Three Classic Thrillers (132 page)

Steve Roxburgh had evidently enjoyed his interview too. He stood ready to fight the final efforts by Cayhall and his lawyer to thwart the execution. He and his staff were prepared to work eighteen hours a day to carry out the wishes of the people. This matter had dragged on long enough, he was quoted as saying more than once, and it was time for justice. No, he was not worried about the last ditch legal challenges of Mr. Cayhall. He had confidence in his skills as a lawyer, the people’s lawyer.

Sam Cayhall refused to comment, Marks explained,
and Adam Hall couldn’t be reached, as if Adam was eager to talk but simply couldn’t be found.

The comments from the family were both interesting and disheartening. Elliot Kramer, now seventy-seven and still working, was described as spry and healthy in spite of heart trouble. He was also very bitter. He blamed the Klan and Sam Cayhall not only for killing his two grandsons, but also for Marvin’s death. He’d been waiting twenty-three years for Sam to be executed, and it couldn’t come a minute too soon. He lashed out at a judicial system that allows a convict to live for almost ten years after the jury gives him a death penalty. He was not certain if he would witness the execution, it would be up to his doctors, he said, but he wanted to. He wanted to be there and look Cayhall in the eyes when they strapped him in.

Ruth Kramer was a bit more moderate. Time had healed many of the wounds, she said, and she was unsure how she would feel after the execution. Nothing would bring back her sons. She had little to say to Todd Marks.

Adam folded the paper and placed it beside the chair. He suddenly had a knot in his fragile stomach, and it came from Steve Roxburgh and David McAllister. As the lawyer expected to save Sam’s life, it was frightening to see his enemies so eager for the final battle. He was a rookie. They were veterans. Roxburgh in particular had been through it before, and he had an experienced staff which included a renowned specialist known as Dr. Death, a skilled advocate with a passion for executions. Adam had nothing but an exhausted file full of unsuccessful appeals, and a prayer that a miracle would happen. At this moment he felt completely vulnerable and hopeless.

Lee sat next to him with a cup of espresso. “You look worried,” she said, stroking his arm.

“My buddy at the trout dock was of no help.”

“Sounds like old man Kramer is hell-bent.”

Adam rubbed his temples and tried to ease the pain. “I need a painkiller.”

“How about a Valium?”

“Wonderful.”

“Are you real hungry?”

“No. My stomach is not doing well.”

“Good. Dinner has been terminated. A slight problem with the recipe. It’s frozen pizza or nothing.”

“Nothing sounds good to me. Nothing but a Valium.”

A
dam dropped his keys in the red bucket and watched it ascend to a point twenty feet off the ground where it stopped and spun slowly on the end of the rope. He walked to the first gate, which jerked before sliding open. He walked to the second gate, and waited. Packer emerged from the front door a hundred feet away, stretching and yawning as if he’d been napping on the Row.

The second gate closed behind him, and Packer waited nearby. “Good day,” he said. It was almost two, the hottest time of the day. A morning radio forecaster had merrily predicted the first one-hundred-degree day of the year.

“Hello, Sergeant,” Adam said as if they were old friends now. They walked along the brick path to the small door with the weeds in front of it. Packer unlocked it, and Adam stepped inside.

“I’ll get Sam,” Packer said, in no hurry, and disappeared.

The chairs on his side of the metal screen were scattered about. Two were flipped over, as if the lawyers and visitors had been brawling. Adam pulled one close to the counter at the far end, as far as possible from the air conditioner.

He removed a copy of the petition he’d filed at nine that morning. By law, no claim or issue could be raised in federal court unless it had first been presented and denied in state court. The petition attacking the gas chamber had been filed in the Mississippi Supreme
Court under the state’s postconviction relief statutes. It was a formality, in Adam’s opinion, and in the opinion of Garner Goodman. Goodman had worked on the claim throughout the weekend. In fact, he’d worked all day Saturday while Adam was drinking beer and trout fishing with Wyn Lettner.

