John Grisham - Chamber

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.