I found a pint of bourbon hidden behind a box of saltines in the pantry, and emptied it in the sink. It was dark outside. Sunlight was an hour away. He made the coffee strong, and sipped it on the sofa while he rehearsed the arguments he would present in a few hours in New Orleans.
He reviewed his notes on the patio at dawn, and by seven he was in the kitchen making toast. No sign of Lee. He didn't want a confrontation, but one was necessary. He had things to say, and she had apologies to make, and he rattled plates and forks on the counter. The volume was increased for the morning news.
But there was no movement from her part of the condo. After he showered and dressed, he gently turned the knob to her door. It was locked. She had sealed herself in her cave, and prevented the painful talk of the morning after. He wrote a note and explained that he would be in New Orleans today and tonight, and he would see her tomorrow. He said he was sorry for now, and they would talk about it later. He pleaded with her not to drink.
The note was placed on the counter where she couldn't miss it. Adam left the condo and drove to the airport.
The direct flight to New Orleans took fifty-five minutes. Adam drank fruit juice and tried to sit comfortably to soothe his stiff back. He'd slept less than three hours on the floor by the door, and vowed not to do it again. By her own admission, she'd been through recovery three times over the years, and if she couldn't stay off the booze by herself there was certainly nothing he could do to help. He would stay in Memphis until this miserable case was over, and if his aunt couldn't stay sober, then he could manage things from a hotel room.
He fought himself to forget about her for the next few hours. He needed to concentrate on legal matters, not lynchings and photographs and horror stories from the past; not his beloved aunt and her problems.
The plane touched down in New Orleans, and suddenly his concentration became sharper. He mentally clicked off the names of dozens of recent death penalty cases from the Fifth Circuit and the U.S. Supreme Court.
The hired car was a Cadillac sedan, one arranged by Darlene and charged to Kravitz & Bane. It came with a driver, and as Adam relaxed in the rear seat he conceded that life in a big firm did indeed have certain advantages. Adam had never been to New Orleans before, and the drive from the airport could've taken place in any city. Just traffic and express-ways. The driver turned onto Poydras Street by the Superdome, and suddenly they were downtown. He explained to his passenger that the French Quarter was a few blocks away, not far from Adam's hotel. The car stopped on Camp Street, and Adam stepped onto the sidewalk in front of a building simply called the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. It was an impressive structure, with Greek columns and lots of steps leading to the front entrance.
He found the clerk's office on the main floor, and asked for the gentleman he'd spoken to, a Mr. Feriday. Mr. Feriday was as sincere and courteous in person as he'd been on the phone. He properly registered Adam, and explained some of the rules of the court. He asked Adam if he wanted a quick tour of the place. It was almost noon, the place was not busy, and it was the perfect time for a look around. They headed for the courtrooms, passing along the way various offices of the judges and staff.
"The Fifth Circuit has fifteen judges," Mr. Feriday explained as they walked casually over marble floors, "and their offices are along these hallways. Right now the court has three vacancies, and the nominations are tied up in Washington." The corridors were dark and quiet, as if great minds were at work behind the broad wooden doors.
Mr. Feriday went first to the En Banc courtroom, a large, intimidating stage with fifteen chairs sitting snugly together in a halfcircle in the front of the room. "Most of the work here is assigned to three-judge panels. But occasionally the entire body sits en banc," he explained quietly, as if still in awe of the spectacular room. The bench was elevated well above the rest of the room, so that the lawyers at the podium below looked upward as they pleaded. The room was marble and dark wood, heavy drapes and a huge chandelier. It was ornate but understated, old but meticulously maintained, and as Adam inspected it he felt quite frightened. Only rarely does the entire court sit en banc, Mr. Feriday explained again as if he were instructing a first-year student of the law. The great civil rights decisions of the sixties and seventies took place right here, he said with no small amount of pride. Portraits of deceased justices hung behind the bench.
As beautiful and stately as it was, Adam hoped he never saw it again, at least not as a lawyer representing a client. They walked down the hall to the West Courtroom, which was smaller than the first but just as intimidating. This is where the three-judge panels operate, Mr. Feriday explained as they walked past the seats in the spectators' section, through the bar and to the podium. The bench again was elevated, though not as lofty or as long as En Banc.