Sam arrived as usual, hands cuffed behind his back, no expression on his face, red jumpsuit unbuttoned almost to the waist. The gray hair on his pale chest was slick with perspiration. Like a well-trained animal, he turned his back to Packer, who quickly removed the cuffs, then left through the door. Sam immediately went for the cigarettes, and made certain one was lit before he sat down and said, “Welcome back.”

“I filed this at nine this morning,” Adam said, sliding the petition through the narrow slit in the screen. “I talked to the clerk with the supreme court in Jackson. She seemed to think the court will rule on it with due speed.”

Sam took the papers, and looked at Adam. “You can bet on that. They’ll deny it with great pleasure.”

“The state will be required to respond immediately, so we’ve got the Attorney General scrambling right now.”

“Great. We can watch the latest on the evening news. He’s probably invited the cameras into his office while they prepare their response.”

Adam removed his jacket and loosened his tie. The room was humid and he was already sweating. “Does the name Wyn Lettner ring a bell?”

Sam tossed the petition onto an empty chair and sucked hard on the filter. He released a steady stream of exhaust at the ceiling. “Yes. Why?”

“Did you ever meet him?”

Sam thought about this for a moment, before speaking, and, as usual, spoke with measured words.
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I knew who he was at the time. Why?”

“I found him over the weekend. He’s retired now, and runs a trout dock on the White River. We had a long talk.”

“That’s nice. And what exactly did you accomplish?”

“He says he still thinks you had someone working with you.”

“Did he give you any names?”

“No. They never had a suspect, or so he says. But they had an informant, one of Dogan’s people, who told Lettner that the other guy was someone new, not one of the usual gang. They thought he was from another state, and that he was very young. That’s all Lettner knew.”

“And you believe this?”

“I don’t know what I believe.”

“What difference does it make now?”

“I don’t know. It could give me something to use as I try to save your life. Nothing more than that. I’m desperate, I guess.”

“And I’m not?”

“I’m grasping for straws, Sam. Grasping and filling in holes.”

“So my story has holes?”

“I think so. Lettner said he was always doubtful because they found no trace of explosives when they searched your house. And you had no history of using them. He said you didn’t seem to be the type to initiate your own bombing campaign.”

“And you believe everything Lettner says?”

“Yeah. Because it makes sense.”

“Let me ask you this. What if I told you there was someone else? What if I gave you his name, address,
phone number, blood type, and urine analysis? What would you do with it?”

“Start screaming like hell. I’d file motions and appeals by the truckload. I’d get the media stirred up, and make a scapegoat out of you. I’d try to sensationalize your innocence and hope someone noticed, someone like an appellate judge.”

Sam nodded slowly as if this was quite ridiculous and exactly what he’d expected. “It wouldn’t work, Adam,” he said carefully, as if lecturing to a child. “I have three and a half weeks. You know the law. There’s no way to start screaming John Doe did it, when John Doe has never been mentioned.”

“I know. But I’d do it anyway.”

“It won’t work. Stop trying to find John Doe.”

“Who is he?”

“He doesn’t exist.”

“Yes he does.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because I want to believe you’re innocent, Sam. It’s very important to me.”

“I told you I’m innocent. I planted the bomb, but I had no intention of killing anyone.”

“But why’d you plant the bomb? Why’d you bomb the Pinder house, and the synagogue, and the real estate office? Why were you bombing innocent people?”

Sam just puffed and looked at the floor.

“Why do you hate, Sam? Why does it come so easy? Why were you taught to hate blacks and Jews and Catholics and anyone slightly different from you? Have you ever asked yourself why?”

“No. Don’t plan to.”

“So, it’s just you, right. It’s your character, your composition, same as your height and blue eyes. It’s something you were born with and can’t change. It was passed down in the genes from your father and grandfather,
faithful Kluckers all, and it’s something you’ll proudly take to your grave, right?”

“It was a way of life. It was all I knew.”

“Then what happened to my father? Why couldn’t you contaminate Eddie?”

Sam thumped the cigarette onto the floor and leaned forward on his elbows. The wrinkles tightened in the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. Adam’s face was directly through the slit, but he did not look at him. Instead, he stared down at the base of the screen. “So this is it. Time for our Eddie talk.” His voice was much softer and his words even slower.

