The Chamber

Thirteen

Sam’s version of the law was finished by nine-thirty. He was proud of it, one of his better efforts in recent months. He munched on a piece of toast as he proofed the document for the last time. The typing was neat but outdated, the result of an ancient machine. The language was effusive and repetitive, flowery and filled with words never uttered by humble laymen. Sam was almost fluent in legalese and could hold his own with any lawyer.

A door at the end of the hallway banged open, then shut. Heavy footsteps clicked along properly, and Packer appeared. “Your lawyer’s here, Sam,” he said, removing a set of handcuffs from his belt.

Sam stood and pulled up his boxer shorts. “What time is it?”

“A little after nine-thirty. What difference does it make?”

“I’m supposed to get my hour out at ten.”

“You wanna go outside, or you wanna see your lawyer?”

Sam thought about this as he slipped into his red jumpsuit and slid his feet into his rubber sandals. Dressing was a swift procedure on death row. “Can I make it up later?”

“We’ll see.”

“I want my hour out, you know.”

“I know, Sam. Let’s go.”

“It’s real important to me.”

“I know, Sam. It’s real important to everyone. We’ll try and make it up later, okay?”

Sam combed his hair with great deliberation, then rinsed his hands with cold water. Packer waited patiently. He wanted to say something to J. B. Gullitt, something about the mood he was in this morning, but Gullitt was already asleep again. Most of them were asleep. The average inmate on death row made it through breakfast and an hour or so of television before stretching out for the morning nap. Though his study was by no means scientific, Packer estimated they slept fifteen to sixteen hours a day. And they could sleep in the heat, the sweat, the cold, and amid the noise of loud televisions and radios.

The noise was much lower this morning. The fans hummed and whined, but there was no yelling back and forth.

Sam approached the bars, turned his back to Packer, and extended both hands through the narrow slot in the door. Packer applied the handcuffs, and Sam walked to his bed and picked up the document. Packer nodded to a guard at the end of the hall, and Sam’s door opened electronically. Then it closed.

Leg chains were optional in these situations, and with a younger prisoner, perhaps one with an attitude and a bit more stamina, Packer probably would have used them. But this was just Sam. He was an old man. How far could he run? How much damage could he do with his feet?

Packer gently placed his hand around Sam’s skinny bicep and led him along the hall. They stopped at the tier door, a row of more bars, waited for it to open and close, and left Tier A. Another guard followed behind as they came to an iron door which Packer unlocked with a key from his belt. They walked through it, and there was Adam sitting alone on the other side of the green grating.

Packer removed the handcuffs and left the room.

Adam read it slowly the first time. During the second reading he took a few notes and was amused at some of the language. He’d seen worse work from trained lawyers. And he’d seen much better work. Sam was suffering the same affliction that hit most first-year law students. He used six words when one would suffice. His Latin was dreadful. Entire paragraphs were useless. But, on the whole, not bad for a non-lawyer.

The two-page agreement was now four, typed neatly with perfect margins and only two typos and one misspelled word.

“You do pretty good work,” Adam said as he placed the document on the counter. Sam puffed a cigarette and stared at him through the opening. “It’s basically the same agreement I handed you yesterday.”

“It’s basically a helluva lot different,” Sam said, correcting him.

Adam glanced at his notes, then said, “You seem to be concerned about five areas. The governor, books, movies, termination, and who gets to witness the execution.”

“I’m concerned about a lot of things. Those happen to be non-negotiable.”

“I promised yesterday I would have nothing to do with books and movies.”

“Good. Moving right along.”

“The termination language is fine. You want the right to terminate my representation, and that of Kravitz & Bane, at any time and for any reason, without a fight.”

“It took me a long time to fire those Jewish bastards last time. I don’t want to go through it again.”

“That’s reasonable.”

“I don’t care whether you think it’s reasonable, okay? It’s in the agreement, and it’s non-negotiable.”

“Fair enough. And you want to deal with no one but me.”

“That’s correct. No one at Kravitz & Bane touches my file. That place is crawling with Jews, and they don’t get involved, okay? Same for niggers and women.”

“Look, Sam, can we lay off the slurs? How about we refer to them as blacks?”

“Ooops. Sorry. How about we do the right thing and call them African-Americans and Jewish-Americans and Female-Americans? You and I’ll be Irish-Americans, and also White-Male-Americans. If you need help from your firm, try to stick with German-Americans or Italian-Americans. Since you’re in Chicago, maybe use a few Polish-Americans. Gee, that’ll be nice, won’t it? We’ll be real proper and multicultural and politically correct, won’t we?”

