"Was he involved with Kramer?"
"No. Dogan used someone else for that one. At times, Dogan seemed to have a sixth sense about when to mix things up, to change routines."
"Virgil's suspect certainly doesn't sound like Sam Cayhall, does he?" Adam asked.
No.
"And you had no suspects?"
No.
"Come on, Wyn. Surely you guys had some idea."
"I swear. We did not. Shortly after we met Virgil, Kramer got bombed and it was all over. If Sam had a buddy, then the buddy left him."
"And the FBI heard nothing afterward?"
"Not a peep. We had Sam, who looked and smelled extremely guilty."
"And, of course, you guys were anxious to close the case."
"Certainly. And the bombings stopped, remember. There were no bombings after Sam got caught, don't forget that. We had our man. Mr. Hoover was happy. The Jews were happy. The President was happy. Then they couldn't convict him for fourteen years, but that was a different story. Everyone was relieved when the bombings stopped."
"So why didn't Dogan squeal on the real bomber when he squealed on Sam?"
They had eased down the bank to a point just inches above the water.
Adam's car sat nearby. Lettner cleared his throat and spat into the river. "Would you testify against a terrorist who was not in custody?"
Adam thought for a second. Lettner smiled, flashed his big yellow teeth, then chuckled as he started for the dock. "Let's have a beer."
"No. Please. I need to go."
Lettner stopped, and they shook hands and promised to meet again, Adam invited him to Memphis, and Lettner invited him back to Calico Rock for more fishing and drinking. At the moment, his invitation was not well received. Adam sent his regards to Irene, apologized again for passing out in the washroom, and thanked him again for the chat.
He left the small town behind, driving gingerly around the curves and hills, still careful not to upset his stomach.
Lee was struggling with a pasta dish when he entered her apartment. The table was set with china and silver and fresh flowers. The recipe was for baked manicotti, and things were not going well in the kitchen. On more than one occasion in the past week she'd confessed to being a lousy cook, and now she was proving it. Pots and pans were scattered along the countertops. Her seldom used apron was covered with tomato sauce. She laughed as they kissed each other on the cheeks and said there was a frozen pizza if matters got worse.
"You look awful," she said, suddenly staring at his eyes.
"It was a rough night."
"You smell like alcohol."
"I had two bloody marys for breakfast. And I need another one now."
"The bar's closed." She picked up a knife and stepped to a pile of vegetables. A zucchini was the next victim. "What did you do up there?"
"Got drunk with the FBI man. Slept on the floor next to his washer and dryer."
"How nice." She came within a centimeter of drawing blood. She jerked her hand away from the chopping block and examined a finger. "Have you seen the Memphis paper?"
"No. Should I?"
"Yes. It's over there." She nodded to a corner of the snack bar.
"Something bad?"
"Just read it."
Adam took the Sunday edition of the Memphis Press and sat in a chair at the table. On the front page of the second section, he suddenly encountered his smiling face. It was a familiar photo, one taken not long ago when he was a second-year law student at Michigan. The story covered half the page, and his photo was joined by many others - Sam, of course, Marvin Kramer, Josh and John Kramer, Ruth Kramer, David McAllister, the Attorney General, Steve Roxburgh, Naifeh, Jeremiah Dogan, and Mr. Elliot Kramer, father of Marvin.
Todd Marks had been busy. His narrative began with a succinct history of the case which took an entire column, then he moved quickly to the present and recapped the same story he'd written two days earlier. He found a bit more biographical data on Adam - college at Pepperdine, law school at Michigan, law review editor, brief employment history with Kravitz & Bane. Naifeh had very little to say, only that the execution would be carried out according to the law. McAllister, on the other hand, was full of wisdom. He had lived with the Kramer nightmare for twenty-three years, he said gravely, thinking about it every day of his life since it happened. It had been his honor and privilege to prosecute Sam Cayhall and bring the killer to justice, and only the execution could close this awful chapter of Mississippi's history. No, he said after much thought, the idea of clemency was out of the question. Just wouldn't be fair to the little Kramer boys. And on and on.
Steve Roxburgh had evidently enjoyed his interview too. He stood ready to fight the final efforts by Cayhall and his lawyer to thwart the execution. He and his staff were prepared to work eighteen hours a day to carry out the wishes of the people. This natter had dragged on long enough, he was quoted as saying more than once, and it was time for justice. No, he was not worried about the last ditch legal challenges of Mr. Cayhall. He had confidence in his skills as a lawyer, the people's lawyer.
Sam Cayhall refused to comment, Marks explained, and Adam Hall couldn't be reached, as if Adam was eager to talk but simply couldn't be found.
The comments from the family were both interesting and disheartening. Elliot Kramer, now seventy-seven and still working, was described as spry and healthy in spite of heart trouble. He was also very bitter. He blamed the Klan and Sam Cayhall not only for killing his two grandsons, but also for Marvin's death. He'd been waiting twenty-three years for Sam to be executed, and it couldn't come a minute too soon. He lashed out at a judicial system that allows a convict to live for almost ten years after the jury gives him a death penalty. He was not certain if he would witness the execution, it would be up to his doctors, he said, but he wanted to. He wanted to be there and look Cayhall in the eyes when they strapped him in.
Ruth Kramer was a bit more moderate. Time had healed many of the wounds, she said, and she was unsure how she would feel after the execution. Nothing would bring back her sons. She had little to say to Todd Marks.
Adam folded the paper and placed it beside the chair. He suddenly had a knot in his fragile stomach, and it came from Steve Roxburgh and David McAllister. As the lawyer expected to save Sam's life, it was frightening to see his enemies so eager for the final battle. He was a rookie. They were veterans. Roxburgh in particular had been through it before, and he had an experienced staff which included a renowned specialist known as Dr. Death, a skilled advocate with a passion for executions. Adam had nothing but an exhausted file full of unsuccessful appeals, and a prayer that a miracle would happen. At this moment he felt completely vulnerable and hopeless.
Lee sat next to him with a cup of espresso. "You look worried," she said, stroking his arm.
"My buddy at the trout dock was of no help."
"Sounds like old man Kramer is hell-bent."
Adam rubbed his temples and tried to ease the pain. "I need a painkiller."
"How about a Valium?"
"Wonderful."
"Are you real hungry?"
"No. My stomach is not doing well."
"Good. Dinner has been terminated. A slight problem with the recipe. It's frozen pizza or nothing."
"Nothing sounds good to me. Nothing but a Valium."
Chapter 21
A DAM dropped his keys in the red bucket and watched it ascend to a point twenty feet off the ground where it stopped and spun slowly on the end of the rope. He walked to the first gate, which jerked before sliding open. He walked to the second gate, and waited. Packer emerged from the front door a hundred feet away, stretching and yawning as if he'd been napping on the Row.