"And so I did exactly what he said, and I waited for the police. We were alone for fifteen minutes, just the two of us. He was lying on the floor, and I was lying on my bed looking down at him. I started crying and crying, asking him why and how and what happened and a hundred other questions. There was my dad, the only dad I would ever have, lying there in his faded jeans and dirty socks and favorite UCLA sweatshirt. From the neck down he could've been napping, but he had a hole in his head and the blood had dried in his hair. I hated him for dying, and I felt so sorry for him because he was dead. I remember asking him why he hadn't talked to me before this. I asked him a lot of questions. I heard voices, and suddenly the room was filled with cops. They took me to the den and put a blanket around me. And that was the end of my father."
Sam was still on his elbows, but one hand was now over his eyes. There were just a couple more things Adam wanted to say.
"After the funeral, Lee stayed with us for a while. She told me about you and about the Cayhalls. She filled in a lot of gaps about my father. I became fascinated with you and the Kramer bombing, and I began reading old magazine articles and newspaper stories. It took about a year for me to figure out why Eddie killed himself when he did. He'd been hiding in his room during your trial, and he killed himself when it was over."
Sam removed his hand and glared at Adam with wet eyes. "So you blame me for his death, right, Adam? That's what you really want to say, isn't it?"
"No. I don't blame you entirely."
"Then how much? Eighty percent? Ninety percent? You've had time to do the numbers. How much of it's my fault?"
"I don't know, Sam. Why don't you tell me?"
Sam wiped his eyes and raised his voice. "Oh what the hell! I'll claim a hundred percent. I'll take full responsibility for his death, okay? Is that what you want?"
"Take whatever you want."
"Don't patronize me! Just add my son's name to my list, is that what you want? The Kramer twins, their father, then Eddie. That's four I've killed, right? Anyone else you want to tack on here at the end? Do it quick, old boy, because the clock is ticking."
"How many more are out there?"
"Dead bodies?"
"Yes. Dead bodies. I've heard the rumors."
"And of course you believe them, don't you? You seem eager to believe everything bad about me."
"I didn't say I believed them."
Sam jumped to his feet and walked to the end of the room. "I'm tired of this conversation!" he yelled from thirty feet away. "And I'm tired of you! I almost wish I had those damned Jew lawyers harassing me again."
"We can accommodate you," Adam shot back.
Sam walked slowly back to his chair. "Here I am worried about my ass, twenty-three days away from the chamber, and all you want to do is talk about dead people. Just keep chirping away, old boy, and real soon you can start talking about me. I want some action."
"I filed a petition this morning."
"Fine! Then leave, dammit. Just get the hell out and stop tormenting me!"
Chapter 22
HE door on Adam's side opened, and Packer entered with two gentlemen behind him. They were obviously lawyers - dark suits, frowns, thick bulging briefcases. Packer pointed to some chairs under the air conditioner, and they sat down. He looked at Adam, and paid particular attention to Sam, who was still standing on the other side. "Everything okay?" he asked Adam.
Adam nodded and Sam eased into his chair. Packer left and the two new lawyers efficiently went about their business of pulling heavy documents from fat files. Within a minute, both jackets were off.
Five minutes passed without a word from Sam. Adam caught a few glimpses from the lawyers on the other end. They were in the same room with the most famous inmate on the Row, the next one to be gassed, and they couldn't help but steal curious peeks at Sam Cayhall and his lawyer.
Then the door opened behind Sam, and two guards entered with a wiry little black man who was shackled and manacled and cuffed as if he might erupt any moment and kill dozens with his bare hands. They led him to a seat across from his lawyers, and went about the business of liberating most of his limbs. The hands remained cuffed behind his back. One of the guards left the room, but the other took a position halfway between Sam and the black inmate.
Sam glanced down the counter at his comrade, a nervous type who evidently was not happy with his lawyers. His lawyers did not appear to be thrilled either. Adam watched them from his side of the screen, and within minutes their heads were close together and they were talking in unison through the slit while their client sat militantly on his hands. Their low voices were audible, but their words were indecipherable.
Sam eased forward again, on his elbows, and motioned for Adam to do likewise. Their faces met ten inches apart with the opening between them.
"That's Stockholm Turner," Sam said, almost in a whisper.
"Stockholm?"
"Yeah, but he goes by Stock. These rural Africans love unusual names. He says he has a brother named Denmark and one named Germany. Probably does."
"What'd he do?" Adam asked, suddenly curious.
"Robbed a whiskey store, I think. Shot the owner. About two years ago he got a death warrant, and it went down to the wire. He came within two hours of the chamber."
"What happened?"
"His lawyers got a stay, and they've been fighting ever since. You can never tell, but he'll probably be the next after me."
They both looked toward the end of the room where the conference was raging in full force.
Stock was off his hands and sitting on the edge of his chair and raising hell with his lawyers.
Sam grinned, then chuckled, then leaned even closer to the screen. "Stock's family is dirt poor, and they have little to do with him. It's not unusual, really, especially with the Africans. He seldom gets mail or visitors. He was born fifty miles from here, but the free world has forgotten about him. As his appeals were losing steam, Stock started worrying about life and death and things in general. Around here, if no one claims your body, then the state buries you like a pauper in some cheap grave. Stock got concerned about what would happen to his body, and he started asking all kinds of questions. Packer and some of the guards picked up on it, and they convinced Stock that his body would be sent to a crematorium where it would be burned. The ashes would be dropped from the air and spread over Parchman. They told him that since he'd be full of gas anyway, when they stuck a match to him he'd go off like a bomb. Stock was devastated. He had trouble sleeping and lost weight. Then he started writing letters to his family and friends begging them for a few dollars so he could have a Christian burial, as he called it. The money trickled in, and he wrote more letters. He wrote to ministers and civil rights groups. Even his lawyers sent money.
"When his stay was lifted, Stock had close to four hundred dollars, and he was ready to die. Or so he thought."
Sam's eyes were dancing and his voice was light. He told the story slowly, in a low voice, and savored the details. Adam was amused more by the telling than by the narrative.
"They have a loose rule here that allows almost unlimited visitation for seventy-two hours prior to the execution. As long as there's no security risk, they'll allow the condemned man to do damned near anything. There's a little office up front with a desk and phone, and that becomes the visiting room. It's usually filled with all sorts of people - grandmothers, nieces, nephews, cousins, aunties - especially with these Africans. Hell, they run 'em in here by the busload. Kinfolks who haven't spent five minutes thinking about the inmate suddenly show up to share his last moments. It almost becomes a social event.