"And how do you feel about Sam Cayhall?"
"I don't think he should be executed. He's an old man who's suffered a lot, and I want the governor to give him a pardon. Let him die in peace up there at Parchman."
"Okay. I'll make sure the governor knows about your call."
"Thank you."
Goodman pushed a button on the phone, and took a bow before his audience. "Nothing to it. Let's get started."
The white male selected a phone number. His conversation went something like this: "Hello, this is Lester Crosby, from Bude, Mississippi. I'm calling about the execution of Sam Cayhall. Yes ma'am. My number? It's 555-9084. Yes, that's right, Bude, Mississippi, down here in Franklin County. That's right. Well, I don't think Sam Cayhall ought to be sent to the gas chamber. I'm just opposed to it. I think the governor should step in and stop this thing. Yes ma'am, that's right. Thank you." He smiled at Goodman, who was punching another number.
The white female was a middle-aged student. She was from a small town in a rural section of the state, and her accent was naturally twangy. "Hello, is this the governor's office? Good. I'm calling about the Cayhall story in today's paper. Susan Barnes. Decatur, Mississippi. That's right. Well, he's an old man who'll probably die in a few years anyway. What good will it do for the state to kill him now? Give the guy a break. What? Yes, I want the governor to stop it. I voted for the governor, and I think he's a fine man. Yes. Thank you too."
The black male was in his late twenties. He simply informed the hotline operator that he was a black Mississippian, very much opposed to the ideas Sam Cayhall and the Klan promoted, but nonetheless opposed to the execution. "The government does not have the right to determine if someone lives or dies," he said. He did not favor the death penalty under any circumstances. And so it went. The calls poured in from all over the state, one after the other, each from a different person with a different logic for stopping the execution. The students became creative, trying assorted accents and novel reasonings. Occasionally, their calls would hit busy signals, and it was amusing to know that they had jammed the hotline. Because of his crisp accent, Goodman assumed the role of the outsider, sort of a traveling death penalty abolitionist who bounced in from all over the country with a dazzling array of ethnic aliases and strange locales.
Goodman had worried that McAllister might be paranoid enough to trace the calls to his hotline, but had decided that the operators would be too busy.
And busy they were. Across town, John Bryan Glass canceled a class and locked the door to his office. He had a delightful time making repeated calls under all sorts of names. Not far from him, Hez Kerry and one of his staff attorneys were also bombarding the hotline with the same messages.
Adam hurried to Memphis. Darlene was in his office, trying vainly to organize the mountain of paperwork. She pointed to a stack nearest his computer."The decision denying cert is on top, then the decision from the Mississippi Supreme Court. Next to it is the petition for writ of habeas corpus to be filed in federal district court. I've already faxed everything."
Adam removed his jacket and threw it on a chair. He looked at a row of pink telephone messages tacked to a bookshelf. "Who are these people?"
"Reporters, writers, quacks, a couple are other lawyers offering their assistance. One is from Garner Goodman in Jackson. He said the market analysis is going fine, don't call. What is the market analysis?"
"Don't ask. No word from the Fifth Circuit?"
"No."
Adam took a deep breath and eased into his chair.
"Lunch?" she asked.
"Just a sandwich, if you don't mind. Can you work tomorrow and Sunday?"
"Of course."
"I need for you to stay here all weekend, by the phone and the fax. I'm sorry."
"I don't mind. I'll get a sandwich."
She left, closing the door behind her. Adam called Lee's condo, and there was no answer. He called the Auburn House, but no one had heard from her. He called Phelps Booth, who was in a board meeting. He called Carmen in Berkeley and told her to make arrangements to fly to Memphis on Sunday.
He looked at the phone messages, and decided none were worth returning.
627
At one o'clock, Mona Stark spoke to the press loitering around the governor's office in the capitol. She said that after much deliberation, the governor had decided to grant a clemency hearing on Monday at 10 A.m., at which time the governor would listen to the issues and appeals, and make a fair decision. It was an awesome responsibility, she explained, this weighing of life or death. But David McAllister would do what was just and right.
41
PACKER went to the cell at five-thirty Saturday morning, and didn't bother with the handcuffs. Sam was waiting, and they quietly left Tier A. They walked through the kitchen where the trustees were scrambling eggs and frying bacon. Sam had never seen the kitchen, and he walked slowly, counting his steps, checking the dimensions. Packer opened a door and motioned for Sam to hurry and follow. They stepped outside, into the darkness. Sam stopped and looked at the square brick room to his right, the little building that housed the gas chamber. Packer pulled his elbow, and they walked together to the east end of the row where another guard was watching and waiting. The guard handed Sam a large cup of coffee, and led him through a gate into a recreation yard similar to the bullpens on the west end of the Row. It was fenced and wired, with a basketball goal and two benches. Packer said he would return in an hour, and left with the guard.
