Three Classic Thrillers (162 page)

“As you wish. What else would you like to pray for?”

“My family, such as it is. This will be hard on my grandson, and my brother, and maybe my daughter. There won’t be a lot of tears shed for me, you understand, but I would like for them to be comforted. And I’d like to say a prayer for my friends here on the Row. They’ll take it hard.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yeah. I want to say a good prayer for the Kramers, especially Ruth.”

“The family of the victims?”

“That’s right. And also the Lincolns.”

“Who are the Lincolns?”

“It’s a long story. More victims.”

“This is good, Sam. You need to get this off your chest, to cleanse your soul.”

“It’ll take years to cleanse my soul, Reverend.”

“More victims?”

Sam sat the cup on the desk and gently rubbed his hands together. He searched the warm and trusting eyes of Ralph Griffin. “What if there are other victims?” he asked.

“Dead people?”

Sam nodded, very slowly.

“People you’ve killed?”

Sam kept nodding.

Griffin took a deep breath, and contemplated matters for a moment. “Well, Sam, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t want to die without confessing these sins and asking God for forgiveness.”

Sam kept nodding.

“How many?” Griffin asked.

Sam slid off the desk and eased into his shower shoes. He slowly lit a cigarette, and began pacing back and forth behind Griffin’s chair. The reverend changed positions so he could watch and hear Sam.

“There was Joe Lincoln, but I’ve already written a letter to his family and told them I was sorry.”

“You killed him?”

“Yes. He was an African. Lived on our place. I always felt bad about it. It was around 1950.”

Sam stopped and leaned on a file cabinet. He spoke to the floor, as if in a daze. “And there were two men, white men, who killed my father at a funeral, many
years ago. They served some time in jail, and when they got out, me and my brothers waited patiently. We killed both of them, but I never felt that bad about it, to be honest. They were scum, and they’d killed our father.”

“Killing is always wrong, Sam. You’re fighting your own legal killing right now.”

“I know.”

“Did you and your brothers get caught?”

“No. The old sheriff suspected us, but he couldn’t prove anything. We were too careful. Besides, they were real lowlifes, and nobody cared.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“I know. I always figured they deserved what they got, then I was sent to this place. Life has new meaning when you’re on death row. You realize how valuable it is. Now I’m sorry I killed those boys. Real sorry.”

“Anybody else?”

Sam walked the length of the room, counting each step, and returned to the file cabinet. The minister waited. Time meant nothing right now.

“There were a couple of lynchings, years ago,” Sam said, unable to look Griffin in the eyes.

“Two?”

“I think. Maybe three. No, yes, there were three, but at the first one I was just a kid, a small boy, and all I did was watch, you know, from the bushes. It was Klan lynching, and my father was involved in it, and me and my brother Albert sneaked into the woods and watched it. So that doesn’t count, does it?”

“No.”

Sam’s shoulders sank against the wall. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. “The second one was a regular mob. I was about fifteen, I guess, and I was right in the middle of it. A girl got raped by an African, at least she said it was a rape. Her reputation left a lot to
be desired, and two years later she had a baby that was half-African. So who knows? Anyway, she pointed the finger, we got the boy, took him out, and lynched him. I was as guilty as the rest of the mob.”

“God will forgive you, Sam.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“How many murders will he forgive?”

“All of them. If you sincerely ask forgiveness, then he’ll wipe the slate clean. It’s in the Scriptures.”

“That’s too good to be true.”

“What about the other lynching?”

Sam began shaking his head, back and forth, eyes closed. “Now, I can’t talk about that one, preacher,” he said, exhaling heavily.

“You don’t have to talk to me about it, Sam. Just talk to God.”

“I don’t know if I can talk to anybody about it.”

“Sure you can. Just close your eyes one night, between now and Tuesday, while you’re in your cell, and confess all these deeds to God. He’ll instantly forgive you.”

“Just doesn’t seem right, you know. You kill someone, then in a matter of minutes God forgives you. Just like that. It’s too easy.”

“You must be truly sorry.”

“Oh, I am. I swear.”

“God forgets about it, Sam, but man does not. We answer to God, but we also answer to the laws of man. God will forgive you, but you suffer the consequences according to the dictates of the government.”

