And he made the calculation again Tuesday morning as he carefully made an X on his calendar. Eight days. It was dark and hot. He had slept off and on and spent most of the night sitting in front of his fan. Breakfast and coffee were an hour away now. This would be day number 3,449 on the Row, and the total did not include time spent in the county jail in Greenville during his first two trials. Only eight more days.
His sheets were soaked with sweat, and as he lay on the bed and watched the ceiling for the millionth time he thought of death. The actual act of dying would not be too terrible. For obvious reasons, no one knew the exact effects of the gas. Maybe they would give him an extra dose so he'd be dead long before his body twitched and jerked. Maybe the first breath would knock him senseless. At any rate, it wouldn't take long, he hoped. He'd watched his wife shrivel and suffer greatly from cancer. He'd watched kinfolks grow old and vegetate. Surely, this was a better way to go.
"Sam," J. B. Gullitt whispered, "you up?"
Sam walked to his door and leaned through the bars. He could see Gullitt's hands and forearms. "Yeah. I'm up. Can't seem to sleep." He lit the first cigarette of the day.
"Me neither. Tell me it's not gonna happen, Sam."
"It's not gonna happen."
"You serious?"
"Yeah, I'm serious. My lawyer's about to unload the heavy stuff. He'll probably walk me outta here in a coupla weeks."
"Then why can't you sleep?"
"I'm so excited about gettin' out."
"Have you talked to him about my case?"
"Not yet. He's got a lot on his mind. As soon as I get out, we'll go to work on your case. Just relax. Try and get some sleep."
Gullitt's hands and forearms slowly withdrew, then his bed squeaked. Sam shook his head at the kid's ignorance. He finished the cigarette and thumped it down the hall, a breach of the rules which would earn him a violation report. As if he cared.
He carefully took his typewriter from the shelf. He had things to say and letters to write. There were people out there he needed to speak to.
George Nugent entered the Maximum Security Unit like a five-star general and glared disapprovingly at the hair and then at the unshined boots of a white security guard. "Get a haircut," he growled, "or I'll write you up. And work on those boots."
"Yes sir," the kid said, and almost saluted.
Nugent jerked his head and nodded at Packer, who led the way through the center of the Row to Tier A. "Number six," Packer said as the door opened.
"Stay here," Nugent instructed. His heels clicked as he marched along the tier, gazing with disdain into each cell. He stopped at Sam's, and peered inside. Sam was stripped to his boxers, his thin and wrinkled skin gleaming with sweat as he pecked away. He looked at the stranger staring at him through the bars, then returned to his work.
"Sam, my name is George Nugent."
Sam hit a few keys. The name was not familiar, but Sam assumed he worked somewhere up the ladder since he had access to the tiers. "What do you want?" Sam asked without looking.
"Well, I wanted to meet you."
"My pleasure, now shove off."
Gullitt to the right and Henshaw to the left were suddenly leaning through the bars, just a few feet from Nugent. They snickered at Sam's response.
Nugent glared at them, and cleared his throat. "I'm an assistant superintendent, and Phillip Naifeh has placed me in charge of your execution. There are a few things we need to discuss."
Sam concentrated on his correspondence, and cursed when he hit a wrong key. Nugent waited. "If I could have a few minutes of your valuable time, Sam."
"Better call him Mr. Cayhall," Henshaw added helpfully. "He's a few years older than you, and it means a lot to him."
"Where'd you get those boots?" Gullitt asked, staring at Nugent's feet.
"You boys back away," Nugent said sternly. "I need to talk to Sam."
"Mr. Cayhall's busy right now," Henshaw said. "Perhaps you should come back later. I'll be happy to schedule an appointment for you."
"Are you some kinda military asshole?" Gullitt asked.
Nugent stood stiffly and glanced to his right and to his left. "I'm ordering you two to get back, okay. I need to speak to Sam."
"We don't take orders," Henshaw said.
"And what're you gonna do about it?" Gullitt asked. "Throw us in solitary? Feed us roots and berries? Chain us to the walls? Why don't you just go ahead and kill us?"
Sam placed his typewriter on the bed, and walked to the bars. He took a long drag, and shot smoke through them in the general direction of Nugent. "What do you want?" he demanded.
"I need a few things from you."
"Such as?"
"Do you have a will?"
"That's none of your damned business. A will is a private document to be seen only if it's probated, and it's probated only after a person dies. That's the law."
"What a dumbass!" Henshaw shrieked.
"I don't believe this," Gullitt offered. "Where did Naifeh find this idiot?" he asked.
"Anything else?" Sam asked.
Nugent's face was changing colors. "We need to know what to do with your things."
"It's in my will, okay."
"I hope you're not going to be difficult, Sam."
"It's Mr. Cayhall," Henshaw said again.
"Difficult?" Sam asked. "Why would I be difficult? I intend to cooperate fully with the state while it goes about its business of killing me. I'm a good patriot. I would vote and pay taxes if I could. I'm proud to be an American, an Irish-American, and at this moment I'm still very much in love with my precious state, even though it plans to gas me. I'm a model prisoner, George. No problems out of me."
Packer was thoroughly enjoying this as he waited at the end of the tier. Nugent stood firm.
"I need a list of the people you want to witness the execution," he said. "You're allowed two."
"I'm not giving up yet, George. Let's wait a few days."
"Fine. I'll also need a list of your visitors for the next few days."
"Well, this afternoon I have this doctor coming down from Chicago, you see. He's a psychiatrist, and he's gonna talk to me and see how nutty I really am, then my lawyers will run to court and say that you, George, can't execute me because I'm crazy. He'll have time to examine you, if you want. It won't take long."
Henshaw and Gullitt horselaughed, and within seconds most of the other inmates on the tier were chiming in and cackling loudly. Nugent took a step backward and scowled up and down the tier. "Quiet!" he demanded, but the laughter. increased. Sam continued puffing and blowing smoke through the bars. Catcalls and insults could be heard amid the ruckus.
"I'll be back," Nugent shouted angrily at Sam.
"He shall return!" Henshaw yelled, and the commotion grew even louder. The commandant stormed away, and as he marched swiftly to the end of the hall, shouts of "Heil Hitler" rang through the tier.
Sam smiled at the bars for a moment as the noise died, then returned to his position on the edge of the bed. He took a bite of dry toast, a sip of cold coffee. He resumed his typing.
The afternoon drive to Parchman was not a particularly pleasant one. Garner Goodman sat in the front seat as Adam drove, and they talked strategy and brainstormed about the last minute appeals and procedures. Goodman planned to return to Memphis over the weekend, and be available during the last three days. The psychiatrist was Dr. Swinn, a cold, unsmiling man in a black suit. He had wild, bushy hair, dark eyes hidden behind thick glasses, and was completely incapable of small talk. His presence in the backseat was discomfiting. He did not utter a single word from Memphis to Parchman.