Instead of punching the accelerator, Adam slowed to a reasonable speed and sipped his drink. He turned off the radio. He cracked his window to allow the warm air to circulate. He cursed Slattery for many miles, talking vainly at the windshield and dragging up all sorts of vile names. It was now a little past noon. Slattery, in all fairness, could've ruled five hours ago. Hell, if he had guts he could've ruled last night. They could be in front of the Fifth Circuit already. He cursed Breck Jefferson also, for good measure.
Sam had told him from the beginning that Mississippi wanted an execution. It was lagging behind Louisiana and Texas and Florida, even Alabama and Georgia and Virginia were killing at a more enviable rate. Something had to be done. The appeals were endless. The criminals were coddled. Crime was rampant. It was time to execute somebody and show the rest of the country that this state was serious about law and order.
Adam finally believed him.
He stopped the swearing after a while. He finished the drink and threw the bottle over the car and into a ditch, in direct violation of Mississippi laws against littering. It was difficult to express his present opinions of Mississippi and its laws.
He could see Sam sitting in his cell, watching the television, hearing the news.
Adam's heart ached for the old man. He had failed as a lawyer. His client was about to die at the hands of the government, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.
The news electrified the army of reporters and cameramen now sprawled about the small Visitors Center just inside the front gate. They gathered around portable televisions and watched their stations in Jackson and Memphis. At least four shot live segments from Parchman while countless others milled around the area. Their little section of ground had been cordoned off by ropes and barricades, and was being watched closely by Nugent's troops.
The racket increased noticeably along the highway when the news spread. The Klansmen, now a hundred strong, began chanting loudly in the direction of the administration buildings. The skinheads and Nazis and Aryans hurled obscenities at anyone who would listen to them. The nuns and other silent protestors sat under umbrellas and tried to ignore their rowdy neighbors.
Sam heard the news as he was holding a bowl of turnip greens, his final meal before his last meal. He stared at the television, watched the scenes switch from Jackson to Parchman and back again. A young black lawyer he'd never heard of was talking to a reporter and explaining what he and the rest of the Cayhall defense team would do next.
His friend Buster Moac had complained that there were so damned many lawyers involved with his case in the last days that he couldn't keep up with who was on his side and who was trying to kill him. But Sam was certain Adam was in control.
He finished the turnip greens, and placed the bowl on the tray at the foot of his bed. He walked to the bars and sneered at the blank-faced guard watching him from behind the tier door. The hall was silent. The televisions were on in every cell, all turned low and being watched with morbid interest. Not a single voice could be heard, and that in itself was extremely rare.
He pulled off his red jumpsuit for the last time, wadded it up and threw it in a corner. He kicked the rubber shower shoes under his bed, never to see them again. He carefully placed his new outfit on the bed, arranged it just so, then slowly unbuttoned the short-sleeved shirt and put it on. It fit nicely. He slid his legs into the stiff work khakis, pulled the zipper up and buttoned the waist. The pants were two inches too long, so he sat on the bed and turned them up into neat, precise cuffs. The cotton socks were thick and soothing. The shoes were a bit large but not a bad fit.
The sensation of being fully dressed in real clothes brought sudden, painful memories of the free world. These were the pants he'd worn for forty years, until he'd been incarcerated. He'd bought them at the old dry goods store on the square in Clanton, always keeping four or five pair in the bottom drawer of his large dresser. His wife pressed them with no starch, and after a half dozen washings they felt like old pajamas. He wore them to work and he wore them to town. He wore them on fishing trips with Eddie, and he wore them on the porch swinging little Lee. He wore them to the coffee shop and to Klan meetings. Yes, he'd even worn them on that fateful trip to Greenville to bomb the office of the radical Jew.
He sat on his bed and pinched the sharp creases under his knees. It had been nine years and six months since he had worn these pants. Only fitting, he guessed, that he should now wear them to the gas chamber.
They'd be cut from his body, placed in a bag, and burned.
Adam stopped first at Lucas Mann's office. Louise at the front gate had given him a note saying it was important. Mann closed the door behind him and offered a seat. Adam declined. He was anxious to see Sam.
"The Fifth Circuit received the appeal thirty minutes ago," Mann said. "I thought you might want to use my phone to call Jackson."
"Thanks. But I'll use the one at the Row."
"Fine. I'm talking to the AG's office every half hour, so if I hear something I'll give you a call."
"Thanks." Adam was fidgeting.
"Does Sam want a last meal?"
"I'll ask him in a minute."
"Fine. Give me a call, or just tell Packer. What about witnesses?"
"Sam will have no witnesses."
"What about you?"
"No. He won't allow it. We agreed on it a long time ago."
"Fine. I can't think of anything else. I have a fax and a phone, and things may be a bit quieter in here. Feel free to use my office."
"Thanks," Adam said, stepping from the office. He drove slowly to the Row and parked for the last time in the dirt lot next to the fence. He walked slowly to the guard tower and placed his keys in the bucket.
Four short weeks ago he had stood there and watched the red bucket descend for the first time, and he'd thought how crude but effective this little system was. Only four weeks! It seemed like years.
He waited for the double gates, and met Tiny on the steps.
Sam was already in the front office, sitting on the edge of the desk, admiring his shoes. "Check out the new threads," he said proudly when Adam entered.
Adam stepped close and inspected the clothing from shoes to shirt. Sam was beaming. His face was cleanshaven. "Spiffy. Real spiffy."
"A regular dude, aren't I?"
"You look nice, Sam, real nice. Did Donnie bring these?"
"Yeah. He got them at the dollar store. I started to order some designer threads from New York, but what the hell. It's only an execution. I told you I wouldn't allow them to kill me in one of those red prison suits. I took it off a while ago, never to wear one again. I have to admit, Adam, it was a good feeling."
"You've heard the latest?"
"Sure. It's all over the news. Sorry about the hearing."
"It's in the Fifth Circuit now, and I feel good about it. I like our chances there."
Sam smiled and looked away, as if the little boy was telling his grandfather a harmless lie. "They had a black lawyer on television at noon, said he was working for me. What the hell's going on?"
"That was probably Hez Kerry." Adam placed his briefcase on the desk and sat down.
"Am I paying him too?"
"Yeah, Sam, you're paying him at the same rate you're paying me."
"Just curious. That screwball doctor, what's his name, Swinn? He must've done a number on me."
"It was pretty sad, Sam. When he finished testifying, the entire courtroom could see you floating around your cell, scratching your teeth and peeing on the floor."