Three Classic Thrillers (121 page)

“What time did you leave Greenville?”

“I had planned to leave after the bomb went off. But, as you know, it was several months before I actually made it out of town.”

“Where did you go when you left Kramer’s office?”

“I found a little coffee shop on the highway, a half mile or so from Kramer’s office.”

“Why’d you go there?”

“To drink coffee.”

“What time was it?”

“I don’t know. Around four-thirty or so.”

“Was it crowded?”

“A handful of people. Just your run-of-the-mill all-night diner with a fat cook in a dirty tee shirt and a waitress who smacked her chewing gum.”

“Did you talk to anybody?”

“I spoke to the waitress when I ordered my coffee. Maybe I had a doughnut.”

“And you were having a nice cup of coffee, just minding your own business, waiting for the bomb to go off.”

“Yeah. I always liked to hear the bombs go off and watch the people react.”

“So you’d done this before?”

“A couple of times. In February of that year I bombed the real estate office in Jackson—Jews had sold a house to some niggers in a white section—and I had just sat down in a diner not three blocks away when the bomb went off. I was using a fuse then, so I had to hustle away and park real fast and find a table. The girl had just sat my coffee down when the ground shook and everybody froze. I really liked that. It was four in the morning and the place was packed with truckers and deliverymen, even had a few cops over in a corner, and of course they ran to their cars and sped away with lights blazing. My table shook so hard that coffee spilled from my cup.”

“And that gave you a real thrill?”

“Yes, it did. But the other jobs were too risky. I didn’t have the time to find a café or diner, so I just sort of rode around for a few minutes waiting for the fun. I’d check my watch closely, so I always knew about when it would hit. If I was in the car, I liked to be on the edge of town, you know.” Sam paused and took a long puff from his cigarette. His words were slow and careful. His eyes danced a bit as he talked
about his adventures, but his words were measured. “I did watch the Pinder bombing,” he added.

“And how’d you do that?”

“They lived in a big house in the suburbs, lots of trees, sort of in a valley. I parked on the side of a hill about a mile away, and I was sitting under a tree when it went off.”

“How peaceful.”

“It really was. Full moon, cool night. I had a great view of the street, and I could see almost all of the roof. It was so calm and peaceful, everyone was asleep, then, boom, blew that roof to hell and back.”

“What was Mr. Pinder’s sin?”

“Just overall general Jewishness. Loved niggers. Always embraced the radical Africans when they came down from the North and agitated everybody. He loved to march and boycott with the Africans. We suspected he was financing a lot of their activities.”

Adam made notes and tried to absorb all of this. It was hard to digest because it was almost impossible to believe. Perhaps the death penalty was not such a bad idea after all. “Back to Greenville. Where was this coffee shop located?”

“Don’t remember.”

“What was it called?”

“It was twenty-three years ago. And it was not the kind of place you’d want to remember.”

“Was it on Highway 82?”

“I think so. What are you gonna do? Spend your time digging for the fat cook and the tacky waitress? Are you doubting my story?”

“Yes. I’m doubting your story.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t tell me where you learned to make a bomb with a timing detonator.”

“In the garage behind my house.”

“In Clanton?”

“Out from Clanton. It’s not that difficult.”

“Who taught you?”

“I taught myself. I had a drawing, a little booklet with diagrams and such. Steps one, two, three. It was no big deal.”

“How many times did you practice with such a device before Kramer?”

“Once.”

“Where? When?”

“In the woods not far from my house. I took two sticks of dynamite and the necessary paraphernalia, and I went to a little creek bed deep in the woods. It worked perfectly.”

“Of course. And you did all this study and research in your garage?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Your own little laboratory.”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“Well, the FBI conducted a thorough search of your house, garage, and premises while you were in custody. They didn’t find a trace of evidence of explosives.”

“Maybe they’re stupid. Maybe I was real careful and didn’t leave a trail.”

“Or maybe the bomb was planted by someone with experience in explosives.”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“How long did you stay in the coffee shop in Greenville?”

