The Chamber (18 page)

“No. He told me to stay away.”

Adam paused the video. “At what point did Sam realize they were coming after him again?”

“It’s hard to say. There was a small story in the Memphis paper one day about this new district attorney in Greenville who wanted to reopen the Kramer case. It was not a big story, just a couple of paragraphs in the middle of the paper. I remember reading it with horror. I read it ten times and stared at it for an hour. After all these years, the name Sam Cayhall was once again in the paper. I couldn’t believe it. I called him, and, of course, he had read it too. He said not to worry. About two weeks later there was another story, a little larger this time, with David McAllister’s face in the middle of it. I called Daddy, he said everything was okay. That’s how it got started. Rather quietly, then it just steamrolled. The Kramer family supported the idea, then the NAACP got involved. One day it became obvious that McAllister was determined to push for a new trial, and that it was not going to go away. Sam was sickened by it, and he was scared, but he tried to act brave. He’d won twice he said, he could do it again.”

“Did you call Eddie?”

“Yeah. Once it was obvious there would be a new indictment, I called him and broke the news. He didn’t say much, didn’t say much at all. It was a brief conversation, and I promised to keep him posted. I don’t think he took it very well. It wasn’t long before it became a national story, and I’m sure Eddie followed it in the media.”

They watched the remaining segments of the third trial in silence. McAllister’s toothsome face was everywhere, and more than once Adam wished he’d done a
bit more editing. Sam was led away for the last time in handcuffs, and the screen went blank.

“Has anyone else seen this?” Lee asked.

“No. You’re the first.”

“How did you collect it all?”

“It took time, a little money, a lot of effort.”

“It’s incredible.”

“When I was a junior in high school, we had this goofy teacher of political science. He allowed us to haul in newspapers and magazines and debate the issues of the day. Someone brought a front page story from the L.A. Times about the upcoming trial of Sam Cayhall in Mississippi. We kicked it around pretty good, then we watched it closely as it took place. Everyone, including myself, was quite pleased when he was found guilty. But there was a huge debate over the death penalty. A few weeks later, my father was dead and you finally told me the truth. I was horrified that my friends would find out.”

“Did they?”

“Of course not. I’m a Cayhall, a master at keeping secrets.”

“It won’t be a secret much longer.”

“No, it won’t.”

There was a long pause as they stared at the blank screen. Adam finally pushed the power button and the television went off. He tossed the remote control on the table. “I’m sorry, Lee, if this will embarrass you. I mean it. I wish there was some way to avoid it.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I know. And you can’t explain it, right? Are you afraid of Phelps and his family?”

“I despise Phelps and his family.”

“But you enjoy their money.”

“I’ve earned their money, okay? I’ve put up with him for twenty-seven years.”

“Are you afraid your little clubs will ostracize you? That they’ll kick you out of the country clubs?”

“Stop it, Adam.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been a weird day. I’m coming out of the closet, Lee. I’m confronting my past, and I guess I expect everyone to be as bold. I’m sorry.”

“What does he look like?”

“A very old man. Lots of wrinkles and pale skin. He’s too old to be locked up in a cage.”

“I remember talking to him a few days before his last trial. I asked him why he didn’t just run away, vanish into the night and hide in some place like South America. And you know what?”

“What?”

“He said he thought about it. Mother had been dead for several years. Eddie was gone. He had read books about Mengele and Eichmann and other Nazi war criminals who disappeared in South America. He even mentioned São Paulo, said it was a city of twenty million and filled with refugees of all sorts. He had a friend, another Klansman I think, who could fix the paperwork and help him hide. He gave it a lot of thought.”

“I wish he had. Maybe my father would still be with us.”

“Two days before he went to Parchman, I saw him in the jail in Greenville. It was our last visit. I asked him why he hadn’t run. He said he never dreamed he would get the death penalty. I couldn’t believe that for years he’d been a free man and could’ve easily run away. It was a big mistake, he said, not running. A mistake that would cost him his life.”

