The Chamber (5 page)

Kravitz & Bane printed money by the hour and built a dynasty in Chicago. Its offices were fashionable but not plush. They filled the top floors of, fittingly, the third-tallest building downtown.

Like most large firms, it made so much money it felt obligated to establish a small pro bono section to fulfill its moral responsibility to society. It was quite proud of the fact that it had a full-time pro bono partner, an eccentric do-gooder named E. Garner Goodman, who had a spacious office with two secretaries on the sixty-first floor. He shared a paralegal with a litigation partner. The firm’s gold-embossed brochure made much of the fact that its lawyers were encouraged to pursue pro bono projects. The brochure proclaimed that last year, 1989, Kravitz & Bane lawyers donated almost sixty thousand hours of their precious time to clients who couldn’t pay. Housing project kids, death row inmates, illegal aliens, drug addicts, and, of course, the firm was deeply concerned with the plight of the homeless. The brochure even had a photograph of two young lawyers, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened about the neck, sweat in the armpits, eyes filled with compassion, as they performed some menial chore in the midst
of a group of minority children in what appeared to be an urban landfill. Lawyers saving society.

Adam Hall had one of the brochures in his thin file as he eased slowly along the hallway on floor sixty-one, headed in the general direction of the office of E. Garner Goodman. He nodded and spoke to another young lawyer, one he’d never seen before. At the firm Christmas party name tags were distributed at the door. Some of the partners barely knew each other. Some of the associates saw each other once or twice a year. He opened a door and entered a small room where a secretary stopped typing and almost smiled. He asked for Mr. Goodman, and she nodded properly to a row of chairs where he was to wait. He was five minutes early for a 10 a.m. appointment, as if it mattered. This was pro bono now. Forget the clock. Forget billable hours. Forget performance bonuses. In defiance of the rest of the firm, Goodman allowed no clocks on his walls.

Adam flipped through his file. He chuckled at the brochure. He read again his own little résumé—college at Pepperdine, law school at Michigan, editor of the law review, case note on cruel and unusual punishment, comments on recent death penalty cases. A rather short résumé, but then he was only twenty-six. He’d been employed at Kravitz & Bane for all of nine months now.

He read and made notes from two lengthy U.S. Supreme Court decisions dealing with executions in California. He checked his watch, and read some more. The secretary eventually offered coffee, which he politely declined.

______

The office of E. Garner Goodman was a stunning study in disorganization. It was large but cramped, with sagging bookshelves on every wall and stacks of
dusty files covering the floor. Little piles of papers of all sorts and sizes covered the desk in the center of the office. Refuse, rubbish, and lost letters covered the rug under the desk. If not for the closed wooden blinds, the large window could have provided a splendid view of Lake Michigan, but it was obvious Mr. Goodman spent no time at his window.

He was an old man with a neat gray beard and bushy gray hair. His white shirt was painfully starched. A green paisley bow tie, his trademark, was tied precisely under his chin. Adam entered the room and cautiously weaved around the piles of papers. Goodman did not stand but offered his hand with a cold greeting.

Adam handed the file to Goodman, and sat in the only empty chair in the room. He waited nervously while the file was studied, the beard was gently stroked, the bow tie was tinkered with.

“Why do you want to do pro bono work?” Goodman mumbled after a long silence. He did not look up from the file. Classical guitar music drifted softly from recessed speakers in the ceiling.

Adam shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, different reasons.”

“Let me guess. You want to serve humanity, give something back to your community, or, perhaps, you feel guilty because you spend so much time here in this sweatshop billing by the hour that you want to cleanse your soul, get your hands dirty, do some honest work, and help other people.” Goodman’s beady blue eyes darted at Adam from above the black-framed reading spectacles perched on the tip of his rather pointed nose. “Any of the above?”

“Not really.”

Goodman continued scanning the file. “So you’ve been assigned to Emmitt Wycoff?” He was reading a letter from Wycoff, Adam’s supervising partner.

“Yes sir.”

“He’s a fine lawyer. I don’t particularly care for him, but he’s got a great criminal mind, you know. Probably one of our top three white-collar boys. Pretty abrasive, though, don’t you think?”

“He’s okay.”

“How long have you been under him?”

“Since I started. Nine months ago.”

