“I’m a lawyer, here to see a client on death row,” Adam said
weakly, aware o f how nervous he sounded.
“We’ve got nobody on death row, sir.”
“I’m sorry?”
“No such place as death row. We’ve got lots o f them in the
Maximum Security Unit, that’s MSU for short, but you won’t
find no death row here.”
“OK.”
“Name?” she said.
“Adam Hall.”
“And your client?”
“Sam Cayhall.” She seemed unimpressed, and after a few more
questions sent him on his way. Small buildings and trees on each
side of the main prison road made this more like a pleasant street
in a small town than a prison with 5,000 inmates. An arrow on a
road sign pointed left to the Maximum Security Unit. A dirt road
led quickly to some 12-foot high fencing. The unit was a singlestory
flat roof building o f red brick.
Adam stepped unsteadily from his car and stared at the
building. He looked up to the watchtower. A gate slid open a few
feet so he could enter, then closed behind him. A second gate
opened. As Adam went through, a huge guard with a thick neck
and arms as big as Adam’s legs approached.
He held out an enormous black hand and said, “Sergeant
Packer.” Adam shook the hand. “Adam Hall.”
“Here to see Sam.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your first visit?” They walked toward the building.
“Yeah. Are all death row inmates here?”
“Yes, all forty-seven.” They were at the door. “I have to search
you.
He took Adam’s briefcase from him, and put it down on the
ground. Then he ran his hands up his legs, around his body, and
under his arms, patting expertly around in search o f hidden
weapons. The search was over in seconds. “Not a good day to see
Sam,” he said.
“Whys that?” Adam asked, following Packer.
“Didn’t you know? They’ve fixed a new date for the
execution. The big day is four weeks away. August 8.”
“Four weeks!” Adam said, shocked.
“Afraid so. Papers came from the Mississippi Supreme Court
this morning.”
Adam entered the conference room. Four weeks.
The room was empty. It was a large room divided by a solid wall
of brick and metal; the lawyers had their side and the clients had
theirs. The lower wall was made o f brick, then there was a
counter for the lawyers’ papers. A green metal screen ran from
there up to the ceiling.
“I have to lock this door,” Packer said as he stepped outside.
“We’ll get Sam.” The door closed, and Adam was alone. His
stomach was turning over violently.
Adam began chewing his fingernails. In the center of the screen
in front of him was a gap, four inches by ten, and it was through
this little hole that he would come face-to-face with Sam Cayhall.
Adam jumped as a door was unlocked. The door opened
slowly, and a young white guard stepped into the inmates’ side.
Behind him, in a bright red cotton jumpsuit, was Sam Cayhall.
He frowned, looking hard at the screen, until his eyes landed on
Adam. “Who are you?” he spat. The guard led him across to a
spot directly across from the lawyer and sat him in a chair. Sam
stared at Adam as the guard departed.
This was it, the Cayhall version of a family reunion.
“I’m Adam Hall. I’m a lawyer with Kravitz and Bane.”
Sam took his card and examined it. Adam watched him. Sam
was an old man now, with pale delicate skin and tiny lines around
his eyes. His hair was long, gray, and oily. Deep lines o f age and
sadness cut into his forehead. The only attractive feature was the
set o f deep blue eyes that now looked up at Adam. “You Jew boys
never give up, do you?” he asked.
“I’m not Jewish,” Adam said, returning the stare.
“Then how can you work for Kravitz and Bane?” His words
were soft, slow, and delivered with the patience o f a man who’d
spent nine and a half years alone in a tiny cell.
“We’re an equal opportunity employer.”
“Oh, sure. How many women partners do you have? How
many blacks?” Sam lit a cigarette. “I thought I was finished with
you people.”
“They didn’t send me down here. I volunteered.”
“Why are you so nervous?”
Adam pulled his fingernails away from his teeth. “I’m not
nervous.”
“Sure you are. I’ve seen lots o f lawyers around here, and I’ve
never seen one as nervous as you. What’s the matter, kid? You
afraid I’m coming through the screen after you?”