"Virtually all oral arguments take place in the morning, beginning at nine," Mr. Feriday said. "Your case is a bit different because it's a death case that's going down to the wire." He pointed a crooked finger at the seats in the back. "You'll need to be seated out there a few minutes before one, and the clerk will call the case. Then you come through the bar and sit right here at counsel table. You'll go first, and you have twenty minutes."
Adam knew this, but it was certainly nice to be walked through it.
Mr. Feriday pointed to a device on the podium which resembled a traffic light. "This is the timer," he said gravely. "And it is very important. Twenty minutes, okay. There are horrific stories of long-winded lawyers who ignored this. Not a pretty sight. The green is on when you're talking. The yellow comes on when you want your warning - two minutes, five minutes, thirty seconds, whatever. When the red comes on, you simply stop in mid-sentence and go sit down. It's that simple. Any questions?"
"Who are the judges?"
"McNeely, Robichaux, and Judy." He said this as if Adam personally knew all three. "There's a waiting room over there, and there's a library on the third floor. Just be here about ten minutes before one. Any more questions?"
"No sir. Thanks."
"I'm in my office if you need me. Good luck." They shook hands. Mr. Feriday left Adam standing at the podium.
At ten minutes before one, Adam walked through the massive oak doors of the West Courtroom for the second time, and found other lawyers preparing for battle. On the first row behind the bar, Attorney General Steve Roxburgh and his cluster of assistants were huddled together plotting tactics. They hushed when Adam walked in, and a few nodded and tried to smile. Adam sat by himself along the aisle and ignored them.
Lucas Mann was seated on their side of the courtroom, though several rows behind Roxburgh and his boys. He casually read a newspaper, and waved to Adam when their eyes met. It was good to see him. He was starched from head to toe in wrinkle-free khaki, and his tie was wild enough to glow in the dark. It was obvious Mann was not intimidated by the Fifth Circuit and its trappings, and equally as obvious that he was keeping his distance from Roxburgh. He was only the attorney for Parchman, only doing his job. If the Fifth Circuit granted a stay and Sam didn't die, Lucas Mann would be pleased. Adam nodded and smiled at him.
Roxburgh and his gang rehuddled. Morris Henry, Dr. Death, was in the middle of it, explaining things to lesser minds.
Adam breathed deeply and tried to relax. It was quite difficult. His stomach was churning and his feet twitched, and he kept telling himself that it would only last for twenty minutes. The three judges couldn't kill him, they could only embarrass him, and even that could last for only twenty minutes. He could endure anything for twenty minutes. He glanced at his notes, and to calm himself he tried to think of Sam - not Sam the racist, the murderer, the lynch mob thug, but Sam the client, the old man wasting away on death row who was entitled to die in peace and dignity. Sam was about to get twenty minutes of this court's valuable time, so his lawyer had to make the most of it.
A heavy door thudded shut somewhere, and Adam jumped in his seat. The court crier appeared from behind the bench and announced that this honorable court was now in session. He was followed by three figures in flowing black robes - McNeely, Robichaux, and Judy, each of whom carried files and seemed to be totally without humor or goodwill. They sat in their massive leather chairs high up on the shiny, dark, oak-paneled bench, and looked down upon the courtroom. The case of State of Mississippi v. Sam Cayhall was called, and the attorneys were summoned from the back of the room. Adam nervously walked through the swinging gate in the bar, and was followed by Steve Roxburgh. The Assistant Attorney Generals kept their seats, as did Lucas Mann and a handful of spectators. Most of these, Adam would later learn, were reporters.
The presiding judge was Judy, the Honorable T. Eileen Judy, a young woman from Texas. Robichaux was from Louisiana, and in his late fifties. McNeely looked to be a hundred and twenty, and was also from Texas. Judy made a brief statement about the case, then asked Mr. Adam Hall from Chicago if he was ready to proceed. He stood nervously, his knees rubber-like, his bowels jumping, his voice high and nervous, and he said that, yes, in fact he was ready to go. He made it to the podium in the center of the room and looked up, way up, it seemed, at the panel behind the bench.
