Three Classic Thrillers (156 page)

“This execution will be different because of Mr. Cayhall’s notoriety. It will attract a lot of attention, a lot of media, a lot of other loonies. We must act professionally at all times, and I will not tolerate any breach of the rules of conduct. Mr. Cayhall and his family are entitled to respect during these last few days. No off-color comments about the gas chamber or the execution. I will not stand for it. Any questions?”

Nugent surveyed the room and was quite pleased with himself. He’d covered it all. No questions. “Very well. We’ll meet again in the morning at nine.” He dismissed them, and the room emptied hurriedly.

______

Garner Goodman caught Professor John Bryan Glass as he was leaving his office and headed for a lecture. The class was forgotten as the two stood in the hallway and swapped compliments. Glass had read all of Goodman’s books, and Goodman had read most of Glass’ recent articles condemning the death penalty. The conversation quickly turned to the Cayhall mess, and specifically to Goodman’s pressing need for a handful of trustworthy law students who could assist with a quick research project over the weekend. Glass offered his help, and the two agreed to have lunch in a few hours to pursue the matter.

Three blocks from the Mississippi College School of Law, Goodman found the small and cramped offices of Southern Capital Defense Group, a quasi federal agency with small, cramped offices in every state in the Death Belt. The director was a young, black, Yale-educated lawyer named Hez Kerry, who had forsaken the riches of the big firms and dedicated his life to abolishing the death penalty. Goodman had met him on two prior occasions at conferences. Though Kerry’s Group, as it was referred to, did not directly represent every inmate on death row, it did have the responsibility of monitoring every case. Hez was thirty-one years old and aging quickly. The gray hair was evidence of the pressure of forty-seven men on death row.

On a wall above the secretary’s desk in the foyer was a small calendar, and across the top of it someone had printed the words BIRTHDAYS ON DEATH ROW. Everybody got a card, nothing more. The budget was tight, and the cards were usually purchased with pocket change collected around the office.

The group had two lawyers working under Kerry’s supervision, and only one full-time secretary. A few students from the law school worked several hours a week, for free.

Goodman talked with Hez Kerry for more than an hour. They planned their movements for next Tuesday—Kerry himself would camp out at the clerk’s office at the Mississippi Supreme Court. Goodman would stay at the governor’s office. John Bryan Glass would be recruited to sit in the Fifth Circuit’s satellite office in the federal courthouse in Jackson. One of Goodman’s former associates at Kravitz & Bane now worked in Washington, and he had already agreed to wait at the Death Clerk’s desk. Adam would be left to sit on the Row with the client and coordinate the last minute calls.

Kerry agreed to participate in Goodman’s market analysis project over the weekend.

At eleven, Goodman returned to the governor’s office in the state capitol, and handed to Lawyer Larramore a written request for a clemency hearing. The governor was out of the office, very busy these days, and he, Larramore, would see him just after lunch. Goodman left his phone number at the Millsaps-Buie House, and said he would call in periodically.

He then drove to his new office, now supplied with the finest rental furniture available on two months’ lease, cash of course. The folding chairs were leftovers from a church fellowship hall, according to the markings under the seats. The rickety tables too had seen their share of potluck suppers and wedding receptions.

Goodman admired his hastily assembled little hole-in-the-wall. He took a seat, and on a new cellular phone he called his secretary in Chicago, Adam’s office in Memphis, his wife at home, and the governor’s hotline.

______

By 4 p.m. Thursday, the Mississippi Supreme Court still had not denied the claim based on Sam’s alleged mental incompetence. Almost thirty hours had passed
since Adam filed it. He’d made a nuisance of himself calling the court’s clerk. He was tired of explaining the obvious—he needed an answer, please. There was not the slightest trace of optimism that the court was actually considering the merits of the claim. The court, in Adam’s opinion, was dragging its feet and delaying his rush to federal court. At this point, relief in the state supreme court was impossible, he felt.

He wasn’t exactly on a roll in the federal courts either. The U.S. Supreme Court had not ruled on his request to consider the claim that the gas chamber was unconstitutional. The Fifth Circuit was sitting on his ineffectiveness of counsel claim.

