The Chamber (11 page)

“Stop it,” she said, and Adam saw the tears. They were flowing and were almost to her chin when she wiped them with her fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he said, then turned to watch another barge inch north through the shadows of the river. “I’m sorry, Lee.”

      Eight      

S
o after twenty-three years, he was finally returning to the state of his birth. He didn’t particularly feel welcome, and though he wasn’t particularly afraid of anything he drove a cautious fifty-five and refused to pass anyone. The road narrowed and sunk onto the flat plain of the Mississippi Delta, and for a mile Adam watched as a levee snaked its way to the right and finally disappeared. He eased through the hamlet of Walls, the first town of any size along 61, and followed the traffic south.

Through his considerable research, he knew that this highway had for decades served as the principal conduit for hundreds of thousands of poor Delta blacks journeying north to Memphis and St. Louis and Chicago and Detroit, places where they sought jobs and decent housing. It was in these towns and farms, these ramshackle shotgun houses and dusty country stores and colorful juke joints along Highway 61 where the blues was born and spread northward. The music found a home in Memphis where it was blended with gospel and country, and together they spawned rock and roll. He listened to an old Muddy Waters cassette as he entered the infamous county of Tunica, said to be the poorest in the nation.

The music did little to calm him. He had refused breakfast at Lee’s, said he wasn’t hungry but in fact had a knot in his stomach. The knot grew with each mile.

Just north of the town of Tunica, the fields grew vast
and ran to the horizon in all directions. The soybeans and cotton were knee high. A small army of green and red tractors with plows behind them crisscrossed the endless neat rows of leafy foliage. Though it was not yet nine o’clock, the weather was already hot and sticky. The ground was dry, and clouds of dust smoldered behind each plow. An occasional crop duster dropped from nowhere and acrobatically skimmed the tops of the fields, then soared upward. Traffic was heavy and slow, and sometimes forced almost to a standstill as a monstrous John Deere of some variety inched along as if the highway were deserted.

Adam was patient. He was not expected until ten, and it wouldn’t matter if he arrived late.

At Clarksdale, he left Highway 61 and headed southeast on 49, through the tiny settlements of Mattson and Dublin and Tutwiler, through more soybean fields. He passed cotton gins, now idle but waiting for the harvest. He passed clusters of impoverished row houses and dirty mobile homes, all for some reason situated close to the highway. He passed an occasional fine home, always at a distance, always sitting majestically under heavy oaks and elms, and usually with a fenced swimming pool to one side. There was no doubt who owned these fields.

A road sign declared the state penitentiary to be five miles ahead, and Adam instinctively slowed his car. A moment later, he ran up on a large tractor puttering casually down the road, and instead of passing he chose to follow. The operator, an old white man with a dirty cap, motioned for him to come around. Adam waved, and stayed behind the plow at twenty miles per hour. There was no other traffic in sight. A random dirt clod flung from a rear tractor tire, and landed just inches in front of the Saab. He slowed a bit more. The operator twisted in his seat, and again waved for Adam
to come around. His mouth moved and his face was angry, as if this were his highway and he didn’t appreciate idiots following his tractor. Adam smiled and waved again, but stayed behind him.

Minutes later, he saw the prison. There were no tall chain-link fences along the road. There were no lines of glistening razor wire to prevent escape. There were no watchtowers with armed guards. There were no gangs of inmates howling at the passersby. Instead, Adam saw an entrance to the right and the words MISSISSIPPI STATE PENITENTIARY spanning from an arch above it. Next to the entrance were several buildings, all facing the highway and apparently unguarded.

Adam waved once again at the tractor operator, then eased from the highway. He took a deep breath, and studied the entrance. A female in uniform stepped from a guardhouse under the arch, and stared at him. Adam drove slowly to her, and lowered his window.

“Mornin’,” she said. She had a gun on her hip and a clipboard in her hand. Another guard watched from inside. “What can we do for you?”

“I’m a lawyer, here to see a client on death row,” Adam said weakly, very much aware of his shrill and nervous voice. Just calm down, he told himself.

“We ain’t got nobody on death row, sir.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Ain’t no such place as death row. We got a bunch of ’em in the Maximum Security Unit, that’s MSU for short, but you can look all over this place and you won’t find no death row.”

