"Didn't realize you and Mom were so close."
"We're not. Settle down, Adam. Take it easy."
"I'm sorry. I'm wired, that's all. I need a stronger drink."
"Relax. Let's have some fun while you're here."
"It's not a fun visit, Aunt Lee."
"Just call me Lee, okay."
"Okay. I'm going to see Sam tomorrow."
She carefully placed her glass on the table, then stood and left the patio. She returned with a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and poured a generous shot into both glasses. She took a long drink and stared at the river in the distance. "Why?" she finally asked.
"Why not? Because he's my grandfather. Because he's about to die. Because I'm a lawyer and he needs help."
"He doesn't even know you."
"He will tomorrow."
"So you'll tell him?"
"Yes, of course I'm going to tell him. Can you believe it? I'm actually going to tell a deep, dark, nasty Cayhall secret. What about that?"
Lee held her glass with both hands and slowly shook her head. "He'll die," she mumbled without looking at Adam.
"Not yet. But it's nice to know you're concerned."
"I am concerned."
"Oh really. When did you last see him?"
"Don't start this, Adam. You don't understand."
"Fine. Fair enough. Explain it to me then. I'm listening. I want to understand."
"Can't we talk about something else, dear? I'm not ready for this."
"No. 11
"We can talk about this later, I promise. I'm just not ready for it right now. I thought we'd just gossip and laugh for a while."
"I'm sorry, Lee. I'm sick of gossip and secrets. I have no past because my father conveniently erased it. I want to know about it, Lee. I want to know how bad it really is."
"It's awful," she whispered, almost to herself.
"Okay. I'm a big boy now. I can handle it. My father checked out on me before he had to face it, so I'm afraid there's no one but you."
"Give me some time."
"There is no time. I'll be face-to-face with him tomorrow." Adam took a long drink and wiped his lips with his sleeve. "Twenty-three years ago, Newsweek said Sam's father was also a Klansman. Was he?"
"Yes. My grandfather."
"And several uncles and cousins as well."
"The whole damned bunch."
"Newsweek also said that it was common knowledge in Ford County that Sam Cayhall shot and killed a black man in the early fifties, and was never arrested for it. Never served a day in jail. Is this true?"
"Why does it matter now, Adam? That was years before you were born."
"So it really happened?"
"Yes, it happened."
"And you knew about it?"
"I saw it."
"You saw it!" Adam closed his eyes in disbelief. He breathed heavily and sunk lower into the rocker. The horn from a tugboat caught his attention, and he followed it downriver until it passed under a bridge. The bourbon was beginning to soothe.
"Let's talk about something else," Lee said softly.
"Even when I was a little kid," he said, still watching the river, "I loved history. I was fascinated by the way people lived years ago - the pioneers, the wagon trains, the gold rush, cowboys and Indians, the settling of the West. There was a kid in the fourth grade who claimed his great-great-grandfather had robbed trains and buried the money in Mexico. He wanted to form a gang and run away to find the money. We knew he was lying, but it was great fun playing along. I often wondered about my ancestors, and I remember being puzzled because I didn't seem to have any."
"What would Eddie say?"
"He told me they were all dead; said more time is wasted on family history than anything else. Every time I asked questions about my family, Mother would pull me aside and tell me to stop because it might upset him and he might go off into one of his dark moods and stay in his bedroom for a month. I spent most of my childhood walking on eggshells around my father. As I grew older, I began to realize he was a very strange man, very unhappy, but I never dreamed he would kill himself."
She rattled her ice and took the last sip. "There's a lot to it, Adam."
"So when will you tell me?"
Lee gently took the pitcher and refilled their glasses. Adam poured bourbon into both. Several minutes passed as they sipped and watched the traffic on Riverside Drive.
"Have you been to death row?" he finally asked, still staring at the lights along the river.
"No," she said, barely audible.
"He's been there for almost ten years, and you've never gone to see him?"
"I wrote him a letter once, shortly after his last trial. Six months later he wrote me back and told me not to come. Said he didn't want me to see him on death row. I wrote him two more letters, neither of which he answered."
"I'm sorry."