Adam made a note in the margin to talk about Dogan later. He would do the research first, then spring it again in some future conversation.
"Just for the sake of argument," he said, still writing, "it seems as though you should've testified to counter Dogan."
"I almost did," Sam said with a trace of regret. "The last night of the trial, me and Keyes and his associate, I forget her name, stayed up until midnight discussing whether or not I should take the stand. But think about it, Adam. I would've been forced to admit that I planted the bomb, that it had a timing device set to go off later, that I had been involved in other bombings, and that I was across the street from the building when it's blew. Plus, the prosecution had clearly proven that Marvin Kramer was a target. I mean, hell, they played those FBI phone tapes to the jury. You should've heard it. They rigged up these huge speakers in the courtroom, and they set the tape player on a table in front of the jury like it was some kind of alive bomb. And there was Dogan on the phone to Wayne Graves, his voice was scratchy but very audible, talking about bombing Marvin Kramer for this and for that, and bragging about how he would send, his Group, as he called me, to Greenville to take care of matters. The voices on that tape sounded like ghosts from hell, and the jury hung on every word. Very effective. And, then, of course, there was Dogan's own testimony.
I would've looked ridiculous at that moment trying to testify and convince the jury that I really wasn't a bad guy. McAllister would've eaten me alive. So we decided I shouldn't take the stand. Looking back, it was a bad move. I should've talked."
"But on the advice of your attorney you didn't?"
"Look, Adam, if you're thinking about attacking Keyes on the grounds of ineffective assistance of counsel, then forget it. I paid Keyes good money, mortgaged everything I had, and he did a good job. A long time ago Goodman and Tyner considered going after Keyes, but they found nothing wrong with his representation. Forget it."
The Cayhall file at Kravitz & Bane had at least two inches of research and memos on the issue of Benjamin Keyes' representation. Ineffective assistance of trial counsel was a standard argument in death penalty appeals, but it had not been used in Sam's case. Goodman and Tyner had discussed it at length, bouncing long memos back and forth between their offices on the sixty-first and sixty-sixth floors in Chicago. The final memo declared that Keyes had done such a good job at trial that there was nothing to attack.
The file also included a three-page letter from Sam expressly forbidding any attack on Keyes. He would not sign any petition doing so, he promised.
The last memo, however, had been written seven years earlier at a time when death was a distant possibility. Things were different now. Issues had to be resurrected or even fabricated. It was time to grasp at straws.
"Where is Keyes now?" Adam asked.
"Last I heard he took a job in Washington. He wrote me about five years ago, said he wasn't practicing anymore. He took it pretty hard when we lost. I don't think either one of us expected it."
"You didn't expect to be convicted?"
"Not really. I had already beaten it twice, you know. And my jury the third time had eight whites, or AngloAmericans I should say. As bad as the trial went, I don't think I ever really believed they'd convict me."
"What about Keyes?"
"Oh, he was worried. We damned sure didn't take it lightly. We spent months preparing for the trial. He neglected his other clients, even his family, for weeks while we were getting ready. McAllister was popping off in the papers every day, it seemed, and the more he talked the more we worked. They released the list of potential jurors, four hundred of them, and we spent days investigating those people. His pretrial preparation was impeccable. We were ;not naive."
"Lee told me you considered disappearing."
"Oh, she did."
"Yeah, she told me last night."
He tapped the next cigarette on the counter, and admired it for a moment as if it might be his last. "Yeah, I thought about it. Almost thirteen years passed before McAllister came after me. I was a free man, hell I was fortyseven years old when the second trial ended and I returned home. Forty-seven years old, and I had been cleared by two juries, and all this was behind me. I was happy. Life was normal. I farmed and ran a sawmill, drank coffee in town and voted in every election. The Feds watched me for a few months, but I guess they became convinced I'd given up bombing. From time to time, a pesky reporter or journalist would show up in Clanton and ask questions, but nobody spoke to them. They were always from up North, dumb as hell, rude and ignorant, and they never stayed long. One came to the house one day, and wouldn't leave. Instead of getting the shotgun, I just turned the dogs loose on him and they chewed his ass up. Never came back." He chuckled to himself and lit the cigarette. "Not in my wildest dreams did I envision this. If I'd had the slightest inkling, the faintest clue that this might happen to me, then I would have been gone years ago. I was completely free, you understand, no restrictions. I would've gone to South America, changed my name, disappeared two or three times, then settled in some place like Sao Paulo or Rio."
"Like Mengele."
"Something like that. They never caught him, you know. They never caught a bunch of those guys. I'd be living right now in a nice little house, speaking Portuguese and laughing at fools like David McAllister." Sam shook his head and closed his eyes, and dreamed of what might have been.
"Why didn't you leave when McAllister started making noises?"
"Because I was foolish. It happened slowly. It was like a bad dream coming to life in small segments. First, McAllister got elected with all his promises. Then, a few months later Dogan got nailed by the IRS. I started hearing rumors and reading little things in the newspapers. But I simply refused to believe it could happen. Before I knew it, the FBI was following me and I couldn't run."
Adam looked at his watch and was suddenly tired. They had been talking for more than two hours, and he needed fresh air and sunshine. His head ached from the cigarette smoke, and the room was growing warmer by the moment. He screwed the cap on his pen and slid the legal pad into his briefcase. "I'd better go," he said in the direction of the screen. "I'll probably come back tomorrow for another round."
"I'll be here."
"Lucas Mann has given me the green light to visit anytime I want."
"A helluva guy, isn't he?"
"He's okay. Just doing his job."
"So's Naifeh and Nugent and all those other white folks."
"White folks?"
"Yeah, it's slang for the authorities. Nobody really wants to kill me, but they're just doing their jobs. There's this little moron with nine fingers who's the official executioner - the guy who mixes the gas and inserts the canister. Ask him what he's doing as they strap me in, and he'll say, `Just doing my job.' The prison chaplain and the prison doctor and the prison psychiatrist, along with the guards who'll escort me in and the medics who'll carry me out, well, they're nice folks, nothing really against me, but they're just doing their jobs."
"It won't get that far, Sam."
"Is that a promise?"
"No. But think positive."
"Yeah, positive thinking's real popular around here. Me and the boys are big on motivational shows, along with travel programs and home shopping. The Africans prefer `Soul Train'."
"Lee's worried about you, Sam. She wanted me to tell you she's thinking about you and praying for you."