windows, no doubt wondering where all those damned calls were coming from.
The students devoured the doughnuts and newspapers. There was a brief but serious discussion about some obvious procedural deficiencies in Mississippi's postconviction relief statutes. The third member of the shift, a firstyear student from New Orleans, arrived at eight, and the calls started.
It was immediately apparent that the hotline was not as efficient as the day before. It was difficult to get through to an operator. No problem. They used alternate numbers - the switchboard at the governor's mansion, the lines to the cute little regional offices he'd established, amid great fanfare, around the state so that he, a common man, could stay close to the people.
The people were calling.
Goodman left the office and walked along Congress Street to the capitol. He heard the sounds of a loudspeaker being tested, and then saw the Klansmen. They were organizing themselves, at least a dozen in full parade dress, around the monument to Confederate women at the base of the front steps to the capitol. Goodman walked by them, actually said hello to one, so that when he returned to Chicago he could say he talked to some real Kluckers.
The two reporters who'd waited for the governor were now on the front steps watching the scene below. A local television crew arrived as Goodman entered the capitol.
The governor was too busy to meet with him, Mona Stark explained gravely, but Mr. Larramore could spare a few minutes. She looked a bit frazzled, and this pleased Goodman greatly. He followed her to Larramore's office where they found the lawyer on the phone. Goodman hoped it was one of his calls. He obediently took a seat. Mona closed the door and left them.
'Good morning,' Larramore said as he hung up.
Goodman nodded politely, and said, 'Thanks for the hearing. We didn't expect the governor to grant one, in light of what he said on Wednesday.'
'He's under a lot of pressure. We all are. Is your client willing to talk about his accomplice?'
'No. There's been no change.'
Larramore ran his fingers through his sticky hair and shook his head in frustration. 'Then what's the purpose of a clemency hearing? The governor is not going to budge on this, Mr. Goodman.'
'We're working on Sam, okay. We're talking to him. Let's plan on going through with the hearing on Monday. Maybe Sam will change his mind.'
The phone rang and Larramore snatched it angrily. 'No, this is not the governor's office. Who is this?' He scribbled down a name and phone number. 'This is the governor's legal department.' He closed his eyes and shook his head. 'Yes, yes, I'm sure you voted for the governor.' He listened some more.'Thank you, Mr. Hurt. I'll tell the governor you called. Yes, thanks.'
He returned the receiver to the phone. 'So, Mr. Gilbert Hurt from Dumas, Mississippi, is against the execution,' he said, staring at the phone, dazed. 'The phones have gone crazy.'
'Lots of calls, huh?' Goodman asked, sympathetically.
'You wouldn't believe.'
'For or against?'
'bout fifty-fifty, I'd say,' Larramore said. He took the phone again and punched in the number for Mr. Gilbert Hurt of Dumas, Mississippi. No one answered. 'This is strange,' he said, hanging up again. 'The man just called me, left a legitimate number, now there's no answer.'
'Probably just stepped out. Try again later.' Goodman hoped he wouldn't have the time to try again later. In the first hour of the market analysis yesterday, Goodman had made a slight change in technique. He had instructed his callers to first check the phone numbers to make certain there was no answer. This prevented some curious type such as Larramore or perhaps a nosy hotline operator from calling back and finding the real person. Odds were the real person would greatly support the death penalty. If slowed flings 'a hit for the market
analysts, but Goodman e.f safer W with it.
'I'm working on an outline for the hearing,' Larramore said, 'just in case. We'll probably have it in the House Ways and Means Committee Room, just down the hall.'
'Will it be closed?'
'No. Is this a problem?'
'We have four days left, Mr. Larramore. Everything's a problem. But the hearing belongs to the governor. We're just thankful he's granted one.'
'I have your numbers. Keep in touch.'
'I'm not leaving Jackson until this is over.'
They shook hands quickly and Goodman left the office. He sat on the front steps for half an hour and watched the Klansmen get organized and attract the curious.
42
THOUGH he'd worn a white robe and a pointed hood as a much younger man, Donnie Cayhall kept his distance from the lines of Klansmen patrolling the grassy strip near the front gate of Parchman. Security was tight, with armed guards watching the protestors. Next to the canopy where the Klansmen gathered was a small group of skinheads in brown shirts. They held signs demanding freedom for Sam Cayhall.
Donnie watched the spectacle for a moment, then followed the directions of a security guard and parked along the highway. His name was checked at the guardhouse, and a few minutes later a prison van came for him. His brother had been at Parchman for nine and a half years, and Donnie had tried to visit at least once a year. But the last visit had been two years ago, he was ashamed to admit.
Donnie Cayhall was sixty-one, the youngest of the four Cayhall brothers. All had followed the teachings of their father and joined the Klan in their teens. It had been a simple decision with little thought given to it, one expected by the entire family. Later he had joined the Army, fought in Korea, and traveled the world. In the process, he had lost interest in wearing robes and burning crosses. He left Mississippi in 1961, and went to work for a furniture company in North
639
Carolina. He now lived near Durham.
Every month for nine and a half years, he had shipped to Sam a box of cigarettes and a small amount of cash. He'd written a few letters, but neither he nor Sam were interested in correspondence. Few people in Durham knew he had a brother on death row.
He was frisked inside the front door, and shown to the front office. Sam was brought in a few minutes later, and they were left alone. Donnie hugged him for a long time, and when they released each other both had moist eyes. They were of similar height and build, though Sam looked twenty years older. He sat on the edge of the desk and Donnie took a chair nearby.
Both lit cigarettes and stared into space.
'Any good news?' Donnie finally asked, certain of the answer.
'No. None. The courts are turning everything down. They're gonna do it, Donnie. They're gonna kill me. They'll walk me to the chamber and gas me like an animal.'
Donnie's face fell to his chest. 'I'm sorry, Sam.'
'I'm sorry too, but, dammit, I'll be glad when it's over.' '
'Don't say that.'
'I mean it. I'm tired of living in a cage. I'm an old man and my time has come.'
'But you don't deserve to be killed, Sam.'
'That's the hardest part, you know. It's not that I'm gonna die, hell, we're all dying. I just can't stand the thought of these jackasses getting the best of me. They're gonna win. And their reward is to strap me in and watch me choke. It's sick.'
'Can't your lawyer do something?'
'He's trying everything, but it looks hopeless. I want you to meet him.'
'I saw his picture in the paper. He doesn't resemble our people.'
'He's lucky. He looks more like his mother.'
'Sharp kid?'
Sam managed a smile. 'Yeah, he's pretty terrific. He's really grieving over this.'
'Will he be here today?'
