The Chamber

THE guard named Tiny handcuffed Sam and led him off Tier A. Sam carried a plastic bag filled tightly with the last two weeks' worth of fan mail. For most of his career as a death row inmate, he had averaged a handful of letters a month from supporters - Klansmen and their sympathizers, racial purists, anti-Semites, all types of bigots. For a couple of years he had answered these letters, but with time had grown weary of it. What was the benefit? To some he was a hero, but the more he swapped words with his admirers the wackier they became. There were a lot of nuts out there. The idea had crossed his mind that perhaps he was safer on the Row than in the free world.

Mail had been declared to be a right by the federal court, not a privilege. Thus, it could not be taken away. It could, however, be regulated. Each letter was opened by an inspector unless the envelope clearly was from an attorney. Unless an inmate was under mail censorship, the letters were not read. They were delivered to the Row in due course and dispensed to the inmates. Boxes and packages were also opened and inspected.

The thought of losing Sam was frightening to many fanatics, and his mail had picked up dramatically since the Fifth Circuit lifted his stay. They offered their unwavering support, and their prayers. A few offered money. Their letters tended to run long as they invariably blasted Jews and blacks and liberals and other conspirators. Some bitched about taxes, gun control, the national debt. Some delivered sermons.

Sam was tired of the letters. He was averaging six per day. He placed them on the counter as the handcuffs were removed, then asked the guard to unlock a small door in the screen. The guard shoved the plastic bag through the door and Adam took it on the other side. The guard left, locking the door behind.

"What's this?" Adam asked, holding the bag.

"Fan mail." Sam took his regular seat and lit a cigarette.

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Read it. Burn it. I don't care. I was cleaning my cell this morning and the stuff got in the way. I understand you were in New Orleans yesterday. Tell me about it."

Adam placed the letters on a chair, and sat across from Sam. The temperature outside was a hundred and two, and not much cooler inside the visitors' room. It was Saturday, and Adam was dressed in jeans, loafers, and a very light cotton polo. "The Fifth Circuit called Thursday, and said they wanted to hear from me on Friday. I went down, dazzled them with my brilliance, and flew back to Memphis this morning."

"When do they rule?"

"Soon."

"A three-judge panel?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Judy, Robichaux, and McNeely."

Sam contemplated the names for a moment. "McNeely's an old warrior who'll help us. Judy's a conservative bitch, oops, sorry, I mean a conservative Female-American, a Republican appointee. I doubt if she'll help. I'm not familiar with Robichaux. Where's he from?"

"Southern Louisiana."

"Ah, a Cajun-American."

"I guess. He's a hard-ass. He won't help."

"Then we'll lose by two to one. I thought you said you dazzled them with your brilliance."

"We haven't lost yet." Adam was surprised to hear Sam speak with such familiarity about the individual judges. But then, he'd been studying the court for many years.

"Where's the ineffective counsel claim?" Sam asked.

"Still in district court here. It's a few days behind the other."

"Let's file something else, okay."

"I'm working on it."

"Work fast. I've got eleven days. There's a calendar on my wall, and I spend at least three hours a day staring at it. When I wake up in the morning I make a big X over the date for the day before. I've got a circle around August 8. My X's are getting closer to the circle. Do something."

"I'm working, okay. In fact, I'm developing a new theory of attack."

"Atta boy."

"I think we can prove you're mentally unbalanced."

"I've been considering that."

"You're old. You're senile. You're too calm about this. Something must be wrong. You're unable to comprehend the reason for your execution."

"We've been reading the same cases."

"Goodman knows an expert who'll say anything for a fee. We're considering bringing him down here to examine you."

"Wonderful. I'll pull out my hair and chase butterflies around the room."

"I think we can make a hard run at a mental incompetency claim."

"I agree. Go for it. Let's file lots of things."

"I'll do it."

Sam puffed and pondered for a few minutes. They were both sweating, and Adam needed fresh air. He needed to get in his car with the windows up and turn the air on high.

"When are you coming back?" Sam asked.

"Monday. Listen, Sam, this is not a pleasant subject, but we need to address it. You're gonna die one of these days. It might be on August 8, or it might be five years from now. At the rate you're smoking, you can't last for long."

