"About what?" ' "About the Kramer bombing."
"He says he's told me everything."
"But you have doubts?"
"Yes."
"So do I. I always had doubts."
"Why?"
"Lots of reasons. Jeremiah Dogan was a notorious liar, and he was scared to death of going to prison. The IRS had him cold, you know, and he was convinced that if he went to prison he'd be raped and tortured and killed by gangs of blacks. He was the Imperial Wizard, you know. Dogan was also ignorant about a lot of things. He was sly and hard to catch when it came to terrorism, but he didn't understand the criminal justice system. I always thought someone, probably the FBI, told Dogan that Sam had to be convicted or they'd ship him off to prison. No conviction, no deal. He was a very eager witness on the stand. He desperately wanted the jury to convict Sam."
"So he lied?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"About what?"
"Have you asked Sam if he had an accomplice?"
Adam paused for a second and analyzed the question. "I really can't discuss what Sam and I have talked about. It's confidential."
"Of course it is. There are a lot of people in this state who secretly do not wish to see Sam executed." McAllister was now watching Adam closely.
"Are you one of them?"
"I don't know. But what if Sam didn't plan to kill either Marvin Kramer or his sons? Sure Sam was there, right in the thick of it. But what if someone else possessed the intent to murder?"
"Then Sam isn't as guilty as we think."
"Right. He's certainly not innocent, but not guilty enough to be executed either. This bothers me, Mr. Hall. Can I call you Adam?"
"Of course."
"I don't suppose Sam has mentioned anything about an accomplice."
"I really can't discuss that. Not now."
The governor slipped a hand from a pocket and gave Adam a business card. "Two phone numbers on the back. One is my private office number. The other is my home number. All phone calls are confidential, I swear. I play for the cameras sometimes, Adam, it goes with the fob, but I can also be trusted."
'= Adam took the card and looked at the handwritten numbers.
"I couldn't live with myself if I failed to
rdon a man who didn't deserve to die,"
McAllister said as he walked to the door. "Give me a call, but don't wait too late. This thing's already heating up. I'm getting twenty phone calls a day."
He winked at Adam, showed him the sparkling teeth once again, and left the room.
` Adam sat in a metal chair against the wall, and looked at the front of the card. It was fold-embossed with an official seal. Twenty calls a day. What did that mean? Did the callers want Sam dead or did they want him pardoned?
A lot of people in this state do not wish to see Sam executed, he'd said, as if he was already weighing the votes he'd lose against those he might gain.
24
THE smile from the receptionist in the foyer was not as quick as usual, and as Adam walked to his office he detected a more somber atmosphere among the staff and the handful of lawyers. The chatter was an octave lower. Things were a bit more urgent.
Chicago had arrived. It happened occasionally, not necessarily for purposes of inspection, but more often than not to service a local client or to conduct bureaucratic little firm meetings. No one had ever been fired when Chicago arrived. No one had ever been cursed or abused. But it always provided for a few anxious moments until Chicago left and headed back North.
Adam opened his office door and nearly smacked into the worried face of E. Garner Goodman, complete with green paisley bow tie, white starched shirt, bushy gray hair. He'd been pacing around the room and happened to be near the door when it opened. Adam stared at him, then took his hand and shook it quickly.
"Come in, come in," Goodman said, closing the door as he invited Adam into his own office. He hadn't smiled yet.
"What are you doing here?" Adam asked, throwing his briefcase on the floor and walking to his desk. They faced each other.
Goodman stroked his neat gray beard, then adjusted his bow tie. "There's a bit of an emergency, I'm afraid. Could be bad news."
"What?"
"Sit down, sit down. This might take a minute."
"No. I'm fine. What is it?" It had to be horrible if he needed to take it sitting down.
Goodman tinkered with his bow tie, rubbed his beard, then said, "Well, it happened at nine this morning. You see, the Personnel Committee is made up of fifteen partners, almost all are ;younger guys. The full committee has several 'subcommittees, of course, one for recruiting, hiring, one for discipline, one for disputes, and on and on. And, as you might guess, there's one for terminations. The Termination 'Subcommittee met this morning, and guess who was there to orchestrate everything."
"Daniel Rosen."
"Daniel Rosen. Evidently, he's been working the Termination Subcommittee for ten days trying to line up enough votes for your dismissal."
Adam sat in a chair at the table, and Goodman sat across from him.
"There are seven members of the subcommittee, and they met this morning at Rosen's request. There were five members present, so they had a quorum. Rosen, of course, did not notify me or anyone else. Termination meetings are strictly confidential, for obvious reasons, so there was no requirement that he notify anyone."
"Not even me?"
"No, not even you. You were the only item on the agenda, and the meeting lasted less than an hour. Rosen had the deck stacked before he went in, but he presented his case very forcefully. Remember, he was a courtroom brawler for thirty years. They record all termination meetings, just in case there's litigation afterward, so Rosen made a complete record. He, of course, claims that you were deceitful when you applied for employment with Kravitz & Bane; that it presents the firm with a conflict of interest, and on and on. And he had copies of a dozen or so newspaper articles about you and Sam and the grandfather-grandson angle. His argument was that you had embarrassed the firm. He was very prepared. I think we underestimated him last Monday."
"And so they voted."
"Four to one to terminate you."
"Bastards!"
"I know. I've seen Rosen in tough spots before, and the guy can be brutally persuasive. He usually gets his way. He can't go to courtrooms anymore, so he's picking fights around the office. He'll be gone in six months."