He balanced the typewriter on his knees, and began pecking away.
Chapter 13
SAM'S version of the law was finished by nine-thirty. He was proud of it, one of his better efforts in recent months. He munched on a piece of toast as he proofed the document for the last time. The typing was neat but outdated, the result of an ancient machine. The language was effusive and repetitive, flowery and filled with words never uttered by humble laymen. Sam was almost fluent in legalese and could hold his own with any lawyer.
A door at the end of the hallway banged open, then shut. Heavy footsteps clicked along properly, and Packer appeared. "Your lawyer's here, Sam," he said, removing a set of handcuffs from his belt.
Sam stood and pulled up his boxer shorts. "What time is it?"
"A little after nine-thirty. What difference does it make?"
"I'm supposed to get my hour out at ten."
"You wanna go outside, or you wanna see your lawyer?"
Sam thought about this as he slipped into his red jumpsuit and slid his feet into his rubber sandals. Dressing was a swift procedure on death row. "Can I make it up later?"
"We'll see."
"I want my Hour out, you know."
"I know, Sam. Let's go."
"It's real important to me."
"I know, Sam. It's real important to everyone. We'll try and make it up later, okay?"
Sam combed his hair with great deliberation, then rinsed his hands with cold water. Packer waited patiently. He wanted to say something to J. B. Gullitt, something about the mood he was in this morning, but Gullitt was already asleep again. Most of them were asleep. The average inmate on death row made it through breakfast and an hour or so of television before stretching out for the morning nap. Though his study was by no means scientific, Packer estimated they slept fifteen to sixteen hours a day. And they could sleep in the heat, the sweat, the cold, and amid the noise of loud televisions and radios.
The noise was much lower this morning. The fans hummed and whined, but there was no yelling back and forth.
Sam approached the bars, turned his back to Packer, and extended both hands through the narrow slot in the door. Packer applied the handcuffs, and Sam walked to his bed and picked up the document. Packer nodded to a guard at the end of the hall, and Sam's door opened electronically. Then it closed.
Leg chains were optional in these situations, and with a younger prisoner, perhaps one with an attitude and a bit more stamina, Packer probably would have used them. But this was just Sam. He was an old man. How far could he run? How much damage could he do with his feet?
Packer gently placed his hand around Sam's skinny bicep and led him along the hall. They stopped at the tier door, a row of more bars, waited for it to open and close, and left Tier A. Another guard followed behind as they came to an iron door which Packer unlocked with a key from his belt. They walked through it, and there was Adam sitting alone on the other side of the green grating.
Packer removed the handcuffs and left the room.
Adam read it slowly the first time. During the second reading he took a few notes and was amused at some of the language. He'd seen worse work from trained lawyers. And he'd seen much better work. Sam was suffering the same affliction that hit most first-year law students. He used six words when one would suffice. His Latin was dreadful. Entire paragraphs were useless. But, on the whole, not bad for a non-lawyer.
The two-page agreement was now four, typed neatly with perfect margins and only two typos and one misspelled word.
"You do pretty good work," Adam said as he placed the document on the counter. Sam puffed a cigarette and stared at him through the opening. "It's basically the same agreement I handed you yesterday."
"It's basically a helluva lot different," Sam said, correcting him.
Adam glanced at his notes, then said, "You seem to be concerned about five areas. The governor, books, movies, termination, and who gets to witness the execution."
"I'm concerned about a lot of things. Those happen to be non-negotiable."
"I promised yesterday I would have nothing to do with books and movies."
"Good. Moving right along."
"The termination language is fine. You want the right to terminate my representation, and that of Kravitz & Bane, at any time and for any reason, without a fight."
"It took me a long time to fire those Jewish bastards last time. I don't want to go through it again."
"That's reasonable."
"I don't care whether you think it's reasonable, okay? It's in the agreement, and it's nonnegotiable."
"Fair enough. And you want to deal with no one but me."
"That's correct. No one at Kravitz & Bane touches my file. That place is crawling with Jews, and they don't get involved, okay? Same for niggers and women."
"Look, Sam, can we lay off the slurs? How about we refer to them as blacks?"
"Ooops. Sorry. How about we do the right thing and call them African-Americans and Jewish-Americans and Female-Americans? You and I'll be Irish-Americans, and also WhiteMale-Americans. If you need help from your firm, try to stick with German-Americans or Italian-Americans. Since you're in Chicago, maybe use a few Polish-Americans. Gee, that'll be nice, won't it? We'll be real proper and multicultural and politically correct, won't we?"
"Whatever."
"I feel better already."
Adam made a check mark by his notes. "I'll agree to it."
"Damned right you will, if you want an agreement. Just keep the minorities out of my life."
"You're assuming they're anxious to jump in."
"I'm not assuming anything. I have four weeks to live, and I'd rather spend my time with people I trust."
Adam read again a paragraph on page three of Sam's draft. The language gave Sam the sole authority to select two witnesses at his execution. "I don't understand this clause about the witnesses," Adam said.
"It's very simple. If we get to that point, there will be about fifteen witnesses. Since I'm the guest of honor, I get to select two. The statute, once you've had a chance to review it, lists a few who must be present. The warden, a Lebanese-American by the way, has some discretion in picking the rest. They usually conduct a lottery with the press to choose which of the vultures are allowed to gawk at it."
"Then why do you want this clause?"
"Because the lawyer is always one of the two chosen by the gassee. That's me."
"And you don't want me to witness the execution?"
"That's correct."
"You're assuming I'll want to witness it."
"I'm not assuming anything. It's just a fact that the lawyers can't wait to see their poor clients gassed once it becomes inevitable. Then they can't wait to get in front of the cameras and cry and carry on and rail against injustice."
"And you think I'll do that?"
"No. I don't think you'll do that."
"Then, why this clause?"
Sam leaned forward with his elbows on the counter. His nose was an inch from the screen. "Because you will not witness the execution, okay?"
"It's a deal," he said casually, and flipped to another page. "We're not going to get that far, Sam."
"Atta boy. That's what I want to hear."
"Of course, we may need the governor."
Sam snorted in disgust and relaxed in his chair. He crossed his right leg on his left knee, and glared at Adam. "The agreement is very plain."