Three Classic Thrillers (105 page)

“I’ve studied his entire file.”

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

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

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

“Understandable, isn’t it? I mean, he’s been in solitary for almost ten years.”

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

“No.”

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

“I don’t think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I’m not a law student.”

“Sam Cayhall has effectively terminated our services, Mr. Hall. You don’t seem to realize this.”

“I want the chance to meet with him.”

“For what?”

“I think I can convince him to allow me to represent him.”

“Oh really.”

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

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

“I’m listening.”

“Do I have your word?”

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

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

Goodman did not flinch. “I see. Related how?”

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

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

“Eddie Cayhall was my father.”

Goodman hesitated slightly. “Sam Cayhall is your grandfather?”

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

“Wow.”

“You promised not to tell.”

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

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

“Damn, damn, damn,” Goodman mumbled to himself.

“There’s a lot to it, Mr. Goodman. It’s a pretty sick family.”

“Not your fault.”

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

“Your father was different.”

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

“And you were seventeen?”

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

“I’m glad you approve.”

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

“And you think Sam will trust you as his lawyer?”

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

“There’s been no contact—”

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

“It’s understandable.”

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

“You should’ve told someone up front about this, before we hired you.”

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

“You should’ve said something.”

“They won’t fire me, will they?”

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

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

“Silly, isn’t it?”

“I’m tough.” Adam opened a slit in the blinds for a better view of the lake. Goodman watched him.

“Why don’t you open these blinds?” Adam asked. “It’s a great view.”

“I’ve seen it before.”

“I’d kill for a view like this. My little cubbyhole is a mile from any window.”

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

“Not me.”

“Leaving us, Mr. Hall?”

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

“So after nine months you’re already disillusioned with Kravitz & Bane.”

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

“Then you’re certainly in the wrong place.”

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

“Anything else?”

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

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

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

“He’ll be dead in three months, if not sooner.”

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

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

“He has a horrible reputation.”

“Well deserved. But I can talk to him.”

“He’ll do it if you and Wycoff recommend it, won’t he?”

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

“A little.”

“Let’s go out for a sandwich.”

______

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

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

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

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

“There are the usual assortment of last ditch motions.”

“Let’s save the strategy talks for later. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to Parchman.”

“No. Since I learned the truth, I’ve been tempted to return to Mississippi, but it hasn’t happened.”

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

“Sounds like a wonderful place.”

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

“I’d like to see the Row.”

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

“He is a complete stranger.”

“How do you intend to tell him—”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I’m sure it’ll just happen.”

Goodman shook his head. “This is bizarre.”

“The whole family is bizarre.”

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

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

“Where’s your mother?”

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

“How’d you afford Pepperdine?”

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

“Sam never talked about his family.”

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

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

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

“She knows?”

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