John Grisham - Chamber

Sam smiled oddly and studied some envelopes he'd brought with him.

"The Mississippi Supreme Court also turned us down," Adam explained to his client as he punched more numbers. "But that was to be expected. We're filing it in federal court right now." He was calling the Fifth Circuit to check the status of the ineffective counsel claim. The clerk in New Orleans informed him that no action had been taken that morning. Adam hung up and sat on the edge of the desk.

"Fifth Circuit is still sitting on the ineffectiveness claim," he reported to his client, who knew the law and the procedure and was absorbing it like a learned attorney. "All in all, not a very good morning."

"The Jackson TV station this morning said I've requested a clemency hearing from the governor," Sam said, between bites. "Certainly this can't be true. I didn't approve it."

"Relax, Sam. It's routine."

"Routine my ass. I thought we had an agreement. They even had McAllister on the tube talking about how he was grieving over his decision about a clemency hearing. I warned you."

"McAllister is the least of our problems, Sam. The request was a formality. We don't have to participate."

Sam shook his head in frustration. Adam watched him closely. He wasn't really angry, nor did he really care what Adam had done. He was resigned, almost defeated. The little bit of bitching came naturally. A week earlier he would've lashed out.

"They practiced last night, you know. They cranked up the gas chamber, killed a rat or something, everything worked perfectly and so now everyone's excited about my execution. Can you believe it? They had a dress rehearsal for me. The bastards."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Do you know what cyanide gas smells like?"

"No."

"Cinnamon. It was in the air last night. The idiots didn't bother to close the windows on our tier, and I got a whiff of it."

Adam didn't know if this was true or not. He knew the chamber was vented for several minutes after an execution and the gas escaped into the air. Surely it couldn't filter onto the tiers. Maybe Sam had heard stories about the gas from the guards. Maybe it was just part of the lore. He sat on the edge of the desk, casually swinging his feet, staring at the pitiful old man with the skinny arms and oily hair. It was such a horrible sin to kill an aged creature like Sam Cayhall. His crimes were committed a generation ago. He had suffered and died many times in his six-by-nine cell. How would the state benefit by killing him now?

Adam had things on his mind, not the least of which was perhaps their last, gasping effort. "I'm sorry, Sam," he said again, very compassionately. "But we need to talk about some items."

"Were there Klansmen outside this morning? The television had a shot of them here yesterday.'.'

"Yes. I counted seven a few minutes ago. Full uniforms except for the masks."

"I used to wear one of those, you know,"he said, much like a war veteran bragging to little boys.

"I know, Sam. And because you wore one, you're now sitting here on death row with your lawyer counting the hours before they strap you in the gas chamber. You should hate those silly fools out there."

"I don't hate them. But they have no right to be here. They abandoned me. Dogan sent me here, and when he testified against me he was the Imperial Wizard of Mississippi. They gave me not one dime for legal fees. They forgot about me."

"What do you expect from a bunch of thugs? Loyalty?"

"I was loyal."

"And look where you are, Sam. You should denounce the Klan and ask them to leave, to stay away from your execution."

Sam fiddled with his envelopes, then placed them carefully in a chair.

"I told them to leave," Adam said.

"When?"

"Just a few minutes ago. I exchanged words with them. They don't give a damn about you, Sam, they're just using this execution because you'll make such a marvelous martyr, someone to rally around and talk about for years to come. They'll chant your name when they burn crosses, and they'll make pilgrimages to your gravesite. They want you dead, Sam. It's great PR."

"You confronted them?" Sam asked, with a trace of amusement and pride.

"Yeah. It was no big deal. What about Carmen? If she's coming, she needs to make travel arrangements."

Sam took a thoughtful puff. "I'd like to see her, but you've gotta warn her about my appearance. I don't want her to be shocked."

"You look great, Sam."

"Gee thanks. What about Lee?"

"What about her?"

"How's she doing? We get newspapers in here. I saw her in the Memphis paper last Sunday, then I read about her drunk driving charge on Tuesday. She's not in jail, is she?"

"No. She's in a rehab clinic," Adam said as if he knew exactly where she was.

"Can she come visit?"

"Do you want her to?"

"I think so. Maybe on Monday. Let's wait and see."

"No problem," Adam said, wondering how in the world he could find her. "I'll talk to her over the weekend."

Sam handed Adam one of the envelopes, unsealed. "Give this to the people up front. It's a list of approved visitors from now until then. Go ahead, open it."

Adam looked at the list. There were four names. Adam, Lee, Carmen, and Donnie Cayhall. "Not a very long list."

"I have lots of relatives, but I don't want them here. They haven't visited me in nine and a half years, so I'll be damned if they'll come draggin' in here at the last minute to say good-bye. They can save it for the funeral."

"I'm getting all kinds of requests from reporters and journalists for interviews."

"Forget it."

"That's what I've told them. But there's one inquiry that might interest you. There's a man named Wendall Sherman, an author of some repute who's published four or five books and won some awards. I haven't read any of his work, but he checks out. He's legitimate. I talked to him yesterday by phone, and he wants to sit with you and record your story. He seemed to be very honest, and said that the recording could take hours. He's flying to Memphis today, just in case you say yes."

"Why does he want to record me?"

"He wants to write a book about you."

"A romance novel?"

"I doubt it. He's willing to pay fifty thousand dollars up front, with a percentage of the royalties later on."

"Great. I get fifty thousand a few days before I die. What shall I do with it?"

"I'm just relaying the offer."

"Tell him to go to hell. I'm not interested." "Fine."

"I want you to draw up an agreement whereby I assign all rights to my life story to you, and after I'm gone you do whatever the hell you want with it."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea to record it."

"You mean - "

"Talk into a little machine with little tapes. I can get one for you. Sit in your cell and talk about your life."

"How boring." Sam finished the Eskimo pie and tossed the stick in the wastebasket.

"Depends on how you look at it. Things seem rather exciting now."

"Yeah, you're right. A pretty dull life, but the end was sensational."

"Sounds like a bestseller to me."

"I'll think about it."

Sam suddenly jumped to his feet, leaving the rubber shower shoes under his chair. He loped across the office in long strides, measuring and smoking as he went. "Thirteen by sixteen and a half," he mumbled to himself, then measured some more.

Adam made notes on a legal pad and tried to ignore the red figure bouncing off the walls. Sam finally stopped and leaned on a file cabinet. "I want you to do me a favor," he said, staring at a wall across the room. His voice was much lower. He breathed slowly.

"I'm listening," Adam said.

Sam took a step to the chair and picked up an envelope. He handed it to Adam and returned to his position against the file cabinet. The envelope was turned over so that Adam could not see the writing on it.