“Okay.”

“Name?” she said, studying the clipboard.

“Adam Hall.”

“And your client?”

“Sam Cayhall.” He half-expected some sort of response
to this, but the guard didn’t care. She flipped a sheet, and said, “Stay right here.”

The entrance became a driveway with shade trees and small buildings on each side. This wasn’t a prison—this was a pleasant little street in a small town where any minute now a group of kids would appear on bicycles and roller skates. To the right was a quaint structure with a front porch and flower beds. A sign said this was the Visitors Center, as if souvenirs and lemonade were on sale for eager tourists. A white pickup with three young blacks in it and Mississippi Department of Corrections stenciled on the door passed by without slowing a bit.

Adam caught a glimpse of the guard standing behind his car. She was writing something on the clipboard as she approached his window. “Where’bouts in Illinois?” she asked.

“Chicago.”

“Got any cameras, guns, or tape recorders?”

“No.”

She reached inside and placed a card on his dash. Then she returned to her clipboard, and said, “Got a note here that you’re supposed to see Lucas Mann.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s the prison attorney.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to see him.”

She held a piece of paper three feet from his face. “Says so right here. Take the third left, just up there, then wind around to the back of that red brick building.” She was pointing.

“What does he want?”

She snorted and shrugged at the same time, and walked to the guardhouse shaking her head. Dumbass lawyers.

Adam gently pressed the accelerator and eased by the Visitors Center and down the shaded drive. On
both sides were neat white frame houses where, he learned later, prison guards and other employees lived with their families. He followed her instructions and parked in front of an aging brick building. Two trustees in blue prison pants with white stripes down the legs swept the front steps. Adam avoided eye contact and went inside.

He found the unmarked office of Lucas Mann with little trouble. A secretary smiled at him, and opened another door to a large office where Mr. Mann was standing behind his desk and talking on the phone.

“Just have a seat,” the secretary whispered as she closed the door behind him. Mann smiled and waved awkwardly as he listened to the phone. Adam sat his briefcase in a chair and stood behind it. The office was large and clean. Two long windows faced the highway and provided plenty of light. On the wall to the left was a large framed photo of a familiar face, a handsome young man with an earnest smile and strong chin. It was David McAllister, governor of the State of Mississippi. Adam suspected identical photos were hung in every state government office, and also plastered in every hallway, closet, and toilet under the state’s domain.

Lucas Mann stretched the phone cord and walked to a window, his back to the desk and Adam. He certainly didn’t appear to be a lawyer. He was in his mid-fifties with flowing dark gray hair which he somehow pulled and kept situated on the back of his neck. His dress was the hippest of fraternity chic—severely starched khaki workshirt with two pockets and a mixed salad tie, still tied but hanging loose; top button unbuttoned to reveal a gray cotton tee shirt; brown chinos, likewise starched to the crunch with a perfect one-inch cuff falling just enough to allow a peek at white socks; loafers shined immaculately. It was obvious
Lucas knew how to dress, and also obvious he was engaged in a different practice of law. If he’d had a small earring in his left lobe, he would have been the perfect aging hippie who in his later years was yielding to conformity.

The office was neatly furnished with government hand-me-downs: a worn wooden desk that seemed impeccably organized; three metal chairs with vinyl cushions; a row of mismatched file cabinets along one wall. Adam stood behind a chair and tried to calm himself. Could this meeting be required of all visiting attorneys? Surely not. There were five thousand inmates in Parchman. Garner Goodman had not mentioned a visit with Lucas Mann.

The name was vaguely familiar. Somewhere deep in one of his boxes of court files and newspaper clippings he had seen the name of Lucas Mann, and he desperately tried to remember if he was a good guy or a bad one. What exactly was his role in death penalty litigation? Adam knew for certain that the enemy was the state’s Attorney General, but he couldn’t fit Lucas into the scenario.

Mann suddenly hung up the phone and shoved a hand at Adam. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hall. Please have a seat,” he said softly in a pleasant drawl as he waved at a chair. “Thanks for stopping by.”

Adam took a seat. “Sure. A pleasure to meet you,” he replied nervously. “What’s up?”