The green light beside him came on, and he assumed correctly this meant to get things started. The room was silent. The judges glared down at him. He cleared his throat, glanced at the. portraits of dead honorables hanging on the wall, and plunged into a vicious attack on the gas chamber as a means of execution.
He avoided eye contact with the three of them, and for five minutes or so was allowed to repeat what he'd already submitted in his brief. It was post-lunch, in the heat of the summer, and it took a few minutes for the judges to shrug off the cobwebs.
"Mr. Hall, I think you're just repeating what you've already said in your brief," Judy said testily. "We're quite capable of reading, Mr. Hall."
Mr. Hall took it well, and thought to himself that this was his twenty minutes, and if he wanted to pick his nose and recite the alphabet then he should be allowed to do so. For twenty minutes. As green as he was, Adam had heard this comment before from an appellate judge. It happened while he was in law school and watching a case being argued. It was standard fare in oral argument.
"Yes, Your Honor," Adam said, carefully avoiding any reference to gender. He then moved on to discuss the effects of cyanide gas on laboratory rats, a study not included in his brief. The experiments had been conducted a year ago by some chemists in Sweden for the purpose of proving that humans do not die instantly when they inhale the poison. It had been funded by a European organization working to abolish the death penalty in America.
The rats went into seizures and convulsed. Their lungs and hearts stopped and started erratically for several minutes. The gas burst blood vessels throughout their bodies, including their brains. Their muscles quivered uncontrollably. They salivated and squeaked.
The obvious point of the study was that the rats did not die quickly, but in fact suffered a great deal. The tests were conducted with scientific integrity. Appropriate doses were given to the small animals. On the average, it took almost ten minutes for death to occur. Adam labored over the details, and as he warmed to his presentation his nerves settled a bit. The judges were not only listening, but seemed to be enjoying this discussion of dying rats.
Adam had found the study in a footnote to a recent North Carolina case. It was in the fine print, and had not been widely reported.
"Now, let me get this straight," Robichaux interrupted in a high-pitched voice. "You don't want your client to die in the gas chamber because it's a cruel way to go, but are you telling us you don't mind if he's executed by lethal injection?"
"No, Your Honor. That's not what I'm saying. I do not want my client executed by any method."
"But lethal injection is the least offensive?"
"All methods are offensive, but lethal injection seems to be the least cruel. There's no doubt the gas chamber is a horrible way to die."
"Worse than being bombed? Blown up by dynamite?"
A heavy silence fell over the courtroom as Robichaux's words settled in. He had emphasized the word `dynamite', and Adam struggled for something appropriate. McNeely shot a nasty look at his colleague on the other side of the bench.
It was a cheap shot, and Adam was furious. He controlled his temper, and said firmly, "We're talking about methods of execution, Your Honor, not the crimes that send men to death row."
"Why don't you want to talk about the crime?"
"Because the crime is not an issue here. Because I have only twenty minutes, and my client has only twelve days."
"Perhaps your client shouldn't have been planting bombs?"
"Of course not. But he was convicted of his crime, and now he faces death in the gas chamber. Our point is that the chamber is a cruel way to execute people."
"What about the electric chair?"
"The same argument applies. There have been some hideous cases of people suffering terribly in the chair before they died."
"What about a firing squad?"
"Sounds cruel to me."
"And hanging?"
"I don't know much about hanging, but it too sounds awfully cruel."
"But you like the idea of lethal injection?"
"I didn't say I like it. I believe I said it was not as cruel as the other methods."
Justice McNeely interrupted and asked, "Mr. Hall, why did Mississippi switch from the gas chamber to lethal injection?"
This was covered thoroughly in the lawsuit and the brief, and Adam sensed immediately that McNeely was a friend. "I've condensed the legislative history of the law in my brief, Your Honor, but it was done principally to facilitate executions. The legislature admitted it was an easier way to die, and so to sidestep constitutional challenges such as this one it changed the method."
"So the State has effectively admitted that there is a better way to execute people?"
"Yes sir. But the law took effect in 1984, and applies only to those inmates convicted afterward. It does not apply to Sam Cayhall."