“A helluva long time. Five o’clock came and went. Then it was almost six. I left a few minutes before six and drove by Kramer’s office. The place looked fine. Some of the early risers were out and about, and I didn’t want to be seen. I crossed the river and drove to Lake Village, Arkansas, then returned to Greenville. It was seven by then, sun was up and people were moving around.
No explosion. I parked the car on a side street, and walked around for a while. The damned thing wouldn’t go off. I couldn’t go in after it, you know. I walked and walked, listening hard, hoping the ground would shake. Nothing happened.”

“Did you see Marvin Kramer and his sons go into the building?”

“No. I turned a corner and saw his car parked, and I thought dammit! I went blank. I couldn’t think. But then I thought, what the hell, he’s just a Jew and he’s done many evil things. Then, I thought about secretaries and other people who might work in there, so I walked around the block again. I remember looking at my watch when it was twenty minutes before eight, and I had this thought that maybe I should make an anonymous phone call to the office and tell Kramer that there was a bomb in the closet. And if he didn’t believe me, then he could go look at it, then he could haul ass.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t have a dime. I’d left all my change as a tip for the waitress, and I didn’t want to walk into a store and ask for change. I have to tell you I was real nervous. My hands were shaking, and I didn’t want to act suspicious in front of anybody. I was a stranger, right? That was my bomb in there, right? I was in a small town where everybody knows everyone, and they damned sure remember strangers when there’s a crime. I remember walking down the sidewalk, just across the street from Kramer’s, and in front of a barbershop there was a newspaper rack, and this man was fumbling in his pocket for change. I almost asked him for a dime so I could make a quick call, but I was too nervous.”

“Why were you nervous, Sam? You just said you
didn’t care if Kramer got hurt. This was your sixth bombing, right?”

“Yeah, but the others were easy. Light the fuse, hit the door, and wait a few minutes. I kept thinking about that cute little secretary in Kramer’s office, the one who’d shown me to the rest room. The same one who later testified at trial. And I kept thinking about the other people who worked in his office because when I went in that day I saw people everywhere. It was almost eight o’clock, and I knew the place opened in a few minutes. I knew a lot of people were about to get killed. My mind stopped working. I remember standing beside a phone booth a block away, staring at my watch, then staring at the phone, telling myself that I had to make the call. I finally stepped inside and looked up the number, but by the time I closed the book I’d forgotten it. So I looked it up again, and I started to dial when I remembered I didn’t have a dime. So I made up my mind to go into the barbershop to get some change. My legs were heavy and I was sweatin’ like hell. I walked to the barbershop, and I stopped at the plate glass window and looked in. It was packed. They were lined up against the wall, talking and reading papers, and there was a row of chairs, all filled with men talking at the same time. I remember a couple of them looked at me, then one or two more began to stare, so I walked away.”

“Where did you go?”

“I’m not sure. There was an office next door to Kramer’s, and I remember seeing a car park in front of it. I thought maybe it was a secretary or someone about to go into Kramer’s, and I think I was walking toward the car when the bomb went off.”

“So you were across the street?”

“I think so. I remember rocking on my hands and
knees in the street as glass and debris fell all around me. But I don’t remember much after that.”

There was a slight knock on the door from the outside, then Sergeant Packer appeared with a large Styrofoam cup, a paper napkin, a stir stick, and creamer. “Thought you might need a little coffee. Sorry to butt in.” He placed the cup and accessories on the counter.

“Thanks,” Adam said.

Packer quickly turned and headed for the door.

“I’ll take two sugars, one cream,” Sam said from the other side.

“Yes sir,” Packer snapped without slowing. He was gone.

“Good service around here,” Adam said.

“Wonderful, just wonderful.”

S
am, of course, was not served coffee. He knew this immediately, but Adam did not. And so after waiting a few minutes, Sam said, “Drink it.” He himself lit another cigarette, and paced around a bit behind his chair while Adam stirred the sugar with the plastic stick. It was almost eleven, and Sam had missed his hour out, and he had no confidence that Packer would find the time to make it up. He paced and squatted a few times, performed a half dozen deep bends, knees cracking and joints popping as he rose and sank unsteadily. During the first few months of his first year on the Row, he had grown quite disciplined with his exercise. At one point, he was doing a hundred push-ups and a hundred sit-ups in his cell each day, every day. His weight fell to a perfect one hundred and sixty pounds as the low-fat diet took its course. His stomach was flat and hard. He had never been so healthy.

