Three Classic Thrillers (148 page)

Adam had found the study in a footnote to a recent North Carolina case. It was in the fine print, and had not been widely reported.

“Now, let me get this straight,” Robichaux interrupted in a high-pitched voice. “You don’t want your client to die in the gas chamber because it’s a cruel way to go, but are you telling us you don’t mind if he’s executed by lethal injection?”

“No, Your Honor. That’s not what I’m saying. I do not want my client executed by any method.”

“But lethal injection is the least offensive?”

“All methods are offensive, but lethal injection seems to be the least cruel. There’s no doubt the gas chamber is a horrible way to die.”

“Worse than being bombed? Blown up by dynamite?”

A heavy silence fell over the courtroom as Robichaux’s words settled in. He had emphasized the word “dynamite,” and Adam struggled for something appropriate. McNeely shot a nasty look at his colleague on the other side of the bench.

It was a cheap shot, and Adam was furious. He controlled his temper, and said firmly, “We’re talking about methods of execution, Your Honor, not the crimes that send men to death row.”

“Why don’t you want to talk about the crime?”

“Because the crime is not an issue here. Because I have only twenty minutes, and my client has only twelve days.”

“Perhaps your client shouldn’t have been planting bombs?”

“Of course not. But he was convicted of his crime, and now he faces death in the gas chamber. Our point is that the chamber is a cruel way to execute people.”

“What about the electric chair?”

“The same argument applies. There have been some
hideous cases of people suffering terribly in the chair before they died.”

“What about a firing squad?”

“Sounds cruel to me.”

“And hanging?”

“I don’t know much about hanging, but it too sounds awfully cruel.”

“But you like the idea of lethal injection?”

“I didn’t say I like it. I believe I said it was not as cruel as the other methods.”

Justice McNeely interrupted and asked, “Mr. Hall, why did Mississippi switch from the gas chamber to lethal injection?”

This was covered thoroughly in the lawsuit and the brief, and Adam sensed immediately that McNeely was a friend. “I’ve condensed the legislative history of the law in my brief, Your Honor, but it was done principally to facilitate executions. The legislature admitted it was an easier way to die, and so to sidestep constitutional challenges such as this one it changed the method.”

“So the State has effectively admitted that there is a better way to execute people?”

“Yes sir. But the law took effect in 1984, and applies only to those inmates convicted afterward. It does not apply to Sam Cayhall.”

“I understand that. You’re asking us to strike down the gas chamber as a method. What happens if we do? What happens to your client and those like him who were convicted prior to 1984? Do they fall through the cracks? There is no provision in the law to execute them by lethal injection.”

Adam was anticipating the obvious question. Sam had already asked it. “I can’t answer that, Your Honor, except to say that I have great confidence in the Mississippi
Legislature’s ability and willingness to pass a new law covering my client and those in his position.”

Judge Judy inserted herself at this point. “Assuming they do, Mr. Hall, what will you argue when you return here in three years?”

Thankfully, the yellow light came on, and Adam had only one minute remaining. “I’ll think of something,” he said with a grin. “Just give me time.”

“We’ve already seen a case like this, Mr. Hall,” Robichaux said. “In fact, it’s cited in your brief. A Texas case.”

“Yes, Your Honor. I’m asking the court to reconsider its decision on this issue. Virtually every state with a gas chamber or an electric chair has switched to lethal injection. The reason is obvious.”

He had a few seconds left, but decided it was a good place to stop. He didn’t want another question. “Thank you,” he said, and walked confidently back to his seat. It was over. He had held his breakfast, and performed quite well for a rookie. It would be easier the next time.

Roxburgh was wooden and methodical, and thoroughly prepared. He tried a few one-liners about rats and the crimes they commit, but it was a dismal effort at humor. McNeely peppered him with similar questions about why the states were rushing to lethal injection. Roxburgh stuck to his guns, and recited a long line of cases where the various federal circuits had endorsed death by gas, electricity, hanging, and firing squads. The established law was on his side, and he made the most of it. His twenty minutes raced by, and he returned to his seat as quickly as Adam had.

