John Grisham - Chamber

Every month for nine and a half years, he had shipped to Sam a box of cigarettes and a small amount of cash. He'd written a few letters, but neither he nor Sam were interested in correspondence. Few people in Durham knew he had a brother on death row.

He was frisked inside the front door, and shown to the front office. Sam was brought in a few minutes later, and they were left alone. Donnie hugged him for a long time, and when they released each other both had moist eyes. They were of similar height and build, though Sam looked twenty years older. He sat on the edge of the desk and Donnie took a chair nearby.

Both lit cigarettes and stared into space.

"Any good news?" Donnie finally asked, certain of the answer.

"No. None. The courts are turning everything down. They're gonna do it, Donnie. They're gonna kill me. They'll walk me to the chamber and gas me like an animal."

Donnie's face fell to his chest. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"I'm sorry too, but, dammit, I'll be glad when it's over." '

"Don't say that."

"I mean it. I'm tired of living in a cage. I'm an old man and my time has come."

"But you don't deserve to be killed, Sam."

"That's the hardest part, you know. It's not that I'm gonna die, hell, we're all dying. I just can't stand the thought of these jackasses getting the best of me. They're gonna win. And their reward is to strap me in and watch me choke. It's sick."

"Can't your lawyer do something?"

"He's trying everything, but it looks hopeless. I want you to meet him."

"I saw his picture in the paper. He doesn't resemble our people."

"He's lucky. He looks more like his mother."

"Sharp kid?"

Sam managed a smile. "Yeah, he's pretty terrific. He's really grieving over this."

"Will he be here today?"

"Probably. I haven't heard from him. He's staying with Lee in Memphis," Sam said with a touch of pride. Because of him, his daughter and his grandson had become close and were actually living together peacefully.

"I talked to Albert this morning," Donnie said. "He says he's too sick to come over."

"Good. I don't want him here. And I don't want his kids and grandkids here either."

"He wants to pay his respects, but he can't."

"Tell him to save it for the funeral."

"Come on, Sam."

"Look, no one's gonna cry for me when I'm dead. I don't want a lot of false pity before then.

"I need something from you, Donnie. And it'll cost a little money."

"Sure. Anything."

Sam pulled at the waist of his red jumpsuit. "You see this damned thing. They're called reds, and I've worn them every day for almost ten years.. This is what the State of Mississippi expects me to wear when it kills me. But, you see, I have the right to wear anything I want. It would mean a lot if I die in some nice clothes."

Donnie was suddenly hit with emotion. He tried to speak, but words didn't come. His eyes were wet and his lip quivered. He nodded, and managed to say, "Sure, Sam."

"You know those work pants called Dickies? I wore them for years. Sort of like khakis."

Donnie was still nodding.

"A pair of them would be nice, with a white shirt of some sort, not a pullover but one with buttons on it. Small shirt, small pants, thirty-two in the waist. A pair of white socks, and some kind of cheap shoes. Hell, I'll just wear them once, won't I? Go to Wal-Mart or some place and you can probably get the whole thing for less than thirty bucks. Do you mind?"

Donnie wiped his eyes and tried to smile. "No, Sam."

"I'll be a dude, won't I?"

"Where will you be buried?"

"Clanton, next to Anna. I'm sure that'll upset her peaceful rest. Adam's taking care of the arrangements."

"What else can I do?"

"Nothing. If you'll just get me a change of clothes."

"I'll do it today."

"You're the only person in the world who's cared about me all these years, do you know that? Aunt Barb wrote me for years before she died, but her letters were always stiff and dry, and I figured she was doing it so she could tell her neighbors."

"Who the hell was Aunt Barb?"

"Hubert Cain's mother. I'm not even sure she's related to us. I hardly knew her until I arrived here, then she started this awful correspondence. She was just all tore up by the fact that one of her own had been sent to Parchman."

"May she rest in peace."

Sam chuckled, and was reminded of an ancient childhood story. He told it with great enthusiasm, and minutes later both brothers were laughing loudly. Donnie was reminded of another tale, and so it went for an hour.

By the time Adam arrived late Saturday afternoon, Donnie had been gone for hours. He was taken to the front office, where he spread some papers on the desk. Sam was brought in, his handcuffs removed, and the door was closed behind them. He held more envelopes, which Adam noticed immediately.

"More errands for me?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yeah, but they can wait until it's over."

"To whom?"

"One is to the Pinder family I bombed in Vicksburg. One is to the Jewish synagogue I bombed in Jackson. One is to the Jewish real estate agent, also in Jackson. There may be others. No hurry, since I know you're busy right now. But after I'm gone, I'd appreciate it if you'd take care of them."

"What do these letters say?"

"What do you think they say?"

"I don't know. That you're sorry, I guess."

"Smart boy. I apologize for my deeds, repent of my sins, and ask them to forgive me."

"Why are you doing this?"

Sam stopped and leaned on a file cabinet. "Because I sit in a little cage all day. Because I have a typewriter and plenty of paper. I'm bored as hell, okay, so maybe I want to write. Because I have a conscience, not much of one, but it's there, and the closer I get to death the guiltier I feel about the things I've done."

"I'm sorry. They'll be delivered." Adam circled something on his checklist. "We have two appeals left. The Fifth Circuit is sitting on the ineffectiveness claim. I expected something by now, but there's been no movement for two days. The district court has the mental claim."

"It's all hopeless, Adam."

"Maybe, but I'm not quitting. I'll file a dozen more petitions if I have to."

"I'm not signing anything else. You can't file them if I don't sign them."

"Yes, I can. There are ways."

"Then you're fired."

"You can't fire me, Sam. I'm your grandson."

"We have an agreement saying I can fire you whenever I want. We put it in writing."

"It's a flawed document, drafted by a decent jailhouse lawyer, but fatally defective nonetheless."

Sam huffed and puffed and began striding again on his row of tiles. He made half a dozen passes in front of Adam, his lawyer now, tomorrow, and for the remainder of his life. He knew he couldn't fire him.

"We have a clemency hearing scheduled for Monday," Adam said, looking at his legal pad and waiting for the explosion. But Sam took it well and never missed a step.

"What's the purpose of the clemency hearing?" he asked.

"To appeal for clemency."

"Appeal to whom?"

"The governor."

"And you think the governor will consider granting me clemency?"

"What's there to lose?"

"Answer the question, smartass. Do you, with all your training, experience, and judicial brilliance, seriously expect this governor to entertain ideas of granting me clemency?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe my ass. You're stupid."

"Thank you, Sam."

"Don't mention it." He stopped directly in front of Adam and pointed a crooked finger at him. "I've told you from the very beginning that I, as the client and as such certainly entitled to some consideration, will have nothing to do with David McAllister. I will not appeal to that fool for clemency. I will not ask him for a pardon. I will have no contact with him, whatsoever. Those are my wishes, and I made this very plain to you, young man, from day one. You, on the other hand, as the lawyer, have ignored my wishes and gone about your merry business doing whatever the hell you wanted. You are the lawyer, nothing more or less. I, on the other hand, am the client, and I don't know what they taught you in your fancy law school, but I make the decisions."