across the table from Goodman. “How can I possibly enjoy the next few months?”
“Good point. You should go to the Row as quickly as possible.”
“I’ll be there the day after tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll call the warden. His name is Phillip Naifeh, Lebanese oddly enough. There are quite a fewof them in the Mississippi Delta. Anyway, he’s an old friend, and I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
“The warden is your friend?”
“Yes. We go back several years, to Maynard Tole, a nasty little boy who was my first casualty in this war. He was executed in 1986, I believe, and the warden and I became friends. He’s opposed to the death penalty, if you can believe it.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“He hates executions. You’re about to learn something, Adam—the death penalty may be very popular in our country, but the people who are forced to impose it are not supporters. You’re about to meet these people: the guards who get close to the inmates; the administrators who must plan for an efficient killing; the prison employees who rehearse for a month beforehand. It’s a strange little corner of the world, and a very depressing one.”
“I can’t wait.”
“I’ll talk to the warden, and get permission for the visit. They’ll usually give you a couple of hours. Of course, it may take five minutes if Sam doesn’t want a lawyer.”
“He’ll talk to me, don’t you think?”
“I believe so. I cannot imagine how the man will react, but he’ll talk. It may take a couple of visits to sign him up, but you can do it.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Couple of years ago. Wallace Tyner and I went down. You’ll need to touch base with Tyner. He was the point man on this case for the past six years.”
Adam nodded and moved to the next thought. He’d been picking Tyner’s brain for the past nine months.
“What do we file first?”
“We’ll talk about it later. Tyner and I are meeting early in the morning to review the case. Everything’son hold, though, until we hear from you. We can’t move if we don’t represent him.”
Adam was thinking of the newspaper photos, the black and whites from 1967 when Sam was arrested, and the magazine photos, in color, from the third trial in 1981, and the footage he’d pieced together into a thirty-minute video about Sam Cayhall. “What does he look like?”
Goodman left his pen on the table and fiddled with his bow tie. “Average height. Thin—but then you seldom see a fat one on the Row—nerves and lean food. He chain-smokes, which is common because there’s not much else to do, and they’re dying anyway. Some weird brand, Montclair, I believe, in a blue pack. His hair is gray and oily, as I recall. These guys don’t get a shower every day. Sort of long in the back, but that was two years ago. He hasn’t lost much of it. Gray beard. He’s fairly wrinkled, but then he’s pushing seventy. Plus, the heavy smoking. You’ll notice the white guys on the Row look worse than the black ones. They’re confined for twenty-three hours a day, so they sort of bleach out. Real pale, fair, almost sickly-looking. Sam has blue eyes, nice features. I suspect that at one time Sam Cayhall was a handsome fellow.”
“After my father died, and I learned the truth about Sam, I had a lot of questions for my mother. She didn’t have many answers, but she did tell me once that there was little physical resemblance between Sam and my father.”
“Nor between you and Sam, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“He hasn’t seen you since you were a toddler, Adam. He will not recognize you. It won’t be that easy. You’ll have to tell him.”
Adam stared blankly at the table. “You’re right. What will he say?”
“Beats me. I expect he’ll be too shocked to say much. But he’s a very intelligent man, not educated, but well read and articulate. He’ll think of something to say. It may take a few minutes.”
“You sound as if
“Good point. You should go to the Row as quickly as possible.”
“I’ll be there the day after tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll call the warden. His name is Phillip Naifeh, Lebanese oddly enough. There are quite a fewof them in the Mississippi Delta. Anyway, he’s an old friend, and I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
“The warden is your friend?”
“Yes. We go back several years, to Maynard Tole, a nasty little boy who was my first casualty in this war. He was executed in 1986, I believe, and the warden and I became friends. He’s opposed to the death penalty, if you can believe it.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“He hates executions. You’re about to learn something, Adam—the death penalty may be very popular in our country, but the people who are forced to impose it are not supporters. You’re about to meet these people: the guards who get close to the inmates; the administrators who must plan for an efficient killing; the prison employees who rehearse for a month beforehand. It’s a strange little corner of the world, and a very depressing one.”
“I can’t wait.”
“I’ll talk to the warden, and get permission for the visit. They’ll usually give you a couple of hours. Of course, it may take five minutes if Sam doesn’t want a lawyer.”
“He’ll talk to me, don’t you think?”
“I believe so. I cannot imagine how the man will react, but he’ll talk. It may take a couple of visits to sign him up, but you can do it.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Couple of years ago. Wallace Tyner and I went down. You’ll need to touch base with Tyner. He was the point man on this case for the past six years.”
Adam nodded and moved to the next thought. He’d been picking Tyner’s brain for the past nine months.
“What do we file first?”
“We’ll talk about it later. Tyner and I are meeting early in the morning to review the case. Everything’son hold, though, until we hear from you. We can’t move if we don’t represent him.”
Adam was thinking of the newspaper photos, the black and whites from 1967 when Sam was arrested, and the magazine photos, in color, from the third trial in 1981, and the footage he’d pieced together into a thirty-minute video about Sam Cayhall. “What does he look like?”
Goodman left his pen on the table and fiddled with his bow tie. “Average height. Thin—but then you seldom see a fat one on the Row—nerves and lean food. He chain-smokes, which is common because there’s not much else to do, and they’re dying anyway. Some weird brand, Montclair, I believe, in a blue pack. His hair is gray and oily, as I recall. These guys don’t get a shower every day. Sort of long in the back, but that was two years ago. He hasn’t lost much of it. Gray beard. He’s fairly wrinkled, but then he’s pushing seventy. Plus, the heavy smoking. You’ll notice the white guys on the Row look worse than the black ones. They’re confined for twenty-three hours a day, so they sort of bleach out. Real pale, fair, almost sickly-looking. Sam has blue eyes, nice features. I suspect that at one time Sam Cayhall was a handsome fellow.”
“After my father died, and I learned the truth about Sam, I had a lot of questions for my mother. She didn’t have many answers, but she did tell me once that there was little physical resemblance between Sam and my father.”
“Nor between you and Sam, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“He hasn’t seen you since you were a toddler, Adam. He will not recognize you. It won’t be that easy. You’ll have to tell him.”
Adam stared blankly at the table. “You’re right. What will he say?”
“Beats me. I expect he’ll be too shocked to say much. But he’s a very intelligent man, not educated, but well read and articulate. He’ll think of something to say. It may take a few minutes.”
“You sound as if
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