Three Classic Thrillers (155 page)

“Why?” McAllister asked.

“Well, frankly, sir, we don’t want the public to see Ruth Kramer talking about her little boys.” Goodman watched them as he delivered this. The real reason was something else altogether. Adam was convinced that the only way to talk Sam into a clemency hearing was to promise him it would not be a public spectacle. If such a hearing was closed, then Adam could maybe convince Sam that McAllister would be prevented from grandstanding.

Goodman knew dozens of people around the country who would gladly come to Jackson on a moment’s notice to testify on Sam’s behalf. He had heard these people make some persuasive, last minute arguments against death. Nuns, priests, ministers, psychologists, social workers, authors, professors, and a couple of former death row inmates. Dr. Swinn would testify about how dreadfully Sam was doing these days, and he would do an excellent job of trying to convince the governor that the state was about to kill a vegetable.

In most states, the inmate has a right to a last minute clemency hearing, usually before the governor. In Mississippi, however, the hearing was discretionary.

“I guess that makes sense,” the governor actually said.

“There’s enough interest already,” Goodman said, knowing that McAllister was giddy with dreams of the forthcoming media frenzy. “It will benefit no one if the hearing is open.”

Mona, the staunch open meetings advocate, frowned even harder and wrote something in block letters. McAllister was deep in thought.

“Regardless of whether it’s open or closed,” he said, “there’s no real reason for such a hearing unless you and your client have something new to add. I know this case, Mr. Goodman. I smelled the smoke. I saw the bodies. I cannot change my mind unless there’s something new.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a name. You give me the name of Sam’s accomplice, and I’ll agree to a hearing. No promise of clemency, you understand, just a regular clemency hearing. Otherwise, this is a waste of time.”

“Do you believe there was an accomplice?” Goodman asked.

“We were always suspicious. What do you think?”

“Why is it important?”

“It’s important because I make the final decision, Mr. Goodman. After the courts are finished with it, and the clock ticks down next Tuesday night, I’m the only person in the world who can stop it. If Sam deserves the death penalty, then I have no problem sitting by while it happens. But if he doesn’t, then the execution should be stopped. I’m a young man. I do not want to be haunted by this for the rest of my life. I want to make the right decision.”

“But if you believe there was an accomplice, and you obviously do, then why not stop it anyway?”

“Because I want to be sure. You’ve been his lawyer for many years. Do you think he had an accomplice?”

“Yes. I’ve always thought there were two of them. I don’t know who was the leader and who was the follower, but Sam had help.”

McAllister leaned closer to Goodman and looked into his eyes. “Mr. Goodman, if Sam will tell me the truth, then I will grant a closed hearing, and I will consider clemency. I’m not promising a damned thing, you understand, only that we’ll have the hearing. Otherwise, there’s nothing new to add to the story.”

Mona and Larramore scribbled faster than court reporters.

“Sam says he’s telling the truth.”

“Then forget the hearing. I’m a busy man.”

Goodman sighed in frustration, but kept a smile in place. “Very well, we’ll talk to him again. Can we meet here again tomorrow?”

The governor looked at Mona, who consulted a pocket calendar and began shaking her head as if tomorrow was hopelessly filled with speeches and appearances and meetings. “You’re booked,” she said in a commanding tone.

“What about lunch?”

Nope. Wouldn’t work. “You’re speaking to the NRA convention.”

“Why don’t you call me?” Larramore offered.

“Good idea,” the governor said, standing now and buttoning his sleeves.

Goodman stood and shook hands with the three. “I’ll call if something breaks. We are requesting a hearing as soon as possible, regardless.”

“The request is denied unless Sam talks,” said the governor.

“Please put the request in writing, sir, if you don’t mind,” Larramore asked.

“Certainly.”

They walked Goodman to the door, and after he left the office McAllister sat in his official chair behind his desk. He unbuttoned his sleeves again. Larramore excused himself and went to his little room down the hall.

Ms. Stark studied a printout while the governor watched the rows of buttons blink on his phone. “How many of these calls are about Sam Cayhall?” he asked. She moved a finger along a column.

