'Twenty-six.'

 'You look twenty-two. When did you finish law school?'

 'Last year.'

 'Just great. The Jewish bastards have sent a greenhorn to save me. I've known for a long time that they secretly wanted me dead, now this proves it. I killed some Jews, now they want to kill me. I was right all along.'

 'You admit you killed the Kramer kids?'

 'What the hell kind of question is that? The jury said I did. For nine years, the appeals courts have said the jury was right. That's all that matters. Who the hell are you asking me questions like that?'

 'You need a lawyer, Mr. Cayhall. I'm here to help.'

 'I need a lot of things, boy, but I damned sure don't need an eager little tenderfoot like you to give me advice. You're dangerous, son, and you're too ignorant to know it.' Again, the words came deliberately and without emotion. He held the cigarette between the index and middle finger of his right hand, and casually flipped ashes in an organized pile in a plastic bowl. His eyes blinked occasionally. His face showed neither feeling nor sentiment.

 Adam took meaningless notes, then tried again to stare through the slit into Sam's eyes. 'Look, Mr. Cayhall, I'm a lawyer, and I have a strong moral conviction against the death penalty. I am well educated, well trained, well read on Eighth Amendment issues, and I can be of assistance to you. That's why I'm here. Free of charge.'

 'Free of charge,' Sam repeated. 'How generous. Do you realize, son, that I get at least three offers a week now from lawyers who want to represent me for free? Big lawyers. Famous lawyers. Rich lawyers. Some real slimy snakes. They're all perfectly willing to sit where you're now sitting, file all the last minute motions and appeals, do the interviews, chase the cameras, hold my hand in the last hours, watch them gas me, then do yet another press conference, then sign a book deal, a movie deal, maybe a television mini-series deal about the life and times of Sam Cayhall, a real Klan murderer. You see, son, I'm famous, and what I did is now legendary. And since they're about to kill me, then I'm about to become even more famous. Thus, the lawyers want me. I'm worth a lot of money. A sick country, right.'

 Adam was shaking his head. 'I don't want any of that, I promise. I'll put it in writing. I'll sign a complete confidentiality agreement.'

 Sam chuckled. 'Right, and who's going to enforce it after I'm gone?'

 'Your family,' Adam said.

 'Forget my family,' Sam said firmly.

 'My motives are pure, Mr. Cayhall. My firm has represented you for seven years, so I know almost everything about your file. I've also done quite a lot of research into your background.'

 'Join the club. I've had my underwear examined by a hundred half-ass reporters. There are many people who know much about me, it seems, and all this combined knowledge is of absolutely no benefit to me right now. I have four weeks. Do you know this?'

 'I have a copy of the opinion.'

 'Four weeks, and they gas me.'

 'So let's get to work. You have my word that I will never talk to the press unless you authorize it, that I'll never repeat anything you tell me, and that I will not sign any book or movie deal. I swear it.'

 Sam lit another cigarette and stared at something on the counter. He gently rubbed his right temple with his right thumb, the cigarette just inches from his hair. For a long time the only sound was the gurgling of the overworked window unit. Sam smoked and contemplated. Adam doodled on his pad and was quite proud that his feet were motionless and his stomach was not aching. The silence was awkward, and he figured, correctly, that Sam could sit and smoke and think in utter silence for days.

 'Are you familiar with Barroni?' Sam asked quietly.

 'Barroni?'

 'Yes, Barroni. Came down last week from the Ninth Circuit. California case.'

 Adam racked his brain for a trace of Barroni. 'I might have seen it.'

 'You might have seen it? You're well trained, well read, etc., and you might have seen Barroni? What kind of halfass lawyer are you?'

 'I'm not a half-ass lawyer.'

 'Right, right. What about Texas v. Eekes? Surely you've read that one?'

 'When did it come down?'

 'Within six weeks.'

 'What court?'

 'Fifth Circuit.'

 'Eighth Amendment?'

 'Don't be stupid,' Sam grunted in genuine disgust. 'Do you think I'd spend my time reading freedom of speech cases? This is my ass sitting over here, boy, these are my wrists and ankles that will be strapped down. This is my nose the poison will hit.'

 'No. I don't remember Eekes.'

 'What do you read?'

 'All the important cases.'

 'Have you read Barefoot?'

 'Of course.'

 'Tell me about Barefoot.'

 'What is this, a pop quiz?'

 'This is whatever I want it to be. Where was Barefoot from?' Sam asked.

 'I don't remember. But the full name was Barefoot v. Estelle, a landmark case in 1983 in which the Supreme Court held that death row inmates cannot hold back valid claims on appeal so they can save them for later. More or less.'

 'My, my, you have read it. Does it ever strike you as odd how the same court can change its mind whenever it wants to? Think about it. For two centuries the U.S. Supreme Court allowed legal executions. Said they were constitutional, covered nicely by the Eighth Amendment. Then, in 1972 the U.S. Supreme Court read the same, unchanged Constitution and outlawed the death penalty. Then, in 1976 the U.S. Supreme Court said executions were in fact constitutional after all. Same bunch of turkeys wearing the same black robes in the same building in Washington. Now, the U.S. Supreme Court is changing the rules again with the same Constitution. The Reagan boys are tired of reading too many appeals, so they declare certain avenues to be closed. Seems odd to me.'

 'Seems odd to a lot of people.'

 'What about Dulaney?' Sam asked, taking a long drag. There was little or no ventilation in the room and a cloud was forming above them.

 'Where's it from?'

 'Louisiana. Surely you've read it.'

 'I'm sure I have. In fact, I've probably read more cases than you, but I don't always bother to memorize them unless I plan to use them.'

 'Use them where?'

 'Motions and appeals.'

 'So you've handled death cases before. How many?'

 'This is the first.'

 'Why am I not comforted by this? Those Jewish-American lawyers at Kravitz & Bane sent you down here to experiment on me, right? Get yourself a little hands-on training so you can stick it on your resume.'

 'I told you - they didn't send me down here.'

 'How about Garner Goodman? Is he still alive?'

 'Yes. He's your age.'

 'Then he doesn't have long, does he? And Tyner?'

 'Mr. Tyner's doing well. I'll tell him you asked.'

 'Oh please do. Tell him I really miss him, both of them, actually. Hell, it took me almost two years to fire them.'

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