“Whatever.”

“I feel better already.”

Adam made a check mark by his notes. “I’ll agree to it.”

“Damned right you will, if you want an agreement. Just keep the minorities out of my life.”

“You’re assuming they’re anxious to jump in.”

“I’m not assuming anything. I have four weeks to live, and I’d rather spend my time with people I trust.”

Adam read again a paragraph on page three of Sam’s draft. The language gave Sam the sole authority to select two witnesses at his execution. “I don’t understand this clause about the witnesses,” Adam said.

“It’s very simple. If we get to that point, there will be about fifteen witnesses. Since I’m the guest of honor, I get to select two. The statute, once you’ve had a chance to review it, lists a few who must be present. The warden, a Lebanese-American by the way, has some discretion in picking the rest. They usually conduct a lottery with the press to choose which of the vultures are allowed to gawk at it.”

“Then why do you want this clause?”

“Because the lawyer is always one of the two chosen by the gassee. That’s me.”

“And you don’t want me to witness the execution?”

“That’s correct.”

“You’re assuming I’ll want to witness it.”

“I’m not assuming anything. It’s just a fact that the lawyers can’t wait to see their poor clients gassed once it becomes inevitable. Then they can’t wait to get in front of the cameras and cry and carry on and rail against injustice.”

“And you think I’ll do that?”

“No. I don’t think you’ll do that.”

“Then, why this clause?”

Sam leaned forward with his elbows on the counter. His nose was an inch from the screen. “Because you will not witness the execution, okay?”

“It’s a deal,” he said casually, and flipped to another page. “We’re not going to get that far, Sam.”

“Atta boy. That’s what I want to hear.”

“Of course, we may need the governor.”

Sam snorted in disgust and relaxed in his chair. He crossed his right leg on his left knee, and glared at Adam. “The agreement is very plain.”

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 great-grandfather.”

“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?”

“I don’t know. One of Dogan’s men.”

“You don’t know his name?”

“No.”

“Come on, Sam.”

“I swear. I don’t know who did it. I never saw the man. The car was delivered to a parking lot. I found it. I was supposed to leave it where I found it. I never saw the man who delivered it.”

“Why wasn’t he discovered during the trials?”

“How am I supposed to know? He was just a minor accomplice, I guess. They were after me. Why bother with a gopher? I don’t know.”

“Kramer was bombing number six, right?”

“I think so.” Sam leaned forward again with his face almost touching the screen. His voice was low, his words carefully chosen as if someone might be listening somewhere.

“You think so?”

“It was a long time ago, okay.” He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “Yeah, number six.”

“The FBI said it was number six.”

“Then that settles it. They’re always right.”

“Was the same green Pontiac used in one or all of the prior bombings?”

“Yes. In a couple, as I remember. We used more than one car.”

“All supplied by Dogan?”

“Yes. He was a car dealer.”

“I know. Did the same man deliver the Pontiac for the prior bombings?”

“I never saw or met anyone delivering the cars for the bombings. Dogan didn’t work that way. He was extremely careful, and his plans were detailed. I don’t know this for a fact, but I’m certain that the man delivering the cars didn’t have a clue as to who I was.”

“Did the cars come with the dynamite?”

“Yes. Always. Dogan had enough guns and explosives for a small war. Feds never found his arsenal either.”

“Where’d you learn about explosives?”

“KKK boot camp and the basic training manual.”

“Probably hereditary, wasn’t it?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I’m serious. How’d you learn to detonate explosives?”

“It’s very basic and simple. Any fool could pick it up in thirty minutes.”

“Then with a bit of practice you’re an expert.”

“Practice helps. It’s not much more difficult than lighting a firecracker. You strike a match, any match will do, and you place it at the end of a long fuse until the fuse lights. Then you run like hell. If you’re lucky, it won’t blow up for about fifteen minutes.”

“And this is something that is just sort of absorbed by all Klansmen?”

“Most of the ones I knew could handle it.”

“Do you still know any Klansmen?”

“No. They’ve abandoned me.”

Adam watched his face carefully. The fierce blue eyes were steady. The wrinkles didn’t move. There was no emotion, no feeling or sorrow or anger. Sam returned the stare without blinking.