"Smoking is not my most pressing health concern."

"I know. But your family, Lee and I, need to make some burial arrangements. It can't be done overnight."

Sam stared at the rows of tiny triangles in the screen. Adam scribbled on a legal pad. The air conditioner spewed and hissed, accomplishing little.

"Your grandmother was a fine lady, Adam. I'm sorry you didn't know her. She deserved better than me."

"Lee took me to her grave."

"I caused her a lot of suffering, and she bore it well. Bury me next to her, and maybe I can tell her I'm sorry."

"I'll take care of it."

"Do that. How will you pay for the plot?"

"I can handle it, Sam."

"I don't have any money, Adam. I lost it years ago, for reasons which are probably obvious. I lost the land and the house, so there are no assets to leave behind."

"Do you have a will?"

"Yes. I prepared it myself."

"We'll look at it next week."

"You promise you'll be here Monday."

"I promise, Sam. Can I bring you anything?"

Sam hesitated for a second and almost seemed embarrassed. "You know what I'd really like?" he asked with a childish grin.

"What? Anything, Sam."

"When I was a kid, the greatest thrill in life was an Eskimo Pie."

"An Eskimo Pie?"

"Yeah, it's a little ice cream treat on a stick. Vanilla, with a chocolate coating. I ate them until I came to this place. I think they still make them."

"An Eskimo Pie?" Adam repeated.

"Yeah. I can still taste it. The greatest ice cream in the world. Can you imagine how good one would taste right now in this oven?"

"Then, Sam, you shall have an Eskimo Pie." "Bring more than one."

"I'll bring a dozen. We'll eat 'em right here while we sweat."

Sam's second visitor on Saturday was not expected. He stopped at the guard station by the front gate, and produced a North Carolina driver's license with his picture on it. He explained to the guard that he was the brother of Sam Cayhall, and had been told he could visit Sam on death row at his convenience between now and the scheduled execution. He had talked to a Mr. Holland somewhere deep in Administration yesterday, and Mr. Holland had assured him the visitation rules were relaxed for Sam Cayhall. He could visit anytime between H A.m. and 5 P.m., any day of the week. The guard stepped inside and made a phone call.

Five minutes passed as the visitor sat patiently in his rented car. The guard made two more calls, then copied the registration number of the car onto her clipboard. She instructed the visitor to park a few feet away, lock his car, and wait by the guard station. He did so, and within a few minutes a white prison van appeared. An armed, uniformed guard was behind the wheel, and he motioned for the visitor to get in.

The van was cleared through the double gates at MSU, and driven to the front entrance where two other guards waited. They frisked him on the steps. He was carrying no packages or bags.

They led him around the corner and into the empty visitors' room. He took a seat near the middle of the screen. "We'll get Sam," one of the guards said. "Take about five minutes."

Sam was typing a letter when the guards stopped at his door. "Let's go, Sam. You have a visitor."

He stopped typing and stared at them. His fan was blowing hard and his television was tuned to a baseball game. "Who is it?" he snapped.

"Your brother."

Sam gently placed the typewriter on the bookshelf and grabbed his jumpsuit. "Which brother?"

"We didn't ask any questions, Sam. Just your brother. Now come on."

They handcuffed him and he followed them along the tier. Sam once had three brothers, but his oldest had died of a heart attack before Sam was sent to prison. Donnie, the youngest at age sixty-one, now lived near Durham, North Carolina. Albert, age sixty-seven, was in bad health and lived deep in the woods of rural Ford County. Donnie sent the cigarettes each month, along with a few dollars and an occasional note. Albert hadn't written in seven years. A spinster aunt had written until her death in 1985. The rest of the Cayhalls had forgotten Sam.

It had to be Donnie, he said to himself. Donnie was the only one who cared enough to visit. He hadn't seen him in two years, and he stepped lighter as they neared the door to the visitors' room. What a pleasant surprise.

Sam stepped through the door and looked at the man sitting on the other side of the screen. It was a face he didn't recognize. He glanced around the room, and confirmed it was empty except for this visitor, who at the moment was staring at Sam with a cool and even gaze. The guards watched closely as they sprung the handcuffs, so Sam smiled and nodded at the man. Then he stared at the guards until they left the room and shut the door. Sam sat opposite his visitor, lit a cigarette, and said nothing.

