The Chamber (53 page)

It was a humane and thoughtful procedure. The inmate remained in his cell, next to his pals, up to the very end. In Louisiana, they were removed from the Row and placed in a small building known as the Death House. They spent their final three days there, under constant supervision. In Virginia, they were moved to another city.

Sam was eight doors from the Observation Cell, about forty-eight feet. Then another twenty feet to the Isolation Room, then another twelve feet to the chamber. From a point in the center of his bed, he’d calculated many times that he was approximately eighty-five feet from the gas chamber.

And he made the calculation again Tuesday morning as he carefully made an X on his calendar. Eight days. It was dark and hot. He had slept off and on and spent most of the night sitting in front of his fan. Breakfast
and coffee were an hour away now. This would be day number 3,449 on the Row, and the total did not include time spent in the county jail in Greenville during his first two trials. Only eight more days.

His sheets were soaked with sweat, and as he lay on the bed and watched the ceiling for the millionth time he thought of death. The actual act of dying would not be too terrible. For obvious reasons, no one knew the exact effects of the gas. Maybe they would give him an extra dose so he’d be dead long before his body twitched and jerked. Maybe the first breath would knock him senseless. At any rate, it wouldn’t take long, he hoped. He’d watched his wife shrivel and suffer greatly from cancer. He’d watched kinfolks grow old and vegetate. Surely, this was a better way to go.

“Sam,” J. B. Gullitt whispered, “you up?”

Sam walked to his door and leaned through the bars. He could see Gullitt’s hands and forearms. “Yeah. I’m up. Can’t seem to sleep.” He lit the first cigarette of the day.

“Me neither. Tell me it’s not gonna happen, Sam.”

“It’s not gonna happen.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. My lawyer’s about to unload the heavy stuff. He’ll probably walk me outta here in a coupla weeks.”

“Then why can’t you sleep?”

“I’m so excited about gettin’ out.”

“Have you talked to him about my case?”

“Not yet. He’s got a lot on his mind. As soon as I get out, we’ll go to work on your case. Just relax. Try and get some sleep.”

Gullitt’s hands and forearms slowly withdrew, then his bed squeaked. Sam shook his head at the kid’s ignorance. He finished the cigarette and thumped it
down the hall, a breach of the rules which would earn him a violation report. As if he cared.

He carefully took his typewriter from the shelf. He had things to say and letters to write. There were people out there he needed to speak to.

______

G
EORGE
N
UGENT
entered the Maximum Security Unit like a five-star general and glared disapprovingly at the hair and then at the unshined boots of a white security guard. “Get a haircut,” he growled, “or I’ll write you up. And work on those boots.”

“Yes sir,” the kid said, and almost saluted.

Nugent jerked his head and nodded at Packer, who led the way through the center of the Row to Tier A. “Number six,” Packer said as the door opened.

“Stay here,” Nugent instructed. His heels clicked as he marched along the tier, gazing with disdain into each cell. He stopped at Sam’s, and peered inside. Sam was stripped to his boxers, his thin and wrinkled skin gleaming with sweat as he pecked away. He looked at the stranger staring at him through the bars, then returned to his work.

“Sam, my name is George Nugent.”

Sam hit a few keys. The name was not familiar, but Sam assumed he worked somewhere up the ladder since he had access to the tiers. “What do you want?” Sam asked without looking.

“Well, I wanted to meet you.”

“My pleasure, now shove off.”

Gullitt to the right and Henshaw to the left were suddenly leaning through the bars, just a few feet from Nugent. They snickered at Sam’s response.

Nugent glared at them, and cleared his throat. “I’m an assistant superintendent, and Phillip Naifeh has placed me in charge of your execution. There are a few things we need to discuss.”

Sam concentrated on his correspondence, and cursed when he hit a wrong key. Nugent waited. “If I could have a few minutes of your valuable time, Sam.”

“Better call him Mr. Cayhall,” Henshaw added helpfully. “He’s a few years older than you, and it means a lot to him.”

“Where’d you get those boots?” Gullitt asked, staring at Nugent’s feet.

“You boys back away,” Nugent said sternly. “I need to talk to Sam.”

