Three Classic Thrillers (131 page)

“Do you think it was deliberately set to go off when it did?”

“The jury thought so. Dogan said they planned to kill Marvin Kramer.”

“Then why was Sam hanging around? Why was he close enough to the bomb to get hit with debris?”

“You’ll have to ask Sam, which I’m sure you’ve already done. Does he claim he had an accomplice?”

“No.”

“Then that settles it. If your own client says no, what the hell are you digging for?”

“Because I think my client is lying.”

“Too bad for your client, then. If he wants to lie and protect the identity of someone, then why should you care?”

“Why would he lie to me?”

Lettner shook his head in frustration, then mumbled something and took a drink. “How the hell am I supposed to know? I don’t want to know, okay? I honestly don’t care if Sam’s lying or if Sam’s telling the truth. But if he won’t level with you, his lawyer and his own grandson, then I say gas him.”

Adam took a long drink and stared into the darkness. He actually felt silly at times digging around trying to prove his own client was lying to him. He’d give this another shot, then talk about something else. “You don’t believe the witnesses who saw Sam with another person?”

“No. They were pretty shaky, as I recall. The guy at the truck stop didn’t come forward for a long time. The other guy had just left a honky-tonk. They weren’t credible.”

“Do you believe Dogan?”

“The jury did.”

“I didn’t ask about the jury.”

Lettner’s breathing was finally getting heavy, and he appeared to be fading. “Dogan was crazy, and Dogan was a genius. He said the bomb was intended to kill, and I believe him. Keep in mind, Adam, they almost wiped out an entire family in Vicksburg. I can’t remember the name—”

“Pinder. And you keep saying
they
did this and that.”

“I’m just playing along, okay. We’re assuming Sam had a buddy with him. They planted a bomb at the Pinder house in the middle of the night. An entire family could’ve been killed.”

“Sam said he placed the bomb in the garage so no one would get hurt.”

“Sam told you this? Sam admitted he did it? Then why in the hell are you asking me about an accomplice? Sounds like you need to listen to your client. Son of a bitch is guilty, Adam. Listen to him.”

Adam took another drink and his eyelids grew heavier. He looked at his watch, but couldn’t see it. “Tell me about the tapes,” he said, yawning.

“What tapes?” Lettner asked, yawning.

“The FBI tapes they played at Sam’s trial. The ones with Dogan talking to Wayne Graves about bombing Kramer.”

“We had lots of tapes. And they had lots of targets. Kramer was just one of many. Hell, we had a tape with two Kluckers talking about bombing a synagogue while a wedding was in progress. They wanted to bolt the doors and shoot some gas through the heating ducts so the entire congregation would be wiped out. Sick bastards, man. It wasn’t Dogan, just a couple of his idiots talking trash, and so we dismissed it. Wayne
Graves was a Klucker who was also on our payroll, and he allowed us to tap his phones. He called Dogan one night, said he was on a pay phone, and they got to talking about hitting Kramer. They also talked about other targets. It was very effective at Sam’s trial. But the tapes did not help us stop a single bombing. Nor did they help us identify Sam.”

“You had no idea Sam Cayhall was involved?”

“None whatsoever. If the fool had left Greenville when he should have, he’d probably still be a free man.”

“Did Kramer know he was a target?”

“We told him. But by then he was accustomed to threats. He kept a guard at his house.” His words were starting to slur a bit, and his chin had dropped an inch or two.

Adam excused himself and cautiously made his way to the bathroom. As he returned to the porch, he heard heavy snoring. Lettner had slumped in his chair and collapsed with the drink in his hand. Adam removed it, then left in search of a sofa.

T
he late morning was warm but seemed downright feverish in the front of the Army surplus jeep, which lacked air conditioning and other essentials. Adam sweated and kept his hand on the handle of the door which he hoped would open promptly in the event Irene’s breakfast came roaring up.

He had awakened on the floor beside a narrow sofa in a room which he had mistaken for the den, but was in fact the washroom beside the kitchen. And the sofa was a bench, Lettner had explained with much laughter, that he used to sit on to take off his boots. Irene had eventually found his body after searching the house, and Adam apologized profusely until they both asked him to stop. She had insisted on a heavy breakfast. It was their one day of the week to eat pork, a regular tradition around the Lettner cottage, and Adam had sat at the kitchen table guzzling ice water while the bacon fried and Irene hummed and Wyn read the paper. She also scrambled eggs and mixed bloody marys.