Adam returned to his notepad. “On March 2, 1967, the Hirsch Temple in Jackson was bombed. Did you do it?”

“Get right to the point, don’t you?”

“It’s an easy question.”

Sam twisted the filter between his lips and thought for a second. “Why is it important?”

“Just answer the damned question,” Adam snapped. “It’s too late to play games.”

“I’ve never been asked that question before.”

“Well I guess today’s your big day. A simple yes or no will do.”

“Yes.”

“Did you use the green Pontiac?”

“I think so.”

“Who was with you?”

“What makes you think someone was with me?”

“Because a witness said he saw a green Pontiac speed by a few minutes before the explosion. And he said two people were in the car. He even made a tentative identification of you as the driver.”

“Ah, yes. Our little friend Bascar. I read about him in the newspapers.”

“He was near the corner of Fortification and State streets when you and your pal rushed by.”

“Of course he was. And he’d just left a bar at three in the morning, drunk as a goat, and stupid as hell to begin with. Bascar, as I’m sure you know, never made it near a courtroom, never placed his hand on a Bible and swore to tell the truth, never faced a cross-examination, never came forward until after I was under arrest in Greenville and half the world had seen pictures of the green Pontiac. His tentative identification occurred only after my face had been plastered all over the papers.”

“So he’s lying?”

“No, he’s probably just ignorant. Keep in mind, Adam, that I was never charged with that bombing. Bascar was never put under pressure. He never gave sworn testimony. His story was revealed, I believe, when a reporter with a Memphis newspaper dug through the honky-tonks and whorehouses long enough to find someone like Bascar.”

“Let’s try it this way. Did you or did you not have someone with you when you bombed the Hirsch Temple synagogue on March 2, 1967?”

Sam’s gaze fell a few inches below the opening, then to the counter, then to the floor. He pushed away slightly from the partition and relaxed in his chair. Predictably, the blue package of Montclairs was produced from the front pocket, and he took forever selecting one, then thumping it on the filter, then inserting it just so between his moist lips. The striking of the match was another brief ceremony, but one that was finally accomplished and a fresh fog of smoke lifted toward the ceiling.

Adam watched and waited until it was obvious no quick answer was forthcoming. The delay in itself was an admission. He tapped his pen nervously on the legal pad. He took quick breaths and noticed an increase in his heartbeat. His empty stomach was suddenly jittery. Could this be the break? If there had been an accomplice, then perhaps they had worked as a team and perhaps Sam had not actually planted the dynamite that killed the Kramers. Perhaps this fact could be presented to a sympathetic judge somewhere who would listen and grant a stay. Perhaps. Maybe. Could it be?

“No,” Sam said ever so softly but firmly as he looked at Adam through the opening.

“I don’t believe you.”

“There was no accomplice.”

“I don’t believe you, Sam.”

Sam shrugged casually as if he couldn’t care less. He crossed his legs and wrapped his fingers around a knee.

Adam took a deep breath, scribbled something routinely as if he’d been expecting this, and flipped to a clean page. “What time did you arrive in Cleveland on the night of April 20, 1967?”

“Which time?”

“The first time.”

“I left Clanton around six. Drove two hours to Cleveland. So I got there around eight.”

“Where’d you go?”

“To a shopping center.”

“Why’d you go there?”

“To get the car.”

“The green Pontiac?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t there. So I drove to Greenville to look around a bit.”

“Had you been there before?”

“Yes. A couple of weeks earlier, I had scouted the place. I even went in the Jew’s office to get a good look.”

“That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it? I mean, his secretary identified you at trial as the man who came in asking for directions and wanting to use the rest room.”

“Very stupid. But then, I wasn’t supposed to get caught. She was never supposed to see my face again.” He bit the filter and sucked hard. “A very bad move. Of course, it’s awfully easy to sit here now and second-guess everything.”

“How long did you stay in Greenville?”

“An hour or so. Then I drove back to Cleveland to get the car. Dogan always had detailed plans with several alternates. The car was parked in spot B, near a truck stop.”

“Where were the keys?”

“Under the mat.”

“What did you do?”

“Took it for a drive. Drove out of town, out through some cotton fields. I found a lonely spot and parked the car. I popped the trunk to check the dynamite.”

“How many sticks?”

“Fifteen, I believe. I was using between twelve and twenty, depending on the building. Twenty for the synagogue because it was new and modern and built with concrete and stone. But the Jew’s office was an old wooden structure, and I knew fifteen would level it.”

