The governor looked at Mona, who consulted a pocket calendar and began shaking her head as if tomorrow was hopelessly filled with speeches and appearances and meetings. "You're booked," she said in a commanding tone.
"What about lunch?"
Nope. Wouldn't work. "You're speaking to the NRA convention."
"Why don't you call me?" Larramore offered.
"Good idea," the governor said, standing now and buttoning his sleeves.
Goodman stood and shook hands with the three. "I'll call if something breaks. We are requesting a hearing as soon as possible, regardless."
"The request is denied unless Sam talks," said the governor.
"Please put the request in writing, sir, if you don't mind," Larramore asked.
"Certainly."
They walked Goodman to the door, and after he left the office McAllister sat in his official chair behind his desk. He unbuttoned his sleeves again. Larramore excused himself and went to his little room down the hall.
Ms. Stark studied a printout while the governor watched the rows of buttons blink on his phone. "How many of these calls are about Sam Cayhall?" he asked. She moved a finger along a column.
"Yesterday, you had twenty-one calls regarding the Cayhall execution. Fourteen in favor of gassing him. Five said to spare him. Two couldn't make up their minds."
"That's an increase."
"Yeah, but the paper had that article about Sam's last ditch efforts. It mentioned the possibility of a clemency hearing."
"What about the polls?"
"No change. Ninety percent of the white people in this state favor the death penalty, and about half the blacks do. Overall, it's around eighty-four percent."
"Where's my approval?"
"Sixty-two. But if you pardon Sam Cayhall, I'm sure it'll drop to single digits."
"So you're against the idea."
"There's absolutely nothing to gain, and much to lose. Forget polls and numbers, if you pardon one of those thugs up there you'll have the other fifty sending lawyers and grandmothers and preachers down here begging for the same favor. You have enough on your mind. It's foolish."
"Yeah, you're right. Where's the media plan?"
"I'll have it in an hour."
"I need to see it."
"Nagel's putting the final touches on it. I think you should grant the request for a clemency hearing anyway. But hold it Monday. Announce it tomorrow. Let it simmer over the weekend."
"It shouldn't be closed."
"Hell no! We want Ruth Kramer crying for the cameras."
"It's my hearing. Sam and his lawyers will not dictate its conditions. If they want it, they'll do it my way."
"Right. But keep in mind, you want it too. Tons of coverage."
Goodman signed a three-month lease for four cellular phones. He used a Kravitz & Bane credit card and deftly dodged the barrage of questions by the chirpy young salesman. He went to a public library on State Street and found a reference table filled with phonebooks. Judging by their thickness, he selected those of the larger Mississippi towns, places like Laurel, Hattiesburg, Tupelo, Vicksburg, Biloxi, and Meridian. Then he picked the thinner ones - Tunica, Calhoun City, Bude, Long Beach, West Point. At the information desk, he converted bills to quarters, and spent two hours copying pages from the phonebooks.
He went merrily about his work. No one would've believed the natty little man with bushy gray hair and bow tie was in fact a partner in a major Chicago firm with secretaries and paralegals at his beck and call. No one would've believed he earned over four hundred thousand dollars a year. And he couldn't have cared less. E. Garner Goodman was happy with his work. He was trying his best to save another soul from being legally killed.
He left the library and drove a few blocks to the Mississippi College School of Law. A professor there by the name of John Bryan Glass taught criminal procedure and law, and also had begun publishing scholarly articles against the death penalty. Goodman wanted to make his acquaintance, and to see if maybe the professor had a few bright students interested in a research project.
The professor was gone for the day, but scheduled to teach a 9 A.M. class on Thursday. Goodman checked out the law school's library, then left the building. He drove a few blocks to the Old State Capitol Building, just killing time, and took an extended tour of it. It lasted for thirty minutes, half of which was spent at the Civil Rights Exhibit on the ground floor. He asked the clerk in the gift shop about a bed and breakfast, and she suggested the Millsaps-Buie House, about a mile down the street. He found the lovely Victorian mansion just where she'd said, and took the last vacant room. The house was immaculately restored with period pieces and furnishings. The butler fixed him a Scotch and water, and he took it to his room.
Chapter 39
THE Auburn House opened for business at eight. A feeble and dispirited security guard in a bad uniform unlocked the gate across the drive, and Adam was the first person into the parking lot. He waited in his car for ten minutes until another parked nearby. He recognized the woman as the counselor he'd met in Lee's office two weeks earlier. He stopped her on the sidewalk as she was entering a side door. "Excuse me," he said. "We've met before. I'm Adam Hall. Lee's nephew. I'm sorry, but I don't remember your name."
The lady held a worn briefcase in one hand and a brown lunch bag in the other. She smiled and said, "Joyce Cobb. I remember. Where's Lee?"
"I don't know. I was hoping you might know something. You haven't heard from her?"
"No. Not since Tuesday."
"Tuesday? I haven't talked to her since Saturday. Did you talk to her Tuesday?"
"She called here, but I didn't talk to her. It was the day they ran that drunk driving story in the paper."
"Where was she?"
"She never said. She asked for the administrator, said she would be out for a while, had to get some help, stuff like that. Never said where she was or when she was coming back."
"What about her patients?"
"We're covering for her. It's always a struggle, you know. But we'll manage."
"Lee wouldn't forget these girls. Do you think maybe she's talked to them this week?"
"Look, Adam, most of these girls don't have phones, okay? And Lee certainly would not go into the projects. We're seeing her girls, and I know they haven't talked to her."
Adam took a step back and looked at the gate. "I know. I need to find her. I'm really worried."
"She'll be okay. She's done this once before, and everything worked out." Joyce was suddenly in a hurry to get inside. "If I hear something, I'll let you know."
"Please do. I'm staying at her place."
"I know."
Adam thanked her, and drove away. By nine, he was at the office, buried in paper.
Colonel Nugent sat at the end of along table in the front of a room filled with guards and staff people. The table was on a slight platform twelve inches above the rest of the room, and behind it on the wall was a large chalkboard. A portable podium sat in a corner. The chairs along the table to his right were empty, so that the guards and staff sitting in the folding chairs could see the faces of the more important ones on Nugent's left. Morris Henry from the Attorney General's office was there, thick briefs lying before him. Lucas Mann sat at the far end taking notes. Two assistant superintendents were next to Henry. A flunkie from the governor's office was next to Lucas.
Nugent glanced at his watch, then began his little pep talk. He referred to his notes, and aimed his comments at the guards and staff. "As of this morning, August 2, all stays have been lifted by the various courts, and there's nothing to stop the execution. We are proceeding as if it will take place as planned, at one minute after midnight next Wednesday. We have six full days to prepare, and I am determined for this thing to take place smoothly, without a hitch.