The vodka deadened some of the pain in his head, but it also did nothing to calm his stomach. As they bounced toward Calico Rock on the bumpy road, Adam was terrified that he would be sick.

Though Lettner had passed out first, he was remarkably healthy this morning. No sign of a hangover. He’d eaten a plate full of grease and biscuits, and he’d sipped only one bloody mary. He’d diligently read the paper and commented about this and that, and Adam
figured he was one of those functional alcoholics who got plastered every night but shook it off easily.

The village was in view. The road was suddenly smoother and Adam’s stomach stopped bouncing. “Sorry about last night,” Lettner said.

“What?” Adam asked.

“About Sam. I was harsh. I know he’s your grandfather and you’re very concerned. I lied about something. I really don’t want Sam to be executed. He’s not a bad guy.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Yeah. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

They entered the town and turned toward the bridge. “There’s something else,” Lettner said. “We always suspected Sam had a partner.”

Adam smiled and looked through his window. They passed a small church with elderly people standing under a shade tree in their pretty dresses and neat suits.

“Why?” Adam asked.

“For the same reasons. Sam had no history with bombs. He had not been involved in Klan violence. The two witnesses, especially the truck driver in Cleveland, always bothered us. The trucker had no reason to lie, and he seemed awfully certain of himself. Sam just didn’t seem like the type to start his own bombing campaign.”

“So who’s the man?”

“I honestly don’t know.” They rolled to a stop by the river, and Adam opened his door just in case. Lettner leaned on the steering wheel, and cocked his head toward Adam. “After the third or fourth bombing, I think maybe it was the synagogue in Jackson, some big Jews in New York and Washington met with LBJ, who in turn called in Mr. Hoover, who in turn called me. I went to D.C., where I met with Mr. Hoover and the President, and they pretty much crawled
my ass. I returned to Mississippi with renewed determination. We came down hard on our informants. I mean, we hurt some people. We tried everything, but to no avail. Our sources simply did not know who was doing the bombing. Only Dogan knew, and it was obvious he wasn’t telling anybody. But after the fifth bomb, which I think was the newspaper office, we got a break.”

Lettner opened his door and walked to the front of the jeep. Adam joined him there, and they watched the river ease along through Calico Rock. “You wanna beer? I keep it cold in the bait shop.”

“No, please. I’m half-sick now.”

“Just kidding. Anyway, Dogan ran this huge used car lot, and one of his employees was an illiterate old black man who washed the cars and swept the floors. We had carefully approached the old man earlier, but he was hostile. But out of the blue he tells one of our agents that he saw Dogan and another man putting something in the trunk of a green Pontiac a couple of days earlier. He said he waited, then opened the trunk and saw it was dynamite. The next day he heard that there was another bombing. He knew the FBI was swarming all around Dogan, so he figured it was worth mentioning to us. Dogan’s helper was a Klucker named Virgil, also an employee. So I went to see Virgil. I knocked on his door at three o’clock one morning, just beat it like hell, you know, like we always did in those days, and before long he turned on the light and stepped on the porch. I had about eight agents with me, and we all stuck our badges in Virgil’s face. He was scared to death. I told him we knew he had delivered the dynamite to Jackson the night before, and that he was looking at thirty years. You could hear his wife crying through the screen door. Virgil was shaking and ready to cry himself. I left him my card with instructions
to call me before noon that very day, and I threatened him if he told Dogan or anybody else. I told him we’d be watching him around the clock.

“I doubt if Virgil went back to sleep. His eyes were red and puffy when he found me a few hours later. We got to be friends. He said the bombings were not the work of Dogan’s usual gang. He didn’t know much, but he’d heard enough from Dogan to believe that the bomber was a very young man from another state. This guy had dropped in from nowhere, and was supposed to be very good with explosives. Dogan picked the targets, planned the jobs, then called this guy, who sneaked into town, carried out the bombings, then disappeared.”

“Did you believe him?”

“For the most part, yes. It just made sense. It had to be someone new, because by then we had riddled the Klan with informants. We knew virtually every move they made.”

“What happened to Virgil?”