"I understand that. You're asking us to strike down the gas chamber as a method. What happens if we do? What happens to your client and those like him who were convicted prior to 1984? Do they fall through the cracks? There is no provision in the law to execute them by lethal injection."
Adam was anticipating the obvious question. Sam had already asked it. "I can't answer that, Your Honor, except to say that I have great confidence in the Mississippi Legislature's ability and willingness to pass a new law covering my client and those in his position."
Judge Judy inserted herself at this point. "Assuming they do, Mr. Hall, what will you argue when you return here in three years?"
Thankfully, the yellow light came on, and Adam had only one minute remaining. "I'll think of something," he said with a grin. "Just give me time."
"We've already seen a case like this, Mr. Hall," Robichaux said. "In fact, it's cited in your brief. A Texas case."
"Yes, Your Honor. I'm asking the court to reconsider its decision on this issue. Virtually every state with a gas chamber or an electric chair has switched to lethal injection. The reason is obvious."
He had a few seconds left, but decided it was a good place to stop. He didn't want another question. "Thank you," he said, and walked confidently back to his seat. It was over. He had held his breakfast, and performed quite well for a rookie. It would be easier the next time.
Roxburgh was wooden and methodical, and thoroughly prepared. He tried a few one-liners about rats and the crimes they commit, but it was a dismal effort at humor. McNeely peppered him with similar questions about why the states were rushing to lethal injection. Roxburgh stuck to his guns, and recited a long line of cases where the various federal circuits had endorsed death by gas, electricity, hanging, and firing squads. The established law was on his side, and he made the most of it. His twenty minutes raced by, and he returned to his seat as quickly as Adam had.
Judge Judy talked briefly about the urgency of this matter, and promised a ruling within days. Everyone rose in unison, and the three judges disappeared from the bench. The court crier declared matters to be in recess until Monday morning.
Adam shook hands with Roxburgh and made it through the doors before a reporter stopped him. He was with a paper in Jackson, and just had a couple of questions. Adam was polite, but declined comment. He then did the same for two more reporters. Roxburgh, typically, had things to say, and as Adam walked away, the reporters surrounded the Attorney General and shoved recorders near his face.
Adam wanted to leave the building. He stepped into the tropical heat, and quickly covered his eyes with sunglasses. "Have you had lunch?" a voice asked from close behind. It was Lucas Mann, in aviator sunglasses. They shook hands between the columns.
"I couldn't eat," Adam admitted.
"You did fine. It's quite nerve-racking, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is. Why are you here?"
"It's part of my job. The warden asked me to fly down and watch the argument. We'll wait until there's a ruling before we start preparations. Let's go eat."
Adam's driver stopped the car at the curb, and they got in.
"Do you know the city?" Mann asked.
"No. This is my first visit."
"The Bon Ton Cafe," Mann told the driver. "It's a wonderful old place just around the corner. Nice car."
"The benefits of working for a wealthy firm."
Lunch began with a novelty - raw oysters on the half shell. Adam had heard of them before, but had never been tempted. Mann artfully demonstrated the proper blending of horseradish, lemon juice, Tabasco, and cocktail sauce, then dropped the first oyster into the mixture. It was then delicately placed on a cracker and eaten in one bite. Adam's first oyster slid off the cracker and onto the table, but his second slid properly down his throat.
"Don't chew it," Mann instructed. "Just let it slither down." The next ten slithered down, and not soon enough for Adam. He was happy when the dozen shells on his plate were empty. They sipped Dixie beer and waited for shrimp remoulade.
"I saw where you're claiming ineffective assistance of counsel," Mann said, nibbling on a cracker.
"I'm sure we'll be filing everything from now on."
"The supreme court didn't waste any time with it."
"No, they didn't. Seems as if they're tired of Sam Cayhall. I'll file it in district court today, but I don't expect any relief from Slattery."
"I wouldn't either."
"What are my odds, with twelve days to go.
"Getting slimmer by the day, but things are wildly unpredictable. Probably still around fiftyfifty. A few years back we came very close with Stockholm Turner. With two weeks to go, it looked certain. With a week to go, there was simply nothing else for him to file. He had a decent lawyer, but the appeals had run. He was given his last meal, and - "
"And his conjugal visit, with two prostitutes."