“Don’t be silly.” Adam tried to smile.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“You look twenty-two. You just finished law school?”
“Last year.”
“You’ve handled death cases before? How many?”
“This is the first.”
“Just great. Those Jewish-American lawyers at Kravitz and
Bane sent you down here to experiment on me, right? I’ve
known for a long time that they secretly wanted me dead, now
this proves it.”
“You need a lawyer, Mr. Cayhall. I’m here to help.”
“I need a lot o f things, boy, but I sure as hell don’t need a
beginner like you. Do you realize, son, that I get at least three
offers a week now from lawyers who want to represent me for
nothing? Big lawyers. Well-known lawyers. You see, son, I’m
famous. There’ll be a book deal, a movie deal, a television series.
I’m worth a lot o f money.”
Adam was shaking his head. “I don’t want any o f that. I’ll sign
a confidentiality agreement.”
“The fact is, Mr. Hall, I hate lawyers.” He leaned forward
slightly and stared at Adam through the hole in the screen.
"You’re twenty-six, you say?”
“Yeah.”
“Born in 1964.”
“That’s right.”
Sam gave this some thought. “Where?”
“Memphis,” Adam replied, without looking at him.
“What you’ve got to understand, son, is that this state needs an
execution, and I’m the nearest victim. Louisiana, Texas, and
Florida are killing them like flies, and the people o f this state can’t
understand why our little chamber is not being used. The more
violent crime we have, the more people beg for executions. It’s
my turn, and you can’t stop it. So where did you grow up?”
“Southern California. LA.”
“Did you know the law has just been changed here? Now we
can die by injection. It’s less cruel. Isn’t that nice? It doesn’t apply
to me though, since my conviction was years ago. I’ll smell the
gas. Are your family still in California?”
For a second, Adam’s heart stopped beating. He sank a few
inches in his chair. “My father’s dead.”
A long minute passed. Sam said, “And your mother?”
“She lives in Portland. Remarried.”
“Where’s your sister?” he asked.
Adam closed his eyes and dropped his head. “She’s in college.”
Sam’s next words were softly spoken. “ I believe her name’s
Carmen, right?”
Adam nodded. “How did you know?” he asked.
“The voice. You sound like your father. Why’d you come here?”
“Eddie sent me.”
Their eyes met briefly, then Sam looked away. He placed his
right hand over his eyes.
“We need to talk,” Adam said quietly.
Sam nodded. “So you’re really Alan,” he said. “My first
grandson. You disappeared in 1967.”
“Something like that. I don’t remember that far back.”
“I heard Eddie went to California, and that there was another
child. Someone told me later her name was Carmen.” He closed
his eyes tightly for a moment. “When did you find out about me?”
“Not until after my fathers funeral. Lee told me.”
Sam relaxed a bit in his chair. “Listen to me, kid. I can see
you’ve been planning this for a long time. But you can’t be my
lawyer. First, I’m beyond help. They’re determined to gas me, for
lots o f reasons. Second, your true identity will be revealed. It’ll be
very embarrassing.”
“Look, I don’t care if the world knows that I’m your
grandson. I’m tired o f all these dirty little family secrets.”
“You don’t understand, kid.”
“So explain it to me. We have four weeks. You can do a lot of
talking in four weeks.”
“Exactly what is it that you want to hear?”
Adam leaned closer to the screen. “First, I want to talk about
the case - appeals, how we handle the legal process, the bombing,
who was with you that night —”
“No one was with me that night.”
“We’ll talk about that. Second, I want to know about my
family. I want to know about your father and his father, and your
brother and cousins. I have the right to know about them. And I
want to know about Eddie.”
Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “You don’t want
much, do you?” he said softly.
Adam reached into his briefcase and removed a thin file. Fie
slid a sheet o f paper and a pen through the opening.
“This is an agreement for legal representation. Sign at the
bottom.”