Judge Judy talked briefly about the urgency of this matter, and promised a ruling within days. Everyone rose in unison, and the three judges disappeared from
the bench. The court crier declared matters to be in recess until Monday morning.

Adam shook hands with Roxburgh and made it through the doors before a reporter stopped him. He was with a paper in Jackson, and just had a couple of questions. Adam was polite, but declined comment. He then did the same for two more reporters. Roxburgh, typically, had things to say, and as Adam walked away, the reporters surrounded the Attorney General and shoved recorders near his face.

Adam wanted to leave the building. He stepped into the tropical heat, and quickly covered his eyes with sunglasses. “Have you had lunch?” a voice asked from close behind. It was Lucas Mann, in aviator sunglasses. They shook hands between the columns.

“I couldn’t eat,” Adam admitted.

“You did fine. It’s quite nerve-racking, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Why are you here?”

“It’s part of my job. The warden asked me to fly down and watch the argument. We’ll wait until there’s a ruling before we start preparations. Let’s go eat.”

Adam’s driver stopped the car at the curb, and they got in.

“Do you know the city?” Mann asked.

“No. This is my first visit.”

“The Bon Ton Café,” Mann told the driver. “It’s a wonderful old place just around the corner. Nice car.”

“The benefits of working for a wealthy firm.”

______

Lunch began with a novelty—raw oysters on the half shell. Adam had heard of them before, but had never been tempted. Mann artfully demonstrated the proper blending of horseradish, lemon juice, Tabasco, and cocktail sauce, then dropped the first oyster into the mixture. It was then delicately placed on a cracker and eaten in one bite. Adam’s first oyster slid off the
cracker and onto the table, but his second slid properly down his throat.

“Don’t chew it,” Mann instructed. “Just let it slither down.” The next ten slithered down, and not soon enough for Adam. He was happy when the dozen shells on his plate were empty. They sipped Dixie beer and waited for shrimp remoulade.

“I saw where you’re claiming ineffective assistance of counsel,” Mann said, nibbling on a cracker.

“I’m sure we’ll be filing everything from now on.”

“The supreme court didn’t waste any time with it.”

“No, they didn’t. Seems as if they’re tired of Sam Cayhall. I’ll file it in district court today, but I don’t expect any relief from Slattery.”

“I wouldn’t either.”

“What are my odds, with twelve days to go?”

“Getting slimmer by the day, but things are wildly unpredictable. Probably still around fifty-fifty. A few years back we came very close with Stockholm Turner. With two weeks to go, it looked certain. With a week to go, there was simply nothing else for him to file. He had a decent lawyer, but the appeals had run. He was given his last meal, and—”

“And his conjugal visit, with two prostitutes.”

“How’d you know?”

“Sam told me all about it.”

“It’s true. He got a last minute stay, and now he’s years away from the chamber. You never know.”

“But what’s your gut feeling?”

Mann took a long drink of beer and leaned backward as two large platters of shrimp remoulade were placed before them. “I don’t have gut feelings when it comes to executions. Anything can happen. Just keep filing writs and appeals. It becomes a marathon. You can’t give up. The lawyer for Jumbo Parris collapsed
with twelve hours to go, and was in a hospital bed when his client went down.”

Adam chewed on a boiled shrimp and washed it down with beer. “The governor wants me to talk to him. Should I?”

“What does your client want?”

“What do you think? He hates the governor. He has forbidden me to talk to him.”

“You have to ask for a clemency hearing. That’s standard practice.”

“How well do you know McAllister?”

“Not very well. He’s a political animal with great ambitions, and I wouldn’t trust him for a minute. He does, however, have the power to grant clemency. He can commute the death sentence. He can impose life, or he can set him free. The statute grants broad discretionary authority to the governor. He’ll probably be your last hope.”

“God help us.”

“How’s the remoulade?” Mann asked with a mouthful.

“Delicious.”

They busied themselves with eating for a while. Adam was thankful for the company and conversation, but decided to limit the talk to appeals and strategy. He liked Lucas Mann, but his client did not. As Sam would say, Mann worked for the state and the state was working to execute him.