"How'd you know?"
"Sam told me all about it."
"It's true. He got a last minute stay, and now he's years away from the chamber. You never know."
"But what's your gut feeling?"
Mann took a long drink of beer and leaned backward as two large platters of shrimp remoulade were placed before them. "I don't have gut feelings when it comes to executions. Anything can happen. Just keep filing writs and appeals. It becomes a marathon. You can't give up. The lawyer for jumbo Parris collapsed with twelve hours to go, and was in a hospital bed when his client went down."
Adam chewed on a boiled shrimp and washed it down with beer. "The governor wants me to talk to him. Should I?"
"What does your client want?"
"What do you think? He hates the governor. He has forbidden me to talk to him."
"You have to ask for a clemency hearing. That's standard practice."
"How well do you know McAllister?"
"Not very well. He's a political animal with great ambitions, and I wouldn't trust him for a minute. He does, however, have the power to grant clemency. He can commute the death sentence. He can impose life, or he can set him free. The statute grants broad discretionary authority to the governor. He'll probably be your last hope."
"God help us."
"How's the remoulade?" Mann asked with a mouthful.
"Delicious."
They busied themselves with eating for a while. Adam was thankful for the company and conversation, but decided to limit the talk to appeals and strategy. He liked Lucas Mann, but his client did not. As Sam would say, Mann worked for the state and the state was working to execute him.
A late afternoon flight would have taken him back to Memphis by six-thirty, long before dark. And once there he could've killed an hour or so at the office before returning to Lee's. But he wasn't up to it. He had a fancy room in a modern hotel by the river, paid for without question by the boys at Kravitz & Bane. All expenses were covered. He'd never seen the French Quarter.
And so he awoke at six after a three-hour nap brought on by three Dixies for lunch and a bad night's rest. He was lying across the bed with his shoes on, and he studied the ceiling fan for half an hour before he moved. The sleep had been heavy.
Lee did not answer the phone. He left a message on her recorder, and hoped she was not drinking. And if she was, then he hoped she'd locked herself in her room where she couldn't hurt anyone. He brushed his teeth and
hair, and rode an elevator to the spacious lobby where a jazz band performed for happy hour. Five-cent oysters on the half shell were being hawked from a corner bar.
He walked in the sweltering heat along Canal Street until he came to Royal, where he took a right and was soon lost in a throng of tourists. Friday night was coming to life in the Quarter. He gawked at the strip clubs, trying desperately for a peek inside. He was stopped cold by an open door which revealed a row of male strippers on a stage - men who looked like beautiful women. He ate an egg roll on a stick from a Chinese carryout. He stepped around a wino vomiting in the street. He spent an hour at a small table in a jazz club, listening to a delightful combo and sipping a four-dollar beer. When it was dark, he walked to Jackson Square and watched the artists pack up their easels and leave. The street musicians and dancers were out in force in front of an old cathedral, and he clapped for an amazing string quartet comprised of Tulane students. People were everywhere, drinking and eating and dancing, enjoying the festiveness of the French Quarter.
He bought a dish of vanilla ice cream, and headed for Canal. On another night and under far different circumstances, he might be tempted to take in a strip show, sitting in the rear, of course, where no one could see him, or he might hang out in a trendy bar looking for lonely, beautiful women.
But not tonight. The drunks reminded him of Lee, and he wished he'd returned to Memphis to see her. The music and laughter reminded him of Sam, who at this very moment was sitting in a humid oven, staring at the bars and counting the days, hoping and perhaps praying now that his lawyer might work a miracle. Sam would never see New Orleans, never again eat oysters or red beans and rice, never taste a cold beer or a good coffee. He would never hear jazz or watch artists paint. He would never again fly on a plane or stay in a nice hotel. He would never fish or drive or do a thousand things free people take for granted.
Even if Sam lived past August 8, he would simply continue the process of dying a little each day.
Adam left the Quarter and walked hurriedly to his hotel. He needed rest. The marathon was about to begin.