Sam took the paper. He read it slowly. “I’ll need some time to
think about this, Adam. Let me look over this, make some
changes, and we’ll meet again tomorrow.”
“That’s wasting time.”
“I’ve wasted ten years here. What’s another day?”
Adam put his pen in his pocket and picked up his briefcase.
“I’ll be working out o f our Memphis office. The numbers on the
card. Feel free to call anytime.”
Sam slowly stood up. “Just make sure you come back.”
“I promise.”
The Memphis offices o f Kravitz and Bane were large, thickly
carpeted, and richly decorated. Adam was met by an attractive
young secretary and taken to the corner office o f Baker Cooley,
the managing partner.
“Welcome south,” Cooley said.
“Thanks. I guess you’ve talked to Garner Goodman.”
“Twice. He told me what you’ll be doing. We’ve got a nice
room at the end of this hall with a phone, computer, lots o f space.
It’s yours for, uh, however long you need it.”
Adam nodded. “What kind o f work goes on here?”
“Mostly company stuff. We represent some old banks, and we
do a lot o f local government work. Certainly no criminal work,”
he added quickly, as if criminals were not welcome in his
respectable offices.
“I hope I won’t be in the way here.”
“Not at all. I’m afraid we won’t be much help, though. We’re
not trial lawyers.”
“I’ll be fine. Mr. Goodman and the guys there will help.”
Cooley rubbed his hands as if he wasn’t sure what else to do
with them. “There is one thing, though. Got a call a couple o f
hours ago from a reporter here in Memphis. Asking about the
Cayhall
"ผมเป็นทนายความ ที่นี่เพื่อดูลูกค้าตาย กล่าวว่า อาดัมf o สูญ ทราบว่าประสาทเขาแต่เพียงแห่ง"เราได้ไม่มีใครบนตาย รัก""ฉันขอ""ไม่เช่นสถานที่เป็นการตาย เราได้ f o จำนวนมากพวกเขาในการหน่วยรักษาความปลอดภัยสูงสุด ที่ MSU สั้น ๆ แต่คุณจะไม่หาแถวไม่ตายที่นี่""OK""ชื่อ" ก็"อาดัมฮอลล์""และลูกค้าของคุณ""สาม Cayhall" เธอดูเหมือน unimpressed และ หลังอีกกี่ถามส่งเขาในทางของเขา อาคารขนาดเล็กและต้นไม้ในแต่ละนี้เพิ่มเติมเช่นถนนรื่นรมย์ที่ถนนคุกหลักทำในตัวเมืองมากกว่าเรือนจำมีผู้ต้องขัง 5000 ลูกศรในการเครื่องหมายชี้ซ้ายกับหน่วยรักษาความปลอดภัยสูงสุด ถนนสกปรกนำอย่างรวดเร็วไปสู่รั้วบางสูง 12 ฟุต หน่วยได้ singlestoryดาดฟ้าอาคารอิฐสีแดง f oอาดัมก้าว unsteadily จากรถของเขา และจ้องไปที่การอาคาร เขามองขึ้นไป watchtower ประตูฝ่อเปิดกี่ฟุตเพื่อให้เขาสามารถใส่ แล้วปิดด้านหลัง ประตูที่สองเปิด ขณะที่อดัมไปผ่าน มียามใหญ่คอหนาและประดับแผ่นดินขนาดใหญ่ที่ขาของอาดัมเขาจัดออกเป็นมือสีดำขนาดใหญ่ และกล่าว ว่า "สิบเอกห่อของ" อาดัมจับมือ "อาดัมฮอลล์""นี่เห็นสาม""ใช่ ที่รักกัน""ครั้งแรกหรือไม่" พวกเขาเดินไปทางอาคาร"ใช่ มีผู้ต้องขังตายทั้งหมดที่นี่""ใช่ ทั้งหมดสี่สิบเจ็ด" พวกที่ประตู "ฉันได้ค้นหาyou.He took Adam’s briefcase from him, and put it down on theground. Then he ran his hands up his legs, around his body, andunder his arms, patting expertly around in search o f hiddenweapons. The search was over in seconds. “Not a good day to seeSam,” he said.“Whys that?” Adam asked, following Packer.“Didn’t you know? They’ve fixed a new date for theexecution. The big day is four weeks away. August 8.”“Four weeks!” Adam said, shocked.“Afraid so. Papers came from the Mississippi Supreme Courtthis morning.”Adam entered the conference room. Four weeks.The room was empty. It was a large room divided by a solid wallof brick and metal; the lawyers had their side and the clients hadtheirs. The lower wall was made o f brick, then there was acounter for the lawyers’ papers. A green metal screen ran fromthere up to the ceiling.“I have to lock this door,” Packer said as he stepped outside.