Sam stood in place for a long time, sipping the hot coffee and absorbing the landscape. His first cell had been on Tier D, on the east wing, and he'd been here many times before. He knew the exact dimensions - fifty-one feet by thirty-six. He saw the guard in the tower sitting under a light and watching him. Through the fences and over the tops of the rows of cotton, he could see the lights of other buildings. He slowly walked to a bench and sat down.
How thoughtful of these kind people to grant his request to see one final sunrise. He hadn't seen one in nine and a half years, and at first Nugent said no. Then Packer intervened, and explained to the colonel that it was okay, no security risk at all, and what the hell, the man was supposed to die in four days. Packer would take responsibility for it.
Sam stared at the eastern sky, where a hint of orange was peeking through scattered clouds. During his early days on the Row, when his appeals were fresh and unresolved, he had spent hours remembering the glorious humdrum of everyday life, the little things like a warm shower every day, the companionship of his dog, extra honey on his biscuits. He actually believed back then that one day he would again be able to hunt squirrels and quail, to fish for bass and bream, to sit on the porch and watch the sun come up, to drink coffee in town, and drive his old pickup wherever he wanted. His goal during those early fantasies on the Row had been to fly to California and find his grandchildren. He had never flown.
But the dreams of freedom had died long ago, driven away by the tedious monotony of life in a cell, and killed by the harsh opinions of many judges.
This would be his final sunrise, he truly believed that. Too many people wanted him dead. The gas chamber was not being used often enough. It was time for an execution, dammit, and he was next in line.
The sky grew brighter and the clouds dissipated. Though he was forced to watch this magnificent act of nature through a chain-link fence, it was satisfying nonetheless. Just a few more days and the fences would be gone. The bars and razor wire and prison cells would be left for someone else.
Two reporters smoked cigarettes and drank machine coffee as they waited by the south entrance to the capitol early Saturday morning. Word had been leaked that the governor would spend a long day at the office, struggling with the Cayhall thing.
At seven-thirty, his black Lincoln rolled to a stop nearby, and he made a quick exit from it. Two well-dressed bodyguards escorted him to the entrance, with Mona Stark a few steps behind.
"Governor, do you plan to attend the execution?" the first reporter asked hurriedly. McAllister smiled and raised his hands as if he'd love to stop and chat but things were much too critical for that. Then he saw a camera hanging from the other reporter's neck.
"I haven't made a decision yet," he answered, stopping just for a second.
"Will Ruth Kramer testify at the clemency hearing on Monday?"
The camera was raised and ready. "I can't say right now," he answered, smiling into the lens. "Sorry, guys, I can't talk now."
He entered the building and rode the elevator to his office on the second floor. The bodyguards assumed their positions in the foyer, behind morning newspapers.
Lawyer Larramore was waiting with his updates. He explained to the governor and Ms. Stark that there had been no changes in the various Cayhall petitions and appeals since 5 P.m. yesterday. Nothing had happened overnight. The appeals were becoming more desperate, and the courts would deny them more quickly, in his opinion. He had already spoken with Morris Henry at the AG's office, and, in the learned judgment of Dr. Death, there was now an 80 percent chance that the execution would take place.
"What about the clemency hearing on Monday? Any word from Cayhall's lawyers?" McAllister asked.
"No. I asked Garner Goodman to stop by at nine this morning. Thought we'd talk to him about it. I'll be in my office if you need me."
Larramore excused himself. Ms. Stark was performing her morning ritual of scanning the dailies from around the state and placing them on the conference table. Of the nine papers she monitored, the Cayhall story was on the front page of eight. The announcement of a clemency hearing was of special interest Saturday morning. Three of the papers carried the same AP photo of the Klansmen roasting idly under the fierce August sun outside of Parchman.
McAllister removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began peering over the papers. "Get the numbers," he said tersely.
Mona left the office, and returned in less than a minute. She carried a computer printout, which obviously bore dreadful news.
"I'm listening," he said.
"The calls stopped around nine last night, last one was at nine-o-seven. The total for the day was four hundred and eighty-six, and at least ninety percent voiced strong opposition to the execution."
"Ninety percent," McAllister said in disbelief. He was no longer in shock, though. By noon yesterday, the hotline operators had reported an unusual number of calls, and by one Mona was analyzing printouts. They had spent much of yesterday afternoon staring at the numbers, contemplating the next move. He had slept little.