Donnie and Adam sat in the chairs along a wall, watching Sam's back as he slowly ate his last meal.
They'd been arriving since five o'clock. They came from all over the state, all driving alone, all riding in big four-door cars of varied colors with elaborate seals and emblems and markings on the doors and fenders. Some had racks of emergency lights across the roof. Some had shotguns mounted on the screens above the front seats. All had tall antennas swinging in the wind.
They were the sheriffs, each elected in his own county to protect the citizenry from lawlessness. Most had served for many years, and most had already taken part in the unrecorded ritual of the execution dinner.
A cook named Miss Mazola prepared the feast, and the menu never varied. She fried large chickens in animal fat. She cooked blackeyed peas in ham hocks. And she made real buttermilk biscuits the size of small saucers. Her kitchen was in the rear of a small cafeteria near the main administration building. The food was always served at seven, regardless of how many sheriffs were present.
Tonight's crowd would be the largest since Teddy Doyle Meeks was put to rest in 1982. Miss Mazola anticipated this because she read the papers and everybody knew about Sam Cayhall. She expected at least fifty sheriffs.
They were waved through the front gates like dignitaries, and they parked haphazardly around the cafeteria. For the most part they were big men, with earnest stomachs and voracious appetites. They were famished after the long drive.
Their banter was light over dinner. They ate like hogs, then retired outside to the front of the building where they sat on the hoods of their cars and watched it grow dark. They picked chicken from their teeth and bragged on Miss Mazola's cooking. They listened to their radios squawk, as if the news of Cayhall's death would be transmitted at any moment. They talked about other executions and heinous crimes back home, and about local boys on the Row. Damned gas chamber wasn't used enough.
They stared in amazement at the hundreds of demonstrators near the highway in front of them. They picked their teeth some more, then went back inside for chocolate cake.
It was a wonderful night for law enforcement.
Chapter 49
DARKNESS brought an eerie quiet to the highway in front of Parchman. The Klansmen, not a single one of whom had considered leaving after Sam asked them to, sat in folding chairs and on the trampled grass, and waited. The skinheads and likeminded brethren who'd roasted in the August sun sat in small groups and drank ice water. The nuns and other activists had been joined by a contingent from Amnesty International. They lit candles, said prayers, hummed songs. They tried to keep their distance from the hate groups. Pick any other day, another execution, another inmate, and those same hateful people would be screaming for blood.
The calm was broken momentarily when a pickup load of teenagers slowed near the front entrance. They suddenly began shouting loudly and in unison, "Gas his ass! Gas his ass! Gas his ass!" The truck squealed tires and sped away. Some of the Klansmen jumped to their feet, ready for battle, but the kids were gone, never to return.
The imposing presence of the highway patrol kept matters under control. The troopers stood about in groups, watching the traffic, keeping close watch on the Klansmen and the skinheads. A helicopter made its rounds above.
Goodman finally called a halt to the market analysis. In five long days, they had logged over two thousand calls. He paid the students, confiscated the cellular phones, and thanked them profusely. None of them seemed willing to throw in the towel, so they walked with him to the capitol where another candlelight vigil was under way on the front steps. The governor was still in his office on the second floor.
One of the students volunteered to take a phone to John Bryan Glass, who was across the street at the Mississippi Supreme Court. Goodman called him, then called Kerry, then called Joshua Caldwell, an old friend who'd agreed to wait at the Death Clerk's desk in Washington. Goodman had everyone in place. All the phones were working. He called Adam. Sam was finishing his last meal, Adam said, and didn't wish to talk to Goodman. But he did want to say thanks for everything.
When the coffee and ice cream were gone, Sam stood and stretched his legs. Donnie had been quiet for a long time. He was suffering and ready to go. Nugent would come soon, and he wanted to say good-bye now.
There was a spot where Sam had spilled ice cream on his new shirt, and Donnie tried to remove it with a cloth napkin. "It's not that important," Sam said, watching his brother.
Donnie kept wiping. "Yeah, you're right. I'd better go now, Sam. They'll be here in a minute."
The two men embraced for a long time, patting each other gently on the backs. "I'm so sorry, Sam," Donnie said, his voice shaking. "I'm so sorry."
They pulled apart, still clutching each other's shoulders, both men with moist eyes but no tears. They would not dare cry before each other. "You take care," Sam said.
"You too. Say a prayer, Sam, okay?"
"I will. Thanks for everything. You're the only one who cared."
Donnie bit his lip and hid his eyes from Sam. He shook hands with Adam, but could not utter a word. He walked behind Sam to the door, then left them.
"No word from the Supreme Court?" Sam asked out of nowhere, as if he suddenly believed there was a chance.
"No," Adam said sadly.
He sat on the desk, his feet swinging beneath him. "I really want this to be over, Adam," he said, each word carefully measured. "This is cruel."
Adam could think of nothing to say.
"In China, they sneak up behind you and put a bullet through your head. No last bowl of rice. No farewells. No waiting. Not a bad idea."
Adam looked at his watch for the millionth time in the past hour. Since noon, there had been gaps when hours seemed to vanish, then suddenly time would stop. It would fly, then it would crawl. Someone knocked on the door. "Come in," Sam said faintly.
The Reverend Ralph Griffin entered and closed the door. He'd met with Sam twice during the day, and was obviously taking this hard. It was his first execution, and he'd already decided it would be his last. His cousin in the state senate would have to find him another' job. He nodded at Adam and sat by Sam on
the desk. It was almost nine o'clock.
"Colonel Nugent's out there, Sam. He said he's waiting on you."
"Well, then, let's not go out. Let's just sit here."
"Suits me."
"You know, preacher, my heart has been touched these past few days in ways I never dreamed possible. But, for the life of me, I hate that jerk out there. And I can't overcome it."
"Hate's an awful thing, Sam."
"I know. But I can't help it."
"I don't particularly like him either, to be honest."
Sam grinned at the minister and put his arm around him. The voices outside grew louder, and Nugent barged into the room. "Sam, it's time to go back to the Observation Cell," he said.
Adam stood, his knees weak with fear, his stomach in knots, his heart racing wildly. Sam, however, was unruffled. He jumped from the desk. "Let's go," he said.
They followed Nugent from the front office into the narrow hallway where some of the largest guards at Parchman were waiting along the wall. Sam took Adam by the hand, and they walked slowly together with the reverend trailing behind.
Adam squeezed his grandfather's hand, and ignored the faces as they walked by. They went through the center of the Row, through two sets of doors, then through the bars at the end of Tier A. The tier door closed behind them, and they followed Nugent past the cells.