"Mr. Cayhall, my name is Ralph Griffin, and I'm the chaplain here at Parchman: I'm new, so we -haven't met."
Sam nodded, and said, "Nice to meet you.
"My pleasure. I'm sure you knew my predecessor."
"Ah yes, the Right Reverend Rucker. Where is he now?"
"Retired."
"Good. I never cared for him. I doubt if he makes it to heaven."
"Yes, I've heard he wasn't too popular."
"Popular? He was despised by everyone here. For some reason we didn't trust him. Don't know why. Could be because he was in favor of the death penalty. Can you imagine? He was called by God to minister to us, yet he believed we should die. Said it was in the Scriptures. You know, the eye for an eye routine."
"I've heard that before."
"I'm sure you have. What kind of preacher are-you? What denomination?"
"I was ordained in a Baptist church, but I'm sort of nondenominational now. I think the Lord's probably frustrated with all this sectarianism."
"He's frustrated with me too, you know."
"How's that?"
"You're familiar with Randy Dupree, an inmate here. Just down the tier from me. Rape and murder."
"Yes. I've read his file. He was a preacher at one-time."
"We call him Preacher Boy, and he's recently acquired the spiritual gift of interpreting dreams. He also sings and heals. He'd probably play with snakes if they allowed it. You know, take up the serpents, from the book of Mark, sixteenth chapter, eighteenth verse. Anyway, he just finished this long dream, took over a month, sort of like a mini-series, and it eventually was revealed to him that I will in fact be executed, and that God is waiting for me to clean up my act."
"It wouldn't be a bad idea, you know. To get things in order."
"What's the rush? I have ten days."
"So you believe in God?"
"Yes, I do. Do you believe in the death penalty?"
"No, I don't."
Sam studied him for a while, then said, "Are you serious?"
"Killing is wrong, Mr. Cayhall. If in fact you are guilty of your crime, then you were wrong to kill. It's also wrong for the government to kill you."
"Hallelujah, brother."
"I've never been convinced that Jesus wanted us to kill as a punishment. He didn't teach that. He taught love and forgiveness."
"That's the way I read the Bible. How in hell did you get a job here?"
"I have a cousin in the state senate."
Sam smiled and chuckled at this response. "You won't last long. You're too honest."
"No. My cousin is the chairman of the Committee on Corrections, and rather powerful."
"Then you'd better pray he gets reelected."
"I do every morning. I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself. I'd like to talk to you during the next few days. I'd like to pray with you if you want. I've never been through an execution before."
"Neither have L"
"Does it scare you?"
"I'm an old man, Reverend. I'll be seventy in a few months, if I make it. At times, the thought of dying is quite pleasant. Leaving this godforsaken place will be a relief."
"But you're still fighting."
"Sure, though sometimes I don't know why. It's like a long bout with cancer. You gradually decline and grow weak. You die a little each day, and you reach the point where death would be welcome. But no one really wants to die. Not even me."
"I've read about your grandson. That must be heartwarming. I know you're proud of him."
Sam smiled and looked at the floor.
"Anyway," the reverend continued, "I'll be around. Would you like for me to come back tomorrow?"
"That would be nice. Let me do some thinking, okay?"
"Sure. You know the procedures around here, don't you? During your last few hours you're allowed to have only two people present. Your lawyer and your spiritual adviser. I'll be honored to stay with you."
"Thanks. And can you find the time to talk to Randy Dupree? The poor kid is cracking up, and he really needs help."
"I'll do it tomorrow."
"Thanks."
Adam watched a rented movie by himself, with the phone nearby. There had been no word from Lee. At ten, he made two calls to the West Coast. The first was to his mother in Portland. She was subdued, but glad to hear from him, she said. She did not ask about Sam, and Adam did not offer. He reported that he was working hard, that he was hopeful, and that he would, in all likelihood, return to Chicago in a couple of weeks. She'd seen a few stories in the papers, and she was thinking about him. Lee was fine, Adam said.
The second call was to his younger sister, Carmen, in Berkeley. A male voice answered the phone in her apartment, Kevin somebody if Adam remembered correctly, a steady companion for several years now. Carmen was soon on the phone, and seemed anxious to hear about events in Mississippi. She too had followed the news closely, and Adam put an optimistic spin on things. She was worried about him down there in the midst of all those horrible Kluckers and racists. Adam insisted he was safe, things were quite peaceful, actually. The people were surprisingly gentle and laid-back. He was staying at Lee's and they were making the best of it. To Adam's surprise, she wanted to know about Sam - what was he like, his appearance, his attitude, his willingness to talk about Eddie. She asked if she should fly down and see Sam before August 8, a meeting Adam had not contemplated. Adam said he would think about it, and that he would ask Sam.
He fell asleep on the sofa, with the television on.
At three-thirty Monday morning, he was awakened by the phone. A voice he'd never heard before crisply identified himself as Phelps Booth. "You must be Adam," he said.
Adam sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Yes, that's me."
"Have you seen Lee?" Phelps asked, neither calm nor urgent.
Adam glanced at a clock on the wall above the television. "No. What's the matter?"
"Well, she's in trouble. The police called me about an hour ago. They picked her up for drunk driving at eight-twenty last night, and took her to jail."
"Oh no," Adam said.
"This is not the first time. She was taken in, refused the breath test of course, and was put in the drunk tank for five hours. She listed my name on the paperwork, so the cops called me. I ran downtown to the jail, and she had already posted bail and walked out. I thought maybe she'd called you."
"No. She was not here when I woke up yesterday morning, and this is the first thing I've heard. Who would she call?"
"Who knows? I hate to start calling her friends and waking them up. Maybe we should just wait."
Adam was uncomfortable with his sudden inclusion into the decision making. These people had been married, for better or for worse, for almost thirty years, and they had obviously been through this before. How was he supposed to know what to do? "She didn't drive away from the jail, did she?" he asked timidly, certain of the answer.
"Of course not. Someone picked her up. Which brings up another problem. We need to get her car. It's in a lot by the jail. I've already paid the towing charges."
"Do you have a key?"
"Yes. Can you help me get it?"
Adam suddenly remembered the newspaper story with the smiling photo of Phelps and Lee, and he also remembered his speculation about the Booth family's reaction to it. He was certain most of the blame and venom had been directed at him. If he'd stayed in Chicago, none of this would've happened.