Джон Гришэм - The Chamber

He opened the door and stepped into the foyer where two bodyguards met him. They flanked him as he walked into the rotunda where bright lights were waiting. A throng of reporters and cameras pressed forward to hear the announcement. He stepped to a makeshift stand with a dozen microphones wedged together. He grimaced at the lights, waited for quiet, then spoke.

“The Supreme Court of the United States has just denied the last appeals from Sam Cayhall,” he said dramatically, as if the reporters hadn’t already heard this. Another pause as the cameras clicked and the microphones waited. “And so, after three jury trials, after nine years of appeals through every court available under our Constitution, after having the case reviewed by no less than forty-seven judges, justice has finally arrived for Sam Cayhall. His crime was committed twenty-three years ago. Justice may be slow, but it still works. I have been called upon by many people to pardon Mr. Cayhall, but I cannot do so. I cannot overrule the wisdom of the jury that sentenced him, nor can I impose my judgment upon that of our distinguished courts. Neither am I willing to go against the wishes of my friends the Kramers.” Another pause. He spoke without notes, and it was immediately obvious he’d worked on these remarks for a long time. “It is my fervent hope that the execution of Sam Cayhall will help erase a painful chapter in our state’s tortured history. I call upon all Mississippians to come together from this sad night forward, and work for equality. May God have mercy on his soul.”

He backed away as the questions flew. The bodyguards opened a side door, and he was gone. They darted down the stairs and out the north entrance where a car was waiting. A mile away, a helicopter was also waiting.

Goodman walked outside and stood by an old cannon, aimed for some reason at the tall buildings downtown. Below him, at the foot of the front steps, a large group of protestors held candles. He called Adam with the news, then he walked through the people and the candles and left the capitol grounds. A hymn started as he crossed the street, and for two blocks it slowly faded away. He drifted for a while, then walked toward Hez Kerry’s office.

The walk back to the observation cell was much longer than before. Adam made it alone, by now on familiar terrain. Lucas Mann disappeared somewhere in the labyrinth of the Row.

As Adam waited before a heavy barred door in the center of the building, he was immediately aware of two things. First, there were many more people hanging around now — more guards, more strangers with plastic badges and guns on their hips, more stern-faced men with short-sleeved shirts and polyester ties. This was a happening, a singular phenomenon too thrilling to be missed. Adam speculated that any prison employee with enough pull and enough clout just had to be on the Row when Sam’s death sentence was carried out.

The second thing he realized was that his shirt was soaked and the collar was sticking to his neck. He loosened his tie as the door clicked loudly then slid open under the hum of a hidden electric motor. A guard somewhere in the maze of concrete walls and windows and bars was watching and punching the right buttons. He stepped through, still pulling on the knot of his tie and the button under it, and walked to the next barrier, a wall of bars leading to Tier A. He patted his forehead, but there was no sweat. He filled his lungs with muggy, dank air.

With the windows shut, the tier was now suffocating. Another loud click, another electric hum, and he stepped into the thin hallway, which Sam had told him was seven and a half feet wide. Three dingy sets of fluorescent bulbs cast dim shadows on the ceiling and floor. He pushed his heavy feet past the dark cells, all filled with brutal murderers, each one now praying or meditating, a couple even crying.

“Good news, Adam?” J. B. Gullitt pleaded from the darkness.

Adam didn’t answer. Still walking, he glanced up at the windows with their various shades of paint splattered around the ancient panes, and was struck by the question of how many lawyers before him had made this final walk from the front office to the Observation Cell to inform a dying man that the last thin shred of hope was now gone. This place had a rich history of executions, and so he concluded that many others had suffered along this trail. Garner Goodman himself had carried the final news to Maynard Tole, and this gave Adam a much needed shot of strength.

He ignored the curious stares of the small mob standing and gawking at him at the end of the tier. He stopped at the last cell, waited, and the door obediently opened.

Sam and the reverend were still sitting low on the bed, heads nearly touching in the darkness, whispering. They looked up at Adam, who sat next to Sam and placed his arm around his shoulders, shoulders that now seemed even frailer. “The Supreme Court just denied everything,” he said very softly, his voice on the verge of cracking. The reverend exhaled a painful moan. Sam nodded as if this was certainly expected. “And the governor just denied clemency.”

Sam tried to raise his shoulders bravely, but power failed him. He slumped even lower.

“Lord have mercy,” Ralph Griffin said.

“Then it’s all over,” Sam said.

“There’s nothing left,” Adam whispered.

Excited murmurings could be heard from the death squad squeezed together at the end of the tier. This thing would happen after all. A door slammed somewhere behind them, in the direction of the chamber, and Sam’s knees jerked together.

He was silent for a moment — one minute or fifteen, Adam couldn’t tell. The clock was still lurching and stopping.

“I guess we oughta pray now, preacher,” Sam said.

“I reckon so. We’ve waited long enough.”

“How do you wanna do it?”

“Well, Sam, just exactly what do you want to pray about?”

Sam pondered this for a moment, then said, “I’d like to make sure God’s not angry with me when I die.”

“Good idea. And why do you think God might be angry with you?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

Ralph rubbed his hands together. “I guess the best way to do this is to confess your sins, and ask God to forgive you.”

“All of them?”

“You don’t have to list them all, just ask God to forgive everything.”

“Sort of a blanket repentance.”

“Yeah, that’s it. And it’ll work, if you’re serious.”

“I’m serious as hell.”

“Do you believe in hell, Sam?”

“I do.”

“Do you believe in heaven?”

“I do.”

“Do you believe that all Christians go to heaven?”

Sam thought about this for a long time, then nodded slightly before asking, “Do you?”

“Yes, Sam. I do.”

“Then I’ll take your word for it.”

“Good. Trust me on this one, okay?”

“It seems too easy, you know. I just say a quick prayer, and everything’s forgiven.”

“Why does that bother you?”

“Because I’ve done some bad things, preacher.”

“We’ve all done bad things. Our God is a God of infinite love.”

“You haven’t done what I’ve done.”

“Will you feel better if you talk about it?”

“Yeah, I won’t ever feel right unless I talk about it.”

“I’m here, Sam.”

“Should I leave for a minute?” Adam asked. Sam clutched his knee. “No.”

“We don’t have a lot of time, Sam,” Ralph said, glancing through the bars.

Sam took a deep breath, and spoke in a low monotone, careful that only Adam and Ralph could hear. “I killed Joe Lincoln in cold blood. I’ve already said I was sorry.”

Ralph was mumbling something to himself as he listened. He was already in prayer.