"Tomorrow."
"Good. Here's what we'll do. I need some time to think about this. I don't want to talk right now, and I damned sure don't want to answer a bunch of questions. Let me look over this document, make some changes, and we'll meet again tomorrow."
"That's wasting time."
"I've wasted almost ten years here. What's another day?"
"They may not allow me to return if I don't officially represent you. This visit is a favor."
"A great bunch of guys, aren't they? Tell them you're my lawyer for the next twenty-four hours. They'll let you in."
"We have a lot of ground to cover, Sam. I'd like to get started."
"I need to think, okay. When you spend over nine years alone in a cell, you become real good at thinking and analyzing. But you can't do it fast, understand? It takes longer to sort things out and place them in order. I'm sort of spinnin' right now, you know. You've hit me kinda hard."
"Okay."
"I'll be better tomorrow. We can talk then. I promise."
"Sure." Adam placed the cap on his pen and stuck it in his pocket. He slid the file into the briefcase, and relaxed in his seat. "I'll be staying in Memphis for the next couple of months."
"Memphis? I thought you lived in Chicago."
"We have a small office in Memphis. I'll be working out of there. The number's on the card. Feel free to call anytime."
"What happens when this thing is over?"
"I don't know. I may go back to Chicago."
"Are you married?"
No. "Is Carmen?" "No. "What's she like?"
Adam folded his hands behind his head and examined the thin fog above them. "She's very smart. Very pretty. Looks a lot like her mother."
"Evelyn was a beautiful girl."
"She's still beautiful."
"I always thought Eddie was lucky to get her. I didn't like her family, though."
And she certainly didn't like Eddie's, Adam thought to himself. Sam's chin dropped almost to his chest. He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "This family business will take some work, won't it?" he said without looking.
"Yep."
"I may not be able to talk about some things."
"Yes you will. You owe it to me, Sam. And you owe it to yourself."
"You don't know what you're talking about, and you wouldn't want to know all of it."
"Try me. I'm sick of secrets."
"Why do you want to know so much?"
"So I can try and make some sense of it."
"That'll be a waste of time."
"I'll have to decide that, won't I?"
Sam placed his hands on his knees, and slowly stood. He took a deep breath and looked down at Adam through the screen. "I'd like to go now."
Their eyes met through the narrow diamonds in the partition. "Sure," Adam said. "Can I bring you anything?"
"No. Just come back."
"I promise."
Chapter 11
PACKER closed the door and locked it, and together they stepped from the narrow shadow outside the conference room into the blinding midday sun. Adam closed his eyes and stopped for a second, then fished through his pockets in a desperate search for sunglasses. Packer waited patiently, his eyes sensibly covered with a pair of thick imitation Ray-Bans, his face shielded by the wide brim of an official Parchman cap. The air was suffocating and almost visible. Sweat immediately covered Adam's arms and face as he finally found the sunglasses in his briefcase and put them on. He squinted and grimaced, and once able to actually see, he followed Packer along the brick trail and baked grass in front of the unit.
"Sam okay?" Packer asked. His hands were in his pockets and he was in no hurry.
"I guess."
"You hungry?"
"No," Adam replied as he glanced at his watch. It was almost one o'clock. He wasn't sure if Packer was offering prison food or something else, but he was taking no chances.
"Too bad. Today's Wednesday, and that means turnip greens and corn bread. Mighty good."
"Thanks." Adam was certain that somewhere deep in his genes he was supposed to crave turnip greens and corn bread. Today's menu should make his mouth drool and his stomach yearn. But he considered himself a Californian, and to his knowledge had never seen turnip greens. "Maybe next week," he said, hardly believing he was being offered lunch on the Row.
They were at the first of the double gates. As it opened, Packer, without removing his hands from his pockets, said, "When you coming back?"
"Tomorrow."
"That soon?"
"Yeah. I'm going to be around for a while."
"Well, nice to meet you." He grinned broadly and walked away.
As Adam walked through the second gate, the red bucket began its descent. It stopped three feet from the ground, and he rattled through the selection at the bottom until he found his keys. He never looked up at the guard.
A white mini-van with official markings on the door and along the sides was waiting by Adam's car. The driver's window came down, and Lucas Mann leaned out. "Are you in a hurry?"
Adam glanced at his watch again. "Not really."
"Good. Hop in. I need to talk to you. We'll take a quick tour of the place."
Adam didn't want a quick tour of the place, but he was planning to stop by Mann's office anyway. He opened the passenger's door and threw his coat and briefcase on a rear seat. Thankfully, the air was at full throttle. Lucas, cool and still impeccably starched, looked odd sitting behind the wheel of a mini-van. He eased away from MSU and headed for the main drive.
"How'd it go?" he asked. Adam tried to recall Sam's exact description of Lucas Mann. Something to the effect that he could not be trusted.
"Okay, I guess," he replied, carefully vague.
"Are you going to represent him?"
"I think so. He wants to dwell on it tonight. And he wants to see me tomorrow."
"No problem, but you need to sign him up tomorrow. We need some type of written authorization from him."
"I'll get it tomorrow. Where are we going?" They turned left and headed away from the front of the prison. They passed the last of the neat white houses with shade trees and flower beds, and now they were driving through fields of cotton and beans that stretched forever.
"Nowhere in particular. Just thought you might want to see some of our farm. We need to cover a few things."
"I'm listening."
"The decision of the Fifth Circuit hit the wire at mid-morning, and we've already had at least three phone calls from reporters. They smell blood, of course, and they want to know if this might be the end for Sam. I know some of these people, dealt with them before on other executions. A few are nice guys, most are obnoxious jerks. But anyway, they're all asking about Sam and whether or not he has a lawyer. Will he represent himself to the very end? You know, that kind of crap."
In a field to the right was a large group of inmates in white pants and without shirts. They were working the rows and sweating profusely, their backs and chests drenched and glistening under the scorching sun. A guard on a horse watched them with a rifle. "What are these guys doing?" Adam asked.
"Chopping cotton."
"Are they required to?"
"No. All volunteers. It's either that or sit in a cell all day."
"They wear white. Sam wears red. I saw a gang by the highway in blue."