"Why wasn't he discovered during the trials?"
"How am I supposed to know? He was just a minor accomplice, I guess. They were after me. Why bother with a gopher? I don't know."
"Kramer was bombing number six, right?"
"I think so." Sam leaned forward again with his face almost touching the screen. His voice was low, his words carefully chosen as if someone might be listening somewhere.
"You think so?"
"It was a long time ago, okay." He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. "Yeah, number six."
"The FBI said it was number six."
"Then that settles it. They're always right."
"Was the same green Pontiac used in one or all of the prior bombings?"
"Yes. In a couple, as I remember. We used more than one car."
"All supplied by Dogan?"
"Yes. He was a car dealer."
"I know. Did the same man deliver the Pontiac for the prior bombings?"
"I never saw or met anyone delivering the cars for the bombings. Dogan didn't work that way. He was extremely careful, and his plans were detailed. I don't know this for a fact, but I'm certain that the man delivering the cars didn't have a clue as to who I was."
"Did the cars come with the dynamite?"
"Yes. Always. Dogan had enough guns and explosives for a small war. Feds never found his arsenal either."
"Where'd you learn about explosives?"
"KKK boot camp and the basic training manual."
"Probably hereditary, wasn't it?"
"No, it wasn't."
"I'm serious. How'd you learn to detonate explosives?"
"It's very basic and simple. Any fool could pick it up in thirty minutes."
"Then with a bit of practice you're an expert."
"Practice helps. It's not much more difficult than lighting a firecracker. You strike a match, any match will do, and you place it at the end of along fuse until the fuse lights. Then you run like hell. If you're lucky, it won't blow up for about fifteen minutes."
"And this is something that is just sort of absorbed by all Klansmen?"
"Most of the ones I knew could handle it."
"Do you still know any Klansmen?"
"No. They've abandoned me."
Adam watched his face carefully. The fierce blue eyes were steady. The wrinkles didn't move. There was no emotion, no feeling or sorrow or anger. Sam returned the stare without blinking.
Adam returned to his notepad. "On March 2, 1967, the Hirsch Temple in Jackson was bombed. Did you do it?"
"Get right to the point, don't you?"
"It's an easy question."
Sam twisted the filter between his lips and thought for a second. "Why is it important?"
"Just answer the damned question," Adam snapped. "It's too late to play games."
"I've never been asked that question before."
"Well I guess today's your big day. A simple yes or no will do."
"Yes."
"Did you use the green Pontiac?"
"I think so."
"Who was with you?"
"What makes you think someone was with me?"
"Because a witness said he saw a green Pontiac speed by a few minutes before the explosion. And he said two people were in the car. He even made a tentative identification of you as the driver."
"Ah, yes. Our little friend Bascar. I read about him in the newspapers."
"He was near the corner of Fortification and State streets when you and your pal rushed by. »
"Of course he was. And he'd just left a bar at three in the morning, drunk as a goat, and stupid as hell to begin with. Bascar, as I'm sure you know, never made it near a courtroom, never placed his hand on a Bible and swore to tell the truth, never faced a cross-examination, never came forward until after I was under arrest in Greenville and half the world had seen pictures of the green Pontiac. His tentative identification occurred only after my face had been plastered all over the papers."
"So he's lying?"
"No, he's probably just ignorant. Keep in mind, Adam, that I was never charged with that bombing. Bascar was never put under pressure. He never gave sworn testimony. His story was revealed, I believe, when a reporter with a Memphis newspaper dug through the honky-tonks and whorehouses long enough to find someone like Bascar."
"Let's try it this way. Did you or did you not have someone with you when you bombed the Hirsch Temple synagogue on March 2, 1967?"
Sam's gaze fell a few inches below the opening, then to the counter, then to the floor. He pushed away slightly from the partition and relaxed in his chair. Predictably, the blue package of Montclairs was produced from the front pocket, and he took forever selecting one, then thumping it on the filter, then inserting it just so between his moist lips. The striking of the match was another brief ceremony, but one that was finally accomplished and a fresh fog of smoke lifted toward the ceiling.