'It's Adam.'
'Okay, Adam. There seem to be a lot of gaps here. Could you help me a bit?'
No.
'All right. I read somewhere that Cayhall fired Kravitz & Bane recently. Were you working on the case when this happened?'
'I just told you I've been working on the case for a day and a half.'
'When did you first go to death row?'
'Yesterday.'
'Did he know you were coming?'
'I don't want to get into that.'
'Why not?'
'This is a very confidential matter. I'm not going to discuss my visits to death row. I will confirm or deny only those things which you can verify elsewhere.'
'Does Sam have other children?'
'I'm not going to discuss family. I'm sure your paper has covered this before.'
'But it was a long time ago.'
'Then look it up.'
Another long drink, and another long look at the notepad. 'What are the odds of the execution taking place on August 8?'
'It's very hard to say. I wouldn't want to speculate.'
'But all the appeals have run, haven't they?'
'Maybe. Let's say I've got my work cut out for me.'
'Can the governor grant a pardon?'
'Yes.'
'Is that a possibility?'
'Rather unlikely. You'll have to ask him.'
'Will your client do any interviews before the execution?'
'I doubt it.'
Adam glanced at his watch as if he suddenly had to catch a plane. 'Anything else?' he asked, then finished off the beer.
Marks stuck his pen in a shirt pocket. 'Can we talk again?'
'Depends.'
'On what?'
'On how you handle this. If you drag up the family stuff, then forget it.'
'Must be some serious skeletons in the closet.'
'No comment.' Adam stood and offered a handshake. 'Nice meeting you,' he said as they shook hands.
'Thanks. I'll give you a call.'
Adam walked quickly by the crowd at the bar, and disappeared through the hotel lobby.
16
From all the silly, nitpicking rules imposed upon inmates at the Row, the one that irritated Sam the most was the five-inch rule. This little nugget of regulatory brilliance placed a limit on the volume of legal papers a death row inmate could possess in his cell. The documents could be no thicker than five inches when placed on end and squeezed together. Sam's file was not much different from the other inmates', and after nine years of appellate warfare the file filled a large cardboard box. How in hell was he supposed to research and study and prepare with such limitations as the five-inch rule?
Packer had entered his cell on several occasions with a yardstick which he waved around like a bandleader then carefully placed against the papers. Each time Sam had been over the limit; once being caught, according to Packer's assessment, with twenty-one inches. And each time Packer wrote an RVR, a rules violation report, and some more paperwork went into Sam's institutional file. Sam often wondered if his file in the main administration building was thicker than five inches. He hoped so. And who cared? They'd kept him in a cage for nine and a half years for the sole purpose of sustaining his life so they could one day take it. What else could they do to him?
Each time Packer had given him twenty-four hours to thin his file. Sam usually mailed a few inches to his brother in North Carolina. A few times he had reluctantly mailed an inch or two to E. Garner Goodman.
At the present time, he was about twelve inches over. And he had a thin file of recent Supreme Court cases under his mattress. And he had two inches next door where Hank Henshaw watched it on the bookshelf. And he had about three inches next door in J. B. Gullitt's stack of papers. Sam reviewed all documents and letters for Henshaw and Gullitt. Henshaw had a fine lawyer, one purchased with family money. Gullitt had a fool from a big- shot firm in D.C. who'd never seen a courtroom.
The three-book rule was another baffling limitation on what inmates could keep in their cells. This rule simply said that a death row inmate could possess no more than three books. Sam owned fifteen, six in his cell, and nine scattered among his clients on the Row. He had no time for fiction. His collection was solely law books about the death penalty and the Eighth Amendment.
He had finished a dinner of boiled pork, pinto beans, and corn bread, and he was reading a case from the Ninth Circuit in California about an inmate who faced his death so calmly his lawyers decided he must be crazy. So they filed a series of motions claiming their client was indeed too crazy to execute. The Ninth Circuit was filled with California liberals opposed to the death penalty, and they jumped at this novel argument. The execution was stayed. Sam liked this case. He had wished many times that he had the Ninth Circuit looking down upon him instead of the Fifth.
Gullitt next door said, 'Gotta kite, Sam,' and Sam walked to his bars. Flying a kite was the only method of correspondence for inmates several cells away. Gullitt handed him the note. It was from Preacher Boy, a pathetic white kid seven doors down. He had become a country preacher at the age of fourteen, a regular hellfire-and- brimstoner, but that career was cut short and perhaps delayed forever when he was convicted of the rape and murder of a deacon's wife. He was twenty-four now, a resident of the Row for three years, and had recently made a glorious return to the gospel. The note said:
Dear Sam, I am down here praying for you right now. I really believe God will step into this matter and stop this thing. But if he don't, I'm asking him to take you quickly, no pain or nothing, and take you home. Love, Randy.
How wonderful, thought Sam, they're already praying that I go quickly, no pain or nothing. He sat on the edge of his bed and wrote a brief message on a scrap of paper.
Dear Randy:
Thanks for the prayers. I need them. I also need one of my books. It's called Bronstein's Death Penalty Review. It's a green book. Send it down. Sam.
He handed it to J.B., and waited with his arms through the bars as the kite made its way along the tier. It was almost eight o'clock, still hot and muggy but mercifully growing dark outside. The night would lower the temperature to the high seventies, and with the fans buzzing away the cells became tolerable.
Sam had received several kites during the day. All had expressed sympathy and hope. All offered whatever help was available. The music had been quieter and the yelling that erupted occasionally when someone's rights were being tampered with had not occurred. For the second day, the Row had been a more peaceful place. The televisions rattled along all day and into the night, but the volume was lower. Tier A was noticeably calmer.
'Got myself a new lawyer,' Sam said quietly as he leaned on his elbows with his hands hanging into the hallway. He wore nothing but his boxer shorts. He could see Gullitt's hands and wrists, but he could never see his face when they talked in their cells. Each day as Sam was led outside for his hour of exercise, he walked slowly along the tier and stared into the eyes of his comrades. And they stared at him. He had their faces memorized, and he knew their voices. But it was cruel to live next door to a man for years and have long conversations about life and death while looking only at his hands.
'That's good, Sam. I'm glad to hear it.'
'Yeah. Pretty sharp kid, I think.'
'Who is it?' Gullitt's hands were clasped together. They didn't move.
'My grandson.' Sam said this just loud enough for Gullitt to hear. He could be trusted with secrets.
