At times, death would be welcome. And if given the choice of death on one hand, or life on death row on the other, Sam would quickly take the gas. But there was always hope, always the slight glimmering promise that something somewhere in the vast maze of the judicial jungle would strike a chord with someone, and his case would be reversed. Every resident of the Row dreamed of the miracle reversal from heaven. And their dreams sustained them from one miserable day to the next.
Sam had recently read that there were almost twenty-five hundred inmates sentenced to die in America, and last year, 1989, only sixteen were executed. Mississippi had executed only four since 1977, the year Gary Gilmore insisted on a firing squad in Utah. There was safety in those numbers. They fortified his resolve to file even more appeals.
He smoked through the bars as the storm passed and the rain stopped. He took his breakfast as the sun rose, and at seven o'clock he turned on the television for the morning news. He had just bitten into a piece of cold toast when suddenly his face appeared on the screen behind a Memphis morning anchorperson. She eagerly reported the thrilling top story of the day, the bizarre case of Sam Cayhay and his new lawyer. Seems his new lawyer' was his long-lost grandson, one Adam Hall, a young lawyer from the mammoth Chicago firm of Kravitz & Bane, the outfit who'd represented Sam for the past seven years or so. The photo of Sam was at least ten years old, the same one they used every time his name was mentioned on TV or in print. The photo of Adam was a bit stranger. He obviously had not posed for it. Someone had snapped it outdoors while he wasn't looking. She explained with wild eyes that the Memphis Press was reporting this morning that Adam Hall had confirmed that he was in fact the grandson of Sam Cayhall. She gave a fleeting sketch of Sam's crime, and twice gave the date of his pending execution. More on the story later, she promised, perhaps maybe as soon as the `Noon Report'. Then she was off on the morning summary of last night's murders.
Sam threw the toast on the floor next to the bookshelves and stared at it. An insect found it almost immediately and crawled over and around it a half dozen times before deciding it wasn't worth eating. His lawyer had already talked to the press. What do they teach these people in law school? Do they give instruction on media control?
"Sam, you there?" It was Gullitt.
"Yeah. I'm here."
"Just saw you on channel four."
"Yeah. I saw it."
"You pissed?"
"I'm okay."
"Take a deep breath, Sam. It's okay."
Among men sentenced to die in the gas chamber, the expression `Take a deep breath' was used often and considered nothing more than an effort at humor. They said it to each other all the time, usually when one was angry. But when used by the guards it was far from funny. It was a constitutional violation. It had been mentioned in more than one lawsuit as an example of the cruel treatment dispensed on death row.
Sam agreed with the insect and ignored the rest of his breakfast. He sipped coffee and stared at the floor.
At nine-thirty, Sergeant Packer was on the tier looking for Sam. It was time for his hour of fresh air. The rains were far away and the sun was blistering the Delta. Packer had two guards with him and a pair of leg irons. Sam pointed at the chains, and asked, "What are they for?"
"They're for security, Sam."
"I'm just going out to play, aren't I?"
"No, Sam. We're taking you to the law library. Your lawyer wants to meet you there so y'all can talk amongst the law books. Now turn around."
Sam stuck both hands through the opening of his door. Packer cuffed them loosely, then the door opened and Sam stepped into the hall. The guards dropped to their knees and were securing the leg irons when Sam asked, Packer, "What about my hour out?"
"What about it?"
"When do I get it?"
"Later."
"You said that yesterday and I didn't get my rec time. You lied to me yesterday. Now you're lying to me again. I'll sue you for this."
"Lawsuits take a long time, Sam. They take years."
"I want to talk to the warden."
"And I'm sure he wants to talk to you too, Sam. Now, do you want to see your lawyer or not?"
"I have a right to my lawyer and I have a right to my rec time."
"Get off his ass, Packer!" Hank Henshaw shouted from less than six feet away.
"You lie, Packer! You lie!" J. B. Gullitt added from the other side.
"Down, boys," Packer said coolly. "We'll take care of old Sam, here."
"Yeah, you'd gas him today if you could," Henshaw yelled.
The leg irons were in place, and Sam shuffled into his cell to get a file. He clutched it to his chest and waddled down the tier with Packer at his side and the guards following.
"Give 'em hell, Sam," Henshaw yelled as they walked away.
There were other shouts of support for Sam and catcalls at Packer as they left the tier. They were cleared through a set of doors and Tier A was behind them.
"The warden says you get two hours out this afternoon, and two hours a day till it's over," Packer said as they moved slowly through a short hallway.
"Till what's over?"
"This thang."
"What thang?"
Packer and most of the guards referred to an execution as a thang.
"You know what I mean," Packer said.
"Tell the warden he's a real sweetheart. And ask him if I get two hours if this thang doesn't go off, okay? And while you're at it, tell him I think he's a lying son of a bitch."
"He already knows."
They stopped at a wall of bars and waited for the door to open. They passed through it and stopped again by two guards at the front door. Packer made quick notes on a clipboard, and they walked outside where a white van was waiting. The guards took Sam by the arms and lifted him and his chains into the side door. Packer sat in the front with the driver.
"Does this thing have air conditioning?" Sam snapped at the driver, whose window was down.
"Yep," the driver said as they backed away from the front of MSU.
"Then turn the damned thing on, okay."
"Knock it off, Sam," Packer said without conviction.
"It's bad enough to sweat all day in a cage with no air conditioning, but it's pretty stupid to sit here and suffocate. Turn the damned thing on. I've got my rights."
"Take a deep breath, Sam," Packer drawled and winked at the driver.
"That'll cost you, Packer. You'll wish--you hadn't said that."
The driver hit a switch and the air started blowing. The van was cleared through the double gates and slowly made its way down the dirt road away from the Row.
Though he was handcuffed and shackled, this brief journey on the outside was refreshing. Sam stopped the bitching and immediately ignored the others in the van. The rains had left puddles in the grassy ditches beside the road, and they had washed the cotton plants, now more than knee-high. The stalks and leaves were dark green. Sam remembered picking cotton as a boy, then quickly dismissed the thought. He had trained his mind to forget the past, and on those rare occasions when a childhood memory flashed before him, he quickly snuffed it out.
The van crept along, and he was thankful for this. He stared at two inmates sitting under a tree watching a buddy lift weights in the sun.
There was a fence around them, but how nice, he thought, to be outside walking and talking, exercising and lounging, never giving a thought to the gas chamber, never worrying about the last appeal.