"Fine, Sam, I respect that. And I promise I'll be here to the bitter end, and I'll grieve and mourn, and after it's over I'll make sure you're buried properly. No one's gonna screw around with you, Sam, as long as I'm here. But, please, look at it through my eyes. I have to give it my best shot, because I'm young and I have the rest of my life. Don't make me leave here knowing I could've done more. It's not fair to me."
Sam folded his arms across his chest and looked at Adam. His pale face was calm, his eyes still wet. "Let's do it this way," he said, his voice still low and pained. "I'm ready to go. I'll spend tomorrow and Tuesday making final preparations. I'll assume it's gonna happen at midnight Tuesday, and I'll be ready for it. You, on the other hand, play it like a game. If you can win it, good for you. If you lose it, I'll be ready to face the music."
"So you'll cooperate?"
"No. No clemency hearing. No more petitions or appeals. You have enough junk floating around out there to keep you busy. Two issues are still alive. I'm not signing any more petitions."
Sam stood, his decrepit knees popping and wobbling. He walked to the door and leaned on it. "What about Lee?" he asked softly, reaching for his cigarettes.
"She's still in rehab," Adam lied. He was tempted to blurt out the truth. It seemed childish to be lying to Sam in these declining hours of his life, but Adam still held a strong hope that she would be found before Tuesday. "Do you want to see her?"
"I think so. Can she get out?"
"It may be difficult, but I'll try. She's sicker than I first thought."
"She's an alcoholic?"
"Yes."
"Is that all? No drugs?"
"Just alcohol. She told me she's had a problem for many years. Rehab is nothing new."
"Bless her heart. My children didn't have a chance."
"She's a fine person. She's had a rough time with her marriage. Her son left home at an early age and never returned."
"Walt, right?"
"Right," Adam answered. What a heartbroken bunch of people. Sam was not even certain of the name of his grandson.
"How old is he?"
"I'm not sure. Probably close to my age."
"Does he even know about me?"
"I don't know. He's been gone for many years. Lives in Amsterdam."
Sam picked up a cup from the desk and took a drink of cold coffee. "What about Carmen?" he asked.
Adam instinctively glanced at his watch. "I pick her up at the Memphis airport in three hours. She'll be here in the morning."
"That just scares the hell outta me."
"Relax, Sam. She's a great person. She's smart, ambitious, pretty, and I've told her all about you."
"Why'd you do that?"
"Because she wants to know."
"Poor child. Did you tell her what I look like?"
"Don't worry about it, Sam. She doesn't care what you look like."
"Did you tell her I'm not some savage monster?"
"I told her you were a sweetheart, a real dear, sort of a delicate little fella with an earring, ponytail, limp wrist, and these cute little rubber shower shoes that you sort of glide in."
"You kiss my ass!"
"And that you seemed to be a real favorite of the boys here in prison."
"You're lying! You didn't tell her all that!" Sam was grinning, but half serious, and his concern was amusing. Adam laughed, a bit too long and a bit too loud, but the humor was welcome. They both chuckled and tried their best to seem thoroughly amused by their own wit. They tried to stretch it out, but soon the levity passed and gravity sank in. Soon they were sitting on the edge of the desk, side by side, feet on separate chairs, staring at the floor while heavy clouds of tobacco smoke boiled above them in the motionless air.
There was so much to talk about, yet there was little to say. The legal theories and maneuverings had been beaten to death. Family was a subject they'd covered as much as they'd dared. The weather was good for no more than five minutes of conjecture. And both men knew they would spend much of the next two and a half days together. Serious matters could wait. Unpleasant subjects could be shoved back just a bit longer.
Twice Adam glanced at his watch and said he'd best be going, and both times Sam insisted he stay. Because when Adam left, they would come for him and take him back to his cell, his little cage where the temperature was over a hundred. Please stay, he begged.
Late that night, well after midnight, long after Adam had told Carmen about Lee and her problems, and about Phelps and Walt, about McAllister and Wyn Lettner, and the theory of the accomplice, hours after they'd finished a pizza and discussed their mother and father and grandfather and the whole pathetic bunch, Adam said the one moment he'd never forget was the two of them sitting there on the desk, passing time in silence as an invisible clock ticked away, with Sam patting him on the knee. It was like he had to touch me in some affectionate way, he explained to her, like a good grandfather would touch a small loved one.
Carmen had heard enough for one night. She'd been on the patio for four hours, suffering through the humidity and absorbing the desolate oral history of her father's family.
But Adam had been very careful. He'd hit the peaks and skipped the woeful valleys - no mention of Joe Lincoln or lynchings or sketchy hints of other crimes. He portrayed Sam as a violent man who made terrible mistakes and was now burdened with remorse. He had toyed with the idea of showing her his video of Sam's trials, but decided against it. He would do it later. She could handle only so much in one night. At times, he couldn't believe the things he'd heard in the past four weeks. It would be cruel to hit her with all of it in one sitting. He loved his sister dearly. They had years to discuss the rest of the story.
Chapter 45
MONDAY, August 6, 6 A.m. Forty-two hours to go. Adam entered his office and locked the door.
He waited until seven, then called Slattery's office in Jackson. There was no answer, of course, but he was hoping for a recorded message that might direct him to another number that might lead to someone down there who could tell him something. Slattery was sitting on the mental claim; just ignoring it as if it was simply another little lawsuit.
He called information and received the home number for F. Flynn Slattery, but decided not to bother him. He could wait until nine.
Adam had slept less than three hours. His pulse was pounding, his adrenaline was pumping. His client was now down to the last forty-two hours, and dammit, Slattery should quickly rule one way or the other. It wasn't fair to sit on the damned petition when he could be racing off to other courts with it.
The phone rang and he lunged for it. The Death Clerk from the Fifth Circuit informed him that the court was denying the appeal of Sam's claim of ineffective assistance of counsel. It was the opinion of the court that the claim was procedurally barred. It should've been filed years ago. The court did not get to the merits of the issue.
"Then why'd the court sit on it for a week?" Adam demanded. "They could've reached this nitpicking decision ten days ago."
"I'll fax you a copy right now," the clerk said.
"Thanks. I'm sorry, okay."
"Keep in touch, Mr. Hall. We'll be right here waiting on you."
Adam hung up, and went to find coffee. Darlene arrived, tired, haggard, and early, at seven-thirty. She brought the fax from the Fifth Circuit, along with a raisin bagel. Adam asked her to fax to the U.S. Supreme Court the petition for cert on the ineffectiveness claim. It had been prepared for three days, and Mr. Olander in Washington had told Darlene that the Court was already reviewing it.