Джон Гришэм - The Chamber

“And I helped my brothers kill those two men who murdered our father. Frankly, I’ve never felt bad about it until now. Human life seems a whole lot more valuable these days. I was wrong. And I took part in a lynching when I was fifteen or sixteen. I was just part of a mob, and I probably couldn’t have stopped it if I’d tried. But I didn’t try, and I feel guilty about it.”

Sam stopped. Adam held his breath and hoped the confessional was over. Ralph waited and waited, and finally asked, “Is that it, Sam?”

“No. There’s one more.”

Adam closed his eyes and braced for it. He was dizzy and wanted to vomit.

“There was another lynching. A boy named Cletus. I can’t remember his last name. A Klan lynching. I was eighteen. That’s all I can say.”

This nightmare will never end, Adam thought.

Sam breathed deeply and was silent for several minutes. Ralph was praying hard. Adam just waited.

“And I didn’t kill those Kramer boys,” Sam said, his voice shaking. “I had no business being there, and I was wrong to be involved in that mess. I’ve regretted it for many years, all of it. It was wrong to be in the Klan, hating everybody and planting bombs. But I didn’t kill those boys. There was no intent to harm anyone. That bomb was supposed to go off in the middle of the night when no one would be anywhere near it. That’s what I truly believed. But it was wired by someone else, not me. I was just a lookout, a driver, a flunky. This other person rigged the bomb to go off much later than I thought. I’ve never known for sure if he intended to kill anyone, but I suspect he did.”

Adam heard the words, received them, absorbed them, but was too stunned to move.

“But I could’ve stopped it. And that makes me guilty. Those little boys would be alive today if I had acted differently after the bomb was planted. Their blood is on my hands, and I’ve grieved over this for many years.”

Ralph gently placed a hand on the back of Sam’s head. “Pray with me, Sam.” Sam covered his eyes with both hands and rested his elbows on his knees.

“Do you believe Jesus Christ was the son of God; that he came to this earth, born of a virgin, lived a sinless life, was persecuted, and died on the cross so that we might have eternal salvation? Do you believe this, Sam?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“And that he arose from the grave and ascended into heaven?”

“Yes.”

“And that through him all of your sins are forgiven? All the terrible things that burden your heart are now forgiven. Do you believe this, Sam?”

“Yes, yes.”

Ralph released Sam’s head, and wiped tears from his eyes. Sam didn’t move, but his shoulders were shaking. Adam squeezed him even tighter.

Randy Dupree started whistling another stanza of “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” His notes were clear and precise, and they echoed nicely along the tier.

“Preacher,” Sam said as his back stiffened, “will those little Kramer boys be in heaven?”

“Yes.”

“But they were Jews.”

“All children go to heaven, Sam.”

“Will I see them up there?”

“I don’t know. There’s a lot about heaven we don’t know. But the Bible promises that there will be no sorrow when we get there.”

“Good. Then I hope I see them.”

The unmistakable voice of Colonel Nugent broke the calm. The tier door clanged, rattled, and opened. He marched five feet to the door of the Observation Cell. Six guards were behind him. “Sam, it’s time to go to the Isolation Room,” he said. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

The three men stood, side by side. The cell door opened, and Sam stepped out. He smiled at Nugent, then he turned and hugged the reverend. “Thanks,” he said.

“I love you, brother!” Randy Dupree yelled from his cell, not ten feet away.

Sam looked at Nugent, and asked, “Could I say good-bye to my friends?”

A deviation. The manual plainly said that the prisoner was to be taken directly from the Observation Cell to the Isolation Room, with nothing being mentioned about a final promenade down the tier. Nugent was dumbstruck, but after a few seconds rallied nicely. “Sure, but make it quick.”

Sam took a few steps and clasped Randy’s hands through the bars. Then he stepped to the next cell and shook hands with Harry Ross Scott.

Ralph Griffin eased past the guards and left the tier. He found a dark corner and wept like a child. He would not see Sam again. Adam stood in the door of the cell, near Nugent, and together they watched Sam work his way down the hallway, stopping at each cell, whispering something to each inmate. He spent the most time with J. B. Gullitt, whose sobs could be heard.

Then he turned and walked bravely back to them, counting steps as he went, smiling at his pals along the way. He took Adam by the hand. “Let’s go,” he said to Nugent.

There were so damned many guards packed together at the end of the tier that it was a tight squeeze just to get by them. Nugent went first, then Sam and Adam. The mass of human congestion added several degrees to the temperature and several layers to the stuffy air. The show of force was necessary, of course, to subdue a reluctant prisoner, or perhaps to scare one into submission. It seemed awfully silly with a little old man like Sam Cayhall.

The walk from one room to another took only seconds, a distance of twenty feet, but Adam winced with every painful step. Through the human tunnel of armed guards, through the heavy steel door, into the small room. The door on the opposite wall was shut. It led to the chamber.

A flimsy cot had been hauled in for the occasion. Adam and Sam sat on it. Nugent closed the door, and knelt before them. The three of them were alone. Adam again placed his arm around Sam’s shoulders.

Nugent was wearing a terribly pained expression. He placed a hand on Sam’s knee, and said, “Sam, we’re gonna get through this together. Now—”

“You goofy fool,” Adam blurted, amazed at this remarkable utterance.

“He can’t help it,” Sam said helpfully to Adam. “He’s just stupid. He didn’t even realize it.”

Nugent felt the sharp rebuke, and tried to think of something proper to say. “I’m just trying to get through this, okay?” he said to Adam.

“Why don’t you just leave?” Adam said.

“You know something, Nugent?” Sam asked. “I’ve read tons of law books. And I’ve read pages and pages of prison regulations. And nowhere have I read anything that requires me to spend my last hour with you. No law, statute, regulation, nothing.”

“Just get the hell out of here,” Adam said, ready to strike if necessary.

Nugent jumped to his feet. “The doctor will enter through that door at eleven-forty. He’ll stick a stethoscope to your chest, then leave. At eleven fifty-five, I will enter, also through that door. At that time, we’ll go into the Chamber Room. Any questions?”

“No. Leave,” Adam said, waving at the door. Nugent made a quick exit.

Suddenly, they were alone. With an hour to go.

Two identical prison vans rolled to a stop in front of the Visitors Center, and were boarded by the eight lucky reporters and one lone sheriff. The law allowed, but did not require, the sheriff of the county where the crime was committed to witness the execution.

The man who was the sheriff of Washington County in 1967 had been dead for fifteen years, but the current sheriff was not about to miss this event. He had informed Lucas Mann earlier in the day that he fully intended to invoke the power of the law. Said he felt like he owed it to the people of Greenville and Washington County.

Mr. Elliot Kramer was not present at Parchman. He had planned the trip for years, but his doctor intervened at the last moment. His heart was weak and it was just too risky. Ruth Kramer had never thought seriously of witnessing the execution. She was at home in Memphis, sitting with friends, waiting for it to end.