“So you’ve been here for nine months?”

“Yes sir.”

“What do you think of it?” Goodman closed the file and stared at Adam. He slowly removed the reading glasses and stuck one stem in his mouth.

“I like it, so far. It’s challenging.”

“Of course. Why did you pick Kravitz & Bane? I mean, surely with your credentials you could’ve gone anywhere. Why here?”

“Criminal litigation. That’s what I want, and this firm has a reputation.”

“How many offers did you have? Come on, I’m just being curious.”

“Several.”

“And where were they?”

“D.C. mainly. One in Denver. I didn’t interview with New York firms.”

“How much money did we offer you?”

Adam shifted again. Goodman was, after all, a partner. Surely he knew what the firm was paying new associates. “Sixty or so. What are we paying you?”

This amused the old man, and he smiled for the first time. “They pay me four hundred thousand dollars a year to give away their time so they can pat themselves on the back and preach about lawyers and about social responsibility. Four hundred thousand, can you believe it?”

Adam had heard the rumors. “You’re not complaining, are you?”

“No. I’m the luckiest lawyer in town, Mr. Hall. I get paid a truckload of money for doing work I enjoy, and I punch no clock and don’t worry about billing. It’s a lawyer’s dream. That’s why I still bust my ass sixty hours a week. I’m almost seventy, you know.”

The legend around the firm was that Goodman, as a younger man, succumbed to the pressure and almost killed himself with liquor and pills. He dried out for a year while his wife took the kids and left him, then he convinced the partners he was worth saving. He just needed an office where life did not revolve around a clock.

“What kind of work are you doing for Emmitt Wycoff?” Goodman asked.

“Lot of research. Right now he’s defending a bunch of defense contractors, and that takes most of my time. I argued a motion in court last week.” Adam said this with a touch of pride. Rookies were usually kept chained to their desks for the first twelve months.

“A real motion?” Goodman asked, in awe.

“Yes sir.”

“In a real courtroom?”

“Yes sir.”

“Before a real judge?”

“You got it.”

“Who won?”

“Judge ruled for the prosecution, but it was close. I really tied him in knots.” Goodman smiled at this, but the game was quickly over. He opened the file again.

“Wycoff sends along a pretty strong letter of recommendation. That’s out of character for him.”

“He recognizes talent,” Adam said with a smile.

“I assume this is a rather significant request, Mr. Hall. Just what is it you have in mind?”

Adam stopped smiling and cleared his throat. He was suddenly nervous, and decided to recross his legs. “It’s, uh, well, it’s a death penalty case.”

“A death penalty case?” Goodman repeated.

“Yes sir.”

“Why?”

“I’m opposed to the death penalty.”

“Aren’t we all, Mr. Hall? I’ve written books about it. I’ve handled two dozen of these damned things. Why do you want to get involved?”

“I’ve read your books. I just want to help.”

Goodman closed the file again and leaned on his desk. Two pieces of paper slid off and fluttered to the floor. “You’re too young and you’re too green.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Look, Mr. Hall, this is not the same as counseling winos at a soup kitchen. This is life and death. This is high pressure stuff, son. It’s not a lot of fun.”

Adam nodded but said nothing. His eyes were locked onto Goodman’s, and he refused to blink. A phone rang somewhere in the distance, but they both ignored it.

“Any particular case, or do you have a new client for Kravitz & Bane?” Goodman asked.

“The Cayhall case,” Adam said slowly.

Goodman shook his head and tugged at the edges of his bow tie. “Sam Cayhall just fired us. The Fifth Circuit ruled last week that he does indeed have the right to terminate our representation.”

“I’ve read the opinion. I know what the Fifth Circuit said. The man needs a lawyer.”

“No he doesn’t. He’ll be dead in three months with or without one. Frankly, I’m relieved to have him out of my life.”

“He needs a lawyer,” Adam repeated.

“He’s representing himself, and he’s pretty damned
good, to be perfectly honest. Types his own motions and briefs, handles his own research. I hear he’s been giving advice to some of his buddies on death row, just the white ones though.”

“I’ve studied his entire file.”