“Yesterday, you had twenty-one calls regarding the Cayhall execution. Fourteen in favor of gassing him. Five said to spare him. Two couldn’t make up their minds.”

“That’s an increase.”

“Yeah, but the paper had that article about Sam’s last ditch efforts. It mentioned the possibility of a clemency hearing.”

“What about the polls?”

“No change. Ninety percent of the white people in this state favor the death penalty, and about half the blacks do. Overall, it’s around eighty-four percent.”

“Where’s my approval?”

“Sixty-two. But if you pardon Sam Cayhall, I’m sure it’ll drop to single digits.”

“So you’re against the idea.”

“There’s absolutely nothing to gain, and much to lose. Forget polls and numbers, if you pardon one of those thugs up there you’ll have the other fifty sending lawyers and grandmothers and preachers down here begging for the same favor. You have enough on your mind. It’s foolish.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Where’s the media plan?”

“I’ll have it in an hour.”

“I need to see it.”

“Nagel’s putting the final touches on it. I think you should grant the request for a clemency hearing anyway. But hold it Monday. Announce it tomorrow. Let it simmer over the weekend.”

“It shouldn’t be closed.”

“Hell no! We want Ruth Kramer crying for the cameras.”

“It’s my hearing. Sam and his lawyers will not dictate its conditions. If they want it, they’ll do it my way.”

“Right. But keep in mind, you want it too. Tons of coverage.”

______

Goodman signed a three-month lease for four cellular phones. He used a Kravitz & Bane credit card and deftly dodged the barrage of questions by the chirpy young salesman. He went to a public library on State Street and found a reference table filled with phonebooks. Judging by their thickness, he selected those of the larger Mississippi towns, places like Laurel, Hattiesburg, Tupelo, Vicksburg, Biloxi, and Meridian. Then he picked the thinner ones—Tunica, Calhoun City, Bude, Long Beach, West Point. At the information desk, he converted bills to quarters, and spent two hours copying pages from the phonebooks.

He went merrily about his work. No one would’ve believed the natty little man with bushy gray hair and bow tie was in fact a partner in a major Chicago firm with secretaries and paralegals at his beck and call. No one would’ve believed he earned over four hundred thousand dollars a year. And he couldn’t have cared less. E. Garner Goodman was happy with his work. He was trying his best to save another soul from being legally killed.

He left the library and drove a few blocks to the
Mississippi College School of Law. A professor there by the name of John Bryan Glass taught criminal procedure and law, and also had begun publishing scholarly articles against the death penalty. Goodman wanted to make his acquaintance, and to see if maybe the professor had a few bright students interested in a research project.

The professor was gone for the day, but scheduled to teach a 9 a.m. class on Thursday. Goodman checked out the law school’s library, then left the building. He drove a few blocks to the Old State Capitol Building, just killing time, and took an extended tour of it. It lasted for thirty minutes, half of which was spent at the Civil Rights Exhibit on the ground floor. He asked the clerk in the gift shop about a bed and breakfast, and she suggested the Millsaps-Buie House, about a mile down the street. He found the lovely Victorian mansion just where she’d said, and took the last vacant room. The house was immaculately restored with period pieces and furnishings. The butler fixed him a Scotch and water, and he took it to his room.

T
he Auburn House opened for business at eight. A feeble and dispirited security guard in a bad uniform unlocked the gate across the drive, and Adam was the first person into the parking lot. He waited in his car for ten minutes until another parked nearby. He recognized the woman as the counselor he’d met in Lee’s office two weeks earlier. He stopped her on the sidewalk as she was entering a side door. “Excuse me,” he said. “We’ve met before. I’m Adam Hall. Lee’s nephew. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”

The lady held a worn briefcase in one hand and a brown lunch bag in the other. She smiled and said, “Joyce Cobb. I remember. Where’s Lee?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you might know something. You haven’t heard from her?”

“No. Not since Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? I haven’t talked to her since Saturday. Did you talk to her Tuesday?”

“She called here, but I didn’t talk to her. It was the day they ran that drunk driving story in the paper.”

“Where was she?”