“Mr. Cayhall’s busy right now,” Henshaw said. “Perhaps you should come back later. I’ll be happy to schedule an appointment for you.”

“Are you some kinda military asshole?” Gullitt asked.

Nugent stood stiffly and glanced to his right and to his left. “I’m ordering you two to get back, okay. I need to speak to Sam.”

“We don’t take orders,” Henshaw said.

“And what’re you gonna do about it?” Gullitt asked. “Throw us in solitary? Feed us roots and berries? Chain us to the walls? Why don’t you just go ahead and kill us?”

Sam placed his typewriter on the bed, and walked to the bars. He took a long drag, and shot smoke through them in the general direction of Nugent. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“I need a few things from you.”

“Such as?”

“Do you have a will?”

“That’s none of your damned business. A will is a private document to be seen only if it’s probated, and it’s probated only after a person dies. That’s the law.”

“What a dumbass!” Henshaw shrieked.

“I don’t believe this,” Gullitt offered. “Where did Naifeh find this idiot?” he asked.

“Anything else?” Sam asked.

Nugent’s face was changing colors. “We need to know what to do with your things.”

“It’s in my will, okay.”

“I hope you’re not going to be difficult, Sam.”

“It’s Mr. Cayhall,” Henshaw said again.

“Difficult?” Sam asked. “Why would I be difficult? I intend to cooperate fully with the state while it goes about its business of killing me. I’m a good patriot. I would vote and pay taxes if I could. I’m proud to be an American, an Irish-American, and at this moment I’m still very much in love with my precious state, even though it plans to gas me. I’m a model prisoner, George. No problems out of me.”

Packer was thoroughly enjoying this as he waited at the end of the tier. Nugent stood firm.

“I need a list of the people you want to witness the execution,” he said. “You’re allowed two.”

“I’m not giving up yet, George. Let’s wait a few days.”

“Fine. I’ll also need a list of your visitors for the next few days.”

“Well, this afternoon I have this doctor coming down from Chicago, you see. He’s a psychiatrist, and he’s gonna talk to me and see how nutty I really am, then my lawyers will run to court and say that you, George, can’t execute me because I’m crazy. He’ll have time to examine you, if you want. It won’t take long.”

Henshaw and Gullitt horselaughed, and within seconds most of the other inmates on the tier were chiming in and cackling loudly. Nugent took a step backward and scowled up and down the tier. “Quiet!” he demanded, but the laughter increased. Sam continued puffing and blowing smoke through the bars. Catcalls and insults could be heard amid the ruckus.

“I’ll be back,” Nugent shouted angrily at Sam.

“He shall return!” Henshaw yelled, and the commotion grew even louder. The commandant stormed away, and as he marched swiftly to the end of the hall, shouts of “Heil Hitler” rang through the tier.

Sam smiled at the bars for a moment as the noise died, then returned to his position on the edge of the bed. He took a bite of dry toast, a sip of cold coffee. He resumed his typing.

______

T
HE AFTERNOON DRIVE
to Parchman was not a particularly pleasant one. Garner Goodman sat in the front seat as Adam drove, and they talked strategy and brainstormed about the last minute appeals and procedures. Goodman planned to return to Memphis over the weekend, and be available during the last three days. The psychiatrist was Dr. Swinn, a cold, unsmiling man in a black suit. He had wild, bushy hair, dark eyes hidden behind thick glasses, and was completely incapable of small talk. His presence in the backseat was discomfiting. He did not utter a single word from Memphis to Parchman.

The examination had been arranged by Adam and Lucas Mann to take place in the prison hospital, a remarkably modern facility. Dr. Swinn had very plainly informed Adam that neither he nor Goodman could be present during his evaluation of Sam. And this was perfectly fine with Adam and Goodman. A prison van met them at the front gate, and carried Dr. Swinn to the hospital deep inside the farm.

Goodman had not seen Lucas Mann in several years. They shook hands like old friends, and immediately lapsed into war stories about executions. The conversation was kept away from Sam, and Adam appreciated it.

They walked from Mann’s office across a parking lot to a small building behind the administration complex.
The building was a restaurant, designed along the lines of a neighborhood tavern. Called The Place, it served basic food to the office workers and prison employees. No alcohol. It was on state property.