Adam placed the popcorn bowl on the table, and slowly leaned toward her. His head rested on her
shoulder. She took his hand. “I’m sorry you’re in the middle of this,” she whispered.

“He looked so pitiful sitting there in a red death row jumpsuit.”

      Twelve      

C
lyde Packer poured a generous serving of a strong brew into a cup with his name on it, and began filling out the morning’s paperwork. He had worked the Row for twenty-one years, the last seven as the Shift Commander. For eight hours each morning, he would be one of four Tier Sergeants, in charge of fourteen condemned men, two guards, and two trustees. He completed his forms and checked a clipboard. There was a note to call the warden. Another note said that F. M. Dempsey was low on heart pills and wanted to see the doctor. They all wanted to see the doctor. He sipped the steaming coffee as he left the office for his morning inspection. He checked the uniforms of two guards at the front door and told the young white one to get a haircut.

MSU was not a bad place to work. As a general rule, death row inmates were quiet and well behaved. They spent twenty-three hours a day alone in their cells, separated from each other and thus unable to instigate trouble. They spent sixteen hours a day sleeping. They were fed in their cells. They were allowed an hour of outdoor recreation per day, their “hour out” as they called it, and they could have this time alone if they chose. Everyone had either a television or a radio, or both, and after breakfast the four tiers came to life with music and news and soap operas and quiet conversations through the bars. The inmates could not see their neighbors next door, but they conversed with little trouble. Arguments erupted occasionally over the
volume of someone’s music, but these little spats were quickly settled by the guards. The inmates had certain rights, and then they had certain privileges. The removal of a television or a radio was devastating.

The Row bred an odd camaraderie among those sentenced there. Half were white, half were black, and all had been convicted of brutal killings. But there was little concern about past deeds and criminal records, and generally no real interest in skin color. Out in the general prison population, gangs of all varieties did an effective job of classifying inmates, usually on the basis of race. On the Row, however, a man was judged by the way he handled his confinement. Whether they liked each other or not, they were all locked together in this tiny corner of the world, all waiting to die. It was a ragtag little fraternity of misfits, drifters, outright thugs, and cold-blooded killers.

And the death of one could mean the death of all. The news of Sam’s new death sentence was whispered along the tiers and through the bars. When it made the noon news yesterday, the Row became noticeably quieter. Every inmate suddenly wanted to talk to his lawyer. There was a renewed interest in all matters legal, and Packer had noticed several of them plowing through their court files with televisions off and radios down.

He eased through a heavy door, took a long drink, and walked slowly and quietly along Tier A. Fourteen identical cells, six feet wide and nine feet deep, faced the hallway. The front of each cell was a wall of iron bars, so that at no time did an inmate have complete privacy. Anything he happened to be doing—sleeping, using the toilet—was subject to observation by the guards.

They were all in bed as Packer slowed in front of each little room and looked for a head under the
sheets. The cell lights were off and the tier was dark. The hall man, an inmate with special privileges, would wake them, or rack-’em-up, at five. Breakfast would be served at six—eggs, toast, jam, sometimes bacon, coffee, and fruit juice. In a few minutes the Row would slowly come to life as forty-seven men shook off their sleep and resumed the interminable process of dying. It happened slowly, one day at a time, as another miserable sunrise brought another blanket of heat into their private little pockets of hell. And it happened quickly, as it had the day before, when a court somewhere rejected a plea or a motion or an appeal and said that an execution must happen soon.

Packer sipped coffee and counted heads and shuffled quietly along through his morning ritual. Generally, MSU ran smoothly when routines were unbroken and schedules were followed. There were lots of rules in the manual, but they were fair and easy to follow. Everyone knew them. But an execution had its own handbook with a different policy and fluctuating guidelines that generally upset the tranquility of the Row. Packer had great respect for Phillip Naifeh, but damned if he didn’t rewrite the book before and after each execution. There was great pressure to do it all properly and constitutionally and compassionately. No two killings had been the same.

