupted loudly.
Roxburgh glanced at his notes, then said, "Your Honor, we're attempting to discredit this witness."
"I know that. But it's not working, Mr. Roxburgh. This court knows that this witness has testified in many trials around the country. What's the point?"
"We are attempting to show that he is willing to state some pretty wild opinions if the money is right."
"Lawyers do that every day, Mr. Roxburgh."
There was some very light laughter in the audience, but very reserved.
"I don't want to hear it," Slattery snapped. "Now move on."
Roxburgh should've sat down, but the moment was too rich for that. He moved to the next minefield, and began asking questions about Swinn's examination of Sam. He went nowhere. Swinn fielded each question with a fluid answer that only added to his testimony on direct examination. He repeated much of the sad description of Sam Cayhall. Roxburgh scored no points, and once thoroughly trounced, finally went to his seat. Swinn was dismissed from the stand.
The next and last witness for the petitioner was a surprise, though Slattery had already approved him. Adam called Mr. E. Garner Goodman to the stand.
Goodman was sworn, and took his seat. Adam asked about his firm's representation of Sam Cayhall, and Goodman briefly outlined the history of it for the record. Slattery already knew most of it. Goodman smiled when he recalled Sam's efforts to fire Kravitz & Bane.
"Does Kravitz & Bane represent Mr. Cayhall at this moment?" Adam asked.
"Indeed we do."
"And you're here in Jackson at this moment working on the case?"
"That's correct."
"In your opinion, Mr. Goodman, do you believe Sam Cayhall has told his lawyers everything about the Kramer bombing?"
"No I do not."
Rollie Wedge sat up a bit and listened intensely.
"Would you please explain?"
"Certainly. There has always been strong circumstantial evidence that another person was with Sam Cayhall during the Kramer bombing, and the bombings which preceded it. Mr. Cayhall always refused to discuss this with me, his lawyer, and even now will not cooperate with his attorneys. Obviously, at this point in this case, it is crucial that he fully divulge everything to his lawyers. And he is unable to do so. There are facts we should know, but he won't tell us."
Wedge was at once nervous and relieved. Sam was holding fast, but his lawyers were trying everything.
Adam asked a few more questions, and sat down. Roxburgh asked only one. "When was the last time you spoke with Mr. Cayhall?"
Goodman hesitated and thought about the answer. He honestly couldn't remember exactly when. "I'm not sure. It's been two or three years."
"Two or three years? And you're his lawyer?"
"I'm one of his lawyers. Mr. Hall is now the principal lawyer on this case, and he's spent innumerable hours with the client during the last month."
Roxburgh sat down, and Goodman returned to his seat at the table.
"We have no more witnesses, Your Honor," Adam said for the record.
"Call your first witness, Mr. Roxburgh," Slattery said.
"The state calls Colonel George Nugent," Roxburgh announced. Nugent was found in the hallway, and escorted to the witness stand. His olive shirt and pants were wrinkle-free. The boots were gleaming. He stated for the record who he was and what he was doing. "I was at Parchman an hour ago," he said, looking at his watch. "Just flew down on the state helicopter."
"When did you last see Sam Cayhall?" Roxburgh asked.
"He was moved to the Observation Cell at nine this morning. I spoke with him then."
"Was he mentally alert, or just drooling over in the corner like an idiot?"
Adam started to jump and object, but Goodman grabbed his arm.
"He was extremely alert," Nugent said eagerly. "Very sharp. He asked me why he was being moved from his cell to another one. He understood what was happening. He didn't like it, but then Sam doesn't like anything these days."
"Did you see him yesterday?"
"Yes."
"And was he able to speak, or just lying around like a vegetable?"
"Oh, he was quite talkative."
"What did you talk about?"
"I had a checklist of things I needed to cover with Sam. He was very hostile, even threatened me with bodily harm. He's a very abrasive person with a sharp tongue. He settled down a bit, and we talked about his last meal, his witnesses, what to do with his personal effects. Things such as that. We talked about the execution."
"Is he aware he is about to be executed?"
Nugent burst into laughter. "What kind of question is that?"
"Just answer it," Slattery said without a smile.
"Of course he knows. He knows damned well what's going on. He's not crazy. He told me the execution would not take place because his lawyers were about to unload the heavy artillery, as he put it. They've planned all this." Nugent waved both hands at the entire courtroom.
Roxburgh asked about prior meetings with Sam, and Nugent spared no details. He seemed to remember every word Sam had uttered in the past two weeks, especially the biting sarcasm and caustic remarks.
Adam knew it was all true. He huddled quickly with Garner Goodman, and they decided to forgo any cross-examination. Little could be gained from it.