______

A late afternoon flight would have taken him back to Memphis by six-thirty, long before dark. And once there he could’ve killed an hour or so at the office before returning to Lee’s. But he wasn’t up to it. He had a fancy room in a modern hotel by the river, paid for without question by the boys at Kravitz &
Bane. All expenses were covered. He’d never seen the French Quarter.

And so he awoke at six after a three-hour nap brought on by three Dixies for lunch and a bad night’s rest. He was lying across the bed with his shoes on, and he studied the ceiling fan for half an hour before he moved. The sleep had been heavy.

Lee did not answer the phone. He left a message on her recorder, and hoped she was not drinking. And if she was, then he hoped she’d locked herself in her room where she couldn’t hurt anyone. He brushed his teeth and hair, and rode an elevator to the spacious lobby where a jazz band performed for happy hour. Five-cent oysters on the half shell were being hawked from a corner bar.

He walked in the sweltering heat along Canal Street until he came to Royal, where he took a right and was soon lost in a throng of tourists. Friday night was coming to life in the Quarter. He gawked at the strip clubs, trying desperately for a peek inside. He was stopped cold by an open door which revealed a row of male strippers on a stage—men who looked like beautiful women. He ate an egg roll on a stick from a Chinese carryout. He stepped around a wino vomiting in the street. He spent an hour at a small table in a jazz club, listening to a delightful combo and sipping a four-dollar beer. When it was dark, he walked to Jackson Square and watched the artists pack up their easels and leave. The street musicians and dancers were out in force in front of an old cathedral, and he clapped for an amazing string quartet comprised of Tulane students. People were everywhere, drinking and eating and dancing, enjoying the festiveness of the French Quarter.

He bought a dish of vanilla ice cream, and headed for Canal. On another night and under far different
circumstances, he might be tempted to take in a strip show, sitting in the rear, of course, where no one could see him, or he might hang out in a trendy bar looking for lonely, beautiful women.

But not tonight. The drunks reminded him of Lee, and he wished he’d returned to Memphis to see her. The music and laughter reminded him of Sam, who at this very moment was sitting in a humid oven, staring at the bars and counting the days, hoping and perhaps praying now that his lawyer might work a miracle. Sam would never see New Orleans, never again eat oysters or red beans and rice, never taste a cold beer or a good coffee. He would never hear jazz or watch artists paint. He would never again fly on a plane or stay in a nice hotel. He would never fish or drive or do a thousand things free people take for granted.

Even if Sam lived past August 8, he would simply continue the process of dying a little each day.

Adam left the Quarter and walked hurriedly to his hotel. He needed rest. The marathon was about to begin.

T
he guard named Tiny handcuffed Sam and led him off Tier A. Sam carried a plastic bag filled tightly with the last two weeks’ worth of fan mail. For most of his career as a death row inmate, he had averaged a handful of letters a month from supporters—Klansmen and their sympathizers, racial purists, anti-Semites, all types of bigots. For a couple of years he had answered these letters, but with time had grown weary of it. What was the benefit? To some he was a hero, but the more he swapped words with his admirers the wackier they became. There were a lot of nuts out there. The idea had crossed his mind that perhaps he was safer on the Row than in the free world.

Mail had been declared to be a right by the federal court, not a privilege. Thus, it could not be taken away. It could, however, be regulated. Each letter was opened by an inspector unless the envelope clearly was from an attorney. Unless an inmate was under mail censorship, the letters were not read. They were delivered to the Row in due course and dispensed to the inmates. Boxes and packages were also opened and inspected.

The thought of losing Sam was frightening to many fanatics, and his mail had picked up dramatically since the Fifth Circuit lifted his stay. They offered their unwavering support, and their prayers. A few offered money. Their letters tended to run long as they invariably blasted Jews and blacks and liberals and other
conspirators. Some bitched about taxes, gun control, the national debt. Some delivered sermons.

Sam was tired of the letters. He was averaging six per day. He placed them on the counter as the handcuffs were removed, then asked the guard to unlock a small door in the screen. The guard shoved the plastic bag through the door and Adam took it on the other side. The guard left, locking the door behind.