They drank iced tea and talked about the future of capital punishment. Both Goodman and Mann agreed that executions would soon become even more commonplace. The U.S. Supreme Court was continuing its swing to the right, and it was weary of the endless appeals. Ditto for the lower levels of the federal judiciary. Plus, American juries were becoming increasingly reflective of society’s intolerance of violent crime. There was much less sympathy for death row inmates, a much greater desire to fry the bastards. Fewer federal dollars were being spent to fund groups opposed to the death penalty, and fewer lawyers and their firms were willing to make the enormous pro bono commitments. The death row population was growing faster than the number of lawyers willing to take capital cases.

Adam was quite bored with the conversation. He’d read and heard it a hundred times. He excused himself and found a pay phone in a corner. Phelps was not in, a young secretary said, but he’d left a message for Adam: no word from Lee. She was scheduled to be in court in two weeks; maybe she’d turn up then.

______

D
ARLENE
typed Dr. Swinn’s report while Adam and Garner Goodman worked on the petition to accompany it. The report was twenty pages long in rough draft, and sounded like soft music. Swinn was a hired gun, a prostitute who’d sell an opinion to the highest bidder, and Adam detested him and his ilk. He roamed the country as a professional testifier, able to say this today and that tomorrow, depending on who had the deepest pockets. But for the moment, he was their whore, and he was quite good. Sam was suffering from
advanced senility. His mental faculties had eroded to the point where he did not know and appreciate the nature of his punishment. He lacked the requisite competence to be executed, and therefore the execution would not serve any purpose. It was not an entirely unique legal argument, nor had the courts exactly embraced it. But, as Adam found himself saying every day, what was there to lose? Goodman seemed to be more than a little optimistic, primarily because of Sam’s age. He could not recall an execution of a man over the age of fifty.

They, Darlene included, worked until almost eleven.

G
ARNER GOODMAN DID NOT RETURN TO Chicago Wednesday morning, but instead flew to Jackson, Mississippi. The flight took thirty minutes, hardly time for a cup of coffee and an unthawed croissant. He rented a car at the airport and drove straight to the state capitol. The legislature was not in session, and there were plenty of parking places on the grounds. Like many county courthouses rebuilt after the Civil War, the capitol defiantly faced south. He stopped to admire the war monument to Southern women, but spent more time studying the splendid Japanese magnolias at the bottom of the front steps.

Four years earlier, during the days and hours prior to the Maynard Tole execution, Goodman had made this same journey on two occasions. There was a different governor then, a different client, and a different crime. Tole had murdered several people in a two-day crime spree, and it had been quite difficult to arouse sympathy for him. He hoped Sam Cayhall was different. He was an old man who’d probably die within five years anyway. His crime was ancient history to many Mississippians. And on and on.

Goodman had been rehearsing his routine all morning. He entered the capitol building and once again marveled at its beauty. It was a smaller version of the U.S. Capitol in Washington, and no expense had been spared. It had been built in 1910 with prison labor. The state had used the proceeds from a successful lawsuit
against a railroad to construct itself this monument.

He entered the governor’s office on the second floor and handed his card to the lovely receptionist. The governor was not in this morning, she said, and did he have an appointment? No, Goodman explained pleasantly, but it was very important, and would it be possible for him to see Mr. Andy Larramore, chief counsel for the governor?

He waited as she made several calls, and half an hour later Mr. Larramore presented himself. They made their introductions and disappeared into a narrow hallway that ran through a maze of small offices. Larramore’s cubbyhole was cluttered and disorganized, much like the man himself. He was a small guy with a noticeable bend at the waist and absolutely no neck. His long chin rested on his chest, and when he talked his eyes, nose, and mouth all squeezed together tightly. It was a horrible sight. Goodman couldn’t tell if he was thirty or fifty. He had to be a genius.

“The governor is speaking to a convention of insurance agents this morning,” Larramore said, holding an itinerary as if it were a piece of fine jewelry. “And then he visits a public school in the inner city.”

“I’ll wait,” Goodman said. “It’s very important, and I don’t mind hanging around.”

Larramore placed the sheet of paper aside, and folded his hands on the table. “What happened to that young fellow, Sam’s grandson?”