Nugent marched down the aisle and out of the courtroom. The man had a mission. He was needed at Parchman.
The state's second witness was Dr. N. Stegall, psychiatrist for the Department of Corrections. She made her way to the witness stand as Roxburgh conferred with Morris Henry.
"State your name for the record," Slattery said.
"Dr. N. Stegall."
"Ann?" His Honor asked.
"No. N. It's an initial."
Slattery looked down at her, then looked at Roxburgh who shrugged as if he didn't know what to say.
The judge eased even closer to the edge of his bench, and peered down at the witness stand. "Look, Doctor, I didn't ask for your initial, I asked for your name. Now, you state it for the record, and be quick about it."
She jerked her eyes away from his, cleared her throat, and reluctantly said, "Neldeen."
No wonder, thought Adam. Why hadn't she changed it to something else?
Roxburgh seized the moment and asked her a rapid series of questions about her qualifications and training. Slattery had already deemed her fit to testify.
"Now, Dr. Stegall," Roxburgh began, careful to avoid any reference to Neldeen, "when did you meet with Sam Cayhall?"
She held a sheet of paper which she looked at. "Thursday, July 26."
"And the purpose of this visit?"
"As part of my job, I routinely visit death row inmates, especially those with executions approaching. I provide counseling and medication, if they request it."
"Describe Mr. Cayhall's mental condition?"
"Extremely alert, very bright, very sharptongued, almost to the point of being rude. In fact, he was quite rude to me, and he asked me not to come back."
"Did he discuss his execution?"
"Yes. In fact, he knew that he had thirteen days to go, and he accused me of trying to give him medication so he wouldn't be any trouble when his time came. He also expressed concern for another death row inmate, Randy Dupree, who Sam thinks is deteriorating mentally. He was most concerned about Mr. Dupree, and chastised me for not examining him."
"In your opinion, is he suffering from any form of decreased mental capacity?"
"Not at all. His mind is very sharp."
"No further questions," Roxburgh said, and sat down.
Adam walked purposefully to the podium. "Tell us, Dr. Stegall, how is Randy Dupree doing?" he asked at full volume.
"I, uh, I haven't had a chance to see him yet.
"Sam told you about him eleven days ago, and you haven't bothered to meet with him."
"I've been busy."
"How long have you held your present job?"
"Four years."
"And in four years how many times have you talked to Sam Cayhall?"
"Once."
"You don't care much for the death row inmates, do you, Dr. Stegall?"
"I certainly do."
"How many men are on death row right now?"
"Well, uh, I'm not sure. Around forty, I think."
"How many have you actually talked to? Give us a few names."
Whether it was fear or anger or ignorance, no one could tell. But Neldeen froze. She grimaced and cocked her head to one side, obviously trying to pull a name from the air, and obviously unable to do so. Adam allowed her to hang for a moment, then said, "Thank you, Dr. Stegall." He turned and walked slowly back to his chair.
"Call your next witness," Slattery demanded.
"The state calls Sergeant Clyde Packer."
Packer was fetched from the hallway and led to the front of the courtroom. He was still in uniform, but the gun had been removed. He swore to tell the truth, and took his seat on the witness stand.
Adam was not surprised at the effect of Packer's testimony. He was an honest man who simply told what he'd seen. He'd known Sam for nine and a half years, and he was the same today as he was when he first arrived. He typed letters and law papers all day long, read many books, especially legal ones. He typed writs for his buddies on the Row, and he typed letters to wives and girlfriends for some of the guys who couldn't spell. He chain-smoked because he wanted to kill himself before the state got around to it. He loaned money to friends. In Packer's humble opinion, Sam was as mentally alert now as he'd been nine and a half years earlier. And his mind was very quick.
Slattery leaned a bit closer to the edge of the bench when Packer described Sam's checkers games with Henshaw and Gullitt.
"Does he win?" His Honor asked, interrupting.
"Almost always."
Perhaps the turning point of the hearing came when Packer told the story of Sam wanting to see a sunrise before he died. It happened late last week when Packer was making his rounds one morning. Sam had quietly made the request. He knew he was about to die, said he was ready to go, and that he'd like to sneak out early one morning to the bullpen on the east end and see the sun come up. So Packer took care of it, and last Saturday Sam spent an hour sipping coffee and waiting for the sun. Afterward, he was very grateful.
Adam had no questions for Packer. He was excused, and left the courtroom.
Roxburgh announced that the next witness was Ralph Griffin, the prison chaplain. Griffin was led to the stand, and looked uncomfortably around the courtroom. He gave his name and occupation, then glanced warily at Roxburgh.