Not long afterward, however, came the realization that the Row would be his final home, and that the state would one day kill him here. What’s the benefit of good health and tight biceps when one is locked up twenty-three hours a day waiting to die? The exercise slowly stopped. The smoking intensified. Among his comrades, Sam was considered a lucky man, primarily because he had outside money. A younger brother, Donnie, lived in North Carolina and once a month shipped to Sam a cardboard box packed neatly with ten cartons of Montclair cigarettes. Sam averaged between three and four packs a day. He wanted to kill
himself before the state got around to it. And he preferred to go by way of some protracted illness or affliction, some disease that would require expensive treatment which the State of Mississippi would be constitutionally bound to provide.

It looked as though he would lose the race.

The federal judge who had assumed control of Parchman through a prisoners’ rights suit had issued sweeping orders overhauling fundamental correction procedures. He had carefully defined the rights of prisoners. And he had set forth minor details, such as the square footage of each cell on the Row and the amount of money each inmate could possess. Twenty dollars was the maximum. It was referred to as “dust,” and it always came from the outside. Death row inmates were not allowed to work and earn money. The lucky ones received a few dollars a month from relatives and friends. They could spend it in a canteen located in the middle of MSU. Soft drinks were known as “bottle-ups.” Candy and snacks were “zu-zus” and “wham-whams.” Real cigarettes in packages were “tight-legs” and “ready-rolls.”

The majority of the inmates received nothing from the outside. They traded, swapped, and bartered, and gathered enough coins to purchase loose leaf tobacco which they rolled into thin papers and smoked slowly. Sam was indeed a lucky man.

He took his seat and lit another one.

“Why didn’t you testify at trial?” his lawyer asked through the screen.

“Which trial?”

“Good point. The first two trials.”

“Didn’t need to. Brazelton picked good juries, all white, good sympathetic people who understood things. I knew I wouldn’t be convicted by those people. There was no need to testify.”

“And the last trial?”

“That’s a little more complicated. Keyes and I discussed it many times. He at first thought it might help, because I could explain to the jury what my intentions were. Nobody was supposed to get hurt, etc. The bomb was supposed to go off at 5 a.m. But we knew the cross-examination would be brutal. The judge had already ruled that the other bombings could be discussed to show certain things. I would be forced to admit that I did in fact plant the bomb, all fifteen sticks, which of course was more than enough to kill people.”

“So why didn’t you testify?”

“Dogan. That lying bastard told the jury that our plan was to kill the Jew. He was a very effective witness. I mean, think about it, here was the former Imperial Wizard of the Mississippi Klan testifying for the prosecution against one of his own men. It was stout stuff. The jury ate it up.”

“Why did Dogan lie?”

“Jerry Dogan went crazy, Adam. I mean, really crazy. The Feds pursued him for fifteen years—bugged his phones, followed his wife around town, harassed his kinfolks, threatened his children, knocked on his door at all hours of the night. His life was miserable. Someone was always watching and listening. Then, he got sloppy, and the IRS stepped in. They, along with the FBI, told him he was looking at thirty years. Dogan cracked under the pressure. After my trial, I heard he was sent away for a while. You know, to an institution. He got some treatment, returned home, and died not long after.”

“Dogan’s dead?”

Sam froze in mid-puff. Smoke leaked from his mouth and curled upward past his nose and in front of his eyes, which at the moment were staring in disbelief
through the opening and into those of his grandson. “You don’t know about Dogan?” he asked.

Adam’s memory blitzed through the countless articles and stories which he’d collected and indexed. He shook his head. “No. What happened to Dogan?”

“I thought you knew everything,” Sam said. “Thought you’d memorized everything about me.”