There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't identify him. They watched each other through the opening in the screen.

"Do I know you?" Sam finally asked.

"Yes," the man answered.

"From where?"

"From the past, Sam. From Greenville and Jackson and Vicksburg. From the synagogue and the real estate office and the Pinder home and Marvin Kramer's."

"Wedge?"

The man nodded slowly, and Sam closed his eyes and exhaled at the ceiling. He dropped his cigarette and slumped in his chair. "God, I was hoping you were dead."

"Too bad."

Sam glared wildly at him. "You son of a bitch," he said with clenched teeth. "Son of a bitch. I've hoped and dreamed for twenty-three years that you were dead. I've killed you a million times myself, with my bare hands, with sticks and knives and every weapon known to man. I've watched you bleed and I've heard you scream for mercy."

"Sorry. Here I am, Sam."

"I hate you more than any person has ever been hated. If I had a gun right now I'd blow your sorry ass to hell and back. I'd pump your head full of lead and laugh until I cried. God, how I hate you."

"Do you treat all your visitors like this, Sam?"

"What do you want, Wedge?"

"Can they hear us in here?"

"They don't give a damn what we're saying." "But this place could be wired, you know."

"Then leave, fool, just leave."

"I will in a minute. But first I just wanted to say that I'm here, and I'm watching things real close, and I'm very pleased that my name has not been mentioned. I certainly hope this continues. I've been very effective at keeping people quiet."

"You're very subtle."

"Just take it like a man, Sam. Die with dignity. You were with me. You were an accomplice and a conspirator, and under the law you're just as guilty as me. Sure I'm a free man, but who said life is fair. Just go on and take our little secret to your grave, and no one gets hurt, okay?"

"Where have you been?"

"Everywhere. My name's not really Wedge, Sam, so don't get any ideas. It was never Wedge. Not even Dogan knew my real name. I was drafted in 1966, and I didn't want to go to Vietnam. So I went to Canada and came back to the underground. Been there ever since. I don't exist, Sam."

"You should be sitting over here."

"No, you're wrong. I shouldn't, and neither should you. You were an idiot for going back to Greenville. The FBI was clueless. They never would've caught us. I was too smart. Dogan was too smart. You, however, happened to be the weak link. It would've been the last bombing too, you know, with the dead bodies and all. It was time to quit. I fled the country and would've never returned to this miserable place. You would've gone home to your chickens and cows. Who knows what Dogan would've done. But the reason you're sitting over there, Sam, is because you were a dumbass."

"And you're a dumbass for coming here today."

"Not really. No one would believe you if you started screaming. Hell, they all think you're crazy anyway. But just the same, I'd rather keep things the way they are. I don't need the hassle. Just accept what's coming, Sam, and do it quietly."

Sam carefully lit another cigarette, and thumped the ashes in the floor. "Leave, Wedge. And don't ever come back."

"Sure. I hate to say it, Sam, but I hope they gas you."

Sam stood and walked to the door behind him. A guard opened it, and took him away.

They sat in the rear of the cinema and ate popcorn like two teenagers. The movie was

Adam's idea. She'd spent three days in her room, with the virus, and by Saturday morning the binge was over. He had selected a family restaurant for dinner, one with quick food and no alcohol on the menu. She'd devoured pecan waffles with whipped cream.

The movie was a western, politically correct with the Indians as the good guys and the cowboys as scum. All pale faces were evil and eventually killed. Lee drank two large Dr. Peppers. Her hair was clean and pulled back over her ears. Her eyes were clear and pretty again. Her face was made up and the wounds of the past week were hidden. She was as cool as ever in jeans and cotton button-down. And she was sober.

Little had been said about last Thursday night when Adam slept by the door. They had agreed to discuss it later, at some distant point in the future when she could handle it. That was fine with him. She was walking a shaky tightrope, teetering on the edge of another plunge into the blackness of dipsomania. He would protect her from torment and distress. He would make things pleasant and enjoyable. No more talk of Sam and his killings. No more talk of Eddie. No more Cayhall family history.

She was his aunt, and he loved her dearly. She was fragile and sick, and she needed his strong voice and broad shoulders.