E. Garner Goodman twirled his spectacles slowly and thought about this. “That’s a half a ton of paper. Why’d you do it?”

“I’m intrigued by the case. I’ve watched it for years, read everything written about the man. You asked me earlier why I chose Kravitz & Bane. Well, the truth is that I wanted to work on the Cayhall case, and I think this firm has handled it pro bono for, what, eight years now?”

“Seven, but it seems like twenty. Mr. Cayhall is not the most pleasant man to deal with.”

“Understandable, isn’t it? I mean, he’s been in solitary for almost ten years.”

“Don’t lecture me about prison life, Mr. Hall. Have you ever seen the inside of a prison?”

“No.”

“Well I have. I’ve been to death row in six states. I’ve been cursed by Sam Cayhall when he was chained to his chair. He’s not a nice man. He’s an incorrigible racist who hates just about everybody, and he’d hate you if you met him.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re a lawyer, Mr. Hall. He hates lawyers worse than he hates blacks and Jews. He’s been facing death for almost ten years, and he’s convinced he’s the victim of a lawyer conspiracy. Hell, he tried to fire us for two years. This firm spent in excess of two million dollars in billable time trying to keep him alive, and he was more concerned with firing us. I lost count of the number of times he refused to meet with us after we traveled all the way to Parchman. He’s crazy, Mr. Hall.
Find yourself another project. How about abused kids or something?”

“No thanks. My interest is in death penalty cases, and I’m somewhat obsessed with the story of Sam Cayhall.”

Goodman carefully returned the spectacles to the tip of his nose, then slowly swung his feet onto the corner of the desk. He folded his hands across the starched shirt. “Why, may I ask, are you so obsessed with Sam Cayhall?”

“Well, it’s a fascinating case, don’t you think? The Klan, the civil rights movement, the bombings, the tortured locale. The backdrop is such a rich period in American history. Seems ancient, but it was only twenty-five years ago. It’s a riveting story.”

A ceiling fan spun slowly above him. A minute passed.

Goodman lowered his feet to the floor and rested on his elbows. “Mr. Hall, I appreciate your interest in pro bono, and I assure you there’s much to do. But you need to find another project. This is not a mock trial competition.”

“And I’m not a law student.”

“Sam Cayhall has effectively terminated our services, Mr. Hall. You don’t seem to realize this.”

“I want the chance to meet with him.”

“For what?”

“I think I can convince him to allow me to represent him.”

“Oh really.”

Adam took a deep breath, then stood and walked deftly around the stacks of files to the window. Another deep breath. Goodman watched, and waited.

“I have a secret for you, Mr. Goodman. No one else knows but Emmitt Wycoff, and I was sort of forced to tell him. You must keep it confidential, okay?”

“I’m listening.”

“Do I have your word?”

“Yes, you have my word,” Goodman said slowly, biting a stem.

Adam peeked through a slit in the blinds and watched a sailboat on Lake Michigan. He spoke quietly. “I’m related to Sam Cayhall.”

Goodman did not flinch. “I see. Related how?”

“He had a son, Eddie Cayhall. And Eddie Cayhall left Mississippi in disgrace after his father was arrested for the bombing. He fled to California, changed his name, and tried to forget his past. But he was tormented by his family’s legacy. He committed suicide shortly after his father was convicted in 1981.”

Goodman now sat with his rear on the edge of his chair.

“Eddie Cayhall was my father.”

Goodman hesitated slightly. “Sam Cayhall is your grandfather?”

“Yes. I didn’t know it until I was almost seventeen. My aunt told me after we buried my father.”

“Wow.”

“You promised not to tell.”

“Of course.” Goodman moved his butt to the edge of his desk, and placed his feet in the chair. He stared at the blinds. “Does Sam know—”

“No. I was born in Ford County, Mississippi, a town called Clanton, not Memphis. I was always told I was born in Memphis. My name then was Alan Cayhall, but I didn’t know this until much later. I was three years old when we left Mississippi, and my parents never talked about the place. My mother believes that there was no contact between Eddie and Sam from the day we left until she wrote him in prison and told him his son was dead. He did not write back.”

“Damn, damn, damn,” Goodman mumbled to himself.

“There’s a lot to it, Mr. Goodman. It’s a pretty sick family.”

“Not your fault.”

“According to my mother, Sam’s father was an active Klansman, took part in lynchings and all that. So I come from pretty weak stock.”