Packer hated executions. He believed in the death penalty because he was a religious man, and when God said an eye for an eye, then God meant it. He preferred, however, that they be carried out somewhere else by other people. Fortunately, they had been so rare in Mississippi that his job proceeded smoothly with little interference. He’d been through fifteen in twenty-one years, but only four since 1982.

He spoke quietly to a guard at the end of the tier. The sun was beginning to peek through the open windows
above the tier walkway. The day would be hot and suffocating. It would also be much quieter. There would be fewer complaints about the food, fewer demands to see the doctor, a scattering of gripes about this and that, but on the whole they would be a docile and preoccupied group. It had been at least a year and maybe longer since a stay had been withdrawn this close to an execution. Packer smiled to himself as he searched for a head under the sheets. This day would indeed be a quiet one.

During the first few months of Sam’s career on the Row, Packer had ignored him. The official handbook prohibited anything other than necessary contact with inmates, and Packer had found Sam an easy person to leave alone. He was a Klansman. He hated blacks. He said little. He was bitter and surly, at least in the early days. But the routine of doing nothing for eight hours a day gradually softens the edges, and with time they reached a level of communication that consisted of a handful of short words and grunts. After nine and a half years of seeing each other every day, Sam could on occasion actually grin at Packer.

There were two types of killers on the Row, Packer had decided after years of study. There were the cold-blooded killers who would do it again if given the chance, and there were those who simply made mistakes and would never dream of shedding more blood. Those in the first group should be gassed quickly. Those in the second group caused great discomfort for Packer because their executions served no purpose. Society would not suffer or even notice if these men were released from prison. Sam was a solid member of the second group. He could be returned to his home where he would soon die a lonesome death. No, Packer did not want Sam Cayhall executed.

He shuffled back along Tier A, sipping his coffee and
looking at the dark cells. His tier was the nearest to the Isolation Room, which was next door to the Chamber Room. Sam was in number six on Tier A, literally less than ninety feet from the gas chamber. He had requested a move a few years back because of some silly squabble with Cecil Duff, then his next-door neighbor.

Sam was now sitting in the dark on the edge of his bed. Packer stopped, walked to the bars. “Mornin’, Sam,” he said softly.

“Mornin’,” Sam replied, squinting at Packer. Sam then stood in the center of his room and faced the door. He was wearing a dingy white tee shirt and baggy boxer shorts, the usual attire for inmates on the Row because it was so hot. The rules required the bright red coveralls to be worn outside the cell, but inside they wore as little as possible.

“It’s gonna be a hot one,” Packer said, the usual early morning greeting.

“Wait till August,” Sam said, the standard reply to the usual early morning greeting.

“You okay?” Packer asked.

“Never felt better.”

“Your lawyer said he was coming back today.”

“Yeah. That’s what he said. I guess I need lots of lawyers, huh, Packer?”

“Sure looks that way.” Packer took a sip of coffee and glanced down the tier. The windows behind him were to the south, and a trickle of sunlight was making its way through. “See you later, Sam,” he said and eased away. He checked the remaining cells and found all his boys. The doors clicked behind him as he left Tier A and returned to the front.

______

The one light in the cell was above the stainless steel sink—made of stainless steel so it couldn’t be chipped and then used as a weapon or suicide device.
Under the sink was a stainless steel toilet. Sam turned on his light and brushed his teeth. It was almost five-thirty. Sleep had been difficult.

He lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of his bed, studying his feet and staring at the painted concrete floor that somehow retained heat in the summer and cold in the winter. His only shoes, a pair of rubber shower shoes which he loathed, were under the bed. He owned one pair of wool socks, which he slept in during the winter. His remaining assets consisted of a black and white television, a radio, a typewriter, six tee shirts with holes, five pairs of plain white boxer shorts, a toothbrush, comb, nail clippers, an oscillating fan, and a twelve-month wall calendar. His most valuable asset was a collection of law books he had gathered and memorized over the years. They were also placed neatly on the cheap wooden shelves across from his bunk. In a cardboard box on the floor between the shelves and the door was an accumulation of bulky files, the chronological legal history of
State of Mississippi v. Sam Cayhall.
It, too, had been committed to memory.