“We’ll get Sam.” The door closed, and Adam was alone. Hisstomach was turning over violently.Adam began chewing his fingernails. In the center of the screenin front of him was a gap, four inches by ten, and it was throughthis little hole that he would come face-to-face with Sam Cayhall.Adam jumped as a door was unlocked. The door openedslowly, and a young white guard stepped into the inmates’ side.Behind him, in a bright red cotton jumpsuit, was Sam Cayhall.He frowned, looking hard at the screen, until his eyes landed onAdam. “Who are you?” he spat. The guard led him across to aspot directly across from the lawyer and sat him in a chair. Samstared at Adam as the guard departed.This was it, the Cayhall version of a family reunion.“I’m Adam Hall. I’m a lawyer with Kravitz and Bane.”Sam took his card and examined it. Adam watched him. Samwas an old man now, with pale delicate skin and tiny lines aroundhis eyes. His hair was long, gray, and oily. Deep lines o f age andsadness cut into his forehead. The only attractive feature was theset o f deep blue eyes that now looked up at Adam. “You Jew boysnever give up, do you?” he asked.“I’m not Jewish,” Adam said, returning the stare.“Then how can you work for Kravitz and Bane?” His wordswere soft, slow, and delivered with the patience o f a man who’dspent nine and a half years alone in a tiny cell.“We’re an equal opportunity employer.”“Oh, sure. How many women partners do you have? Howmany blacks?” Sam lit a cigarette. “I thought I was finished withyou people.”“They didn’t send me down here. I volunteered.”“Why are you so nervous?”Adam pulled his fingernails away from his teeth. “I’m notnervous.”“Sure you are. I’ve seen lots o f lawyers around here, and I’venever seen one as nervous as you. What’s the matter, kid? Youafraid I’m coming through the screen after you?”“Don’t be silly.” Adam tried to smile.“How old are you?”“Twenty-six.”“You look twenty-two. You just finished law school?”“Last year.”“You’ve handled death cases before? How many?”“This is the first.”“Just great. Those Jewish-American lawyers at Kravitz andBane sent you down here to experiment on me, right? I’veknown for a long time that they secretly wanted me dead, nowthis proves it.”“You need a lawyer, Mr. Cayhall. I’m here to help.”“I need a lot o f things, boy, but I sure as hell don’t need abeginner like you. Do you realize, son, that I get at least threeoffers a week now from lawyers who want to represent me fornothing? Big lawyers. Well-known lawyers. You see, son, I’mfamous. There’ll be a book deal, a movie deal, a television series.I’m worth a lot o f money.”Adam was shaking his head. “I don’t want any o f that. I’ll signa confidentiality agreement.”“The fact is, Mr. Hall, I hate lawyers.” He leaned forwardslightly and stared at Adam through the hole in the screen."You’re twenty-six, you say?”“Yeah.”“Born in 1964.”“That’s right.”Sam gave this some thought. “Where?”“Memphis,” Adam replied, without looking at him.“What you’ve got to understand, son, is that this state needs anexecution, and I’m the nearest victim. Louisiana, Texas, andFlorida are killing them like flies, and the people o f this state can’tunderstand why our little chamber is not being used. The moreviolent crime we have, the more people beg for executions. It’smy turn, and you can’t stop it. So where did you grow up?”“Southern California. LA.”“Did you know the law has just been changed here? Now wecan die by injection. It’s less cruel. Isn’t that nice? It doesn’t applyto me though, since my conviction was years ago. I’ll smell thegas. Are your family still in California?”For a second, Adam’s heart stopped beating. He sank a fewinches in his chair. “My father’s dead.”A long minute passed. Sam said, “And your mother?”“She lives in Portland. Remarried.”