Indeed it was. Almost an entire page was dedicated to a venomous attack on David McAllister. Sam forgot about the law and used words like scurrilous and egotistical and narcissistic and mentioned more than once the insatiable appetite for publicity.
"So you have a problem with the governor," Adam said.
Sam snorted.
"I don't think this is a good idea, Sam."
"I really don't care what you think."
"The governor could save your life."
"Oh really. He's the only reason I'm here, on death row, waiting to die, in the gas chamber. Why in hell would he want to save my life?"
"I didn't say he wanted to. I said that he could. Let's keep our options open."
Sam smirked for a long minute as he lit a cigarette. He blinked and rolled his eyes as if this kid was the dumbest human he'd encountered in decades. Then he leaned forward on his left elbow and pointed at Adam with a crooked right finger. "If you think David McAllister will grant me a last minute pardon, then you're a fool. But let me tell you what he will do. He'll use you, and me, to suck out all the publicity imaginable. He'll invite you to his office at the state capitol, and before you get there he'll tip off the media. He'll listen with remarkable sincerity. He'll profess grave reservations about whether I should die. He'll schedule another meeting, closer to the execution. And after you leave, he'll hold a couple of interviews and divulge everything you've just told him. He'll rehash the Kramer bombing. He'll talk about civil rights and all that radical nigger crap. He'll probably even cry. The closer I get to the gas chamber, the bigger the media circus will become. He'll try every way in the world to get in the middle of it. He'll meet with you every day, if we allow it. He'll take us to the wire."
"He can do this without us."
"And he will. Mark my word, Adam.
An hour before I die, he'll hold a press conference somewhere probably here, maybe at the governor's mansion -and he'll stand there in the glare of a hundred cameras and deny me clemency. And the bastard will have tears in his eyes."
"It won't hurt to talk to him."
"Fine. Go talk to him. And after you do, I'll invoke paragraph two and your ass'll go back to Chicago."
"He might like me. We could be friends."
"Oh, he'll love you. You're Sam's grandson. What a great story! More reporters, more cameras, more journalists, more interviews. He'd love to make your acquaintance so he can string you along. Hell, you might get him reelected."
Adam flipped another page, made some more notes, and stalled for a while in an effort to move away from the governor. "Where'd you learn to write like this?" he asked.
"Same place you did. I was taught by the same learned souls who provided your instruction. Dead judges. Honorable justices. Windy lawyers. Tedious professors. I've read the same garbage you've read."
"Not bad," Adam said, scanning another paragraph.
"I'm delighted you think so."
"I understand you have quite a little practice here."
"Practice. What's a practice? Why do lawyers practice? Why can't they just work like everyone else? Do plumbers practice? Do truck drivers practice? No, they simply work. But not lawyers. Hell no. They're special, and they practice. With all their damned practicing you'd think they'd know what the hell they were doing. You'd think they'd eventually become good at something."
"Do you like anyone?"
"That's an idiotic question."
"Why is it idiotic?"
"Because you're sitting on that side of the wall. And you can walk out that door and drive away. And tonight you can have dinner in a nice restaurant and sleep in a soft bed. Life's a bit different on this side. I'm treated like an animal. I have a cage. I have a death sentence which allows the State of Mississippi to kill me in four weeks, and so yes, son, it's hard to be loving and compassionate. It's hard to like people these days. That's why your question is foolish."
"Are you saying you were loving and compassionate before you arrived here?"
Sam stared through the opening and puffed on the cigarette. "Another stupid question."
"Why?"
"It's irrelevant, counselor. You're a lawyer, not a shrink."
"I'm your grandson. Therefore, I'm allowed to ask questions about your past."
"Ask them. They might not be answered."
Why not?"
"The past is gone, son. It's history. We can't undo what's been done. Nor can we explain it all."
"But I don't have a past."
"Then you are indeed a lucky person."
"I'm not so sure."
"Look, if you expect me to fill in the gaps, then I'm afraid you've got the wrong person."
"Okay. Who else should I talk to?"
"I don't know. It's not important."
"Maybe it's important to me."
"Well, to be honest, I'm not too concerned about you right now. Believe it or not, I'm much more worried about me. Me and my future. Me and my neck. There's a big clock ticking somewhere, ticking rather loudly, wouldn't you say? For some strange reason, don't ask me why, but I can hear the damned thing and it makes me real anxious. I find it very difficult to worry about the problems of others."
"Why did you become a Klansman?"
"Because my father was in the Klan."
"Why did he become a Klansman?"
"Because his father was in the Klan."
"Great. Three generations."
"Four, I think. Colonel Jacob Cayhall fought with Nathan Bedford Forrest in the war, and family legend has it that he was one of the early members of the Klan. He was my greatgrandfather."
"You're proud of this?"
"Is that a question?"
"Yes."
"It's not a matter of pride." Sam nodded at the counter. "Are you going to sign that agreement?"
"Yes."
"Then do it."
Adam signed at the bottom of the back page and handed it to Sam. "You're asking questions that are very confidential. As my lawyer, you cannot breathe a word."
"I understand the relationship."
Sam signed his name next to Adam's, then studied the signatures. "When did you become a Hall?"
"A month before my fourth birthday. It was a family affair. We were all converted at the same time. Of course, I don't remember."
"Why did he stick with Hall? Why not make a clean break and go with Miller or Green or something?"
"Is that a question?"
No.
"He was running, Sam. And he was burning bridges as he went. I guess four generations was enough for him."
Sam placed the contract in a chair beside him, and methodically lit another cigarette. He exhaled at the ceiling and stared at Adam. "Look, Adam," he said slowly, his voice suddenly much softer. "Let's lay off the family stuff for a while, okay. Maybe we'll get around to it later. Right now I need to know what's about to happen to me. What are my chances, you know? Stuff like that. How do you stop the clock? What do you file next?"
"Depends on several things, Sam. Depends on how much you tell me about the bombing."
"I don't follow."
"If there are new facts, then we present them.
There are ways, believe me. We'll find a judge who'll listen."
"What kind of new facts?"
Adam flipped to a clean page on his pad, and scribbled the date in the margin. "Who delivered the green Pontiac to Cleveland on the night before the bombing?"