Chamber

 'Take a deep breath, Sam. It's okay.'

 Among men sentenced to die in the gas chamber, the expression `Take a deep breath' was used often and considered nothing more than an effort at humor. They said it to each other all the time, usually when one was angry. But when used by the guards it was far from funny. It was a constitutional violation. It had been mentioned in more than one lawsuit as an example of the cruel treatment dispensed on death row.

 Sam agreed with the insect and ignored the rest of his breakfast. He sipped coffee and stared at the floor.

 At nine-thirty, Sergeant Packer was on the tier looking for Sam. It was time for his hour of fresh air. The rains were far away and the sun was blistering the Delta. Packer had two guards with him and a pair of leg irons. Sam pointed at the chains, and asked, 'What are they for?'

 'They're for security, Sam.'

 'I'm just going out to play, aren't I?'

 'No, Sam. We're taking you to the law library. Your lawyer wants to meet you there so y'all can talk amongst the law books. Now turn around.'

 Sam stuck both hands through the opening of his door. Packer cuffed them loosely, then the door opened and Sam stepped into the hall. The guards dropped to their knees and were securing the leg irons when Sam asked, Packer, 'What about my hour out?'

 'What about it?'

 'When do I get it?'

 'Later.'

 'You said that yesterday and I didn't get my rec time. You lied to me yesterday. Now you're lying to me again. I'll sue you for this.'

 'Lawsuits take a long time, Sam. They take years.'

 'I want to talk to the warden.'

 'And I'm sure he wants to talk to you too, Sam. Now, do you want to see your lawyer or not?'

 'I have a right to my lawyer and I have a right to my rec time.'

 'Get off his ass, Packer!' Hank Henshaw shouted from less than six feet away.

 'You lie, Packer! You lie!' J. B. Gullitt added from the other side.

 'Down, boys,' Packer said coolly. 'We'll take care of old Sam, here.'

 'Yeah, you'd gas him today if you could,' Henshaw yelled.

 The leg irons were in place, and Sam shuffled into his cell to get a file. He clutched it to his chest and waddled down the tier with Packer at his side and the guards following.

 'Give 'em hell, Sam,' Henshaw yelled as they walked away.

 There were other shouts of support for Sam and catcalls at Packer as they left the tier. They were cleared through a set of doors and Tier A was behind them.

 'The warden says you get two hours out this afternoon, and two hours a day till it's over,' Packer said as they moved slowly through a short hallway.

 'Till what's over?'

 'This thang.'

 'What thang?'

 Packer and most of the guards referred to an execution as a thang.

 'You know what I mean,' Packer said.

 'Tell the warden he's a real sweetheart. And ask him if I get two hours if this thang doesn't go off, okay? And while you're at it, tell him I think he's a lying son of a bitch.'

 'He already knows.'

 They stopped at a wall of bars and waited for the door to open. They passed through it and stopped again by two guards at the front door. Packer made quick notes on a clipboard, and they walked outside where a white van was waiting. The guards took Sam by the arms and lifted him and his chains into the side door. Packer sat in the front with the driver.

 'Does this thing have air conditioning?' Sam snapped at the driver, whose window was down.

 'Yep,' the driver said as they backed away from the front of MSU.

 'Then turn the damned thing on, okay.'

 'Knock it off, Sam,' Packer said without conviction.

 'It's bad enough to sweat all day in a cage with no air conditioning, but it's pretty stupid to sit here and suffocate. Turn the damned thing on. I've got my rights.'

 'Take a deep breath, Sam,' Packer drawled and winked at the driver.

 'That'll cost you, Packer. You'll wish--you hadn't said that.'

 The driver hit a switch and the air started blowing. The van was cleared through the double gates and slowly made its way down the dirt road away from the Row.

 Though he was handcuffed and shackled, this brief journey on the outside was refreshing. Sam stopped the bitching and immediately ignored the others in the van. The rains had left puddles in the grassy ditches beside the road, and they had washed the cotton plants, now more than knee-high. The stalks and leaves were dark green. Sam remembered picking cotton as a boy, then quickly dismissed the thought. He had trained his mind to forget the past, and on those rare occasions when a childhood memory flashed before him, he quickly snuffed it out.

 The van crept along, and he was thankful for this. He stared at two inmates sitting under a tree watching a buddy lift weights in the sun.

 There was a fence around them, but how nice, he thought, to be outside walking and talking, exercising and lounging, never giving a thought to the gas chamber, never worrying about the last appeal.

 The law library was known as the Twig because it was too small to be considered a full branch. The main prison law library was deeper into the farm, at another camp. The Twig was used exclusively by death row inmates. It was stuck to the rear of an administration building, with only one door and no windows. Sam had been there many times during the past nine years. It was a small room with a decent collection of current law books and up-to-date reporting services. A battered conference table sat in the center with shelves of books lining the four walls. Every now and then a trustee would volunteer to serve as the librarian, but good help was hard to find and the books were seldom where they were supposed to be. This irritated Sam immensely because he admired neatness and he despised the Africans, and he was certain that most if not all of the librarians were black, though he did not know this for a fact.

 The two guards unshackled Sam at the door.

 'You got two hours,' Packer said.

 'I got as long as I want,' Sam said, rubbing his wrists as if the handcuffs had broken them.

 'Sure, Sam. But when I come after you in two hours, I'll bet we load your gimpy little ass into the van.'

 Packer opened the door as the guards took their positions beside it. Sam entered the library and slammed the door behind him. He laid his file on the table and stared at his lawyer.

 Adam stood at the far end of the conference table, holding a book and waiting for his client. He'd heard voices outside, and he watched Sam enter the room without guards or handcuffs. He stood there in his red jumpsuit, much smaller now without the thick metal screen between them.

 They studied each other for a moment across the table, grandson and grandfather, lawyer and client, stranger and stranger. It was an awkward interval in which they sized each other up and neither knew what to do with the other.

 'Hello, Sam,' Adam said, walking toward him.

 'Mornin'. Saw us on TV a few hours ago.'

 'Yeah. Have you seen the paper?'

 'Not yet. It comes later.'

 Adam slid the morning paper across the table and Sam stopped it. He held it with both hands, eased into a chair, and raised the paper to within six inches of his nose. He read it carefully and studied the pictures of himself and Adam.

 Todd Marks had evidently spent most of the evening digging and making frantic phone calls. He had verified that one Alan Cayhall had been born in Clanton, in Ford County, in 1964, and the father's name listed on the birth certificate was one Edward S. Cayhall. He checked the