“Screw the government. I’m ready to check outta here anyway.”

“Well, let’s make sure you’re ready, okay?”

Sam walked to the desk and sat on the corner next to Griffin. “You stick close, okay, Reverend? I’ll need
some help. There’s some bad things buried in my soul. It might take some time to get them out.”

“It won’t be hard, Sam, if you’re really ready.”

Sam patted him on the knee. “Just stick close, okay?”

T
he front office was filled with blue smoke when Adam entered. Sam was puffing away on the desk, reading about himself in the Sunday paper. Three empty coffee cups and several candy wrappers littered the desk. “You’ve made yourself at home, haven’t you?” Adam said, noticing the debris.

“Yeah, I’ve been here all day.”

“Lots of guests?”

“I wouldn’t call them guests. The day started with Nugent, so that pretty well ruined things. The minister stopped by to see if I’ve been praying. I think he was depressed when he left. Then the doctor came by to make sure I’m fit enough to kill. Then my brother Donnie stopped by for a short visit. I really want you to meet him. Tell me you’ve brought some good news.”

Adam shook his head and sat down. “No. Nothing’s changed since yesterday. The courts have taken the weekend off.”

“Do they realize Saturdays and Sundays count? That the clock doesn’t stop ticking for me on the weekends?”

“It could be good news. They could be considering my brilliant appeals.”

“Maybe, but I suspect the honorable brethren are more likely at their lake homes drinking beer and cooking ribs. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. What’s in the paper?”

“Same old rehash of me and my brutal crime, pictures
of those people out front demonstrating, comments from McAllister. Nothing new. I’ve never seen such excitement.”

“You’re the man of the hour, Sam. Wendall Sherman and his publisher are now at a hundred and fifty thousand, but the deadline is six o’clock tonight. He’s in Memphis, sitting with his tape recorders, just itching to get down here. He says he’ll need at least two full days to record your story.”

“Great. What exactly am I supposed to do with the money?”

“Leave it to your precious grandchildren.”

“Are you serious? Will you spend it? I’ll do it if you’ll spend it.”

“No. I’m just kidding. I don’t want the money, and Carmen doesn’t need it. I couldn’t spend it with a clear conscience.”

“Good. Because the last thing I wanna do between now and Tuesday night is to sit with a stranger and talk about the past. I don’t care how much money he has. I’d rather not have a book written about my life.”

“I’ve already told him to forget it.”

“Atta boy.” Sam eased to his feet and began walking back and forth across the room. Adam took his place on the edge of the desk and read the sports section of the Memphis paper.

“I’ll be glad when it’s over, Adam,” Sam said, still walking, talking with his hands. “I can’t stand this waiting. I swear I wish it was tonight.” He was suddenly nervous and irritable, his voice louder.

Adam placed the paper to his side. “We’re gonna win, Sam. Trust me.”

“Win what!” he snapped angrily. “Win a reprieve? Big deal! What do we gain from that? Six months? A year? You know what that means? It means we’ll get to do this again someday. I’ll go through the whole
damned ritual again—counting days, losing sleep, plotting last minute strategies, listening to Nugent or some other fool, talking to the shrink, whispering to the chaplain, being patted on the ass and led up here to this cubbyhole because I’m special.” He stopped in front of Adam and glared down at him. His face was angry, his eyes wet and bitter. “I’m sick of this, Adam! Listen to me! This is worse than dying.”

“We can’t quit, Sam.”

“We? Who the hell is we? It’s my neck on the line, not yours. If I get a stay, then you’ll go back to your fancy office in Chicago and get on with your life. You’ll be the hero because you saved your client. You’ll get your picture in Lawyer’s Quarterly, or whatever you guys read. The bright young star who kicked ass in Mississippi. Saved his grandfather, a wretched Klucker, by the way. Your client, on the other hand, is led back to his little cage where he starts counting days again.” Sam threw his cigarette on the floor and grabbed Adam by the shoulders. “Look at me, son. I can’t go through this again. I want you to stop everything. Drop it. Call the courts and tell them we’re dismissing all the petitions and appeals. I’m an old man. Please allow me to die with dignity.”

