Three Classic Thrillers (104 page)

There was a jury of eight whites and four blacks. There were the glass sample, the fuse, the FBI reports, and all the other photos and exhibits from the first two trials.

And then, there was the testimony of Jeremiah Dogan, who took the stand in a denim workshirt and with a humble countenance solemnly explained to the jury how he conspired with Sam Cayhall sitting over there to bomb the office of Mr. Kramer. Sam glared at him intensely and absorbed every word, but Dogan looked away. Sam’s lawyer berated Dogan for half a day, and forced him to admit that he’d cut a deal with the government. But the damage was done.

It was of no benefit to the defense of Sam Cayhall to raise the issue of Rollie Wedge. Because to do so would be to admit that Sam in fact had been in Greenville with the bomb. Sam would be forced to admit that he was a co-conspirator, and under the law he would be just as guilty as the man who planted the dynamite. And to present this scenario to the jury, Sam would be forced to testify, something neither he nor his attorney wanted. Sam could not withstand a rigorous cross-examination,
because Sam would be forced to tell one lie to cover the last.

And, at this point, no one would believe a sudden tale of a mysterious new terrorist who’d never been mentioned before, and who came and went without being seen. Sam knew the Rollie Wedge angle was futile, and he never mentioned the man’s name to his own lawyer.

______

At the close of the trial, David McAllister stood before the jury in a packed courtroom and presented his closing argument. He talked of being a youngster in Greenville and having Jewish friends. He didn’t know they were different. He knew some of the Kramers, fine folks who worked hard and gave back to the town. He also played with little black kids, and learned they made wonderful friends. He never understood why they went to one school and he went to another. He told a gripping story of feeling the earth shake on the morning of April 21, 1967, and running in the direction of downtown where smoke was drifting upward. For three hours, he stood behind the police barricades and waited. He saw the firemen scurry about when they found Marvin Kramer. He saw them huddle in the debris when they found the boys. Tears dripped down his cheeks when the little bodies, covered in white sheets, were carried slowly to an ambulance.

It was a splendid performance, and when McAllister finished the courtroom was silent. Several of the jurors dabbed at their eyes.

______

On February 12, 1981, Sam Cayhall was convicted on two counts of capital murder and one count of attempted murder. Two days later, the same jury in the same courtroom returned with a sentencing verdict of death.

He was transported to the state penitentiary at Parchman to begin waiting for his appointment with the gas chamber. On February 19, 1981, he first set foot on death row.

T
he 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 résumé—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 résumé, 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 white-collar 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.”