“What else was in the trunk?”

“The usual. A cardboard box of dynamite. Two blasting caps. A fifteen-minute fuse.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“What about the timing device? The detonator?”

“Oh yeah. I forgot about that. It was in another, smaller box.”

“Describe it for me.”

“Why? You’ve read the trial transcripts. The FBI expert did a wonderful job of reconstructing my little bomb. You’ve read this, haven’t you?”

“Many times.”

“And you’ve seen the photos they used at trial. The ones of the fragments and pieces of the timer. You’ve seen all this, haven’t you?”

“I’ve seen it. Where did Dogan get the clock?”

“I never asked. You could buy one in any drugstore. It was just a cheap, windup alarm clock. Nothing fancy.”

“Was this your first job with a timing device?”

“You know it was. The other bombs were detonated by fuses. Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Because I want to hear your answers. I’ve read everything, but I want to hear it from you. Why did you want to delay the Kramer bomb?”

“Because I was tired of lighting fuses and running like hell. I wanted a longer break between planting the bomb and feeling it go off.”

“What time did you plant it?”

“Around 4 A.M.”

“What time was it supposed to go off?”

“Around five.”

“What went wrong?”

“It didn’t go off at five. It went off a few minutes before eight, and there were people in the building by then, and some of these people got killed. And that’s why I’m sitting here in a red monkey suit wondering what the gas’ll smell like.”

“Dogan testified that the selection of Marvin Kramer as a target was a joint effort between the both of you; that Kramer had been on a Klan hit list for two years; that the use of a timing device was something you suggested as a way to kill Kramer because his routine was predictable; that you acted alone.”

Sam listened patiently and puffed on his cigarette. His eyes narrowed to tiny slits and he nodded at the floor. Then he almost smiled. “Well, I’m afraid Dogan went crazy, didn’t he? Feds hounded him for years, and he finally caved in. He was not a strong man, you know.” He took a deep breath and looked at Adam. “But some of it’s true. Not much, but some.”

“Did you intend to kill him?”

“No. We weren’t killing people. Just blowing up buildings.”

“What about the Pinder home in Vicksburg? Was that one of yours?”

Sam nodded slowly.

“The bomb went off at four in the morning while the entire Pinder family was sound asleep. Six people. Miraculously, only one minor injury.”

“It wasn’t a miracle. The bomb was placed in the garage. If I’d wanted to kill anyone, I’d have put it by a bedroom window.”

“Half the house collapsed.”

“Yeah, and I could’ve used a clock and wiped out a bunch of Jews as they ate their bagels or whatever.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“As I said, we weren’t trying to kill people.”

“What were you trying to do?”

“Intimidate. Retaliate. Keep the damned Jews from financing the civil rights movement. We were trying to keep the Africans where they belonged — in their own schools and churches and neighborhoods and rest rooms, away from our women and children. Jews like Marvin Kramer were promoting an interracial society and stirring up the Africans. Son of a bitch needed to be kept in line.”

“You guys really showed him, didn’t you?”

“He got what he deserved. I’m sorry about the little boys.”

“Your compassion is overwhelming.”

“Listen, Adam, and listen good. I did not intend to hurt anyone. The bomb was set to go off at 5 A.M., three hours before he usually arrived for work. The only reason his kids were there was because his wife had the flu.”

“But you feel no remorse because Marvin lost both legs?”

“Not really.”

“No remorse because he killed himself?”

“He pulled the trigger, not me.”

“You’re a sick man, Sam.”

“Yeah, and I’m about to get a lot sicker when I sniff the gas.”

Adam shook his head in disgust, but held his tongue. They could argue later about race and hatred; not that he, at this moment, expected to make any progress with Sam on these topics. But he was determined to try. Now, however, they needed to discuss facts.

“After you inspected the dynamite, what did you do?”

“Drove back to the truck stop. Drank coffee.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I was thirsty.”

“Very funny, Sam. Just try and answer the questions.”

“I was waiting.”

“For what?”

“I needed to kill a couple of hours. By then it was around midnight, and I wanted to spend as little time in Greenville as possible. So, I killed time in Cleveland.”

“Did you talk to anyone in the café?”

“No.”

“Was it crowded?”

“I really don’t remember.”

“Did you sit alone?”

“Yes.”

“At a table?”

“Yes.” Sam managed a slight grin because he knew what was coming.

