'It's gonna get crazy, man.'
'Yep.),
'Look on the bright side, man.'
'What's that?'
'You've only got four weeks of it.' Gullitt chuckled as he hit this punch line, but he didn't laugh long. Sam pulled some papers from the file and sat on the edge of his bed. There were no chairs in the cell. He read through Adam's agreement of representation, a two-page document with a page and a half of language. On all margins, Sam had made neat, precise notes with a pencil. And he had added paragraphs on the backs of the sheets. Another idea hit him, and he found room to add it. With a cigarette in his right fingers, he held the document with his left and read it again. And again.
Finally, Sam reached to his shelves and carefully took down his ancient Royal portable typewriter. He balanced it perfectly on his knees. He inserted a sheet of paper, and began typing.
At ten minutes after six, the doors on the north end of Tier A clicked and opened, and two guards entered the hallway. One pushed a cart with fourteen trays stacked neatly in slots. They stopped at cell number one, and slid the metal tray through a narrow opening in the door. The occupant of number one was a skinny Cuban who was waiting at the bars, shirtless in his drooping briefs. He grabbed the tray like a starving refugee, and without a word took it to the edge of his bed.
This morning's menu was two scrambled eggs, four pieces of toasted white bread, a fat slice of bacon, two scrawny containers of grape jelly, a small bottle of prepackaged orange juice, and a large Styrofoam cup of coffee. The food was warm and filling, and had the distinction of being approved by the federal courts.
They moved to the next cell where the inmate was waiting. They were always waiting, always standing by the door like hungry dogs.
'You're eleven minutes late,' the inmate said quietly as he took his tray. The guards did not look at him.
'Sue us,' one said.
'I've got my rights.'
'Your rights are a pain in the ass.'
'Don't talk to me that way. I'll sue you for it. You're abusive.'
The guards rolled away to the next door with no further response. just part of the daily ritual.
Sam was not waiting at the door. He was busy at work in his little law office when breakfast arrived.
'I figured you'd be typing,' a guard said as they stopped in front of number six. Sam slowly placed the typewriter on the bed.
'Love letters,' he said as he stood.
'Well, whatever you're typing, Sam, you'd better hurry. The cook's already talking about your last meal.'
'Tell him I want microwave pizza. He'll probably screw that up. Maybe I'll just go for hot dogs and beans.' Sam took his tray through the opening.
'It's your call, Sam. Last guy wanted steak and shrimp. Can you imagine? Steak and shrimp around this place.'
'Did he get it?'
'No. He lost his appetite and they filled him full of Valium instead.'
'Not a bad way to go.'
'Quiet!' J. B. Gullitt yelled from the next cell. The guards eased the cart a few feet down the tier and stopped in front of J.B., who was gripping the bars with both hands. They kept their distance.
'Well, well, aren't we frisky this morning?' one said.
'Why can't you assholes just serve the food in silence? I mean, do you think we want to wake up each morning and start the day by listening to your cute little comments? Just give me the food, man.'
'Gee, J.B. We're awful sorry. We just figured you guys were lonely.'
'You figured wrong.' J.B. took his tray and turned away.
'Touchy, touchy,' a guard said as they moved away in the direction of someone else to torment.
Sam sat his food on the bed and mixed a packet of sugar in his coffee. His daily routine did not include scrambled eggs and bacon. He would save the toast and jelly and eat it throughout the morning. He would carefully sip the coffee, rationing it until ten o'clock, his hour of exercise and sunshine.
He balanced the typewriter on his knees, and began pecking away.
13
SAM'S version of the law was finished by nine-thirty. He was proud of it, one of his better efforts in recent months. He munched on a piece of toast as he proofed the document for the last time. The typing was neat but outdated, the result of an ancient machine. The language was effusive and repetitive, flowery and filled with words never uttered by humble laymen. Sam was almost fluent in legalese and could hold his own with any lawyer.
A door at the end of the hallway banged open, then shut. Heavy footsteps clicked along properly, and Packer appeared. 'Your lawyer's here, Sam,' he said, removing a set of handcuffs from his belt.
Sam stood and pulled up his boxer shorts. 'What time is it?'
'A little after nine-thirty. What difference does it make?'
'I'm supposed to get my hour out at ten.'
'You wanna go outside, or you wanna see your lawyer?'
Sam thought about this as he slipped into his red jumpsuit and slid his feet into his rubber sandals. Dressing was a swift procedure on death row. 'Can I make it up later?'
'We'll see.'
'I want my Hour out, you know.'
'I know, Sam. Let's go.'
'It's real important to me.'
'I know, Sam. It's real important to everyone. We'll try and make it up later, okay?'
Sam combed his hair with great deliberation, then rinsed his hands with cold water. Packer waited patiently. He wanted to say something to J. B. Gullitt, something about the mood he was in this morning, but Gullitt was already asleep again. Most of them were asleep. The average inmate on death row made it through breakfast and an hour or so of television before stretching out for the morning nap. Though his study was by no means scientific, Packer estimated they slept fifteen to sixteen hours a day. And they could sleep in the heat, the sweat, the cold, and amid the noise of loud televisions and radios.
The noise was much lower this morning. The fans hummed and whined, but there was no yelling back and forth.
Sam approached the bars, turned his back to Packer, and extended both hands through the narrow slot in the door. Packer applied the handcuffs, and Sam walked to his bed and picked up the document. Packer nodded to a guard at the end of the hall, and Sam's door opened electronically. Then it closed.
Leg chains were optional in these situations, and with a younger prisoner, perhaps one with an attitude and a bit more stamina, Packer probably would have used them. But this was just Sam. He was an old man. How far could he run? How much damage could he do with his feet?
Packer gently placed his hand around Sam's skinny bicep and led him along the hall. They stopped at the tier door, a row of more bars, waited for it to open and close, and left Tier A. Another guard followed behind as they came to an iron door which Packer unlocked with a key from his belt. They walked through it, and there was Adam sitting alone on the other side of the green grating.
Packer removed the handcuffs and left the room.
Adam read it slowly the first time. During the second reading he took a few notes and was amused at some of the language. He'd seen worse work from trained lawyers. And he'd seen much better work. Sam was suffering the same affliction that hit most first-year law students. He used six words when one would suffice. His Latin was dreadful. Entire paragraphs were useless. But, on the whole, not bad for a non-lawyer.
The two-page agreement was now four, typed neatly with perfect margins and only two typos and one misspelled word.
'You do pretty good work,' Adam said as he placed the document on the counter. Sam puffed a cigarette and stared at him through the opening. 'It's basically the same agreement I handed you yesterday.'
'It's basically a helluva lot different,' Sam said, correcting him.
Adam glanced at his notes, then said, 'You seem to be concerned about five areas. The governor, books,