“Where did you go wrong with him?”

“This, of course, has not a damned thing to do with the little gas party they’re planning for me. Does it? Nothing to do with issues and appeals, lawyers and judges, motions and stays. This is a waste of time.”

“Don’t be a coward, Sam. Tell me where you went wrong with Eddie. Did you teach him the word nigger? Did you teach him to hate little black kids? Did you try to teach him how to burn crosses or build bombs? Did you take him to his first lynching? What did you do with him, Sam? Where did you go wrong?”

“Eddie didn’t know I was in the Klan until he was in high school.”

“Why not? Surely you weren’t ashamed of it. It was a great source of family pride, wasn’t it?”

“It was not something we talked about.”

“Why not? You were the fourth generation of Cayhall Klansmen, with roots all the way back to the Civil War, or something like that. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you sit little Eddie down and show him pictures from the family album? Why didn’t you tell him bedtime stories of the heroic Cayhalls and
how they rode around at night with masks on their brave faces and burned Negro shacks? You know, war stories. Father to son.”

“I repeat, it was not something we talked about.”

“Well, when he got older, did you try to recruit him?”

“No. He was different.”

“You mean, he didn’t hate?”

Sam jerked forward and coughed, the deep, scratchy hacking action of a chain-smoker. His face reddened as he struggled for breath. The coughing grew worse and he spat on the floor. He stood and leaned at the waist with both hands on his hips, coughing and hacking while shuffling around and trying to stop it.

Finally, a break. He stood straight and breathed rapidly. He swallowed and spat again, then relaxed and inhaled slowly. The seizure was over, and his red face was suddenly pale again. He took his seat across from Adam, and puffed mightily on the cigarette as if some other device or habit was to blame for the coughing. He took his time, breathing deeply and clearing his throat.

“Eddie was a tender child,” he began hoarsely. “He got it from his mother. He wasn’t a sissy. In fact, he was just as tough as other little boys.” A long pause, another drag of nicotine. “Not far from our house was a nigger family—”

“Could we just call them blacks, Sam? I’ve asked you this already.”

“Forgive me. There was an African family on our place. The Lincolns. Joe Lincoln was his name, and he’d worked for us for many years. Had a common-law wife and a dozen common-law children. One of the boys was the same age as Eddie, and they were inseparable, best of friends. It was not that unusual in those days. You played with whoever lived nearby. I
even had little African buddies, believe it or not. When Eddie started school, he got real upset because he rode one bus and his African pal rode another. Kid’s name was Quince. Quince Lincoln. They couldn’t wait to get home from school and go play on the farm. I remember Eddie was always disturbed because they couldn’t go to school together. And Quince couldn’t spend the night in our house, and Eddie couldn’t spend the night with the Lincolns. He was always asking me questions about why the Africans in Ford County were so poor, and lived in run-down houses, and didn’t have nice clothes, and had so many children in each family. He really suffered over it, and that made him different. As he got older, he grew even more sympathetic toward the Africans. I tried to talk to him.”

“Of course you did. You tried to straighten him out, didn’t you?”

“I tried to explain things to him.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the need to keep the races separate. There’s nothing wrong with separate but equal schools. Nothing wrong with laws prohibiting miscegenation. Nothing wrong with keeping the Africans in their place.”

“Where’s their place?”

“Under control. Let ’em run wild, and look at what’s happened. Crime, drugs, AIDS, illegitimate births, general breakdown in the moral fabric of society.”

“What about nuclear proliferation and killer bees?”

“You get my point.”

“What about basic rights, radical concepts like the right to vote, the right to use public rest rooms, the right to eat in restaurants and stay in hotels, the right not to be discriminated against in housing, employment, and education?”

“You sound like Eddie.”

“Good.”

“By the time he was finishing high school he was spouting off like that, talking about how badly the Africans were being mistreated. He left home when he was eighteen.”

“Did you miss him?”

“Not at first, I guess. We were fighting a lot. He knew I was in the Klan, and he hated the sight of me. At least, he said he did.”