Nothing was moving on Thursday. The courts were just sitting there as if these were ordinary lawsuits to be filed and assigned and docketed, then continued and delayed for years. He needed action, preferably a stay granted at some level, or if not a stay then an oral argument, or a hearing on the merits, or even a denial so he could move on to the next court.

He paced around the table in his office and listened for the phone. He was tired of pacing and sick of the phone. The office was littered with the debris of a dozen briefs. The table was blanketed with disheveled piles of paper. Pink and yellow phone messages were stuck along one bookshelf.

Adam suddenly hated the place. He needed fresh air. He told Darlene he was going for a walk, and left the building. It was almost five, still bright and very warm. He walked to the Peabody Hotel on Union, and had a drink in a corner of the lobby near the piano. It was his first drink since Friday in New Orleans, and although he enjoyed it he worried about Lee. He looked for her in the crowd of conventioneers flocking around the registration desk. He watched the tables in the lobby fill up with well-dressed people, hoping that for some
reason she would appear. Where do you hide when you’re fifty years old and running from life?

A man with a ponytail and hiking boots stopped and stared, then walked over. “Excuse me, sir. Are you Adam Hall, the lawyer for Sam Cayhall?”

Adam nodded.

The man smiled, obviously pleased that he’d recognized Adam, and walked to his table. “I’m Kirk Kleckner with the New York Times.” He laid a business card in front of Adam. “I’m here covering the Cayhall execution. Just arrived, actually. May I sit down?”

Adam waved at the empty seat across the small round table. Kleckner sat down. “Lucky to find you here,” he said, all smiles. He was in his early forties with a rugged, globe-trotting journalist look—scruffy beard, sleeveless cotton vest over a denim shirt, jeans. “Recognized you from some pictures I studied on the flight down.”

“Nice to meet you,” Adam said dryly.

“Can we talk?”

“About what?”

“Oh, lots of things. I understand your client will not give interviews.”

“That’s correct.”

“What about you?”

“The same. We can chat, but nothing for the record.”

“That makes it difficult.”

“I honestly don’t care. I’m not concerned with how difficult your job may be.”

“Fair enough.” A pliant young waitress in a short skirt stopped by long enough to take his order. Black coffee. “When did you last see your grandfather?”

“Tuesday.”

“When will you see him again?”

“Tomorrow.”

“How is he holding up?”

“He’s surviving. The pressure is building, but he’s taking it well, so far.”

“What about you?”

“Just having a ball.”

“Seriously. Are you losing sleep, you know, things like that?”

“I’m tired. Yeah, I’m losing sleep. I’m working lots of hours, running back and forth to the prison. It’ll go down to the wire, so the next few days will be hectic.”

“I covered the Bundy execution in Florida. Quite a circus. His lawyers went days without sleep.”

“It’s difficult to relax.”

“Will you do it again? I know this is not your specialty, but will you consider another death case?”

“Only if I find another relative on death row. Why do you cover these things?”

“I’ve written for years on the death penalty. It’s fascinating. I’d like to interview Mr. Cayhall.”

Adam shook his head and finished his drink. “No. There’s no way. He’s not talking to anyone.”

“Will you ask him for me?”

“No.”

The coffee arrived. Kleckner stirred it with a spoon. Adam watched the crowd. “I interviewed Benjamin Keyes yesterday in Washington,” Kleckner said. “He said he wasn’t surprised that you’re now saying he made mistakes at trial. He said he figured it was coming.”

At the moment, Adam didn’t care about Benjamin Keyes or any of his opinions. “It’s standard. I need to run. Nice to meet you.”

“But I wanted to talk about—”

“Listen, you’re lucky you caught me,” Adam said, standing abruptly.

“Just a couple of things,” Kleckner said as Adam walked away.

Adam left the Peabody, and strolled to Front Street near the river, passing along the way scores of well-dressed young people very much like himself, all in a hurry to go home. He envied them; whatever their vocations or careers, whatever their pressures at the moment, they weren’t carrying burdens as heavy as his.

He ate a sandwich at a delicatessen, and by seven was back in his office.