“She never said. She asked for the administrator, said she would be out for a while, had to get some help, stuff like that. Never said where she was or when she was coming back.”

“What about her patients?”

“We’re covering for her. It’s always a struggle, you know. But we’ll manage.”

“Lee wouldn’t forget these girls. Do you think maybe she’s talked to them this week?”

“Look, Adam, most of these girls don’t have phones, okay? And Lee certainly would not go into the projects. We’re seeing her girls, and I know they haven’t talked to her.”

Adam took a step back and looked at the gate. “I know. I need to find her. I’m really worried.”

“She’ll be okay. She’s done this once before, and everything worked out.” Joyce was suddenly in a hurry to get inside. “If I hear something, I’ll let you know.”

“Please do. I’m staying at her place.”

“I know.”

Adam thanked her, and drove away. By nine, he was at the office, buried in paper.

______

Colonel Nugent sat at the end of a long table in the front of a room filled with guards and staff people. The table was on a slight platform twelve inches above the rest of the room, and behind it on the wall was a large chalkboard. A portable podium sat in a corner. The chairs along the table to his right were empty, so that the guards and staff sitting in the folding chairs could see the faces of the more important ones on Nugent’s left. Morris Henry from the Attorney General’s office was there, thick briefs lying before him. Lucas Mann sat at the far end taking notes. Two assistant superintendents were next to Henry. A flunkie from the governor’s office was next to Lucas.

Nugent glanced at his watch, then began his little pep talk. He referred to his notes, and aimed his comments at the guards and staff. “As of this morning, August 2, all stays have been lifted by the various courts, and there’s nothing to stop the execution. We are proceeding as if it will take place as planned, at one minute after midnight next Wednesday. We have six
full days to prepare, and I am determined for this thing to take place smoothly, without a hitch.

“The inmate has at least three petitions and appeals currently working their way through the various courts, and, of course, there’s no way to predict what might happen. We are in constant contact with the Attorney General’s office. In fact, Mr. Morris Henry is here with us today. It is his opinion, and an opinion shared by Mr. Lucas Mann, that this thing will go down to the wire. A stay could be granted at any moment, but that looks doubtful. We have to be ready regardless. The inmate is also expected to request a clemency hearing from the governor, but, frankly, that is not expected to be successful. From now until next Wednesday, we will be in a state of preparedness.”

Nugent’s words were strong and clear. He had center stage, and was obviously enjoying every moment of it. He glanced at his notes, and continued. “The gas chamber itself is being prepared. It’s old and it hasn’t been used in two years, so we’re being very careful with it. A representative of the manufacturer arrives this morning, and will conduct tests today and tonight. We’ll go through a complete rehearsal of the execution over the weekend, probably Sunday night, assuming there’s no stay. I have collected the lists of volunteers for the execution team, and I’ll make that determination this afternoon.

“Now, we’re being inundated with requests from the media for all sorts of things. They want to interview Mr. Cayhall, his lawyer, our lawyer, the warden, the guards, other inmates on the row, the executioner, everybody. They want to witness the execution. They want pictures of his cell and the chamber. Typical media silliness. But we must deal with it. There is to be no contact with any member of the press unless I first approve it. That goes for every employee of this institution.
No exceptions. Most of these reporters are not from around here, and they get their jollies making us look like a bunch of ignorant rednecks. So don’t talk to them. No exceptions. I’ll issue the appropriate releases when I deem necessary. Be careful with these people. They’re vultures.

“We’re also expecting trouble from the outside. As of about ten minutes ago, the first group of Ku Klux Klansmen arrived at the front gate. They were directed to the usual spot between the highway and the administration building where the protests take place. We’ve also heard that other such groups will be here shortly, and it appears as if they plan to protest until this thing is over. We’ll watch them closely. They have the right to do this, so long as it’s peaceful. Though I wasn’t here for the last four executions, I’ve been told that groups of death penalty supporters usually show up and raise hell. We plan to keep these two groups separated, for obvious reasons.”

Nugent couldn’t sit any longer, and stood stiffly at the end of the table. All eyes were on him. He studied his notes for a second.