“A truck driver by the name of Tommy Farris said he saw a man who greatly resembled you in the truck stop that night, and that this man drank coffee for a long time with a younger man.”

“I never met Mr. Farris, but I believe he had a lapse of memory for three years. Not a word to anyone, as I recall, until another reporter flushed him out and he got his name in the paper. It’s amazing how these mystery witnesses pop up years after the trials.”

“Why didn’t Farris testify in your last trial?”

“Don’t ask me. I suppose it was because he had nothing to say. The fact that I drank coffee alone or with someone seven hours before the bombing was hardly relevant. Plus, the coffee drinking took place in Cleveland, and had nothing to do with whether or not I committed the crime.”

“So Farris was lying?”

“I don’t know what Farris was doing. Don’t really care. I was alone. That’s all that matters.”

“What time did you leave Cleveland?”

“Around three, I think.”

“And you drove straight to Greenville?”

“Yes. And I drove by the Kramers’ house, saw the guard sitting on the porch, drove by his office, killed some more time, and around four or so I parked behind his office, slipped through the rear door, planted the bomb in a closet in the hallway, walked back to my car, and drove away.”

“What time did you leave Greenville?”

“I had planned to leave after the bomb went off. But, as you know, it was several months before I actually made it out of town.”

“Where did you go when you left Kramer’s office?”

“I found a little coffee shop on the highway, a half mile or so from Kramer’s office.”

“Why’d you go there?”

“To drink coffee.”

“What time was it?”

“I don’t know. Around four-thirty or so.”

“Was it crowded?”

“A handful of people. Just your run-of-the-mill all-night diner with a fat cook in a dirty tee shirt and a waitress who smacked her chewing gum.”

“Did you talk to anybody?”

“I spoke to the waitress when I ordered my coffee. Maybe I had a doughnut.”

“And you were having a nice cup of coffee, just minding your own business, waiting for the bomb to go off.”

“Yeah. I always liked to hear the bombs go off and watch the people react.”

“So you’d done this before?”

“A couple of times. In February of that year I bombed the real estate office in Jackson — Jews had sold a house to some niggers in a white section — and I had just sat down in a diner not three blocks away when the bomb went off. I was using a fuse then, so I had to hustle away and park real fast and find a table. The girl had just sat my coffee down when the ground shook and everybody froze. I really liked that. It was four in the morning and the place was packed with truckers and deliverymen, even had a few cops over in a corner, and of course they ran to their cars and sped away with lights blazing. My table shook so hard that coffee spilled from my cup.”

“And that gave you a real thrill?”

“Yes, it did. But the other jobs were too risky. I didn’t have the time to find a café or diner, so I just sort of rode around for a few minutes waiting for the fun. I’d check my watch closely, so I always knew about when it would hit. If I was in the car, I liked to be on the edge of town, you know.” Sam paused and took a long puff from his cigarette. His words were slow and careful. His eyes danced a bit as he talked about his adventures, but his words were measured. “I did watch the Pinder bombing,” he added.

“And how’d you do that?”

“They lived in a big house in the suburbs, lots of trees, sort of in a valley. I parked on the side of a hill about a mile away, and I was sitting under a tree when it went off.”

“How peaceful.”

“It really was. Full moon, cool night. I had a great view of the street, and I could see almost all of the roof. It was so calm and peaceful, everyone was asleep, then, boom, blew that roof to hell and back.”

“What was Mr. Pinder’s sin?”

“Just overall general Jewishness. Loved niggers. Always embraced the radical Africans when they came down from the North and agitated everybody. He loved to march and boycott with the Africans. We suspected he was financing a lot of their activities.”

Adam made notes and tried to absorb all of this. It was hard to digest because it was almost impossible to believe. Perhaps the death penalty was not such a bad idea after all. “Back to Greenville. Where was this coffee shop located?”

“Don’t remember.”

“What was it called?”

“It was twenty-three years ago. And it was not the kind of place you’d want to remember.”

“Was it on Highway 82?”

“I think so. What are you gonna do? Spend your time digging for the fat cook and the tacky waitress? Are you doubting my story?”

“Yes. I’m doubting your story.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t tell me where you learned to make a bomb with a timing detonator.”

“In the garage behind my house.”

“In Clanton?”

“Out from Clanton. It’s not that difficult.”

“Who taught you?”

“I taught myself. I had a drawing, a little booklet with diagrams and such. Steps one, two, three. It was no big deal.”

