"Beg your pardon," Goodman offered, ever the innocent.
"We've been swamped with calls about your client's execution."
"Yes, it's a very emotional case. Seems as if most people down here are in favor of the death penalty."
"Not this one," she said, recording the call on a pink form. "Almost all of these calls are opposed to his execution."
"You don't say. What a surprise."
"I'll inform Ms. Stark you're here."
"Thank you." Goodman took his familiar seat in the foyer. He glanced through the morning papers again. On Saturday, the daily paper in Tupelo made the mistake of beginning a telephone survey to gauge public opinion on the Cayhall execution. A toll-free number was given on the front page with instructions, and, of course, Goodman and his team of market analysts had bombarded the number over the weekend. The Monday edition ran the results for the first time, and they were astounding. Of three hundred and twenty calls, three hundred and two were opposed to the execution. Goodman smiled to himself as he scanned the paper.
Not too far away, the governor was sitting at the long table in his office and scanning the same papers. His face was troubled. His eyes were sad and worried.
Mona Stark walked across the marbled floor with a cup of coffee. "Garner Goodman's here. Waiting in the foyer."
"Let him wait."
"The hotline's already flooded."
McAllister calmly looked at his watch. Eleven minutes before nine. He scratched his chin with his knuckles. From 3 P.m. Saturday until 8 P.m. Sunday, his pollster had called over two hundred Mississippians. Seventy-eight percent favored the death penalty, which was not surprising. However, of the same sample polled, fifty-one percent believed Sam Cayhall should not be executed. Their reasons varied. Many felt he was simply too old to face it. His crime had been committed twenty-three years ago, in a generation different from today's. He would die in Parchman soon enough anyway, so leave him alone. He was being persecuted for political reasons. Plus, he was white, and McAllister and his pollsters knew that factor was very important, if unspoken.
That was the good news. The bad news was contained in a printout next to the newspapers. Working with only one operator, the hotline received two hundred and thirty-one calls on Saturday, and one hundred and eighty on Sunday. A total of four hundred and eleven. Over ninety-five percent opposed the execution. Since Friday morning, the hotline had officially recorded eight hundred and ninety-seven calls about old Sam, with a strong ninety percent plus opposed to his execution. And now the hotline was hopping again.
There was more. The regional offices were reporting an avalanche of calls, almost all opposed to Sam dying. Staff members were coming to work with stories of long weekends with the phones. Roxburgh had called to say his lines had been flooded.
The governor was already tired. "There's something at ten this morning," he said to Mona without looking at her.
"Yes, a meeting with a group of Boy Scouts."
"Cancel it. Give my apologies. Reschedule it. I'm not in the mood for any photographs this morning. It's best if I stay here. Lunch?"
"With Senator Pressgrove. You're supposed to discuss the lawsuit against the universities."
"I can't stand Pressgrove. Cancel it, and order some chicken. And, on second thought, bring in Goodman."
She walked to the door, disappeared for a minute, and returned with Garner Goodman. McAllister was standing by the window, staring at the buildings downtown. He turned and flashed a weary smile. "Good morning, Mr. Goodman."
They shook hands and took seats. Late Sunday afternoon, Goodman had delivered to Larramore a written request to cancel the clemency hearing, pursuant to their client's rather strident demands.
"Still don't want a hearing, huh?" the governor said with another tired smile.
"Our client says no. He has nothing else to add. We've tried everything." Mona handed Goodman a cup of black coffee.
"He has a very hard head. Always has, I guess.
Where are the appeals right now?" McAllister was so sincere.
"Proceeding as expected."
"You've been through this before, Mr. Goodman. I haven't. What's your prediction, as of right now?"
Goodman stirred his coffee and pondered the question. There was no harm in being honest with the governor, not at this point. "I'm one of his lawyers, so I lean toward optimism. I'd say seventy percent chance of it happening."
The governor thought about this for a while. He could almost hear the phones ringing off the walls. Even his own people were getting skittish."Do you know what I want, Mr. Goodman?" he asked sincerely.
Yeah, you want those damned phones to stop ringing, Goodman thought to himself. "What?"
"I'd really like to talk to Adam Hall. Where is he?"
"Probably at Parchman. I talked to him an hour ago."
"Can he come here today?"
"Yes, in fact he was planning on arriving in Jackson this afternoon."
"Good. I'll wait for him."
Goodman suppressed a smile. Perhaps a small hole had ruptured in the dam.
Oddly, though, it was on a different, far more unlikely front where the first hint of relief surfaced.
Six blocks away in the federal courthouse, Breck Jefferson entered the office of his boss, the Honorable F. Flynn Slattery, who was on the phone and rather perturbed at a lawyer. Breck held a thick petition for writ of habeas corpus, and a legal pad filled with notes.
"Yes?" Slattery barked, slamming down the phone.
"We need to talk about Cayhall," Breck said somberly. "You know we've got his petition alleging mental incompetence."
"Let's deny it and get it outta here. I'm too busy to worry with it. Let Cayhall take it to the Fifth Circuit. I don't want that damned thing lying around here."
Breck looked troubled, and his words came slower. "But there's something you need to take a look at."
"Aw, come on, Breck. What is it?"
"He may have a valid claim."
Slattery's face fell and his shoulders slumped. "Come on. Are you kidding? What is it? We have a trial starting in thirty minutes. There's a jury waiting out there."
Breck Jefferson had been the number-two student in his law class at Emory. Slattery trusted him implicitly. "They're claiming Sam lacks the mental competence to face an execution, pursuant to a rather broad Mississippi statute."
"Everybody knows he's crazy."
"They have an expert who's willing to testify. It's not something we can ignore."
"I don't believe this."
"You'd better look at it."
His Honor massaged his forehead with his fingertips. "Sit down. Let me see it."
"Just a few more miles," Adam said as they sped toward the prison. "How you doing?"
Carmen had said little since they left Memphis. Her first journey into Mississippi had been spent looking at the vastness of the Delta, admiring the lushness of its miles of cotton and beans, watching in amazement as crop dusters bounced along the tops of the fields, shaking her head at the clusters of impoverished shacks. "I'm nervous," she admitted, not for the first time. They had talked briefly about Berkeley and Chicago and what the next years might bring. They had said nothing about their mother or father. Sam and his family were likewise neglected.
"He's nervous too."
"This is bizarre, Adam. Rushing along this highway in this wilderness, hurrying to meet a grandfather who's about to be executed."