"We're an equal opportunity employer."
"That's nice. All proper and legal, I presume. In full compliance with all civil rights decisions and federal do-gooder laws."
"Of course."
"How many partners are in Kravitz & Bane now?"
Adam shrugged. The number varied from year to year. "Around a hundred and fifty."
"A hundred and fifty partners. And how many are women?"
Adam hesitated as he tried to count. "I really don't know. Probably a dozen."
"A dozen," Sam repeated, barely moving his lips. His hands were folded and still, and his eyes did not blink. "So, less than ten percent of your partners are women. How many nigger partners do you have?"
"Could we refer to them as blacks?"
"Oh sure, but of course that too is an antiquated term. They now want to be called African-Americans. Surely you're politically correct enough to know this."
Adam nodded but said nothing.
"How many African-American partners do you have?"
"Four, I believe."
"Less than three percent. My, my. Kravitz & Bane, that great bastion of civil justice and liberal political action, does, in fact, discriminate against African-Americans and Female-Americans. I just don't know what to say."
Adam scratched something illegible on his pad. He could argue, of course, that almost a third of the associates were female and that the firm made diligent efforts to sign the top black law students. He could explain how they had been sued for reverse discrimination by two white males whose job offers disappeared at the last moment.
"How many Jewish-American partners do you have? Eighty percent?"
"I don't know. It really doesn't matter to me."
"Well, it certainly matters to me. I was always embarrassed to be represented by such blatant bigots."
"A lot of people would find it appropriate."
Sam carefully reached into the only visible pocket of his jumpsuit, and removed a blue pack of Montclairs and a disposable lighter. The jumpsuit was unbuttoned halfway down the chest, and a thick matting of gray hair showed through the gap. The fabric was a very light cotton. Adam could not imagine life in this place with no air conditioning.
He lit the cigarette and exhaled toward the ceiling. "I thought I was through with you people."
"They didn't send me down here. I volunteered."
"Why?"
"I don't know. You need a lawyer, and - " "Why are you so nervous?"
Adam jerked his fingernails from his teeth and stopped tapping his feet. "I'm not nervous."
"Sure you are. I've seen lots of lawyers around this place, and I've never seen one as nervous as you. What's the matter, kid? You afraid I'm coming through the screen after you?"
Adam grunted and tried to smile. "Don't be silly. I'm not nervous."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-six."
"You look twenty-two. When did you finish law school?"
"Last year."
"Just great. The Jewish bastards have sent a greenhorn to save me. I've known for a long time that they secretly wanted me dead, now this proves it. I killed some Jews, now they want to kill me. I was right all along."
"You admit you killed the Kramer kids?"
"What the hell kind of question is that? The jury said I did. For nine years, the appeals courts have said the jury was right. That's all that matters. Who the hell are you asking me questions like that?"
"You need a lawyer, Mr. Cayhall. I'm here to help."
"I need a lot of things, boy, but I damned sure don't need an eager little tenderfoot like you to give me advice. You're dangerous, son, and you're too ignorant to know it." Again, the words came deliberately and without emotion. He held the cigarette between the index and middle finger of his right hand, and casually flipped ashes in an organized pile in a plastic bowl. His eyes blinked occasionally. His face showed neither feeling nor sentiment.
Adam took meaningless notes, then tried again to stare through the slit into Sam's eyes. "Look, Mr. Cayhall, I'm a lawyer, and I have a strong moral conviction against the death penalty. I am well educated, well trained, well read on Eighth Amendment issues, and I can be of assistance to you. That's why I'm here. Free of charge."
"Free of charge," Sam repeated. "How generous. Do you realize, son, that I get at least three offers a week now from lawyers who want to represent me for free? Big lawyers. Famous lawyers. Rich lawyers. Some real slimy snakes. They're all perfectly willing to sit where you're now sitting, file all the last minute motions and appeals, do the interviews, chase the cameras, hold my hand in the last hours, watch them gas me, then do yet another press conference, then sign a book deal, a movie deal, maybe a television mini-series deal about the life and times of Sam Cayhall, a real Klan murderer. You see, son, I'm famous, and what I did is now legendary. And since they're about to kill me, then I'm about to become even more famous. Thus, the lawyers want me. I'm worth a lot of money. A sick country, right."
Adam was shaking his head. "I don't want any of that, I promise. I'll put it in writing. I'll sign a complete confidentiality agreement."
Sam chuckled. "Right, and who's going to enforce it after I'm gone?"
"Your family," Adam said.
"Forget my family," Sam said firmly.
"My motives are pure, Mr. Cayhall. My firm has represented you for seven years, so I know almost everything about your file. I've also done quite a lot of research into your background."
"Join the club. I've had my underwear examined by a hundred half-ass reporters. There are many people who know much about me, it seems, and all this combined knowledge is of absolutely no benefit to me right now. I have four weeks. Do you know this?"
"I have a copy of the opinion."
"Four weeks, and they gas me."
"So let's get to work. You have my word that I will never talk to the press unless you authorize it, that I'll never repeat anything you tell me, and that I will not sign any book or movie deal. I swear it."
Sam lit another cigarette and stared at something on the counter. He gently rubbed his right temple with his right thumb, the cigarette just inches from his hair. For a long time the only sound was the gurgling of the overworked window unit. Sam smoked and contemplated. Adam doodled on his pad and was quite proud that his feet were motionless and his stomach was not aching. The silence was awkward, and he figured, correctly, that Sam could sit and smoke and think in utter silence for days.
"Are you familiar with Barroni?" Sam asked quietly.
"Barroni?"
"Yes, Barroni. Came down last week from the Ninth Circuit. California case."
Adam racked his brain for a trace of Barroni. "I might have seen it."
"You might have seen it? You're well trained, well read, etc., and you might have seen Barroni? What kind of halfass lawyer are you?"
"I'm not a half-ass lawyer."
"Right, right. What about Texas v. Eekes? Surely you've read that one?"
"When did it come down?"
"Within six weeks."
"What court?"
"Fifth Circuit."
"Eighth Amendment?"
"Don't be stupid," Sam grunted in genuine disgust. "Do you think I'd spend my time reading freedom of speech cases? This is my ass sitting over here, boy, these are my wrists and ankles that will be strapped down. This is my nose the poison will hit."