The poisonous gas was released slowly, and a faint mist of visible vapors rose from under the chair and drifted upward. At first, the rabbit didn't react to the steam that permeated his little cell, but it hit him soon enough. He stiffened, then hopped a few times, banging into the sides of his cage, then he went into violent convulsions, jumping and jerking and twisting frantically. In less than a minute, he was still.
Nugent smiled as he glanced at his watch. "Clear it," he ordered, and a vent at the top of the chamber was opened, releasing the gas.
The door from the Chamber Room to the outside was opened, and most of the execution team walked out for fresh air or a smoke.
It would be at least fifteen minutes before the chamber could be opened and the rabbit removed. Then they had to hose it down and clean up. Nugent was still inside, watching everything. So they smoked and had a few laughs.
Less than sixty feet away, the windows above the hallway of Tier A were open. Sam could hear their voices. It was after ten and the lights were off, but in every cell along the tier two arms protruded from the bars as fourteen men listened in dark silence.
A death row inmate lives in a six-by-nine cell for twenty-three hours a day. He hears everything - the strange clicking sound of a new pair of boots in the hallway; the unfamiliar pitch and accent of a different voice; the faraway hum of a lawn mower or weedeater. And he can certainly hear the opening and closing of the door to the Chamber Room. He can hear the satisfied and important chuckles of the execution team.
Sam leaned on his forearms and watched the windows above the hallway. They were practicing for him out there.
Chapter 40
BETWEEN the western edge of Highway 49 and the front lawn of the administrative buildings of Parchman, a distance of fifty yards, there was a grassy strip of land that was smooth and noticeable because it was once a railroad track. It was where the death penalty protestors were corralled and monitored at every execution. They invariably arrived, usually small groups of committed souls who sat in folding chairs and held homemade placards. They burned candles at night. and sang hymns during the final hours. They sang hymns, offered prayers, and wept when the death was announced.
A new twist had occurred during the hours preceding the execution of Teddy Doyle Meeks, a child rapist and killer. The somber, almost sacred protest had been disrupted by carloads of unruly college students who suddenly appeared without warning and had a delightful time demanding blood. They drank beer and played loud music. They chanted slogans and heckled the shaken death protestors. The situation deteriorated as the two groups exchanged words. Prison officials moved in and restored order.
Maynard Tole was next, and during the planning of his execution another section of turf on the other side of the main drive was designated for the death penalty proponents. Extra security was assigned to keep things peaceful.
When Adam arrived Friday morning, he counted seven Ku Klux Klansmen in white robes. Three were engaged in some attempt at synchronized protest, a casual walking along the edge of the grassy strip near the highway with posters strung over their shoulders. The other four were erecting a large blue and white canopy. Metal poles and ropes were scattered on the ground. Two ice chests sat next to several lawn chairs. These guys were planning to stay awhile.
Adam stared at them as he rolled to a stop at the front gate of Parchman. He lost track of time as he watched the Kluckers for minutes. So this was his heritage, his roots. These were the brethren of his grandfather and his grandfather's relatives and ancestors. Were some of these figures the same ones who'd been recorded on film and edited by Adam into the video about Sam Cayhall? Had he seen them before?
Instinctively, Adam opened the door of his car and got out. His coat and briefcase were in the rear seat. He began walking slowly in their direction, and stopped near their ice chests. Their placards demanded freedom for Sam Cayhall, a political prisoner. Gas the real criminals, but release Sam. For some reason, Adam was not comforted by their demands.
"What do you want?" demanded one with a sign draped over his chest. The other six stopped what they were doing and stared.
"I don't know," Adam said truthfully.
"Then what are you looking at?"
"I'm not sure."
Three others joined the first, and they stepped together near Adam. Their robes were identical - white and made of a very light fabric with red crosses and other markings. It was almost 9 A.M., and they were already sweating. "Who the hell are you?"
"Sam's grandson."
The other three crowded behind the others, and all seven examined Adam from a distance of no more than five feet. "Then you're on our side," one said, relieved.
"No. I'm not one of you."
"That's right. He's with that bunch of Jews from Chicago," another said for the edification of the rest, and this seemed to stir them up a bit.
"Why are you people here?" Adam asked.
"We're trying to save Sam. Looks like you're not gonna do it."
"You're the reason he's here."
A young one with a red face and rows of sweat on his forehead took the lead and walked even closer to Adam. "No. He's the reason we're here. I wasn't even born when Sam killed those Jews, so you can't blame it on me. We're here to protest his execution. He's being persecuted for political reasons."
"He wouldn't be here had it not been for the Klan. Where are your masks? I thought you people always hid your faces."
They twitched and fidgeted as a group, uncertain what to do next. He was, after all, the grandson of Sam Cayhall, their idol and champion. He was the lawyer trying to save a most precious symbol.
"Why don't you leave?" Adam asked. "Sam doesn't want you here."
"Why don't you go to hell?" the young one sneered.
"How eloquent. Just leave, okay. Sam's worth much more to you dead than alive. Let him die in peace, then you'll have a wonderful martyr."
"We ain't leavin'. We'll be here till the end."
"And what if Sam asks you to leave? Will you go then?"
"No," he sneered again, then glanced over his shoulders at the others who all seemed to agree that they would, in fact, not leave. "We plan to make a lot of noise."
"Great. That'll get your pictures in the papers. That's what this is about, isn't it? Circus clowns in funny costumes always attract attention."
Car doors slammed somewhere behind Adam, and as he looked around he saw a television crew making a speedy exit from a van parked near his Saab.
"Well, well," he said to the group. "Smile, fellas. This is your big moment."
"Go to hell," the young one snapped angrily. Adam turned his back to them and walked toward his car. A hurried reporter with a cameraman in tow rushed to him.
"Are you Adam Hall?" she asked breathlessly. "Cayhall's lawyer?"
"Yes," he said without stopping.
"Could we have a few words?"
"No. But those boys are anxious to talk," he said, pointing over his shoulder. She walked along beside him while the cameraman fumbled with his equipment. Adam opened his car door, then slammed it as he turned the ignition.
Louise, the guard at the gate, handed him a numbered card for his dashboard, then waved him through.
Packer went through the motions of the obligatory frisk inside the front door of the Row. "What's in there?" he asked, pointing to the small cooler Adam held in his left hand.
"Eskimo pies, Sergeant. Would you like one?"