"Do you know Sam Cayhall?" Roxburgh asked.
"I do."
"Have you counseled him recently?"
"Yes."
"When did you last see him?"
"Yesterday. Sunday."
"And how would you describe his mental state?"
"I can't."
"I beg your pardon."
"I said I can't describe his mental condition."
"Why not?"
"Because right now I'm his minister, and anything he says or does in my presence is strictly confidential. I can't testify against Mr. Cayhall."
Roxburgh stalled for a moment, trying to decide what to do next. It was obvious neither he nor his learned underlings had given any thought to this situation. Perhaps they'd just assumed that since the chaplain was working for the state, then he'd cooperate with them.
Griffin waited expectantly for an assault from Roxburgh.
Slattery settled the matter quickly. "A very good point, Mr. Roxburgh. This witness should not be here. Who's next?"
"No further witnesses," the Attorney General said, anxious to leave the podium and get to his seat.
His Honor scribbled some notes at length, then looked at the crowded courtroom. "I will take this matter under advisement and render an opinion, probably early in the morning. As soon as my decision is ready, we will notify the attorneys. You don't need to hang around here. We'll call you. Court's adjourned."
Everyone stood and hurried for the rear doors. Adam caught the Reverend Ralph Griffin and thanked him, then he returned to the table where Goodman, Hez Kerry, Professor Glass, and the students were waiting. They huddled and whispered until the crowd was gone, then left the courtroom. Someone mentioned drinks and dinner. It was almost nine.
Reporters were waiting outside the door to the courtroom. Adam threw out a few polite nocomments and kept walking. Rollie Wedge eased behind Adam and Goodman as they inched through the crowded hallway. He vanished as they left the building.
Two groups of cameras were ready outside. On the front steps, Roxburgh was addressing one batch of reporters, and not far away on the sidewalk, the governor was holding forth. As Adam walked by, he heard McAllister say that clemency was being considered, and that it would be a long night. Tomorrow would be even tougher. Would he attend the execution? someone asked. Adam couldn't hear the reply.
They met at Hal and Mal's, a popular downtown restaurant and watering hole. Hez found a large table in a corner near the front and ordered a round of beer. A blues band was cranked up in the back. The dining room and bar were crowded.
Adam sat in a corner, next to Hez, and relaxed for the first time in hours. The beer went down fast and calmed him. They ordered red beans and rice, and chatted about the hearing. Hez said he'd performed wonderfully, and the law students were full of compliments. The mood was optimistic. Adam thanked them for their help. Goodman and Glass were at the far end of the table, lost in a conversation about another death row case. Time passed slowly, and Adam attacked his dinner when it arrived.
"This is probably not a good time to bring this up," Hez said out of the corner of his mouth. He wanted no one to hear but Adam. The band was even louder now.
"I guess you'll go back to Chicago when this is over," he said, looking at Goodman to make sure he was still engaged with Glass.
"I guess so," Adam said, without conviction. He'd had little time to think past tomorrow.
"Well, just so you'll know, there's an opening in our office. One of my guys is going into private practice, and we're looking for a new lawyer. It's nothing but death work, you know."
"You're right," Adam said quietly. "This is a lousy time to bring it up."
"It's tough work, but it's satisfying. It's also heartbreaking. And necessary." Hez chewed on a bite of sausage, and washed it down with beer. "The money is lousy, compared with what you're making with the firm. Tight budget, long hours, lots of clients."
"How much?"
"I can start you at thirty thousand."
"I'm making sixty-two right now. With more on the way."
"I've been there. I was making seventy with a big firm in D.C. when I gave it up to come here. I was on the fast track to a partnership, but it was easy to quit. Money's not everything."
"You enjoy this?"
"It grows on you. It takes strong moral convictions to fight the system like this. Just think about it."
Goodman was now looking their way. "Are you driving to Parchman tonight?" he asked loudly.
Adam was finishing his second beer. He wanted a third, but no more. Exhaustion was rapidly setting in. "No. I'll wait until we hear something in the morning."
They ate and drank and listened to Goodman and Glass and Kerry tell war stories of other executions. The beer flowed, and the atmosphere went from optimism to outright confidence.
Sam lay in the darkness and waited for midnight. He'd watched the late news and learned that the hearing was over, and that the clock was still ticking. There was no stay. His life was in the hands of a federal judge.
At one minute after midnight, he closed his eyes and said a prayer. He asked God to help Lee with her troubles, to be with Carmen, and to give Adam the strength to survive the inevitable.
He had twenty-four hours to live. He folded his hands over his chest, and fell asleep.