______

The rabbit had been trapped in the woods at Parchman by two of the guards, who named him Sam for the occasion. He was a brown cottontail, the largest of the four captured. The other three had already been eaten.

Late Thursday night, Sam the rabbit and his handlers, along with Colonel Nugent and the execution team, entered the Maximum Security Unit in prison vans and pickups. They drove slowly by the front and around the bullpens on the west end. They parked by a square, red-brick building attached to the southwest corner of MSU.

Two white, metal doors without windows led to the interior of the square building. One, facing south, opened to a narrow room, eight feet by fifteen, where the witnesses sat during the execution. They faced a series of black drapes which, when opened, revealed the rear of the chamber itself, just inches away.

The other door opened into the Chamber Room, a fifteen-by-twelve room with a painted concrete floor. The octagonal-shaped gas chamber sat squarely in the middle, glowing smartly from a fresh coat of silver enamel varnish and smelling like the same. Nugent had inspected it a week earlier and ordered a new paint job. The death room, as it was also known, was spotless
and sanitized. The black drapes over the windows behind the chamber were pulled.

Sam the rabbit was left in the bed of a pickup while a small guard, about the same height and weight as Sam Cayhall, was led by two of his larger colleagues into the Chamber Room. Nugent strutted and inspected like General Patton—pointing and nodding and frowning. The small guard was pushed gently into the chamber first, then joined by the two guards who turned him around and eased him into the wooden chair. Without a word or a smile, neither a grin nor a joke, they strapped his wrists first with leather bands to the arms of the chair. Then his knees, then his ankles. Then one lifted his head up an inch or two and held it in place while the other managed to buckle the leather head strap.

The two guards stepped carefully from the chamber, and Nugent pointed to another member of the team who stepped forward as if to say something to the condemned.

“At this point, Lucas Mann will read the death warrant to Mr. Cayhall,” Nugent explained like an amateur movie director. “Then I will ask if he has any last words.” He pointed again, and a designated guard closed the heavy door to the chamber and sealed it.

“Open it,” Nugent barked, and the door came open. The small guard was set free.

“Get the rabbit,” Nugent ordered. One of the handlers retrieved Sam the rabbit from the pickup. He sat innocently in a wire cage which was handed to the same two guards who’d just left the chamber. They carefully placed him in the wooden chair, then went about their task of strapping in an imaginary man. Wrists, knees, ankles, head, and the rabbit was ready for the gas. The two guards left the chamber.

The door was shut and sealed, and Nugent signaled
for the executioner, who placed a canister of sulfuric acid into a tube which ran into the bottom of the chamber. He pulled a lever, a clicking sound occurred, and the canister made its way to the bowl under the chair.

Nugent stepped to one of the windows and watched intently. The other members of the team did likewise. Petroleum jelly had been smeared around the edges of the windows to prevent seepage.

The poisonous gas was released slowly, and a faint mist of visible vapors rose from under the chair and drifted upward. At first, the rabbit didn’t react to the steam that permeated his little cell, but it hit him soon enough. He stiffened, then hopped a few times, banging into the sides of his cage, then he went into violent convulsions, jumping and jerking and twisting frantically. In less than a minute, he was still.

Nugent smiled as he glanced at his watch. “Clear it,” he ordered, and a vent at the top of the chamber was opened, releasing the gas.

The door from the Chamber Room to the outside was opened, and most of the execution team walked out for fresh air or a smoke. It would be at least fifteen minutes before the chamber could be opened and the rabbit removed. Then they had to hose it down and clean up. Nugent was still inside, watching everything. So they smoked and had a few laughs.

Less than sixty feet away, the windows above the hallway of Tier A were open. Sam could hear their voices. It was after ten and the lights were off, but in every cell along the tier two arms protruded from the bars as fourteen men listened in dark silence.

A death row inmate lives in a six-by-nine cell for twenty-three hours a day. He hears everything—the strange clicking sound of a new pair of boots in the hallway; the unfamiliar pitch and accent of a different voice; the faraway hum of a lawn mower or weedeater.
And he can certainly hear the opening and closing of the door to the Chamber Room. He can hear the satisfied and important chuckles of the execution team.