“I spent some time with him, gave him some money, you know, the usual routine. They always wanted money. I became convinced he had no idea who was planting the bombs. He would never admit that he’d been involved, that he’d delivered the cars and dynamite, and we didn’t press him. We weren’t after him.”

“Was he involved with Kramer?”

“No. Dogan used someone else for that one. At times, Dogan seemed to have a sixth sense about when to mix things up, to change routines.”

“Virgil’s suspect certainly doesn’t sound like Sam Cayhall, does he?” Adam asked.

“No.”

“And you had no suspects?”

“No.”

“Come on, Wyn. Surely you guys had some idea.”

“I swear. We did not. Shortly after we met Virgil, Kramer got bombed and it was all over. If Sam had a buddy, then the buddy left him.”

“And the FBI heard nothing afterward?”

“Not a peep. We had Sam, who looked and smelled extremely guilty.”

“And, of course, you guys were anxious to close the case.”

“Certainly. And the bombings stopped, remember. There were no bombings after Sam got caught, don’t forget that. We had our man. Mr. Hoover was happy. The Jews were happy. The President was happy. Then they couldn’t convict him for fourteen years, but that was a different story. Everyone was relieved when the bombings stopped.”

“So why didn’t Dogan squeal on the real bomber when he squealed on Sam?”

They had eased down the bank to a point just inches above the water. Adam’s car sat nearby. Lettner cleared his throat and spat into the river. “Would you testify against a terrorist who was not in custody?”

Adam thought for a second. Lettner smiled, flashed his big yellow teeth, then chuckled as he started for the dock. “Let’s have a beer.”

“No. Please. I need to go.”

Lettner stopped, and they shook hands and promised to meet again. Adam invited him to Memphis, and Lettner invited him back to Calico Rock for more fishing and drinking. At the moment, his invitation was not well received. Adam sent his regards to Irene, apologized again for passing out in the washroom, and thanked him again for the chat.

He left the small town behind, driving gingerly around the curves and hills, still careful not to upset his stomach.

______

Lee was struggling with a pasta dish when he entered her apartment. The table was set with china and silver and fresh flowers. The recipe was for baked manicotti, and things were not going well in the kitchen. On more than one occasion in the past week she’d confessed to being a lousy cook, and now she was proving it. Pots and pans were scattered along the countertops. Her seldom used apron was covered with tomato sauce. She laughed as they kissed each other on the cheeks and said there was a frozen pizza if matters got worse.

“You look awful,” she said, suddenly staring at his eyes.

“It was a rough night.”

“You smell like alcohol.”

“I had two bloody marys for breakfast. And I need another one now.”

“The bar’s closed.” She picked up a knife and stepped to a pile of vegetables. A zucchini was the next victim. “What did you do up there?”

“Got drunk with the FBI man. Slept on the floor next to his washer and dryer.”

“How nice.” She came within a centimeter of drawing blood. She jerked her hand away from the chopping block and examined a finger. “Have you seen the Memphis paper?”

“No. Should I?”

“Yes. It’s over there.” She nodded to a corner of the snack bar.

“Something bad?”

“Just read it.”

Adam took the Sunday edition of the Memphis Press and sat in a chair at the table. On the front page of the second section, he suddenly encountered his smiling face. It was a familiar photo, one taken not long ago when he was a second-year law student at Michigan.
The story covered half the page, and his photo was joined by many others—Sam, of course, Marvin Kramer, Josh and John Kramer, Ruth Kramer, David McAllister, the Attorney General, Steve Roxburgh, Naifeh, Jeremiah Dogan, and Mr. Elliot Kramer, father of Marvin.

Todd Marks had been busy. His narrative began with a succinct history of the case which took an entire column, then he moved quickly to the present and recapped the same story he’d written two days earlier. He found a bit more biographical data on Adam—college at Pepperdine, law school at Michigan, law review editor, brief employment history with Kravitz & Bane. Naifeh had very little to say, only that the execution would be carried out according to the law. McAllister, on the other hand, was full of wisdom. He had lived with the Kramer nightmare for twenty-three years, he said gravely, thinking about it every day of his life since it happened. It had been his honor and privilege to prosecute Sam Cayhall and bring the killer to justice, and only the execution could close this awful chapter of Mississippi’s history. No, he said after much thought, the idea of clemency was out of the question. Just wouldn’t be fair to the little Kramer boys. And on and on.