him? Had he been in jail and released by the authorities to the mob? What did they do with his body when it was over? Was the alleged rape victim one of the young women smiling at the camera? Was her father one of the men? Her brothers?
If Sam was lynching at such an early age, what could be expected of him as an adult? How often did these folks gather and celebrate like this in rural Mississippi?
How in God's world could Sam Cayhall have become anything other than himself? He never had a chance.
Sam waited patiently in the front office, sipping coffee from a different pot. It was strong and rich, unlike the watered-down brew they served the inmates each morning. Packer had given it to him in a large paper cup. Sam sat on the desk with his feet on a chair.
The door opened and Colonel Nugent marched inside with Packer behind. The door was closed. Sam stiffened and snapped off a smart salute.
'Good morning, Sam,' Nugent said somberly. 'How you doing?'
'Fabulous. You?'
'Getting by.'
'Yeah, I know you gotta lot on your mind. This is tough on you, trying to arrange my execution and making sure it goes real smooth. Tough job. My hat's off to you.'
Nugent ignored the sarcasm. 'Need to talk to you about a few things. Your lawyers now say you're crazy, and I just wanted to see for myself how you're doing.'
'I feel like a million bucks.'
'Well, you certainly look fine.'
'Gee thanks. You look right spiffy yourself. Nice boots.'
The black combat boots were sparkling, as usual. Packer glanced down at them and grinned.
'Yes,' Nugent said, sitting in a chair and looking at a sheet of paper. 'The psychiatrist said you're uncooperative.'
ccWho? ?» . N..
'Dr. Stegall.'
'That big lard-ass gal with an incomplete first name? I've only talked to her once.'
'Were you uncooperative?'
'I certainly hope so. I've been here for almost ten years, and she finally trots her big ass over here when I've got one foot in the grave to see how I'm getting along. All she wanted to do was give me some dope so I'll be stoned when you clowns come after me. Makes your job easier, doesn't it.'
'She was only trying to help.'
'Then God bless her. Tell her I'm sorry. It'll never happen again. Write me up with an RVR. Put it in my file.'
'We need to talk about your last meal.'
'Why is Packer in here?'
Nugent glanced at Packer, then looked . at Sam. 'Because it's procedure.'
'He's here to protect you, isn't he? You're afraid of me. You're scared to be left alone with me in this room, aren't you, Nugent? I'm almost seventy years old, feeble as hell, half dead from cigarettes, and you're afraid of me, a convicted murderer.'
'Not in the least.'
'I'd stomp your ass all over this room, Nugent, if I wanted to.'
'I'm terrified. Look, Sam, let's get down to business. What would you like for your last meal?'
'This is Sunday. My last meal is scheduled for Tuesday night. Why are you bothering me with it now?'
'We have to make plans.. You can have anything, within reason.'
'Who's gonna cook it?'
'It'll be prepared in the kitchen here.'
'Oh, wonderful! By the same talented chefs who've been feeding me hogslop for nine and a half years. What a way to go!'
'What would you like, Sam? I'm trying to be reasonable.'
'How about toast and boiled carrots? I'd hate to burden them with something new.'
'Fine, Sam. When you decide, tell Packer here and he'll notify the kitchen.'
'There won't be a last meal, Nugent. My lawyer will unload the heavy artillery tomorrow. You clowns won't know what hit you.'
'I hope you're right.'
'You're a lying sonofabitch. You can't wait to walk me in there and strap me down. You're giddy with the thought of asking me if I have any last words, then nodding at one of your gophers to lock the door. And when it's all over, you'll face the press with a sad face and announce that `As of twelve-fifteen, this morning, August 8, Sam Cayhall was executed in the gas chamber here at Parchman, pursuant to an order of the Circuit Court of Lakehead County, Mississippi.' It'll be your finest hour, Nugent. Don't lie to me.'
The colonel never looked from the sheet of paper. 'We need your list of witnesses.'
'See my lawyer.'
'And we need to know what to do with your things.'
'See my lawyer.'
'Okay. We have numerous requests for interviews from the press.'
'See my lawyer.'
Nugent jumped to his feet and stormed from the office. Packer caught the door, waited a few seconds, then calmly said, 'Sit tight, Sam, there's someone else to see you.'
Sam smiled and winked at Packer. 'Then get me some more coffee, would you Packer?'
Packer took the cup, and returned with it a few minutes later. He also handed Sam the Sunday paper from Jackson, and Sam was reading all sorts of stories about his execution when the chaplain, Ralph Griffin, knocked and entered.
Sam placed the paper on the desk and inspected the minister. Griffin wore white sneakers, faded jeans, and a black shirt with a white clerical collar. 'Mornin', Reverend,' Sam said, sipping his coffee.
'How are you, Sam?' Griffin asked as he pulled a chair very near the desk and sat in it.
'Right now my heart's filled with hate,' Sam said gravely.
'I'm sorry. Who's it directed at?'
'Colonel Nugent. But I'll get over it.'
'Have you been praying, Sam?'
'Not really.'
'Why not?'
'What's the hurry? I have today, tomorrow, and Tuesday. I figure you and I'll be doing lots of praying come Tuesday night.'
'If you want. It's up to you. I'll be here.'
'I want you to be with me up to the last moment, Reverend, if you don't mind. You and my lawyer. Y'all are allowed to sit with me during the last hours.'
'I'd be honored.'
'Thanks.'
'What exactly do you want to pray about, Sam?'
Sam took a long drink of coffee. 'Well, first of all, I'd like to know that when I leave this world, all the bad things I've done have been forgiven.'
'Your sins?'
'That's right.'
'God expects us to confess our sins to him ,.ad ask for forgiveness.'
'All of them? One at a time?'
'Yes, the ones we can remember.'
'Then we'd better start now. It'll take a while.'
'As you wish. What else would you like to pray for?'