“Where’s your sister?” he asked.Adam closed his eyes and dropped his head. “She’s in college.”Sam’s next words were softly spoken. “ I believe her name’sCarmen, right?”Adam nodded. “How did you know?” he asked.“The voice. You sound like your father. Why’d you come here?”“Eddie sent me.”Their eyes met briefly, then Sam looked away. He placed hisright hand over his eyes.“We need to talk,” Adam said quietly.Sam nodded. “So you’re really Alan,” he said. “My firstgrandson. You disappeared in 1967.”“Something like that. I don’t remember that far back.”“I heard Eddie went to California, and that there was anotherchild. Someone told me later her name was Carmen.” He closedhis eyes tightly for a moment. “When did you find out about me?”“Not until after my fathers funeral. Lee told me.”Sam relaxed a bit in his chair. “Listen to me, kid. I can see
you’ve been planning this for a long time. But you can’t be my
lawyer. First, I’m beyond help. They’re determined to gas me, for
lots o f reasons. Second, your true identity will be revealed. It’ll be
very embarrassing.”
“Look, I don’t care if the world knows that I’m your
grandson. I’m tired o f all these dirty little family secrets.”
“You don’t understand, kid.”
“So explain it to me. We have four weeks. You can do a lot of
talking in four weeks.”
“Exactly what is it that you want to hear?”
Adam leaned closer to the screen. “First, I want to talk about
the case - appeals, how we handle the legal process, the bombing,
who was with you that night —”
“No one was with me that night.”
“We’ll talk about that. Second, I want to know about my
family. I want to know about your father and his father, and your
brother and cousins. I have the right to know about them. And I
want to know about Eddie.”
Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “You don’t want
much, do you?” he said softly.
Adam reached into his briefcase and removed a thin file. Fie
slid a sheet o f paper and a pen through the opening.
“This is an agreement for legal representation. Sign at the
bottom.”
Sam took the paper. He read it slowly. “I’ll need some time to
think about this, Adam. Let me look over this, make some
changes, and we’ll meet again tomorrow.”
“That’s wasting time.”
“I’ve wasted ten years here. What’s another day?”
Adam put his pen in his pocket and picked up his briefcase.
“I’ll be working out o f our Memphis office. The numbers on the
card. Feel free to call anytime.”
Sam slowly stood up. “Just make sure you come back.”
“I promise.”
The Memphis offices o f Kravitz and Bane were large, thickly
carpeted, and richly decorated. Adam was met by an attractive
young secretary and taken to the corner office o f Baker Cooley,
the managing partner.
“Welcome south,” Cooley said.
“Thanks. I guess you’ve talked to Garner Goodman.”
“Twice. He told me what you’ll be doing. We’ve got a nice
room at the end of this hall with a phone, computer, lots o f space.
It’s yours for, uh, however long you need it.”
Adam nodded. “What kind o f work goes on here?”
“Mostly company stuff. We represent some old banks, and we
do a lot o f local government work. Certainly no criminal work,”
he added quickly, as if criminals were not welcome in his
respectable offices.
“I hope I won’t be in the way here.”
“Not at all. I’m afraid we won’t be much help, though. We’re
not trial lawyers.”
“I’ll be fine. Mr. Goodman and the guys there will help.”
Cooley rubbed his hands as if he wasn’t sure what else to do
with them. “There is one thing, though. Got a call a couple o f
hours ago from a reporter here in Memphis. Asking about the
Cayhall
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