“How many times did you practice with such a device before Kramer?”

“Once.”

“Where? When?”

“In the woods not far from my house. I took two sticks of dynamite and the necessary paraphernalia, and I went to a little creek bed deep in the woods. It worked perfectly.”

“Of course. And you did all this study and research in your garage?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Your own little laboratory.”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“Well, the FBI conducted a thorough search of your house, garage, and premises while you were in custody. They didn’t find a trace of evidence of explosives.”

“Maybe they’re stupid. Maybe I was real careful and didn’t leave a trail.”

“Or maybe the bomb was planted by someone with experience in explosives.”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“How long did you stay in the coffee shop in Greenville?”

“A helluva long time. Five o’clock came and went. Then it was almost six. I left a few minutes before six and drove by Kramer’s office. The place looked fine. Some of the early risers were out and about, and I didn’t want to be seen. I crossed the river and drove to Lake Village, Arkansas, then returned to Greenville. It was seven by then, sun was up and people were moving around. No explosion. I parked the car on a side street, and walked around for a while. The damned thing wouldn’t go off. I couldn’t go in after it, you know. I walked and walked, listening hard, hoping the ground would shake. Nothing happened.”

“Did you see Marvin Kramer and his sons go into the building?”

“No. I turned a corner and saw his car parked, and I thought dammit! I went blank. I couldn’t think. But then I thought, what the hell, he’s just a Jew and he’s done many evil things. Then, I thought about secretaries and other people who might work in there, so I walked around the block again. I remember looking at my watch when it was twenty minutes before eight, and I had this thought that maybe I should make an anonymous phone call to the office and tell Kramer that there was a bomb in the closet. And if he didn’t believe me, then he could go look at it, then he could haul ass.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t have a dime. I’d left all my change as a tip for the waitress, and I didn’t want to walk into a store and ask for change. I have to tell you I was real nervous. My hands were shaking, and I didn’t want to act suspicious in front of anybody. I was a stranger, right? That was my bomb in there, right? I was in a small town where everybody knows everyone, and they damned sure remember strangers when there’s a crime. I remember walking down the sidewalk, just across the street from Kramer’s, and in front of a barbershop there was a newspaper rack, and this man was fumbling in his pocket for change. I almost asked him for a dime so I could make a quick call, but I was too nervous.”

“Why were you nervous, Sam? You just said you didn’t care if Kramer got hurt. This was your sixth bombing, right?”

“Yeah, but the others were easy. Light the fuse, hit the door, and wait a few minutes. I kept thinking about that cute little secretary in Kramer’s office, the one who’d shown me to the rest room. The same one who later testified at trial. And I kept thinking about the other people who worked in his office because when I went in that day I saw people everywhere. It was almost eight o’clock, and I knew the place opened in a few minutes. I knew a lot of people were about to get killed. My mind stopped working. I remember standing beside a phone booth a block away, staring at my watch, then staring at the phone, telling myself that I had to make the call. I finally stepped inside and looked up the number, but by the time I closed the book I’d forgotten it. So I looked it up again, and I started to dial when I remembered I didn’t have a dime. So I made up my mind to go into the barbershop to get some change. My legs were heavy and I was sweatin’ like hell. I walked to the barbershop, and I stopped at the plate glass window and looked in. It was packed. They were lined up against the wall, talking and reading papers, and there was a row of chairs, all filled with men talking at the same time. I remember a couple of them looked at me, then one or two more began to stare, so I walked away.”

“Where did you go?”

“I’m not sure. There was an office next door to Kramer’s, and I remember seeing a car park in front of it. I thought maybe it was a secretary or someone about to go into Kramer’s, and I think I was walking toward the car when the bomb went off.”

“So you were across the street?”

“I think so. I remember rocking on my hands and knees in the street as glass and debris fell all around me. But I don’t remember much after that.”

There was a slight knock on the door from the outside, then Sergeant Packer appeared with a large Styrofoam cup, a paper napkin, a stir stick, and creamer. “Thought you might need a little coffee. Sorry to butt in.” He placed the cup and accessories on the counter.

“Thanks,” Adam said.

Packer quickly turned and headed for the door.

“I’ll take two sugars, one cream,” Sam said from the other side.

“Yes sir,” Packer snapped without slowing. He was gone.

“Good service around here,” Adam said.

“Wonderful, just wonderful.”