members of the execution team should be total strangers to the inmate. They should be pulled from the other camps. Thirty-one officers and guards had volunteered for this duty. Nugent had chosen only the best.
'Is everything in?' he snapped at one of his men.
'Yes sir.'
'Very well. It's all yours, Sam.'
'Oh thank you, sir,' Sam sneered as he entered the cell. Nugent nodded to the far end of the hall, and the door closed. He walked forward and grabbed the bars with both hands. 'Now, listen, Sam,' he said gravely. Sam was leaning with his back to the wall, looking away from Nugent. 'We'll be right here if you need anything, okay. We moved you down here to the end so we can watch you better. All right? Is there anything I can do for you?'
Sam continued to look away, thoroughly ignoring him.
'Very well.' He backed away, and looked at his men. 'Let's go,' he said to them. The tier door opened less than ten feet from Sam, and the death team filed out. Sam waited. Nugent glanced up and down the hall, then stepped from the tier.
'Hey, Nugent!' Sam suddenly yelled. 'How 'bout taking these handcuffs off!'
Nugent froze and the death team stopped.
'You dumbass!' Sam yelled again, as Nugent scurried backward, fumbling for keys, barking orders. Laughter erupted along the tier, loud horselaughs and guffaws and boisterous catcalls. 'You can't leave me handcuffed!' Sam screamed into the hallway.
Nugent was at Sam's door, gritting his teeth, cursing, finally getting the right key. 'Turn around,' he demanded.
'You ignorant sonofabitch!' Sam yelled through the bars directly into the colonel's red face, which was less than two feet away. The laughter roared even louder.
'And you're in charge of my execution!' Sam said angrily, and rather loudly for the benefit of others. 'You'll probably gas yourself!'
'Don't bet on it,' Nugent said tersely. 'Now turn around.'
Someone, either Hank Henshaw or Harry Ross Scott, yelled out, 'Barney Fife!' and instantly the chant reverberated along the tier:
'Barney Fife! Barney Fife! Barney Fife!'
'Shut up!' Nugent yelled back.
'Barney Fife! Barney Fife!'
'Shut up!'
Sam finally turned around and stuck out his hands so Nugent could reach them. The cuffs came off, and the colonel quick-stepped it through the tier door.
'Barney Fife! Barney Fife! Barney Fife!' they chanted in perfect unison until the door clanged shut and the hallway was empty again. Their voices died suddenly, the laughter was gone.
Slowly, their arms disappeared from the bars.
Sam stood facing the hall and glared at the two guards who were watching him from the other side of the tier door. He spent a few minutes organizing the place - plugging in the fan and television, stacking his books neatly as if they would be used, checking to see if the toilet flushed and the water ran. He sat on the bed and inspected the torn sheet.
This was his fourth cell on the Row, and undoubtedly the one he would occupy for the briefest period of time. He reminisced about the first two, especially the second, on Tier B, where his close friend Buster Moac had lived next door. One day they came for Buster and brought him here, to the Observation Cell, where they watched him around the clock so he wouldn't commit suicide. Sam had cried when they took Buster away.
Virtually every inmate who made it this far also made it to the next stop. And then to the last.
Garner Goodman was the first guest of the day in the splendid foyer of the governor's office. He actually signed the guestbook, chatted amiably with the pretty receptionist, and just wanted the governor to know that he was available. She was about to say something else when the phone buzzed on her switchboard. She punched a button, grimaced, listened, frowned at Goodman who looked away, then thanked the caller. 'These people,' she sighed.
'Beg your pardon,' Goodman offered, ever the innocent.
'We've been swamped with calls about your client's execution.'
'Yes, it's a very emotional case. Seems as if most people down here are in favor of the death penalty.'
'Not this one,' she said, recording the call on a pink form. 'Almost all of these calls are opposed to his execution.'
'You don't say. What a surprise.'
'I'll inform Ms. Stark you're here.'
'Thank you.' Goodman took his familiar seat in the foyer. He glanced through the morning papers again. On Saturday, the daily paper in Tupelo made the mistake of beginning a telephone survey to gauge public opinion on the Cayhall execution. A toll-free number was given on the front page with instructions, and, of course, Goodman and his team of market analysts had bombarded the number over the weekend. The Monday edition ran the results for the first time, and they were astounding. Of three hundred and twenty calls, three hundred and two were opposed to the execution. Goodman smiled to himself as he scanned the paper.
Not too far away, the governor was sitting at the long table in his office and scanning the same papers. His face was troubled. His eyes were sad and worried.
Mona Stark walked across the marbled floor with a cup of coffee. 'Garner Goodman's here. Waiting in the foyer.'
'Let him wait.'
'The hotline's already flooded.'
McAllister calmly looked at his watch. Eleven minutes before nine. He scratched his chin with his knuckles. From 3 P.m. Saturday until 8 P.m. Sunday, his pollster had called over two hundred Mississippians. Seventy-eight percent favored the death penalty, which was not surprising. However, of the same sample polled, fifty-one percent believed Sam Cayhall should not be executed. Their reasons varied. Many felt he was simply too old to face it. His crime had been committed twenty-three years ago, in a generation different from today's. He would die in Parchman soon enough anyway, so leave him alone. He was being persecuted for political reasons. Plus, he was white, and McAllister and his pollsters knew that factor was very important, if unspoken.
That was the good news. The bad news was contained in a printout next to the newspapers. Working with only one operator, the hotline received two hundred and thirty-one calls on Saturday, and one hundred and eighty on Sunday. A total of four hundred and eleven. Over ninety-five percent opposed the execution. Since Friday morning, the hotline had officially recorded eight hundred and ninety-seven calls about old Sam, with a strong ninety percent plus opposed to his execution. And now the hotline was hopping again.
There was more. The regional offices were reporting an avalanche of calls, almost all opposed to Sam dying. Staff members were coming to work with stories of long weekends with the phones. Roxburgh had called to say his lines had been flooded.
The governor was already tired. 'There's something at ten this morning,' he said to Mona without looking at her.
'Yes, a meeting with a group of Boy Scouts.'
'Cancel it. Give my apologies. Reschedule it. I'm not in the mood for any photographs this morning. It's best if I stay here. Lunch?'
'With Senator Pressgrove. You're supposed to discuss the lawsuit against the universities.'
'I can't stand Pressgrove. Cancel it, and order some chicken. And, on second thought, bring in Goodman.'
She walked to the door, disappeared for a minute, and returned with Garner Goodman. McAllister was standing by the window, staring at the buildings downtown. He turned and flashed a weary smile. 'Good morning, Mr. Goodman.'
They shook hands and took seats. Late Sunday afternoon, Goodman had delivered to Larramore a written request to cancel the clemency hearing, pursuant to their client's rather strident demands.
'Still don't want a hearing, huh?' the governor said with another tired smile.