His hands were shaking. His breathing was labored. Adam searched his brilliant blue eyes, surrounded with layers of dark wrinkles, and saw a stray tear ease out of one corner and fall slowly down his cheek until it vanished in the gray beard.

For the first time, Adam could smell his grandfather. The strong nicotine aroma mixed with an odor of dried perspiration to form a scent that was not pleasant. It was not repulsive, though, the way it would have been if radiated by a person with access to plenty of soap and hot water, air conditioning, and deodorant. After the second breath, it didn’t bother Adam at all.

“I don’t want you to die, Sam.”

Sam squeezed his shoulders harder. “Why not?” he demanded.

“Because I’ve just found you. You’re my grandfather.”

Sam stared for a second longer, then relaxed. He released Adam and took a step backward. “I’m sorry you found me like this,” he said, wiping his eyes.

“Don’t apologize.”

“But I have to. I’m sorry I’m not a better grandfather. Look at me,” he said, glancing down at his legs. “A wretched old man in a red monkey suit. A convicted murderer about to be gassed like an animal. And look at you. A fine young man with a beautiful education and a bright future. Where in the world did I go wrong? What happened to me? I’ve spent my life hating people, and look what I have to show for it. You, you don’t hate anybody. And look where you’re headed. We have the same blood. Why am I here?”

Sam slowly sat in a chair, put his elbows on his knees, and covered his eyes. Neither moved or spoke for a long time. The occasional voice of a guard could be heard in the hall, but the room was quiet.

“You know, Adam, I’d rather not die in such an awful way,” Sam said hoarsely with his fists resting on his temples, still looking blankly at the floor. “But death itself doesn’t worry me now. I’ve known for a long time that I would die here, and my biggest fear was dying without knowing anyone would care. That’s an awful thought, you know. Dying and nobody cares. There’s nobody to cry and grieve, to mourn properly at the funeral and burial. I’ve had dreams where I saw my body in a cheap wooden casket lying in the funeral home in Clanton, and not a soul was in the room with me. Not even Donnie. In the same dream, the preacher chuckled through the funeral service because it was just
the two of us, all alone in the chapel, rows and rows of empty pews. But that’s different now. I know somebody cares about me. I know you’ll be sad when I die because you care, and I know you’ll be there when I’m buried to make sure it’s done properly. I’m really ready to go now, Adam. I’m ready.”

“Fine, Sam, I respect that. And I promise I’ll be here to the bitter end, and I’ll grieve and mourn, and after it’s over I’ll make sure you’re buried properly. No one’s gonna screw around with you, Sam, as long as I’m here. But, please, look at it through my eyes. I have to give it my best shot, because I’m young and I have the rest of my life. Don’t make me leave here knowing I could’ve done more. It’s not fair to me.”

Sam folded his arms across his chest and looked at Adam. His pale face was calm, his eyes still wet. “Let’s do it this way,” he said, his voice still low and pained. “I’m ready to go. I’ll spend tomorrow and Tuesday making final preparations. I’ll assume it’s gonna happen at midnight Tuesday, and I’ll be ready for it. You, on the other hand, play it like a game. If you can win it, good for you. If you lose it, I’ll be ready to face the music.”

“So you’ll cooperate?”

“No. No clemency hearing. No more petitions or appeals. You have enough junk floating around out there to keep you busy. Two issues are still alive. I’m not signing any more petitions.”

Sam stood, his decrepit knees popping and wobbling. He walked to the door and leaned on it. “What about Lee?” he asked softly, reaching for his cigarettes.

“She’s still in rehab,” Adam lied. He was tempted to blurt out the truth. It seemed childish to be lying to Sam in these declining hours of his life, but Adam still held a strong hope that she would be found before Tuesday. “Do you want to see her?”

“I think so. Can she get out?”

“It may be difficult, but I’ll try. She’s sicker than I first thought.”

“She’s an alcoholic?”

“Yes.”

“Is that all? No drugs?”

“Just alcohol. She told me she’s had a problem for many years. Rehab is nothing new.”

“Bless her heart. My children didn’t have a chance.”

“She’s a fine person. She’s had a rough time with her marriage. Her son left home at an early age and never returned.”

“Walt, right?”

“Right,” Adam answered. What a heartbroken bunch of people. Sam was not even certain of the name of his grandson.

“How old is he?”