"Not in the least."
"I'd stomp your ass all over this room, Nugent, if I wanted to."
"I'm terrified. Look, Sam, let's get down to business. What would you like for your last meal?"
"This is Sunday. My last meal is scheduled for Tuesday night. Why are you bothering me with it now?"
"We have to make plans.. You can have anything, within reason."
"Who's gonna cook it?"
"It'll be prepared in the kitchen here."
"Oh, wonderful! By the same talented chefs who've been feeding me hogslop for nine and a half years. What a way to go!"
"What would you like, Sam? I'm trying to be reasonable."
"How about toast and boiled carrots? I'd hate to burden them with something new."
"Fine, Sam. When you decide, tell Packer here and he'll notify the kitchen."
"There won't be a last meal, Nugent. My lawyer will unload the heavy artillery tomorrow. You clowns won't know what hit you."
"I hope you're right."
"You're a lying sonofabitch. You can't wait to walk me in there and strap me down. You're giddy with the thought of asking me if I have any last words, then nodding at one of your gophers to lock the door. And when it's all over, you'll face the press with a sad face and announce that `As of twelve-fifteen, this morning, August 8, Sam Cayhall was executed in the gas chamber here at Parchman, pursuant to an order of the Circuit Court of Lakehead County, Mississippi.' It'll be your finest hour, Nugent. Don't lie to me."
The colonel never looked from the sheet of paper. "We need your list of witnesses."
"See my lawyer."
"And we need to know what to do with your things."
"See my lawyer."
"Okay. We have numerous requests for interviews from the press."
"See my lawyer."
Nugent jumped to his feet and stormed from the office. Packer caught the door, waited a few seconds, then calmly said, "Sit tight, Sam, there's someone else to see you."
Sam smiled and winked at Packer. "Then get me some more coffee, would you Packer?"
Packer took the cup, and returned with it a few minutes later. He also handed Sam the Sunday paper from Jackson, and Sam was reading all sorts of stories about his execution when the chaplain, Ralph Griffin, knocked and entered.
Sam placed the paper on the desk and inspected the minister. Griffin wore white sneakers, faded jeans, and a black shirt with a white clerical collar. "Mornin', Reverend," Sam said, sipping his coffee.
"How are you, Sam?" Griffin asked as he pulled a chair very near the desk and sat in it.
"Right now my heart's filled with hate," Sam said gravely.
"I'm sorry. Who's it directed at?"
"Colonel Nugent. But I'll get over it."
"Have you been praying, Sam?"
"Not really."
"Why not?"
"What's the hurry? I have today, tomorrow, and Tuesday. I figure you and I'll be doing lots of praying come Tuesday night."
"If you want. It's up to you. I'll be here."
"I want you to be with me up to the last moment, Reverend, if you don't mind. You and my lawyer. Y'all are allowed to sit with me during the last hours."
"I'd be honored."
"Thanks."
"What exactly do you want to pray about, Sam?"
Sam took a long drink of coffee. "Well, first of all, I'd like to know that when I leave this world, all the bad things I've done have been forgiven."
"Your sins?"
"That's right."
"God expects us to confess our sins to him ,.ad ask for forgiveness."
"All of them? One at a time?"
"Yes, the ones we can remember."
"Then we'd better start now. It'll take a while."
"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."