John Grisham - Chamber

"Nowhere in particular. Just thought you might want to see some of our farm. We need to cover a few things."

"I'm listening."

"The decision of the Fifth Circuit hit the wire at mid-morning, and we've already had at least three phone calls from reporters. They smell blood, of course, and they want to know if this might be the end for Sam. I know some of these people, dealt with them before on other executions. A few are nice guys, most are obnoxious jerks. But anyway, they're all asking about Sam and whether or not he has a lawyer. Will he represent himself to the very end? You know, that kind of crap."

In a field to the right was a large group of inmates in white pants and without shirts. They were working the rows and sweating profusely, their backs and chests drenched and glistening under the scorching sun. A guard on a horse watched them with a rifle. "What are these guys doing?" Adam asked.

"Chopping cotton."

"Are they required to?"

"No. All volunteers. It's either that or sit in a cell all day."

"They wear white. Sam wears red. I saw a gang by the highway in blue."

"It's part of the classification system. White means these guys are low risk."

"What were their crimes?"

"Everything. Drugs, murder, repeat offenders, you name it. But they've behaved since they've been here, so they wear white and they're allowed to work."

The mini-van turned at an intersection, and the fences and razor wire returned. To the left was a series of modern barracks built on two levels and branching in all directions from a central hub. If not for the barbed wire and guard towers, the unit could pass for a badly designed college dormitory. "What's that?" Adam asked, pointing.

"Unit 30."

"How many units are there?"

"I'm not sure. We keep building and tearing down. Around thirty."

"It looks new."

"Oh yes. We've been in trouble with the federal courts for almost twenty years, so we've been doing lots of building. It's no secret that the real superintendent of this place has been a federal judge."

"Can the reporters wait until tomorrow? I need to see what Sam has on his mind. I'd hate to talk to them now, and then things go badly tomorrow."

"I think I can put them off a day. But they won't wait long."

They passed the last guard tower and Unit 30 disappeared. They drove at least two miles before the gleaming razor wire of another compound peeked above the fields.

"I talked to the warden this morning, after you got here," Lucas said. "He said he'd like to meet you. You'll like him. He hates executions, you know. He was hoping to retire in a couple of years without going through another, but now it looks doubtful."

"Let me guess. He's just doing his job, right?"

"We're all doing our jobs here."

"That's my point. I get the impression that everybody here wants to pat me on the back and speak to me in sad voices about what's about to happen to poor old Sam. Nobody wants to kill him, but you're all just doing your jobs."

"There are plenty of people who want Sam dead."

"The governor and the Attorney General. I'm sure you're familiar with the governor, but the AG is the one you'd better watch. He, of course, wants to be governor one day. For some reason we've elected in this state a whole crop of these young, terribly ambitious politicians who just can't seem to sit still."

"His name's Roxburgh, right?"

"That's him. He loves cameras, and I expect a press conference from him this afternoon. If he holds true to form, he'll take full credit for the victory in the Fifth Circuit, and promise a diligent effort to execute Sam in four weeks. His office handles these things, you know. And then it wouldn't surprise me if the governor himself doesn't appear on the evening news with a comment or two. My point is this, Adam - there will be enormous pressure from above to make sure there are no more stays. They want Sam dead for their own political gain. They'll milk it for all they can get."

Adam watched the next camp as they drove by. On a concrete slab between two buildings, a game of basketball was in full force with at least a dozen players on each side. All were black. Next to the court, a row of barbells was being pumped and jerked around by some heavy lifters. Adam noticed a few whites.

Lucas turned onto another road. "There's another reason," he continued. "Louisiana is killing them right and left. Texas has executed six already this year. Florida, five. We haven't had an execution in over two years. We're dragging our feet, some people say. It's time to show these other states that we're just as serious about good government as they are. Just last week in Jackson a legislative committee held hearings on the issue. There were all sorts of angry statements by our leaders about the endless delays in these matters. Not surprisingly, it was decided that the federal courts are to blame. There's lots of pressure to kill somebody. And Sam happens to be next."

"Who's after Sam?"

"Nobody, really. It could be two years before we get this close again. The buzzards are circling."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm not the enemy, okay? I'm the attorney for the prison, not the State of Mississippi. And you've never been here before. I thought you'd want to know these things."

"Thanks," Adam said. Though the information was unsolicited, it was certainly useful.

"I'll help in any way I can."

The roofs of buildings could be seen on the horizon. "Is that the front of the prison?" Adam asked.

"Yes."

"I'd like to leave now."

The Memphis office of Kravitz & Bane occupied two floors of a building called Brinkley Plaza, a 1920s edifice on the corner of Main and Monroe in downtown. Main Street was also known as the Mid-America Mall. Cars and trucks had been banished when the city attempted to revitalize its downtown and converted asphalt into tiles, fountains, and decorative trees. Only pedestrian traffic was permitted on the Mall.

The building itself had been revitalized and renewed tastefully. Its main lobby was marble and bronze. The K & B offices were large and richly decorated with antiques and oak-paneled walls and Persian rugs.

Adam was escorted by an attractive young secretary to the corner office of Baker Cooley, the managing partner. They introduced themselves, shook hands, and admired the secretary as she left the room and closed the door. Cooley leered a bit too long and seemed to hold his breath until the door was completely closed and the glimpse was over.

"Welcome south," Cooley said, finally exhaling and. sitting in his posh burgundy leather swivel

chair. .'

"Thanks. I guess you've talked to Garner Goodman."

"Yesterday. Twice. He gave me the score. We've got a nice little conference room at the end of this hall with a phone, computer, plenty of room. It's yours for the, uh, duration."

Adam nodded and glanced around the office. Cooley was in his early fifties, a neat man with an organized desk and a clean room. His words and hands were quick, and he bore the gray hair and dark circles of a frazzled accountant. "What kind of work goes on here?" Adam asked.

"Not much litigation, and certainly no criminal work," he answered quickly as if criminals were not allowed to set their dirty feet on the thick carpeting and fancy rugs of this establishment. Adam remembered Goodman's description of the Memphis branch - a boutique firm of twelve good lawyers whose acquisition years earlier by Kravitz & Bane was now a mystery. But the additional address looked nice on the letterhead.

"Mostly corporate stuff," Cooley continued. "We represent some old banks, and we do a lot of bond work for local governmental units."

Exhilarating work, Adam thought.

"The firm itself dates back a hundred and forty years, the oldest in Memphis, by the way. Been around since the Civil War. It split up and spun off a few times, then merged with the big boys in Chicago."