“A couple of things. First, I just wanted to meet you and say hello. I’ve been the attorney here for twelve years. I do most of the civil litigation that this place spews forth, you know, all kinds of crazy litigation filed by our guests—prisoners’ rights, damage suits, that kind of stuff. We get sued every day, it seems. By statute, I also play a small role in the death cases, and I understand you’re here to visit Sam.”

“That’s correct.”

“Has he hired you?”

“Not exactly.”

“I didn’t think so. This presents a small problem. You see, you’re not supposed to visit an inmate unless you actually represent him, and I know that Sam has successfully terminated Kravitz & Bane.”

“So I can’t see him?” Adam asked, almost with a trace of relief.

“You’re not supposed to. I had a long talk yesterday with Garner Goodman. He and I go back a few years to the Maynard Tole execution. Are you familiar with that one?”

“Vaguely.”

“Nineteen eighty-six. It was my second execution,” he said as if he’d personally pulled the switch. He sat on the edge of his desk and looked down at Adam. The starch crackled gently in his chinos. His right leg swung from the desk. “I’ve had four, you know. Sam could be the fifth. Anyway, Garner represented Maynard Tole, and we got to know each other. He’s a fine gentleman and fierce advocate.”

“Thanks,” Adam said because he could think of nothing else.

“I hate them, personally.”

“You’re opposed to the death penalty?”

“Most of the time. I go through stages, actually. Every time we kill someone here I think the whole world’s gone crazy. Then, invariably, I’ll review one of these cases and remember how brutal and horrible some of these crimes were. My first execution was Teddy Doyle Meeks, a drifter who raped, mutilated, and killed a little boy. There was not much sadness here when he was gassed. But, hey, listen, I could tell war stories forever. Maybe we’ll have time for it later, okay?”

“Sure,” Adam said without commitment. He could not envision a moment when he wanted to hear stories about violent murderers and their executions.

“I told Garner that I didn’t think you should be permitted to visit Sam. He listened for a while, then he explained, rather vaguely I must say, that perhaps yours was a special situation, and that you should be allowed at least one visit. He wouldn’t say what was so special about it, know what I mean?” Lucas rubbed his chin when he said this as if he had almost solved the puzzle. “Our policy is rather strict, especially for MSU. But the warden will do whatever I ask.” He said this very slowly, and the words hung in the air.

“I, uh, really need to see him,” Adam said, his voice almost cracking.

“Well, he needs a lawyer. Frankly, I’m glad you’re here. We’ve never executed one unless his lawyer was present. There’s all sorts of legal maneuvering up to the very last minute, and I’ll just feel better if Sam has a lawyer.” He walked around the desk and took a seat on the other side. He opened a file and studied a piece of paper. Adam waited and tried to breathe normally.

“We do a fair amount of background on our death inmates,” Lucas said, still looking at the file. The statement had the tone of a solemn warning. “Especially when the appeals have run and the execution is looming. Do you know anything about Sam’s family?”

The knot suddenly felt like a basketball in Adam’s stomach. He managed to shrug and shake his head at the same time, as if to say he knew nothing.

“Do you plan to talk to Sam’s family?”

Again, no response, just the same inept shrug of the shoulders, very heavy shoulders at this moment.

“I mean, normally, in these cases, there’s quite a lot of contact with the condemned man’s family as the execution gets closer. You’ll probably want to contact
these folks. Sam has a daughter in Memphis, a Mrs. Lee Booth. I have an address, if you want it.” Lucas watched him suspiciously. Adam could not move. “Don’t suppose you know her, do you?”

Adam shook his head, but said nothing.

“Sam had one son, Eddie Cayhall, but the poor guy committed suicide in 1981. Lived in California. Eddie left two children, a son born in Clanton, Mississippi, on May 12, 1964, which, oddly enough, is your birthday, according to my Martindale-Hubbell Law Directory. Says you were born in Memphis on the same day. Eddie also left a daughter who was born in California. These are Sam’s grandchildren. I’ll try and contact them, if you—”

“Eddie Cayhall was my father,” Adam blurted out, and he took a deep breath. He sank lower in the chair and stared at the top of the desk. His heart pounded furiously, but at least he was breathing again. His shoulders were suddenly lighter. He even managed a very small smile.