"Why don't you open these blinds?" Adam asked. "It's a great view."
"I've seen it before."
"I'd kill for a view like this. My little cubbyhole is a mile from any window."
"Work hard, bill even harder, and one day this will all be yours."
"Not me."
"Leaving us, Mr. Hall?"
"Probably, eventually. But that's another secret, okay? I plan to hit it hard for a couple of years, then move on. Maybe open my own office, one where life does not revolve around a clock. I want to do public interest work, you know, sort of like you."
"So after nine months you're already disillusioned with Kravitz & Bane."
"No. But I can see it coming. I don't want to spend my career representing wealthy crooks and wayward corporations."
"Then you're certainly in the wrong place."
Adam left the window and walked to the edge of the desk. He looked down at Goodman. "I am in the wrong place, and I want a transfer. Wycoff will agree to send me to our little office in Memphis for the next few months so I can work on the Cayhall case. Sort of a leave of absence, with full pay of course."
"Anything else?"
"That's about it. It'll work. I'm just a lowly rookie, expendable around here. No one will miss me. Hell, there are plenty of young cutthroats just eager to work eighteen hours a day and bill twenty."
Goodman's face relaxed, and a warm smile appeared. He shook his head as if this impressed him. "You planned this, didn't you? I mean, you picked this firm because it represented Sam Cayhall, and because it has an office in Memphis."
Adam nodded without a smile. "Things have worked out. I didn't know how or when this moment would arrive, but, yes, I sort of planned it. Don't ask me what happens next."
"He'll be dead in three months, if not sooner."
"But I have to do something, Mr. Goodman. If the firm won't allow me to handle the case, then I'll probably resign and try it on my own."
Goodman shook his head and jumped to his feet. "Don't do that, Mr. Hall. We'll work something out. I'll need to present this to Daniel Rosen, the managing partner. I think he'll approve."
"He has a horrible reputation."
"Well deserved. But I can talk to him."
"He'll do it if you and Wycoff recommend it, won't he?"
"Of course. Are you hungry?" Goodman was reaching for his jacket.
"A little."
"Let's go out for a sandwich."
* * *
The lunch crowd at the corner deli had not arrived. The partner and the rookie took a small table in the front window overlooking the sidewalk. Traffic was slow and hundreds of pedestrians scurried along, just a few feet away. The waiter delivered a greasy Reuben for Goodman and a bowl of chicken soup for Adam.
"How many inmates are on death row in Mississippi?" Goodman asked.
"Forty-eight, as of last month. Twenty-five black, twenty-three white. The last execution was two years ago, Willie Parris. Sam Cayhall will probably be next, barring a small miracle."
Goodman chewed quickly on a large bite. He wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. "A large miracle, I would say. There's not much left to do legally."
"There are the usual assortment of last ditch motions."
"Let's save the strategy talks for later. I don't suppose you've ever been to Parchman."
"No. Since I learned the truth, I've been tempted to return to Mississippi, but it hasn't happened."
"It's a massive farm in the middle of the Mississippi Delta, not too far from Greenville, ironically. Something like seventeen thousand acres. Probably the hottest place in the world. It sits on Highway 49, just like a little hamlet off to the west. Lots of buildings and houses. The front part is administration, and it's not enclosed by fencing. There are about thirty different camps scattered around the farm, all fenced and secured. Each camp is completely separate. Some are miles apart. You drive past various camps, all enclosed by chain link and barbed wire, all with hundreds of prisoners hanging around, doing nothing. They wear different colors, depending on their classification. It seemed as if they were all young black kids, just loitering about, some playing basketball, some just sitting on the porches of the buildings. An occasional white face. You drive in your car, alone and very slowly, down a gravel road, past the camps and the barbed wire until you come to a seemingly innocuous little building with a flat roof. It has tall fences around it with guards watching from the towers. It's a fairly modern facility. It has an official name of some sort, but everyone refers to it simply as the Row."
"Sounds like a wonderful place."
"I thought it would be a dungeon, you know, dark and cold with water dripping from above. But it's just a little flat building out in the middle of a cotton field. Actually, it's not as bad as death rows in other states."
"I'd like to see the Row."
"You're not ready to see it. It's a horrible place filled with depressing people waiting to die. I was sixty years old before I saw it, and I didn't sleep for a week afterward." He took a sip of coffee. "I can't imagine how you'll feel when you go there. The Row is bad enough when you're representing a complete stranger."
"He is a complete stranger."
"How do you intend to tell him - "
"I don't know. I'll think of something. I'm sure it'll just happen."
Goodman shook his head. "This is bizarre."
"The whole family is bizarre."
"I remember now that Sam had two children, seems like one is a daughter. It's been a long time. Tyner did most of the work, you know."
"His daughter is my aunt, Lee Cayhall Booth, but she tries to forget her maiden name. She married into old Memphis money. Her husband owns a bank or two, and they tell no one about her father."
"Where's your mother?"
"Portland. She remarried a few years ago, and we talk about twice a year. Dysfunctional would be a mild term."
"How'd you afford Pepperdine?"